I came across this on the homepage at msn. com. It was interesting enough to pass along to my loyal readers. The link to the actua; article is at the end.

20 Things You Didn't Know About ... Death
Soapy corpses, ecological burials, dead relatives on parade and more
By LeeAundra Temescu
Provided by Discover magazine

1. The practice of burying the dead may date back 350,000 years, as evidenced by a 45-foot-deep pit in Atapuerca, Spain, filled with the fossils of 27 hominids of the species Homo heidelbergensis, a possible ancestor of Neanderthals and modern humans.
2. There are at least 200 euphemisms for death, including "to be in Abraham's bosom," "just add maggots" and "sleep with the Tribbles" (a "Star Trek" favorite).
3. No American has died of old age since 1951.
4. That was the year the government eliminated that classification on death certificates.
5. The trigger of death, in all cases, is lack of oxygen. Its decline may prompt muscle spasms, or the "agonal phase," from the Greek word "agon," meaning "contest."
6. Within three days of death, the enzymes that once digested your dinner begin to eat you. Ruptured cells become food for living bacteria in the gut, which release enough noxious gas to bloat the body and force the eyes to bulge outward.
7. So much for recycling: Burials in America deposit 827,060 gallons of embalming fluid -- formaldehyde, methanol and ethanol -- into the soil each year. Cremation pumps dioxins, hydrochloric acid, sulfur dioxide and carbon dioxide into the air.
8. Alternatively, a Swedish company, Promessa, will freeze-dry your body in liquid nitrogen, pulverize it with high-frequency vibrations and seal the resulting powder in a cornstarch coffin. They claim this "ecological burial" will decompose in six to 12 months.
9. Zoroastrians in India leave out the bodies of the dead to be consumed by vultures.
10. The vultures are now dying off after eating cattle carcasses dosed with diclofenac, an anti-inflammatory used to relieve fever in livestock.
11. Queen Victoria insisted on being buried with the bathrobe of her long-dead husband, Prince Albert, and a plaster cast of his hand.
12. If this doesn't work, we're trying in vitro! In Madagascar, families dig up the bones of dead relatives and parade them around the village in a ceremony called "famadihana." The remains are then wrapped in a new shroud and reburied. The old shroud is given to a newly married, childless couple to cover the connubial bed.
13. Sometimes, under the right conditions of temperature and humidity, fatty tissue of a buried body will turn to a soap-like substance called adipocere, or grave wax. Adipocere formation relies on a cold, damp environment and an absence of oxygen; once begun, this saponification can continue for centuries.
14. Well, yeah, there's a slight chance this could backfire: English philosopher Francis Bacon, a founder of the scientific method, died in 1626 of pneumonia after stuffing a chicken with snow to see if cold would preserve it.
15. For organs to form during embryonic development, some cells must commit suicide. Without such programmed cell death, we would all be born with webbed feet, like ducks.
16. In 1907, a Massachusetts doctor conducted an experiment with a specially designed deathbed and reported that the human body lost 21 grams upon dying. This has been widely held as fact ever since. It's not.
17. Buried alive: In 19th-century Europe there was so much anecdotal evidence that living people were mistakenly declared dead that cadavers were laid out in "hospitals for the dead" while attendants awaited signs of putrefaction.
18. Eighty percent of people in the United States die in a hospital.
19. More people commit suicide in New York City than are murdered.
20. It is estimated that 100 billion people have died since humans began.

http://encarta.msn.com/encnet/Features/Lists/?article=20ThingsDeath&GT1=27004

For I Have Sinned

For I Have Sinned
by Ronald W. Adams

His footfalls echoed off the high ceilings and alabaster walls of the old Catholic church on Main Street. The building towered over the residences on the block, the bells in the twin steeples pealing on the hour. He walked down the center aisle, his stride even as he worked his way to the altar. He stopped, performed the sign of the cross, and turned to the confessional on the left. There was a priest standing near the vestibule, looking like he was on his way to the same confessional. Perfect timing, the man thought as he picked up his pace to intercept the priest. As he did so, he moved with a practiced grace from behind the clergyman and directly in to make his confession.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been about three weeks since my last confession.”

Go on, my son. What sins do you have to confess?

"Since my last confession, I have had impure thoughts about the woman who delivers the mail in my neighborhood. Father, she is devastating, achingly beautiful. Unfortunately, she doesn’t know I’m even alive. I have allowed myself these fantasies, Father, these impure thoughts about her. I can’t seem to help myself.”

Is that all, my son?

“No, Father. I have blasphemed, using the Lord’s name in vane more than a dozen times. It’s a very bad habit, and I have been trying hard to break it. “

The Good Lord understands that his children are not but flesh and blood, prone to mortal weakness and folly. He is capable of the forgiveness of all of these venial sins.

“Thank you, Father. I feel so much better knowing that.”

The road to Heaven is narrow and winding, my child, full of danger and distraction. The trick is always to keep the Lord at your side, in your thoughts and in your heart. Is there anything else you wish to discuss with me before I prescribe absolution?

He hesitated. “I have these urges, Father. They come over me so suddenly, and I really do try my hardest to overcome them. I ignore them, but they gnaw at me. I try distracting myself, you know, really bury myself in my work. I manage to push the terrible feelings away, for a time. But the only way I found to rid myself of these horrible urges is to take action, Father, To purge them from my body.”

I’m not sure I follow you, my son.

“Father, please try to understand. I had to get rid of the very thing that was tormenting me. I know the Lord’s Prayer says to lead me not into temptation, and to deliver us from evil. The answer was there in front of me the whole time! I had to deliver myself from evil, to lead myself away from temptation. That’s why I came to you today, Father. I knew you would be able to guide me, you’d know the right thing to do. I knew, with your help, and the help of God, I could deal with these temptations.”

I see. The Bible tells us that if thy hand causes ye to sin, cut it off, and if thine eye offends the, pluck it out, for it is better to…

“That’s it, Father! Exactly! You do understand, you really do. I knew coming to you was the right thing. That’s exactly why I came here, to pluck out of my life the temptation that has caused me to sin. Oh, you just cannot believe how much better I feel! I am so ready to receive my absolution, Father.”

There was no response from the other side of the confessional screen. The man sat in silence for a time, his head bowed and hands clenched in prayer. He made a short sign of the cross as he left the confessional. He stepped over the prone body of the priest, his life’s blood pooled and growing sticky on the marble tile just outside the booth. Looking at his watch, the man smiled. If I hurry, he thought, I might be able to catch the mail.

"Was She Worth It?"

"Was She Worth It?"
by Ronald W. Adams


“Was she worth it?”

The words hung on the Blackberry screen as Bill Franklin groped in the dark for the bedside lamp. He clicked on the light, still annoyed at being awakened by the vibrating phone on the nightstand. He stared unblinking at the miniature screen, the accusing question burning a hole through his eyes. He flipped through the call log to see who sent the text, and on his directory it read unknown name, unknown number. He didn’t tell anyone where he was going to be. The night was supposed to be all his. Now this. Franklin swallowed hard, wondering who left the message. He lay on his side, his face and bare shoulders bathed in the harsh blue light from his screen. He stared at the message until startled by his lover’s touch.

“Who called, baby?” she asked, nuzzling the back of his neck softly.

“Nobody.”

He meant it. Whoever it was, they were trying to hide their identity. After a while he shrugged it off, probably not even meant for him. It was just a weird coincidence. There was no way anybody could know about his affair. His wife was convinced he was working on the Okijima Industries account, the time difference between New York and Tokyo accounting for his odd hours as of late. This gave him ample opportunity to make new friends, like the one in his hotel bed now.

It started innocently enough, with Nancy actually picking him up at the hotel bar. She was a simple flirtation, a middle aged dalliance at the most. He was flattered by her attention, and made him feel like more than a cubicle slave to a nameless corporation. With her, he was a hero, not a suburban commuter in a dead end job. Like him, she said she was locked in a loveless marriage with a careless spouse. And like him, she enjoyed the attention they paid each other. They met for lunch when he was downtown, and soon he was finding any excuse to tell his wife he would be working late.

He checked the time on his phone. It was one thirty, and he had to get home. He stood, went into the bathroom to clean up, and then dressed in a hurry. Nancy watched him, like many times before, knowing full well this was the extent of their relationship. She was resigned to being the other woman, and knew he would be back.

“When will I see you again, Bill?” she asked.

“I’ll call you this afternoon,” was his reply.

The drive home passed in a blur, his mind still wondering about the freaky coincidence of the call. It wasn’t meant for me, it couldn’t have been. Maybe it was a sign from somewhere. I shouldn’t be doing this to Liz and the kids. It can only end badly, so maybe I should just talk to Nancy and end it now, before it’s too late. That’s it. He dialed Nancy’s number, but there was no reply. He left her a voice mail, telling her they need to talk about something very important.
He slipped into the house as quietly as he could, undressing in the dark. He left his suit in a pile at the foot of the bed, his shoes underneath, and slid under the covers. His wife stirred a bit, her eyes opened to slits.

“Another late one? How much longer will you have to work this project?”

“This was the last night, I think.”

She smiled. “Good. You work too hard sometimes.”

“Sorry I woke you honey. Get back to sleep.”

He kissed her forehead, rolled over and closed his eyes. He slept fitfully, for the few hours he did sleep.

**********

The next morning at breakfast, he resolved to call Nancy from the office. He swallowed his coffee without tasting it, anxious to get on the road and be done with the whole thing. It may have been a wrong number, but it put the fear of God in him. Nancy was fun, and a sweet kid, but she wasn’t going to be his undoing. She was not someone he would risk his family for. The commute proceeded in an unconscious blur, until her realized he was in the underground parking lot of his building. He grabbed his briefcase from the front seat, checked his cell for voicemail messages, and walked briskly to the elevators. The footfalls from his shoes echoed off the concrete structure. He reached without thinking for the up button, and was thrust back into reality by the ringtone on his phone.

The display screen read ‘Unknown Name, Unknown Number’, and Franklin decided to let it go to voice mail. Whoever it was, it would keep. He rushed into his office, skipping the usual friendly greetings from his co-workers. He was a man on a mission, and focused on breaking things off with Nancy. He brushed off an offer from Fred, the guy in the next cubicle, for coffee and a donut from the office cart before they started. He couldn’t call from the company phone, security kept too close a tab on its use. He used his own phone instead, her number still on the recently dialed list. The number rang four times before going to voicemail again. Franklin again left a pleading message, all but begging her to call him. When he finished, he opened the message from the previous caller. This time the screen displayed a photo of him and Nancy taken from somewhere outside the hotel, the two of them locked in passion in the room. There was a caption under the photo, and reading it caused Franklin to shake.

“WAS SHE WORTH IT?”

He dropped the phone on his desk, staring at the screen. His eyes were locked on the ominous question. Franklin fell into his chair. Somebody knew. How the hell did anyone find out? And who had his number, that they kept sending these messages? This was starting to get out of hand. Where was Nancy? He needed to talk to her. Maybe she knew what was going on.
Franklin made his account calls the rest of the day, and tossed in three more calls and three more messages to Nancy. The hours dragged on. She never failed to return his calls before, and his anxiety grew with his imagination. He opened the picture again, remembering the night, fearful of the ominously capitalized message. Staring, he tried to pick up clues from the picture as to where the photographer stood. Bill never heard his boss come up to his office cubicle from behind, knocking loudly enough to have Franklin bobble the cell phone before it clattered on the desk top.

“Am I interrupting anything?” Charlie Vaughn asked, leaning against the doorframe.

“Um, no, Charlie, I was, well, I was…” Franklin stammered, regaining his composure.

“I see. What’s had you distracted? I’ve been hearing customer issues all day, Bill. Not like you at all.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve had some personal issues to deal with. I’ll have it straightened out.”

“Uh-huh. Is that your personal issue?” Vaughn asked, gesturing to the Blackberry screen.

Stupid! I left the picture on the screen! He fumbled with the device to clear the screen.

“Uh, yeah, but I can explain…”

“I’m sure you can, Bill. All I care about is what you do on the job. What you do outside work is no business of mine, until it affects what you do here. Whatever your ‘personal issues’ are, deal with them now. I don’t want to spend another day fixing your screw ups.”

“I get it, Charlie, sorry. I won’t let it happen again.”

Vaughn nodded. “From what I could see, she’s gorgeous. I hope she’s worth it.”

“What?” Franklin glared at him.

“Easy, Billy. All I said was that I hope she’s worth the trouble she’s causing you.”

Franklin nodded. He kept his eyes locked on Vaughn as he walked slowly down the aisle, the manager poking his head in on a hand full of offices on the way to his own. Why did he ask if she was worth it? What the hell was that, anyway? If it was Vaughn screwing with him, there was going to be hell to pay. He wouldn’t get away with, no matter what he was doing. The more he thought, the angrier he got. Vaughn reached his own office and closed the door behind him. Franklin stood to go to Vaughn’s office to confront him when his cell phone vibrated on his desk.

He looked at the caller ID screen. The name and number were the same as before, unknown. He answered, the muscles in his neck and arms tightening. There was a picture of a woman, her face barely recognizable from the bruising, her body naked from the waist up and perforated by more stab wounds than he could count. She was lying on a bed, with a hotel telephone visible on the bed table beside her lifeless remains. Again, the caption sent a chill through him.

“WAS SHE WORTH IT?”

A wave of nausea washed over him, followed by rage. He rushed from his office, the Blackberry still clenched in his right hand. Vaughn’s door exploded as Franklin burst into the room.

“Why are you doing this? You son of a bitch!” Franklin screamed at the man. He grabbed him by the lapels lifted him out of his chair and up against the back wall. “What did she ever do to you?”

“What are you talking about, you psycho?” Vaughn shouted, grabbing Franklin’s wrist to free himself. He shook off the smaller man, and shoved him hard enough to send him sprawling over a chair to the side of his desk.

Scrambling to his feet, Franklin screamed, “You! You’ve been sending me these text messages all day screwing with me! Why?”

The Blackberry lay at Vaughn’s feet, and bent to pick it up. The screen still showed the dead girl, her bloody corpse in sharp relief against the white sheets.

“Jesus Christ, Bill! Is this…?”

“You know who it is!” he sobbed.

“Bill, you have to call the cops.”

“What?”

“This is a dead body, you idiot. You have to call the cops if you know anything about it.”

“What do you know about it?”

“Are you out of your mind?” Vaughn shouted again. “She’s your mistress! What do you mean what do I know about it?”

“You asked me if she was worth it. The same question the text messages kept asking.”

Vaughn scrolled through the repeated messages. He shook his head and handed it back. He took out his own phone and dialed Franklin’s number. The phone rang, with Vaughn’s name and number clearly displayed. Franklin blinked, and stared at his boss.

“If it were me, you’d know.”

Franklin slumped against the side wall of the office. He was drained in body and spirit.

“Go home, Bill,” Vaughn told him. “Call your lawyer, call the cops, do something about this. You’re no good here today. Just go home.”

Franklin hung his head and nodded. He mumbled and apology, but didn’t wait for the reply. Whatever else, he needed to go home.

**********

As he pulled into the driveway, Franklin noticed the black Ford Crown Victoria pulled up on the street in front of his house. He saw the small dome light in the front window, and the side mounted spotlight, and knew the police were there. His wife met him at the door.

“Bill, the police are here, they want to know about some woman? Is it someone you work with?” she asked, anxiety mixed with fear in her voice.

One of the plainclothes officers stepped between them, facing Franklin. “Mr. William Franklin?”

“Yes,” he replied.

Flashing his badge, the officer continued. “We’d like to ask you some questions regarding Nancy Prescott.”

The other officer chimed in from across the foyer, “Mr. Franklin, were you with Mrs. Prescott last night between the hours of 10:00pm and 2:00am last night?”

“No, he wasn’t,” his wife interrupted. “He was at work on an overseas account.” She wanted to believe it, her eyes pleading with her husband for this to be the truth.

“Before you answer, Mr. Franklin, please be aware your fingerprints were all over the hotel room, as well as her body,” the closer of the two policeman offered.

Franklin swallowed hard, his wife’s expression freezing him into silence. She crossed the room and slapped him hard across the face, the pain biting into his cheek and ear as she struck. She covered her mouth and quickly walked to the back of the house. The two officers shook their heads.

His eyes welling, the red mark rising on his left cheek, Franklin said, “Yes, I was there, but I didn’t do anything.”

“The crime lab people have hair and semen samples under analysis right now. Is there anything you want to tell us?”

“We were having an affair; it was just sex, just two adults enjoying each other. There was no commitment or anything. I was trying to end it. I’ve been trying to get in touch with Nancy, um, Mrs. Prescott all day.”

The other officer again spoke. “When did you last speak to Mrs. Prescott?”

Franklin turned to answer him. “About 1:30 I think, just before I left to go home.”

The closer officer studied Franklin. “Mr. Franklin, did you kill Nancy Prescott?”

His spine stiffened. “No! I could never kill anyone. It couldn’t be me; she was alive when I left.”

The second officer produced a bloody, mud splattered carving knife from inside his jacket. “Have you seen this knife before?”

Franklin shook his head.

“We found it behind your garage, along with a piece of steel pipe with hair and blood all over it. Anything to say about that?”

“I didn’t do anything! She was alive when I left her!” He looked around; his wife was nowhere to be seen.

The first cop approached, handcuffs out and ready. He shoved Franklin in a circle up against the foyer wall, bringing his hands back and behind him in a well-practiced rush. “Mr. Franklin, you are under arrest in connection with the murder of one Nancy Prescott. You have the right to remain silent, and anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney…”

“I didn’t kill her!” he screamed, wrenching against the officer and the handcuffs. “This can’t be happening! I need to talk to my lawyer…”

“What you need to do, sir, is calm down, and go out the car. We will be taking you down to central booking, and you can call your lawyer when we’re there. I would suggest you exercise your right to remain silent, and go with the officer out to the car.”

Franklin nodded in silence as the second officer led him out to the car. They were at the sidewalk just feet from the car when Franklin felt a sharp blow between his shoulder blades and fell forward face first towards the concrete. A quick twist and he took the majority of the impact on his left shoulder instead of his nose and forehead. He looked back in shock at the policeman already reaching down to help him up.

“If you wouldn’t resist arrest, you might not have fallen, Mr. Franklin,” he offered, smiling as he jerked to fallen man to his feet. Franklin was at a loss for words, so he offered none. The cop opened the passenger rear door to guide his prisoner into the back, but instead of helping to guide his head safely into the car, he again shoved him from the side. A white hot flash of pain burst Franklin’s head as it slammed into the top of the doorframe. He slumped into the back seat his eyes losing focus. The cop opened the passenger side front door and slid in, turning to face the barely conscious Franklin in the back.

“Hey! Don’t you pass out on me you piece of shit!” he called out. Franklin opened his eyes. “You never answered my question.”

Franklin’s head was pounding. “Question? You mean about the knife and the pipe?”

“Think again.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Was she worth it?”

Franklin’s eyes went wide, staring in disbelief.

The officer shook his head. “It took a while, you know. I didn’t want to believe it at first. I mean, you put you faith and trust in someone, then they rip your heart out and grind it under their high heel. So when she left, I did whatever she asked. I left her alone, you know, let her have her space. But then she started screwing this other guy, a married guy. Can you imagine? She’d rather have a guy who’d never leave his wife, who’d probably just probably just use her for sex, then me. It wasn’t right. So I followed her, right, just to see what the competition was like.”

Franklin furrowed his brow. The pain was slowly being replaced by something more primal.
“So you found out the competition was …?”

“It doesn’t matter. She found out I was following her. The little slut still smelled like the guy’s cheap-assed cologne. You know the kind of shit they sell in the men’s room, beside the aspirin and condoms? Anyway, she threatened to call the cops on me.” He laughed out loud. “Can you believe that shit?”

Franklin could only stare. “You…?”

The officer nodded. “The thing is, she used to be my wife, but she was my partner’s sister. She wasn’t coming back to me, I knew that. And your wife? She’s not gonna be waiting for you, if you ever get out of prison. See, he thinks you killed his sister, so he’s gonna take care of your wife. Returning the favor, you know what I mean? But here’s the beauty part. He’s doing the same thing I did. He’s making it look like you killed your wife, too.”

Fear spread through him. There was nothing he could do, but go along with the madman in the front seat. Who would believe him over a couple of cops? He was going to prison, most likely to die, for two murders he didn’t commit. If he tried to run, he was a dead man anyway.

The partner returned, jumping in the driver’s side and turning the key. “Too bad we didn’t get here before this guy killed his wife.”

“I know, but he’ll have lots of time to think about the error of his ways.”

The car lurched forward, jerking Franklin back into the real world. He began to sob. The two officers in the front looked back at him, one turned and the other in the mirror. Nancy’s husband looked back at him with a maniacal grin, his eyes cold and piercing.

“So, was she worth it?”

The Driver

The Driver
by Ronald W. Adams

The black Ford Crown Victoria pulled up to the brownstone on Baker Street, the exhaust raising a thin fog against the chill of the early fall evening. The driver rolled down the window, breathing in the crisp air scented with the aroma of fallen leaves and the smoke from the few chimneys hosting wood fires. He got out of the car, his shoulders straining against the constriction of his black jacket. It was part of the uniform, so he put up with it. The driver stood along the side of the car, facing the screen door on the lower apartment. He brushed the front of his suit and the sleeves with his hands, then down the front of the pants to the knees. Satisfied, he crossed his arms, drawing the back of the jacket tighter, and waited.

Evans stepped out into the autumn chill, his short brown leather coat worn collar-up to keep the cold of his neck. It also obscured the lower half of his face, a bonus in his line of work. He carried a steel briefcase in his left hand and a small duffle over his right shoulder. He was short, maybe a hair over 5’6” tall, with a thick neck and broad shoulders. His load made him seem smaller, as if weighed down and compressed. He turned and made sure the door was locked before descending the concrete steps to the sidewalk. Evans was almost to the car when he looked up and saw the new driver. He stood taller, leaner than his regular guy, and the change in his routine threw Evans off.

“Where’s Lou?”

“He’s off tonight”, the taller man replied.

“I can see that. Who are you?”

“Jackson, sir.”

“Giordano’s sent you?”

“Yes, sir”

Evans looked him over. He prided himself in being a good judge of character, and this guy was nothing special. He’d do in a pinch. Besides, all he had to do was drive. Any idiot could do that. He handed the duffle to Jackson.

“The case stays with me inside.”

“Yes, sir”, Jackson answered.

He took the duffle, and opened the back door of the sedan for his passenger. Once inside, Jackson took the soft-sided bag to the back of the car, popped the trunk open, and tossed it in. The bag rolled to the front of the trunk as he slammed it shut.

Jackson got in the front driver’s side door, turned the key and the Ford purred to life. He looked in the rear view mirror at his passenger. Evans had opened the briefcase, the top blocking the view of what was inside. It didn’t matter. For now, all Jackson had to do was drive. If Lou could do this, the then couldn’t be that much to it.

“You know where we’re goin’?” Evans barked from the back seat.

Jackson shrugged, and then looked down at the clipboard on the front passenger seat. There was the driver’s tag, the instruction sheet for Giordano’s drivers.

“It says here 4750 Brompton Court, wait for you, and then Buffalo Niagara Airport.”

Evans nodded, not looking up from his case. “I got a flight to make, so let’s get movin’, okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

Jackson slipped the car into drive, and pulled forward into the night. He had been to Brompton Court several times, and knew the tree-lined cul-de-sac was home to some of the area’s richest homes. This was the doctor’s neighborhood, the lawyer’s neighborhood, the executive’s neighborhood. There was a lot of money, and he wondered what kind of business Evans would have there. In the end, though, it really didn’t matter. He was supposed to drive, so he did.

A few minutes into the trip, Jackson felt a tap on the shoulder.

“What do you think we have the radio on while we drive here? Maybe check see if there’s some news or sports or something? I like to keep up on things.” Evans was finished in his case, and Jackson looked at him through the rear-view mirror. He had his right hand inside the left side of his coat, re-arranging something.

Jackson reached forward and clicked on the radio. Initially there was some kind of advertisement for a credit counseling service, and then the news returned.

“In what Buffalo Homicide detectives are calling the strangest string of murders in the city’s history, another body was found on the grounds of the Tift Nature Preserve in South Buffalo. This brings to five the number of people murdered over the past three months in what the police are describing as a ritualistic manner. The latest victim, like the others, remains unidentified and is described as a Caucasian male, approximately 35 to 40 years old.”

“Do you believe the crazies out there, Jackson? That has got to be one sick mother to be killing for no good reason.” Evans shook his head.

Jackson gave a non-committal shrug and a nod as he listened to the news anchor. “Few details are being released by the police, but sources close to the investigation indicate the killer has been removing the hands and drowning the victims, making identification difficult. In other news, the County Executive has put forth his proposed budget for…”

“Maybe get some music or somethin’, huh, Jackson?”

“Of course, sir.” Jackson turned the dial to a local easy listening station, in time to hear Elton John say goodbye to the yellow brick road.

Jackson made the turn from Main on to Brompton, proceeding slowly as he read the house numbers towards 4750. His eyes adapted quickly, his vision fairly acute in the lower light. Most of the more mature trees hung over the sidewalks, providing a natural barrier between the street and the homes. There was a tap on his shoulder from his passenger.

“Cut the lights, Jackson, and stay right here,” Evans whispered.

Jackson turned off the headlights, through the sedan in park, and shut the engine down. It was remarkably quiet, and the darkness wrapped the men like a blanket. Evans leaned forward, staring through the windshield at a home several doors ahead. The proximity of someone so close behind him made Jackson uneasy, and he squirmed a bit towards the driver’s side door. He could see Evans in the rear view mirror, smiling at his apparent distress.

“Don’t worry, Jackson. I have no intention of harming you.” Evans patted his driver on the shoulder in a show of confidence. The two turned their attention to the house three doors down, red lights moving down the drive towards the street. The red lights disappeared as the car finished backing, turned and pulled forward past the pair, headlight illuminating the street. Evans reached into his coat, pulled out a pair of thin leather gloves and opened the rear passenger door.

“Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be right back.” He disappeared into the night, under cover of the moonless sky and the low hanging willows.

His eyes accustomed to the low light, Jackson followed the path of his passenger as he crossed the manicured lawns towards the back of the house the car just left. He rolled down the windows, the cool night air flooding in on him, He breathed in the smell of the wood fire from someone’s chimney, the smell of the fallen leaves piled high at the sides of the road. In the distance, he could hear the tire hum from the busy main roads, filtered however much by the surrounding trees. His focus was broken by the sound of three distinct pops coming from the direction of the house. Jackson turned the key in the ignition.

Evans strode quickly up to the car, opening the passenger rear door and sitting in one smooth motion. Jackson pulled the care forward, slowly making a u-turn back towards Main Street. He looked in the mirror and saw a glimpse of the .22 caliber pistol from the steel briefcase, the cylindrical silencer in his other hand. Evans looked up and caught him.

“Shouldn’t you be driving, Jackson? I have a plane to catch.”

“Yes, sir. Do you mind if I ask a question?”

“Depends on the question.”

“Did the person in that house have to die?”

“Yes.”

“Did you have to kill him?”

Evans finished breaking down the silencer off the pistol, placing it in the precut foam in the case with care. He shrugged.

“It’s what I do.”

“Do you like killing people?”

“I like getting paid to do it. I suppose that’s enough.”

“It’s important to like what you do. Life’s too short, you know?”

Evans shrugged.

The pair proceeded up Brompton out to Main, moving easily through the late evening suburban traffic. From the side panel on the driver’s side passenger door, Evans pulled a small bottle of bourbon and a glass. He poured himself a drink, savoring the burn as the liquid poured down the back of his throat. He closed his eyes, satisfied. This was the last job. The Cantolinos wouldn’t be able to find him in the Caymans, and probably wouldn’t even go looking. He did enough for them. Now it’s time to do for me. He poured another drink and let the warmth spread throughout his body. He could feel the relaxation begin as the liquor began to work its magic.

The sedan found its way through the night towards the airport. Jackson pulled the car into a gas station, to the far side of the building by the self service air pump. It was his best chance, with Evans in the back seat, eyes rolled back from the sedative he put in the whiskey. He tapped on the rear window, twice, and got nothing more than a slack-jawed look from his passenger. Perfect. He pulled the slumped man out on the passenger side, away from the glare of the halogen lamps. He unlatched the trunk remotely, and dragged his charge to the rear of the car. Once in place, he lifted the trunk and dumped the unconscious hit man into the trunk. He slammed the lid, got back in the car and drove into the night.

“Now you have some company for the ride, Lou. Wouldn’t want you to be lonely back there.”

The sedative would hold until he got to the lake, time enough to take the hands as a trophy. The water is the great equalizer. Every body looks about the same after they’ve been in the water. The water bloated the thin, shriveled the obese, and had a way of muting the handsome and dulling the ugly. Even the hit man and the limo driver were equals. It took about forty-five minute to get to the marina, and a low lying fog was building as the cooler air came across the warmer water. He backed the car into place, smiling as he shifted to park. He pulled the trunk release inside the car before he got out, and walked to the rear. Lifting the lid, he reached inside the trunk and pulled out a pair of industrial bolt cutters. The long handles opened wide, the jaws of the tool yawning. Jackson held the handles at eye level, snapping them shut with an accustomed force. He repeated this 3 times, remembering the sound of bone and sinew snapping as those jaws did their work. He smiled, and pictured the sharp edges of the cutter smiling, too.

“It’s important to like what you do” he said to no one in particular. “Life’s too short, you know?”
-fin-

Free Sex

Free Sex
by Suzanne James

I was warned. The small brochure tossed carelessly aside. A brief mention of problems Americans face when working in Japan. It was a dream job. A promotion I never expected. Johns hated me, I knew that, and now that I look back at the man I was, and who I am, I wonder if he knew what would happen, planned everything with exacting attention to the most finite detail. A more diabolical and cruel scheme I’ve never encountered in either news or fiction.

I could stay home tonight, fight it, try to return to the man I was. The Brokers would be at the Blossom club tonight. If I left now I could find a long legged blond. I knew the one I liked. Only $1000 for the night, a university student working to earn her next year’s tuition in the US, we rarely talked. She knew her job. I knew mine. Four months in Japan built a surreal relationship between us, a dance where we moved through the night in perfect sync.

We were the perfect couple. She flaunted and flirted. Her movements perfect unison with my own, her moves fitting my height and breadth as if she were made for me. She usually avoided Americans. I was the only one she’d spend the night with. I knew the rules. I had gone native.

I use to laugh when she told me that I’d go native. I didn’t understand. I should have paid more attention to the sadness in her eyes. I should have asked, ‘why are the hostesses so sure their Johns won’t expect sex.’ I should have asked, ‘Why do men pay $1000 a night for dinner and a dance – nothing more.’ I should have asked. But, I didn’t. I should have asked what the silhouette of the strong man in a business suite, towering above women, meant. I should have read that brochure.

I fell into the Japanese night life without hesitation. No one needed magazines here. The porn walked and talked. Best of all, the porn knew their place in the man’s world. I had so much respect for the Japanese culture. It seemed so mature compared to our own. The women did not have the inhibitions of American life. They were willing. They were warm. They were everywhere. It was his job to entertain in the best hotels, the best night clubs, and he loved it.
The cold casual manner the Japanese CEOs should have alarmed me. Women draped over their arms, seductively leaning close. Their clothing barely covered them. I enjoyed the attention of the ‘office flowers’ whose only job was to make me uncomfortable, while they worked hard to make me feel uncomfortable.

I walked the five blocks. The blond was there. Her smile hitched when she saw me, but she never moved. She made me walk the full distance between us. She never moved a muscle until I reached her side. She stretched and turned with the grace of a cat.

“I started to wonder if you’d show.”

I tilt jerk my head but she doesn’t move. Her smile tightens but her body remains suggestive. Shadows press down. The dull grey light of the real world beneath the bright glow of the banners meant to lure more tourists and business men into the dark underworld.

“The deal hasn’t closed yet.” I put one hand on the small of her back. “Same price.”

“Same rules,” She laughs at the joke.

I don’t find anything funny. I want to slap the smirk from her face. She seems to take pleasure in my frustrated state. If I didn’t know better, I would think she had this planned. Would have known what would have happened.

“I think you owe me a bonus when this is over,” She cooed.

“Really? How do you figure that?”

Her arm slinked through mine, her hand resting close to mine. I let my hand slide down to the sweet spot. Her smile widened. It was just for show.

“You’ll get use to it.”

“I don’t plan on getting use to it. I plan on getting help as soon as I’m state side.”

Her silence spoke volumes.

“Isn’t it ironic that this culture which allows rape, makes porn public, and turns children into prostitutes has the highest volume of emasculated men?”

My chin lowered. I watched my $2000 shoes glow an odd color under the yellow street lights.
Voices interrupted my thoughts as we neared the club district. The lights grew fewer and more distant. In America this would be a dangerous place for women, but not in Japan.

“I don’t see myself as emasculated. It’s just a state of mind. Overload you might call it.” I nodded and smiled. “Sensory overload. It’s quite common. What is that they say about coroners? They can stand over a corpse, half decayed and crawling with dung beetles and maggots because their offertory senses dull and become numb.”

“Interesting analogy.”

“You get my point.” I swung my arm wide taking in the entire night club strip. “All of this overrides the normal sexual drive. It numbs the senses. Men don’t respond after a while.”

Sleek black limos stopped before the brightly light entrances. Large body guards clad in black opened doors and helped a young oriental girl out of the car. The men who stepped out ignored her. She turned, her curves visible under the skirt. She ignored the men. Even at her young age she knew the show wouldn’t start until they were inside.

“Ready?” The blond whispered in my ear.

My phone rang. Her hand slid into my pant pocket and fished out the phone. She answered in a crisp tone. I walked slightly ahead. The message started to sound like Japan’s answer to a telemarketer. The blond pertly informed the caller that I was busy all night.

A single word ‘Johns’ carried over the night. I turned quickly. She clicked the sleek silver case shut and slid it back into the linen pants pocket. Her hand lingered.

“Who was that?” I stared down into her soft hair. It glowed a greenish color under the yellow street lights. Her hand stopped as she looked up. I’d never realized how weak a woman’s neck was before.

“No one.” She said sweetly and pulled her hand out of my pants. “They sounded like a sales person.”

I brush her hair away, annoyed. I didn’t respond. There was no reason for her to lie.

I flashed the gold card to the men guarding the door. They stared straight ahead, oblivious. I wondered if they could still perform with a real woman. They were probably the smartest men on the whole strip.

The clients were not there. A night wasted. I leaned back in the chair and rested my chin in my palm. “What’s your name?”

“No names.” Her brow shot up. She stopped the façade dead and stared hard. “This is a dangerous place to live. People are swallowed into the dark holes with the rats and roaches. A person with no name cannot become a victim. A woman cannot disappear in Japan if she was never in Japan. If she doesn’t live anywhere then she cannot disappear from there.”

“But you are here. Sitting in a red chair, drinking blood Champaign, eating an $800 a plate dinner. That is a fact whether I know your name or not.” Women can be so foolish some times. Woman logic his father called it. Their warped sense of reasoning that justified the most bizarre behavior.

“There are people who believe that if you know a person’s name then you can have power over them. All you need is a bit of information. Where they work, live, have fun. I am not talking Voohoo or anything dark like that. An identity can be stolen.” She leaned forward opening her cleavage. “An identity can be destroyed. Once the identity is ruined, then the person can disappear and no one will look for them.”

I waved away her concern. “Clients are not here tonight.” I had to change the topic. I didn’t want to hear the latest horror story of a missing hostess. Or an American pulled down into the perverted sex trade and white slavery that undulated beneath the layer of civility that covered Japan like a thin veneer. “I won’t be signing the deal tonight. The clients didn’t appear.”

“Poor dear, what a waste of a grand. Well, your company pays so why not just enjoy the dinner.”

“So, I’m to call you ‘the blond’ in my memoirs?”

She laughed. She’d been laughing at me a lot lately. I never really noticed. I let my eyes narrow. I learned a long time ago that my ‘look’ could silence women. They usually withdrew, their feelings hurt. This one just laughed more. “I am the youngest man to go from trailer park to Vice Presidency in Corporate America.”

“Impressive.”

I ignored the slight tone of contempt in her voice. “You have accomplished a lot. I’m sure you’ve changed a lot of lives, left a lot of corpses in your wake.”’

“What does that mean?” I spat. The waiter left a blood red Champaign within arm’s reach. I eyed it warily, but didn’t want the alcohol. I didn’t want my drive dulled any more. These days I coveted the most primal sensation, the smallest reaction that proved I was still a man.

“Don’t be angry. You never use to grow angry. I’ve met a lot of CEO Wannabes. They all have the same things in common. They set high goals. They get what they want at all costs. And they pay anything to get what they want.”

“Within reason.”

“Really?” The blond leaned back. Her body changed slightly. She looked less like a hostess and more like a CEO herself. Her eyes lost the Oriental glaze, a term I dubbed the hollow look hostesses normally gave their clients. For the first time, I believed she was an American woman.

“What are you studying?”

“Law.”

I laughed. It felt good to react physically to a real woman. This is what I missed. I’d learned to associate Oriental women with porn. They were not real. I just needed a night with an American woman to put myself right.

“You don’t think I’d make a good lawyer?”

“I’m just wondering what your firm would think of your current profession. It seems a little dark. How do you explain to an American boss that you did not do more than just act as an escort for your $1000 a night?”

“I don’t think it will be that difficult. With all the internet porn, VED is becoming common in the USA too. Look at all the young men who need Viagra to perform.”

“Like pre-ejaculation on Whitehouse hill?” I chuckled. The entire thing sounded absurd. “You believe that power becomes so addictive that it trumps sexual drive.”

The blond crossed her legs and leaned back. Her head tilted thoughtfully. “I don’t think so. I have to admit that the topic is something I’ve not studied. It does make one wonder though why the Japanese government wants to outlaw Child Porn, the only oriental country to do so.”

“Cause and effect.” I bantered, hoping she would keep talking so I could rest. “How to you explain where we are, Shinjuku's Kabuki-cho. The country doesn’t appear to crave a future population if it means losing all this money.”

“That is the state of the human condition. What will a man sacrifice for pleasure and power? The jails are full of men who tossed the dice and lost.”

“The human condition, you’ve studied literature?”

“And psychology.” She nodded and picked colorful slices of fruit from her plate. “I’ve been in school for about seven to eight years. We had a family tragedy a few years ago. I had to drop out of school to help my family.”

“Is that why you have such an interest in men’s sexual dysfunctions?”

She laughed and shook her head. “We could talk about something else.” Her shoe dangled from her foot as she thought. “When do you think your account will be settled?”

I blew out a long breath. That question, I couldn’t answer. I folded my hands behind my head.

“Paperwork has been sent back and forth three times. Each time I send the draft to Johns. Everything is set. Clients are pumped, then something stupid happens.”

“You trust this Johns?”

The muscles around my eyes tightened.

“That is a no?” Her lips pursed. “Can you find out if this Johns has been sabotaging your proposals?”

I shook my head. “I’m not connected.”

“Shame. A man is so vulnerable until they close that first major deal. Until then, it is like being a guppy in a shark pool. You don’t get eaten because none of the sharks can see you. Like being in school. You were a jock. All hype and sweat. "

“Do you care to hear it?”

“No.” I never did figure out why I was honest to her that night. Something deep inside me longed for something close to normal. To pretend for a moment that this culture, this society hadn’t cursed me.

“What have you paid for success?”

“I’m not a success.”

“This case then, what have you paid for the opportunity to prove you can land an international account? You left your family. Left a woman? Left people behind who might be trying to stab you in the back? Maybe there is a co worker who is trying to undermined you, destroy your career?”

I felt uncomfortable. This woman seemed to know a lot about my life. I knew that was unreasonable. Maybe I had been in country too long. The colors and lights mixed with the sounds. They didn’t touch me. What had happened to him? A mid western football player, scholarship to college, walked into a job at a firm with 4 letters instead of a name, this wasn’t the first time I admitted that I didn’t belong in Japan.

I leaned forward and rested his hand in his palms. The room spun. Colors blended together in a watery mess. Sweat covered his palms and dampened his cheeks. His sweat smelled sickly sweet. His skin took on a white almost translucent color in the last few weeks.

“Headache?”

“Growing worse every week or so.” The pain throbbed. A few nights I wondered if I’d been drugged. Maybe someone put a slow working poison in the drink. Blinking didn’t help, it just smeared the colors together.

“What’s your name?”

“Do you always break the rules?”

“Where is this rule written? I don’t remember it in the cultural information when I arrived.”

“Cassandra Baker.”

Her eyes pierced. I watched the rise and fall of her chest slow. Her fingers tightened around the Champaign glass as she brought the blood red liquid to her lips. The reds clashed. It surprised me. She was so meticulous. One night she poured 8 lipsticks from her bag. She found one that perfectly matched the client’s drink. Later that night she flirted hard and sipped from his drink, a suggestive innuendo that had no effect on the client.

“Well Cassandra Baker. Why this?” I looked at another table where a hostess was reaching across the table to fetch bread for her client. This one lacked even a thong. I stared blankly. So did the client. He was 100% focused on reading the body language of his prey.

“Good isn’t she?”

I nodded. “Where do they learn?”

“Some of them are training from the time they are twelve. They learn to read their client’s body language. When the deal becomes tense, or the prey takes control of the conversation, they jump into action.”

“Why?” I turned to look at her. “Less than 10% of the men in her get a reaction anymore.”

“It isn’t about sex. Surely you know that. Look at it this way. Think of it as rape in reverse.” The glass dangled from her fingers. One slight move and it would spill to the ground. “It is a power game. Using power to get the advantage – to get what you want.”

“Sex without release is not sex.”

“Tell them that?” Her finger lifted from the glass and waggled in a circular motion. “Who is the most powerful person at that table, the men, or the young girl? At the moment she controls all of them.”

“How do you see that?”

“Last year in law we learned that people will do anything, even destroy themselves, to obtain something primal. Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs and all that psychological mumbo jumbo. Think of it as propaganda without words.”

I looked at the young woman with new respect. My fish grew cold, untouched. I watched with new interest how the young woman moved. Each movement did incite a reaction from the men. Not sexual. She opened her legs and leaned forward. The man near her moved back uncomfortably. This was the first time I’d paid attention.

A musky scent brought me back to my table. Cassandra leaned close, her breasts close to my shoulder. She placed a soft hand on my arm. Her eyes had returned to the Oriental glaze. I looked deep into them. There was something malleable and macabre. I’d seen those eyes before. The black was too large, almost totally engulfing the iris. Her lowered lid hid the whites.
Her lips parted. “You don’t look good tonight? Let me take you home.”

Her hand slipped under my elbow. I stood. My mind didn’t register much of anything as she took me back to my hotel. She knew the way. The doorman knew her. The strake whiteness inside brought me back to life.

He pushed his shoulders back and crossed the lobby. He strode across the wide carpets. Every eyes was on him. His glance shot to the left to right. No one looked his way. A small man approached. He paused. The small man held up a silver tray. I deftly lifted the crisp envelope leaving a tip on the tray. He entered the elevator, Cassandra close behind.

Her glossy smooth legs aggravated him. They were too perfect. Her breast strained against the clasps of her Victoria Secret. He knew she clung to the lingerie brand, in the same way he refused to drink anything but Captain Morgan’s. A small life line to the old world, their real life.
The room card slid smoothly through the keypad. The door swung open effortlessly. He sank into the carpet. The laptop flashed. He ignored Cassandra. He still burned from tonight’s revelation. He needed to rethink the situation. Was she playing him now? Was this the next step in a manipulative plan? The women were no longer inanimate objects to be picked and chosen. They were predators. He wondered if they met in the day and mentored each other, pointing out the good ‘marks.’

He looked at Cassandra. She lounged against a chair. Her body coiled. She didn’t look like a woman, not like the women in porn magazines. Those women were real. This thing before him was a predator. Like a black widow, a breeding machine who needed men to pay bills, provide children, and then they were discarded.

Cassandra uncurled and crossed to the bar. She poured a glass of Morgan’s and brought it to him. He took the drink then cursed. She made him do her bidding. She played him. It was so easy for them. He wondered how many generations women had known of their power. Their ability to take everything away from a man by offering them all they wanted, and more…free.

“I will stay?”

I shook my head no. I didn’t dare speak. Not until I learned how to master them. Knew how to fight back and could once again be in charge. He needed to regain balance. Put himself back in the seat of power. Restore his world to the way it should be, where he took what he wanted, and they gave without causing him problems.

Cassandra, glanced at him once more. A smile of satisfaction crossed her lips. He’d seen eyes like hers before. “Goodbye Mick Goodridge. We won’t meet again.”

“Go.” He hated her. She hadn’t even touched him. She hadn’t tried to seduce him. It didn’t stop him from feeling numb.

“Go home.” Cassandra’s hand rested on the door handle. She didn’t turn around. “This is a dangerous country. People disappear every day, swallowed in the darkness.”

He sighed and put the drink down. He didn’t dare touch more of the drink. He knew he’d seen those eyes before. He smiled for the first time in weeks. He called down to the desk and ordered the concierge to change the lock on his door. Then from spite he reported the pass key missing.
He knew where he’d seen Cassandra’s eyes before. Five years earlier when her money grubbing sister bilked more than $200,000 from his father. He knew he didn’t rape her, and when she settled out of court his boss knew too. That was all that mattered.

I opened the envelope looking for a distraction. I still felt numb, but could flip on any channel at this night and find a little peace and relief from the frustrations. I read the short note. The client cancelled the negotiations. I crossed to the laptop and slid the mouse, brining the screen to life. I didn’t even need to read the message. The email subject line said everything I wanted to know, “Your Fired.”

I opened an email from Johns hoping for a lifeline. A second later a pornado opened on the laptop. The virus flashed Baby pictures of a girl n rapid succession, each a little older, some family pictures that showed two little blond girls and a boy. The pornado rolled images in rapid succession across the screen, cheerleader, graduation, then newspaper reports of a rape, and finally it stopped. A card remained on the screen.

Donated in Memory of Becky Brown, $200,000 to the women’s crisis help line. The image faded to a news article on the effects of a new erectile dysfunction being studied in Japan that linked porn and free sex to permanent erectile dysfunction. Highlighted in the bottom of the page was the symbol of a strong man stood in stark contrast to the rest of the page over the words – no known cure.
--
I ran from the hotel. I had to catch her. Force her to make this right. I should have known. Small things that Johns had said. The way Cassandra looked at the men who fondled women without respect. I ignored the doorman. It didn’t matter anymore. I’d be on a plane home within 12 hours. Until then, I had to find her. I had to force her to give me back what I’d lost.

Rain slicked the road. I knew the district she lived in. The roads cleared of tourist traffic. The glossy black strip led into the night. I soon panted, gasping for air. I hadn’t run in years. He turned blindly, looking for a short cut through the narrow streets. The lights faded as he ran toward the low rent district where Cassandra told him she lived. He sent a car for her one night and demanded the driver give him her address.

He stopped and leaned against a dark building. Shadows moved against the wall, keeping close to the streets. He must be close. The population increased. He didn’t look at faces as he pushed through the growing crowd. He just wanted to reach her building before she did.

He passed rows of shops closed and barred. Trotting, then walking until he the air stopped burning his lungs. A woman yelled at him in Japanese. He stood up and straightened his coat. The crowd moved around him. Prostitutes moved closer first. I looked at them and said the street name. One lifted her hand and pointed.

I pushed past them and continued to move down the street. Smoke and black light escaped the strip clubs on either side of the street. The rooms above were boarded over. Several men stood in the street, cigarettes hanging from their mouths. I looked up and down the street. This was the right street. This was the right building.

The men circled, surrounding me.

“I’m looking for a Blond woman, tall.” I held my hand up at Cassandra’s head. The men didn’t acknowledge they heard. “Cassandra Brown?”

“Sir? Please, come in.”

I turned relieved at the French accent. I recognized the driver elbowing his way through the crowd. I suddenly felt like the guppy in the Shark tank. “I am glad to see you. I’m looking for Cassandra Brown. You gave me this address.” I looked up at the four story building. The top three floors were boarded over.

The driver smiled and waved me toward the dark entrance to the building. Heavy American style music throbbed from the entrance. The door acted like an exhaust pipe drawing the heat and smoke out of the building. The driver pushed him forward, speaking quickly in French. I stopped. Why was I given the address where the driver was instead of where he picked up Cassandra? I looked around. None of these women were hostesses. They wore chains and leather, their skin darkened by bruises.

I didn’t need to turn around to realize that it was over. I could feel the crowd forming a solid wall behind me. The throbbing music drowned out the voices and warnings in my head. I’d worked so hard in the last weeks to avoid the vile hellish human cesspools that permeated Japan’s culture.

Excerpt from "Nimrod Rising"- Legion of Ants

The following is an excerpt from Steven Clark Bradley's Thrilling novel, "Nimrod Rising". Thanks for sharing with us!

Nimrod Rising - Legion of Ants Part One
by Steven Clark Bradley

“I was Alex’s best friend and sometimes his worst enemy. I know he was attracted to me. I was thin, long-legged, big-busted, dark skinned and beautiful. These legs don’t work anymore now, but then, I was a distraction. Elyon has forgiven me, but I knew it too! I was one of those Messianic Jews. That was the mark that made me the chosen vessel of his evil! I know I very often made him have wicked, evil thoughts. I am sure that he had been victorious over his libido mostly, except on rare occasions; he was forced to take things into his hands when he had undressed me far too much in his mind and had always convinced himself that he had had no alternative. It was not sexual. It was something far more sinister and evil. These things I am telling you tonight were related to me by him directly, before he…before he hurt me, robbed me, took me, you know what I mean…”
----------
“Alex! Come back to us!” Sally cried. Alex was quoting scripture and trying to comprehend what had happened to him during the prayer meeting.

“Temptation is not sin!” Alex told himself.

“I can do all things through Christ who…” Sally interrupted him, “Alex! Are you OK? What happened in there?”

Alex turned his face away from her. He was sure it was covered with perplexity and terror!

“Me? I’m fine. I had a touch of malaria last night. I took some stuff for it. Guess it’s taking its time working.” Alex shook his head in disgust.

“Sickness is of Satan!”

“Yea, maybe?” Sally responded. “But dead missionaries are not very useful to Elyon, Alex! You should…”

“I know! I should take it every day.”Alex knew that he had been taking it, but he also knew that pills could not cure what he had just suffered, and it was not malaria. He was not even sure that prayer could cure it now. That is unless this was some strange new strain that caused horrific hallucinations. Sally gawked at Alex. She knew it too!

“You need a better place.” Sally insisted.

“Hey, no problem! I’m just roughing it a little.”

“A little! What are you trying to prove, Alex?”

“Hey, Henry Martyn did it! He preached the gospel right here in Lahore!”

“Yea, and then promptly died at the ripe old age of 28 too!” Alex seemed to close himself off from Sally’s words.
“For me to live is Christ and to die is…”

“Stupid!” Sally interrupted.

“Sally, that’s a bad attitude! My times are in His hands!”

“And to rush it up is sinful too!”

“You like me don’t you?” Alex interjected smiling.

“Yea, I do, you over zealous fanatic. I like you a lot! Is there something wrong with that? Alex, you’ve been changing a lot lately. If you have a problem, tell me! I’ll be there for you!”

“I can see the way you feel. You see, what you really need is the world that you cannot see! You know the Vineyard doesn’t allow us to see so much of each other alone.” Alex responded.“I mean we are human and some of these rules are overbearing. I’m not trying to get you in my bed or anything, but you are in my heart!”

Alex’s face turned red, partly because he had imagined it so many times.“What did I just say?”

Sally turned her head to not reveal her red face. She turned her head back and spoke directly to Alex.“I, I mean, you’re a man. I’m a woman! A man is attracted, at times transported toward a woman. A lady has already understood that the man likes the woman, you know! Gives him no signals except a certain little flash of the eye; just enough to let him know he definitely still has a chance!”

“So that’s how it is, huh?”Alex seemed to be looking out of his eyes sideways, simply out of the extreme corners of the eyes.

“You decide, Alex.”

“OK! We can talk on the way back from Islamabad tonight. We can ride back together.”

“Why don’t you go back to your little home and get some rest before the trip and sweat it all off?”

“Why do I have to fall for someone just like my mom?”

Suddenly, Alex’s face was assailed with the look of horror.

“Sally!”Alex grabbed Sally by her shoulders and shook her.“I’ve gotta find them!”

“Who, Alex? What’s wrong?”

“My grandparents, Sally! Don’t you understand?” he asked, shaking Sally again.

“Alex! Stop it, you’re hurting me!”

Alex came to himself.“Sally, I’m sorry. If I told you all about it all, you’d fear for my mind. You probably already do!”

Alex backed away from the girl.

“I really have to go! I want to call them.”

Alex was walking backward still admiring her.

“I’ll see you tonight. Wakely and I are going to Islamabad together.”

Alex waved again, turned around, and trotted briskly to his habitat and Sally prayed.
~~~
The Vineyard was not your run-of-the-mill international mission group dedicated to the propagation of the good news. It was laidback in its approach. The Vineyard didn’t demand that a candidate go out and spend the best years of ones life getting a Masters of Divinity and then a Th.D. It didn’t tell the candidate to spend the next five years after the degrees were accomplished drumming up support for the “Work” so that the servant of Elyon could, finally, get out to the field where Elyon had “so powerfully” called them, afterwards to finally arrive too bruised, battered and worn to set up house, get typhoid and die! No! The Vineyard took you as you were. Long hairs, short hairs, or no hairs at all! You’re qualified!

The only prerequisites were that you be filled with the Spirit, spend ample time in prayer, a standard to which no one could ever quite attain except by exaggeration. You had to read your Bible.

“Meditation on the word was the key! Breathe it! Eat it! Drink it and Dream about it!” as Vineyard founder Rex Wagle used to proclaim in his sermons. The original name of the mission had not been the “Vineyard” but rather “Christ is the answer.” The name originally left no doubt as to what they were about. It had a ring about it and seemed to say it all. The only hang up was that when the first letters in each of words were used as an abbreviation, it spelled out CIA. That never went over well in the Third World when visa time came up. They had even begun to change the acrostic title to C.I.T.A. but that meant HIV/AIDS in the French language, or at least it had the same sound. So, after painstakingly praying and seeking the will of the Lord for a new name, the name “Vineyard” was chosen. Never mind that the new title seemed to imply that they were all drunkards.

“Elyon knows better!” Rex Wagle declared.

One would have thought that Elyon also knew better for the original name as well, but no one had ever pointed that out. Unity, prayer! Piety, prayer! Sobriety, prayer! Study of the word and prayer! Fasting and above all, prayer! It was a miracle, but one did have a chance to sleep from timeto time. One was always sure to pray before sleeping!The days of the Vineyard’s devotees were filled with the distribution of the Gospel and the seemingly never-ending stream of literature to distribute also. That is, of course, only after a profound moment around the Word of Elyon and prayer at 5:30 A.M. The original time had been 5:00 A.M. That change was highly regarded as a compromise on the part of supposed men of Elyon with the inability to conquer their flesh. Some said it was worldly. The dissenters did follow after the others’ carnal ways and sleep another half hour later though! The team’s nights were to be spent in the visitation of “contacts,” as they were called: those who showed more than just the casual interest in either the literature or the message of the gospel or visa to America. Of course, there was the “Around the world night of prayer” every Thursday night. It would usually break up at around 4:00 AM to give everyone a chance to have breakfast and refresh themselves before the 5:30 AM prayer meeting and then off to the daily scheduled ritual that had just become too stale for Alex Maefield. It was to be counted as a day without sleep for the Lord!

Alex had researched many groups before joining the Vineyard. He had received materials about the Vineyard even though he could not recall having ever enquired of them or having ever heard of them. Even more mysterious to Alex was the letter of acceptance he had received from them when he knew he had not even applied. When he had called to ask about the status of his acceptance, the Vineyard officials had never heard of him, but he was accepted nonetheless.

Alex just took it as a sign from Elyon. The Vineyard, more than all the other mission groups or boards, offered Alex his best chance to be radically spiritual and to “one-up” everyone around him, in spiritual terms. Alex never missed a meeting, consistently read the book and held a good check on his libido. Before venturing out into this land of dark magic and demonic activity, Alex had not spoken to any churches or mission boards. He decided to just trust the Lord to meet his needs the same way C.T. Studd, Henry Martyn and Hudson Taylor and many others had done in their new-life endeavors. Every month, Alex’s grandparents sent him faithfully a meager stipend of $100 out of their savings, ever determined to let their adopted son, Alex, mightily do the will of Elyon. The Vineyard director had warned Alex several times that the will of Elyon just might be changing for him if he didn’t have his support coming in more regularly and in larger denominations. Alex never worried. Alex hardly ate, fasting three days a week! He never drank Coke or Pepsi, even in the sometimes 45-degree Celsius temperature of Pakistan, and he lived in a one room rooftop-closet sort of place. Alex’s comfort level was hardly above that of the common city street dwellers of Lahore, and only a half-step below those who lived in cardboard boxes on the streets of Bombay.

Alex had told himself that he was trying to relate to the people of Pakistan, Lahore in Particular. In reality, it was all he could afford! It consisted of one window, which barely opened, a plastic, fold up hanging closet, a desk with the drawer missing, a wobbly chair, and one washed-out paint container, which Alex used as his toilet. It smelled rancid whenever he forgot to empty it. There was an overhead fan fastened to a hook which made Alex wonder if it might come tumbling down spinning some night as he slept and make mincemeat of some of the most prized possessions attached to his body! Alex would often watch the most amazing phenomenon as he lay in his broken down mattress. Day or night, from the wall to his left, over the ceiling above him, down the wall on his right and across the floor under his bed and up the left wall again, was a steady stream of ants. At first, Alex was afraid that they would fall into his gaping, snoring mouth as he lay sleeping at night. After a while, Alex had become accustomed to his thousands of friends, even grateful for their presence. He watched them as they marched in military-style unison, going about their business of doing the same task day in and day out. When Alex first started watching them, they had seemed daring, busy, loyal, even zealous! Now, though Alex still went to great pains not to step on any of them, they seemed boring, ritualistic, robotic and numb. Alex speculated to himself that they were a whole lot like him, a perfect picture of himself. He was doing the same thing these ants were: going out daily, gathering the tidbits and crumbs that he knew would be to the Master’s liking and only told to go right back out and do the whole thing all over again!

Alex had lost his vision. He found it impossible to persuade himself anymore of the rationale for even being there. The hallucination, aberration, vision or whatever it was didn’t help him. It had actually crushed him! He called home but there was no answer. The answering machine was turned off, broken or possibly blown to bits by bullets shot by a man wearing Alex’s face! He was scared, frustrated and angry! Alex got off his bed and walked over to the legions of ants streaming up anddown the walls. He had returned home to get some rest before his trip to Islamabad in the afternoon. There was a Sunni Muslim festival parade there today. It would be a bit of interesting and potentially dangerous evangelism!

“Fanatics are always dangerous,” Alex thought.

The statement caused him not to trust himself. He wondered if Elyon’s perspective toward man was like his own toward these bugs pacing up and down his walls. They were so small compared to Alex’s foot. He placed his foot three or four inches over a small section of this assembly line of vermin. Hundreds of the tiny creatures ran for cover as if amazed that their giant, humanoid friendwould be so rash as to frighten them.

“Elyon can crush us with his foot!” Alex remarked.

Was Elyon about to step on Alex? The thought had struck Alex’s mind as many times as the blood of Christ prevented it! Did Elyon hold the momentary last few days of doubt, lust and fear against him? Alex feared so. He removed his foot from over top of the ants. They all regained their positions again. He fell backward onto his bed. He needed to rest before the trip. The bed conformed nicely to Alex’s body. It was more of a hammock than a mattress. He looked up at the ceiling. The ants were marching to and fro in their vain, endless routine that literally would lead them to an early death, having worked themselves so hard. Often, while nodding off to sleep, Alex would lay and wait for the voices. They were those latent replays of things that one’s brain heard during the day but the ears had filtered out and refused to hear. The ants moved in formation above Alex’s head. Some seemed to be at battle stations. They seemed to make formations of battle in the hazy, dreary vision that was taking him into never-never land. They seemed to Alex, as his eyes folded slowly, like an approaching menace ready to die in war, if need be, and taking up their positions!

In the far distance, Alex heard the wailing, soothing cry of the Mosque calling the faithful to late-morning prayers, “Allah Wakbar! Bismila Rahman Rahir Irahim.”

Alex liked the sound. It stretched his religious bones. Closer by, a three-wheeled rickshaw sort of rumbled and clattered close by and the smell of the curry-infested air bit at his nose. He was tired. He was weary and afraid. He was tired and it was understandable. Ants could work themselves to death. Humans were of a more frail nature. There are those interplays between feelings, motives, emotions and drives. He remained unconvinced.

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Lost Soul

Lost Soul
by SRG James

Like drawing a silver line over a piece of paper he drew a red line over his hand. He leaned his head back feeling the buzz he got from the pain. The adrenaline rush made him feel invincible. It was like a high you couldn’t get from any drugs. He sat at the edge of his bed with a knife in one hand and the other bleeding. His hand closed making a fist. Blood ran between his fingers and down his arm as he lifted the bleeding hand up and slowly ran his tongue along the cut. Tasting the salt in his blood topped it off; it topped of the rush, made him feel power, feel immune, feel alive.

He hated feeling dead everyday, hopeless, helpless. He hated his life, hated being afraid, hated being helpless. This way he could get away and feel the emotions that were not normally there. He loved it. His heart hardened more and more. He found himself finding little remorse for other things even if they were more helpless then he was. His hand opened and he grew angry.

Everything in the room grew hazy and it seemed as though his room grew dim. He would tell himself that it was better then becoming a drug addict or an alcoholic like his dad, but he knew each day his soul was slipping away. He slept less and found he liked to stay up at night and gaze into the dark. As the shadow grew darker, he became happier, totally engulfed in the black night knowing everyone else was asleep and he was safe. He looked back at his bleeding hand smiling, thinking of how cool it would be to become immortal and being able to get back at everyone that had tortured him throughout his life. He laid back in his bed pulled up the covers and fell asleep.

The next morning he woke up before the sun rose. Rubbing his dry eyes and walked into the kitchen. He looked through the cupboards and fridge before realizing he wasn’t really hungry in the first place. He looked at the clock it said 6:55, in five minutes everyone else would be awake and the day would start. He hated it, his life and he wanted to escape. Sitting there looking at the TV he realized it wasn’t on. He felt unusually tired and was wondering if he should milk the last few minutes before the day starts. He pointed the remote at the TV and pressed the power button, nothing happened. He shook his head and got up from the couch. This was ridiculous.

Walking down the hall he caught his mom walk by him, neither of them said anything. She must be going to make breakfast he thought as he flicked on the bathroom light. He put his hands down on the sink counter. An extreme feeling of anguish came over him as he felt pain in his left hand, remembering the night before he looked up tears in his eyes. He knew what he was doing was bad. He could feel himself slipping away everyday. He looked harder into the mirror, something was wrong.

Reaching out toward the mirror his hand touched the cold glass. He looked at his eyes in the reflection looking back at him. There was something wrong about his eyes. They were not his, they were missing something. At that moment he felt his blood turn cold and the reflection in the mirror, walked away. He watched himself walk away, still looking at the mirror. He realized what was wrong. His eyes had no soul. His mouth opened and he screamed, but there was no sound.