The heart that weathers storms of pain,
fright, tears, anguish, and afterwards
remains, bent but unbroken in quiet defiance
of the tempest it has outlasted;

The heart that has been met at all crossroads by takers
and finds still depth from which to give and give and give again,
that has been misunderstood, mistreated,
and yet seeks evermore to be kind, fair, understanding, and gentle;

The heart that passes through the battlefields of life,
displaying uncommon grace under fire,
and carries on, wielding courage against tragedy,
celebrating triumph humbly and softly;

”Win or lose,” says this heart,
“I am here.
I am here, come what may.
I am here, scarred and imperfect,
mortal, no more, no less, I am here.”

This heart boasts not of its strength,
and in fact rarely admits its existence,
but it is there, a strength deeper than words
yet summed up in three:
“I am here.”

March 14, 2010
©PCB 2010

Americana.

Fifty-five.

. . .zzzzzz. . .
. . .zzzzzz. . .
breep-breep. . .breeep-breep. . .
“. . .uhf. . .”
Clunk!
“OW!. . .uhh. . .heeello?”
“Pandem, get up.”
“What?”
“We heard on the radio. . .
there’s been an attack
on the World Trade Center.”
“What?”
“It got hit by airplanes,
they said on the radio. . .
and we think some of the planes
are still in the air.
Go turn on the TV
and call me back
and tell me what’s going on.”
“. . .ummmm. . .okay.”
“Okay. Talk to you in a bit.”
“Okay. . .”
Click.
“Urrrgh. . .
Terra!”
“Yeah?”
“Are you playing games in there?”
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“News. . .now!”
“What?”
“I’ll do it. . .”
“What’s going. . .”
“And again, let’s look at the footage
from earlier today. . .”
“So what happened?
Any ideas yet?
No, we don’t know what happened,
only that a plane crashed
into one tower of the WTC.
We don’t know if that was an accident,
or. . .”
“Is that. . .
Oh.
Oh my God.”
“. . .”
“Oh my God.”
“That. . .that proves it.
A second plane has just crashed
into the other tower
of the World Trade Center,
proving that the first crash
was not an accident,
repeat,
NOT an accident. . .
this is an attack,
definitely an attack. . .”
“Ohhhhhh, fuck.”
And America. . .changed.
©PCB 2002

Today’s the day, Melvin tells himself, this has to be it.  Today’s the day.

Melvin sits on the edge of the bed, wearing only a towel, his hands wringing together in his lap.  Forty years old and looking like 60, what little remains of his hair has firmly gone grey and is plastered to his scalp, still wet from his shower.  Cigarette butts, beer cans, and fast food wrappers litter the floor of his tiny, cramped motel room.  Most of the room is taken up by the bed and dresser, there’s no room for chairs and a table.  A lit cigarette wavers between his lips as they move, unconsciously, in anxiety.  Ash falls from the smoke down his thin, sunken chest, which never had more than a feeble suggestion of chest hair, into his lap, inside his robe, atop his shrunken, atrophied genitals.  Melvin doesn’t notice.  He’s too busy waiting.

Today’s the day.  Today’s the day they know they’re not safe, they know I coming for them.  Has to be.  Has to be today.  They have to know.  Have to.  The fourth one yesterday. . .they have to know now.  Have to know.  Four dead, they have to know.

Melvin relived the moment in his mind, of waiting for Ted Sypes to come out of his office, shooting him in the back as he tried to get into his car, shooting again as Ted lay dying, making sure Ted got a good look at his face and knew the man he’d wronged had come for him. . .but Ted hadn’t recognized him, not like the other three had.  “You lost a game,” he’d told Ted as he left this world, “but I lost my entire life.” Did he see recognition in Ted’s eyes as he died?  Melvin thought he had, and the thought satisfied him, but he couldn’t be sure. It didn’t matter anyway.  After Ted stopped breathing, Melvin had stripped of his cheap suit and cheap shirt and cheap tie and cheap watch – cheap, but more than Melvin could ever afford, after they ruined his life – and put the jersey on him, just like he had done the other three.  The deserted lot and bad neighbourhood ensured he’d had all the time he needed.  Once he was 10 blocks away, he used Ted’s phone to call the police, making sure the body would be found quickly, then tossed the phone in a trash can before getting onto the bus.  No muss, no fuss, easy, brilliant.

And now they’ll know.  They’ll know I’m coming for them.  They’ll know what they did, they’ll know the man they ruined is still alive, and they know I’m gonna get my revenge on those fuckers, those stupid, game-losing fuckers, they. . .

Melvin’s hacking, rasping cough interrupted his thoughts.  That’s their fault too, he thought, I didn’t start smoking until after they took all my money.  The cigarette fell to the floor, and, barefooted, Melvin stamped it out, reaching for the crumpled pack of Dorals and pulling out another as he ground the old one beneath his calloused heel.  It hurt, but it didn’t matter.  Nothing mattered but them, nothing mattered but getting revenge for his ruined life.

There was a knock at the door.  Melvin jumped up, barely able to control his excitement.  The manager would leave the paper on the step and go on by, leaving Melvin alone with his triumph. . .

. . .except that when Melvin opened the door, Steve the manager was still there, holding the paper in his hand.

“Your rent’s late, motherfucker,” Steve said, his stogie bobbing up and down with his words.  Steve was in his fifties, pot-bellied, greasy, and smelled back; like his motel, he had seen better days.

“Right here,” Melvin said, fishing in the dirty bathrobe’s pocket for the money he’d taken off Ted’s body.  He didn’t want to cause trouble now, because that’s the sort of thing that gets people noticed by the police, and he didn’t want that much of their attention yet.  “Sorry for the delay.”  Melvin tried to sound humble, even though he knew that the day he didn’t need this ratbag hotel would be Greasy Steve’s last fucking day on Earth.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout,” Steve said, straightening the crumpled wad of bills.  He handed the paper over and walked away.  “Next time, don’t be late, cocksucker!”

“Yes, sir,” Melvin replied, grinning with all the luster his brown, broken teeth could muster.  “Won’t happen again. . .because I’ll fucking kill you in seven weeks,” he added as he closed the door.

Melvin was trembling with excitement as he walked back to the bed.  Stretching out, he looked at the paper on his lap, still folded, the top half down.  He could see the bottom halves of pictures of his victims, and knew that this was it, this was recognition, this was the part of his revenge he’d looked forward to the most.  His quivering lips curled into a smile as he turned the paper over and. . .

And. . .

“WHAT THE FUCK?”

2.

“Nick Netherton, The State Sports and News.”

“Mr. Netherton?”

“Yes?”

“Ummm, hi, my name is Mel. . .dred.  Meldred.  Yeah, that’s my name.  I’m Meldred and I’m calling you about the article in today’s paper?”

“Well, which one, Mr. ‘Meldred,’ I’ve got three or four in there.”

“The one on the front, about the serial killer.”

“Oh yeah, that one’s a real tragedy.  Normally I don’t cover crime, but as the head sports writer, they figured it was best for me to cover this one.  I’m real proud of that piece.”

“Oh, ummmmm. . .yeah, I guess it’s all right and all that, but, you know, do you think it was wise to insult the killer like that?”

“What do you mean, insult him?”

“In the headline you called him ‘The Cock-Hunter.’  In the article too.”

“Was that the headline they went with?”

“Yeah, I’m lookin’ at it right now.  ‘Cock-Hunter Strikes,’ in big black bold letters.”

“Awesome!  I didn’t think they were gonna go with it.  It was my idea, but you know, the editors don’t always. . .”

“It’s an insult!”

“How so?”

“Calling the guy – or woman, you know, it could be a woman doing this – The Cock-Hunter makes him sounds queer, don’t you think?”

“Well, when you put it like that, I guess you could say that, if you take it out of context, I mean.”

“Context?”

“Look, the guy is killing former South Carolina football players.  Killed four already, probably gunning for more.  USC’s mascot is the gamecock, so it makes perfect sense to me to call him The Cock-Hunter, since he’s hunting Gamecocks, right?”

“Why not call him The Gamecock Hunter, then?”

“Because – hey, hold on a second.”

“. . .”

“Hey, I’m back, sorry about that.  Around here, people often call our team just The ‘Cocks, so I went with the local lingo.  Besides, according to the profile, the guy’s gay.”

“Like fuck I’m. . .I mean, what profile?  Who says he’s gay?”

“Oh, the FBI worked up a quick profile last night.  Showed it to me and everything.  Yeah, their profiler definitely believes the killer is gay.  It’s all in the article.”

“But. . .but why would they think that?”

“Let’s look at the facts in the case.  The guy killed four men, took off their clothes, and redressed – after doing God knows what to their bodies – in their old football uniforms.”

“Maybe he’s trying to make a point?”

“He made the point that he’s gay.  Clearly it’s some sort of man-love-thing gone wrong.”

“Mother. . .maybe he’s trying to say that they did him wrong when they were playing football.”

“I don’t wanna how they did him, if they did, wrong or otherwise.”

“Wait, that’s. . .that’s not what I meant.  See, maybe he liked football, and he, and he, ummmmmm. . .”

“He what?  What could justify killing them and stripping them?”

“Maybe he had a lot of money and, like, lost it on a football game.”

“So that’s why he’d be killing them, 20 years after they last played college ball?  That seems kinda stupid to me.”

“No, no, see, you don’t get it.  What if it was a lot of money, all the guy had when he was a kid, and he lost it all and. . .and maybe dropped out of school or something. . .or his life went downhill because they lost.  It all makes sense now, right?”

“Hmmm.  When you put it like that. . .nope, I still think the guy’s gay.  I’m going with the FBI on this one.”

“I’M NOT.  . .I mean, the killer probably isn’t gay.  I think it’s like a revenge or money thing, like they ruined his life, so he’s getting revenge. . .”

“Nah.  That’s boring.”

“But it might be the truth. . .”

“I doubt it.  More likely he had a crush on the ‘Cocks when he was in school, and they like rejected him or something, and he’s still bitter about that.  Hell, maybe he even tried out for the team and didn’t make it?  I dunno the exact circumstances, but ‘gay’ seems to be the best fit to me.”

“That’s fucking retarded, calling a man gay when he’s just trying to get revenge for his fucking life that those fucking bastards ruined when they lost. . .”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, if that’s why he’s killing them.”

“I’ll tell you, ‘Meldred,’ the guy’s as gay as a San Francisco parade.”

“You fucking-“

“Tell you something else: he’s stupid, too.”

“What do you mean, ‘stupid’?”

“Stupid.  As in ‘dumb.’  As in ‘moronic.’  Like, stupid enough to call a reporter that insulted him from a landline phone in a cheap motel.”

“What? I. . .I. . .”

“Say ‘hi’ to the Sheriff for me.”

“What?”

BAM!

“SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT! GET DOWN ON THE GROUND NOW!  HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM! NOW! NOW!”

“Hello?”

“Nick?”

“Hey, Sheriff, what’s up?”

“Got him in custody.  It was pretty easy.  Thanks for your help.”

“No problem, Sheriff.  Glad I could help.”

“Thanks for that plan, too.  How’d you know he’d call you?”

“Eh, I remember some guy being real angry when the ‘Cocks lost to Clemson in ’91.  I didn’t know him real well, but saw him around campus, had some classes with him.  Stood to reason it might be the same guy, and you could make him lose his shit by calling him gay.”

“We got him now, so I guess it worked out.”

“Oh yeah.  He wasn’t gay, but even back then he was a fucking moron.”

July 14-31, 2011

©PCB 2011

-CRACK!-

the scourge lashes across her back,
knotted ends raising furrows in her flesh,
some of them bleeding.
She can feel them all and the scream it causes
breaks the sob free from her throat.
“I’M SORRY!” she yells,
her face awash in fresh tears,
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. . .”

For what? the voice asks.

“For everything, all of it, I. . .”

-CRACK!-

She screams again.
Kneeling in the dark, she feels the blood trickling
down her spine, over her hips.
When she can speak again:
“I did everything wrong. It’s all my fault.”

-CRACK-

More furrows. More blood. Another scream.
“I FUCKED UP!” she yells.
“I fucked up EVERYTHING
and I hurt EVERYBODY
and I can’t stop it,
I can’t fix it-“
She cries out in pain,
from the scourge,
from her heart,
from her head.
Her body quivers from the force
Of the sobs wracking her.

-CRACK!-

Yes, you did.

-CRACK!-

Yes, it’s your fault.

-CRACK!-

All your fault.

-CRACK!-

-CRACK!-

-CRACK!-

Her blood runs in rivulets now,
her back a bloody mass of flesh
crisscrossed with slashes from the scourge.
She can feel the blood running everywhere:
down her sides, atop her thighs,
down the crack of her ass,
even over her hunched, trembling shoulders.
The pain is terrible, even worse
that it is doubled; her crimes flash in her mind
causing a hurt easily the equal
of the agony from her back.
Still, she knows she is not done.

-CRACK!-

“I deserve this,” she whimpers into the dark.

-CRACK!-

“I deserve to be hurt, I deserve to be abused. . .”

-CRACK!-

-CRACK!-

“I hurt so many, so much. . .
being selfish. . .I was selfish
and horrible and I. . .

-CRACK!-

-CRACK!-

“. . .I deserve this. . .”

-CRACK!-

“I just. . .wanted. . .to be happy. . .”
The words are choked out between body tremors,
between groans and grunts of pain,
in a weak voice, nearly whispering.
“Just wanted. . .to be happy. . .”
For all that, they only seem
To awaken her punisher’s true fury.

-CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!-
-CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!-
-CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!-

She collapses, sobbing, shaking, crying
as the scourge tears at her flesh,
her smooth beautiful skin decimated,
the knotted ends of the scourge
ripping away at the muscles beneath.

Say it. Tell the truth, monster.

“I don’t. . .”
She struggles to get the words out, fighting them.
She knows them to be true, but. . .maybe. . .

-CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!-

An anguished cry breaks from her lips as she folds.
her breasts pressed against the pool
of her blood on the floor,
her pulped, shredded back to the dark sky,
bloody legs folded beneath her.
When she speaks, her voice is a hoarse whisper,
heavy with pain, remorse, guilt.
“I don’t. . .
I don’t deserve to be happy. . .
I don’t get to be happy
when I’ve made so many others miserable. . .
I don’t deserve happiness. . .
I don’t. . .
Oh God. . .
I shouldn’t be alive. . .”

-CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!-

“. . .don’t deserve it. . .can’t be happy. . .
don’t deserve it. . .don’t deserve it. . .
can’t ever be happy. . .
. . .don’t deserve to live. . .”

-CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!-

The words fade into sniffling cries
as the scourge keeps hitting her, over and over,
the pain too overwhelming to speak,
to even react to the savaging of her flesh.

-CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!- -CRACK!-

Finally, it stops,
her crimes of being human
not nearly punished enough for today,
but she can take no more.
Her hands fall in front of her
and she looks at them:
the left hand covered in her blood,
the right hand holding a red-stained scourge.

.

.

July 25, 2011
©PCB 2011

Rendered in pixels and electric light,
her soft, warm eyes were held by mine
as I sank slow into personal night
and wondered would our paths align.

Her soft, warm eyes were held by mine.
Adoring and aching, I could only sigh
and wondered would our paths align
as a midnight sun drew nigh.

Adoring and aching, I could only sigh;
her bemused smile threw brilliant rays.
As a midnight sun drew nigh
I slept under her watchful gaze.

.

for Beauty

.

July 22, 2009
©PCB 2009

    Geneva, Takezo, Dima, and Thomas had all taken their place around the meeting-room table for the weekly status meeting.  Their eyes were locked on the empty chair, belonging to Arthur.  Arthur was stereotypically British:  always punctual, if not in fact early, for any appointment or meeting.  It had been joked by Dima that he even began sexual encounters precisely at pre-arranged times and not a lick earlier.  His tardiness here was unusual, and all the faces present bore expressions of puzzlement, trying to figure out what this absence could mean.

“Should we start without him?”  Takezo asked.

“I suppose so,” Geneva said, with a sigh.  “We all have things to do.  Arthur can explain himself later.”  She turned to the Asian gentleman to her left.  “We’ll start with the majors:  Takezo, what’s the status of Agent Seraph?’

“She started as a school counselor yesterday,” he answered, his hands resting on the stack of papers in front of him.  “She has not yet made contact with the student in question, however.  She expects to take about a week to get settled in, and then she’ll begin the mission proper.”

“Excellent,” Geneva said with a nod.  “Tell her to take two weeks; we’ve reason to suspect that one of the teachers is involved in the abuse, and it would be very helpful if she could figure out which one before approaching the student.”

“Noted,” Takezo answered, making a note on his pad.

Geneva moved on.  “Thomas:  Agent Orion?”

“Orion is. . .wait.  Didn’t we skip Cipher?”

Geneva’s voice flattened.  “I know exactly how Cipher is progressing on his current mission, Thomas, and there is currently no need to update the group at large on how he’s doing.”

Dima said nothing, silently reading the doubt on the faces of the other two men.  They didn’t know about Cipher’s near rebellion six months ago, or that he’d tried to quit his current mission twice already, claiming it too difficult.  While Dima would have loved to give the update and seek the advice of the others, Geneva had taken a very personal interest in this mission and sworn him to secrecy, in addition to personally talking Cipher into continuing the mission.  He wondered if the doubt on the other men’s faces was visible on his face, as well. . .and sincerely hoped it wasn’t.  He was obviously Geneva’s right hand, and any doubt in her from him would only increase the doubt among others.

“Agent Orion, please?”  Geneva repeated.

“Orion is. . .”

Suddenly, the phone in front of Dima rang, startling everyone.  During meetings, the secretaries were under strict orders to hold all calls.  Reflexively, Dima answered it, ignoring Geneva’s glare.

“Dmitri.”

“Mr. Rossovich, Mr. Calibur is on line two.  He insists it’s very urgent.”

“It’s Arthur,” Dima whispered to the others.

“Put him on speaker,” Geneva said.

“Thank you, Sarah, patch him through, please,” Dima said, and hung up the receiver.

The speakerphone crackled with the transfer.  “Dima, it’s Arthur.”  His voice, crackling in the bad connection, made everyone crowd around Dima’s chair, straining to hear.  “I’m on the jet, inbound to Damocles’ location.”

“Why are you. . .” Takezo began.

Geneva interrupted him.  “Arthur, what’s the status of Agent Damocles?”

Arthur seemed as shocked to say the words as the others were to hear them:  “Agent Damocles is. . .”  He took a breath, and tried again:

“Agent Damocles is down, repeat, Agent Damocles is down.”

2.

    He could feel them, each and every single one.

Twenty seconds ago, he’d been helping Susan pack up her things and move out of the house while her husband was at work.  She was bringing boxes down into the kitchen, and he – stupid stupid stupid, he thought to himself – hadn’t been as vigilant as he normally was, and he, moving boxes to the front door, had stopped to look at her, admire how beautiful she was, all sweaty and almost crying and yet hopeful and happy to be getting out of this situation, and he’d stopped right in front of the big picture window – stupid, stupid, stupid – and hadn’t been watching the window itself and then he’d heard the glass break behind him and saw the picture of a sailboat on the far wall shatter and then he’d felt the first bullet enter to the left of his spine, somewhere in his abdomen, and then the second, high on his right side, breaking a rib and putting a hole in the top of his right lung and breaking another rib on its way out and then he heard the echo of the shots, just for a second, because Susan started screaming right then, right as the third bullet hit him in the back of his head and even as he fell he could feel it skipping along the side of his head, stuck between his skull and his scalp, and then it found a weak point in the skull and broke through, too spent to do anything other than drift and as he landed on the floor, it lodged itself right behind his left eye, seeming somehow to put pressure on both his eye and his brain, and as he cursed himself all the way down – stupid, stupid, stupid still running through his head – he heard Susan screaming and running towards him, and he wanted to yell at her to run away instead, to get out, because her husband was here, he could hear him yelling and cursing from the yard, probably on his way in to finish her off, but his mouth wouldn’t work and he couldn’t tell her to run and now both of them were going to die here if he didn’t do something, anything, but his body just wasn’t listening at all, it was dancing to its own syncopated rhythm, and a successful mission was now a complete failure because he’d stopped paying attention – stupid, stupid, stupid.

Even his mind was losing focus now, drifting off into its own places, perhaps trying to console itself in this situation by reminding him that he had been shot before, and remembering that he had survived that. . .

3.

    His life was over.  He just hadn’t died yet.

The flawless right hook that had ended his life was a year in his past now.  His wife, his family, his job, everything that had been his life was a year in the past.  In that year, he’d been living on the streets, and certainly no one from his life would recognize him in Hell:   his face was hairy and unshaven, his hair long and wild, his clothes torn and dirty no matter how many times he dumped them for new ones.  He’d become what he always thought of before as one of Them;  the homeless, rambling, vagabond people that filled the streets of any major city, and to him, eating out of dumpsters and using alleys for restrooms and fighting for warm places to sleep was no sort of life at all.

To him, it was exactly what he deserved.

He didn’t beg for change or go to any of the missions or homeless shelters in the area.  He didn’t feel he deserved the kindness of others, and besides, even as haggard as he was now, he feared someone might recognize him.  If he was recognized, of course the police – his former coworkers, his colleagues, his brothers in blue – would try to revive him, bring him back to the life he’d had, and he knew he was undeserving of resurrection.  He was dead, and he wanted to stay that way.

The other dead people had nicknamed him “Scrapper,” because he was good in a fight, even though he fought as little as possible.  It wasn’t easy; no matter how little you have, there’s always someone willing to take it from you, out of their own need or just plain greed, and that particular lesson had been taught to him many times over the past year.  He’d fought for shoes, blankets, boxes, jackets, food, everything. . .but what he’d fought the hardest for,  the things he’d been willing to kill to keep, weren’t edible or wearable.

He kept the pictures in his wallet, after tossing the wallet itself off of a bridge.  Pictures of his beautiful wife, her lovely and strong face, pictures of a young son with loving, adoration-filled eyes, pictures of them all in a time long gone.  Even worse was that looking at them now, frozen in phosphor permanently, he couldn’t help but remember how they’d looked the last time he saw them:  her bleeding from her lips, dazed, nearly unconscious, lying in the midst of a shattered table and lamp, two broken teeth beside a face lumpy with sweeling and broken bones, and his son with angry, hate-filled eyes.  Often he looked at these pictures at the same time as he did his badge, remembering how proud he’d been to be a cop, how much he loved it, how much he’d believed in the motto “To Protect And Serve,” and how, ultimately, he’d betrayed that motto, and then, pictures in one hand, badge in the other, he would hold them close to his chest, curl up in a ball inside his box or blanket or bundle of newspapers, and quietly sob himself to sleep.

For, as he’d learned, even the dead can cry.

4.

    The sound of the door being kicked in brought him out of his reverie.  Susan was cradling his head in her lap, her tears falling onto his face, and while in the back of the mind, he thought it a sweet gesture, he was trying desperately to tell her to run, to get away, to call 911.  All that came from his lips was a bloody bubble;  his lung was definitely bleeding, and might even collapse soon.  He wanted to tell her something, anything, even to get his gun from his jacket in the kitchen – stupid, stupid, stupid, he chided himself again, leaving your weapon so far away – but the words wouldn’t form, his body wouldn’t work, there was nothing he could do but listen to her incoherent wails and lie under a rain of her tears.

Then a new voice, began, the voice of Brett, Susan’s husband, and though he couldn’t make the words out, he knew it was a sentiment he’d heard many times before.  He could imagine the curses and slurs being levelled at Susan right now, imagine the charges of infidelity and unfaithfulness, imagine the anger and indignance at her leaving, imagine the psychotic rage now filling Brett, and all he could do about it was wait for the shots that would end Susan’s life.  Maybe she’d live as long after being shot as he had so far. Damocles hoped she wouldn’t;  the bullets were rather hot and feeling them move around inside his body was quite painful.  Stupid, stupid, stupid, he thought again, and now you’ve gotten both of you killed.

    But the shots didn’t come.

Looking out of the eye that didn’t have a bullet behind it (that eye was closed, because the pressure from the bullet hurt so much), Damocles saw Brett’s hand, the empty one, grab Susan’s hair and pull her up, dropping him to the floor.  Damcoles still wasn’t able to hear much, but could make out bits and pieces of what Brett was saying:  “Gave it to him. . .wouldn’t give it to me. . .fucking husband. . .will now. . .upstairs. . .stairs. . .fucking whore. . .stairs. . .”

And then Damocles couldn’t see either of them, only hear Susan being dragged towards the stairs, still sobbing and yelling, the thump of Brett’s work boots coming in an unsteady rhythm, meaning that Susan was probably not making it easy for him.  Good girl, Damocles thought.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, he cursed himself again, but now. . .lucky too.  She’s buying time.  All I have to do is get up and use it.  That’s all I have to do.  That’s it.  I can do it.

    Laying flat on his back, Damocles struggled with himself, trying to get his nonresponsive body to work, to do something, to get up and go help this poor brave woman, because he was the only one that could, and even if the cops showed up, Brett would probably kill her and then himself, because he was just that kind of fucking coward, and he was trying and trying and trying but his fucking body wouldn’t listen, thought it deserved a break just because it had three goddamned bullets in it and it was wrong, he tried so hard, squeezed his eyes shut with the effort, trying and trying and trying to get this FUCKING GODDAMNED BODY TO DO WHAT IT’S TOLD, FOR FUCK’S SAKE. . .

He opened his eyes.

He was looking at the carpet, at his own blood pooled where he had been laying, at his own shoe standing in a puddle of him.  Standing.  Looking down.

Alright, he thought.  Now I just have to make it up the stairs and save Susan by fighting a guy with a gun.  That’s all I have to do.  That’s it.  I can do it.

He took a single, faltering step. . .and the darkness of rememberance rushed into his mind again.

5.

    “Hey Scrapper,”  Bugsy – named not for the mobster but for the fact that insects seemed to love him – had told him earlier that evening, “some guys been looking for ya, askin bout ya.”

“What kind of guys?”

“Guys in suits, real clean, real sharp-lookin.  Two of em.  Big Russian and some poncy guy. . .Australian, I think.”

Internal Affairs? Scrapper thought.  After a year, certainly the police would have given up looking for him. . .but would Internal Affairs have given up?  Or would they want to bring the wife-beating cop to justice more than the Blue Brotherhood would want to find him?  It made him nervous, but he knew the bums would keep him safe.  After all, he’d protected them from thrill-seeking kids and junkies looking for easy marks many times before.  “Thanks, Bugsy.  I’ll keep an eye out.  Good looking out.”

“No prob,” Bugsy said, shuffling away to buy liquor with the $20 the men in suits had given him.  That part, Scrapper didn’t need to know, and besides, Scrapper was tough enough to fight these guys if it came to it.  After this was over, maybe he’d even share some of the money – more likely, some of the booze – with Scrapper, just to show there was no hard feelings.

Alone in his alley, Scrapper settled down inside his box, in a prime spot – next to the vent of a dry-cleaning place.  Nice and warm. . .though somehow Bugsy’s news gave him a chill that the vent could not remove.  As he always did when nervous or scared or just down, he pulled out the pictures and the badge, looking them both over, running his fingers over the faces he’d never see again, tracing the contours of the badge he’d fought for the right to wear and lost the right long ago, then clutched them to his chest and cried himself to sleep.

He awoke suddenly, realizing that the pictures and badge had been taken from his grasp.  Sitting up, he saw a large man standing at the end of the alley, silhoutted by a streetlamp. . .and, the police officer’s training realized later, completely blocking the alley from outside view.  Another man, shorter and thinner, was walking towards the larger man, away from Scrapper, looking at something in his hands. . .something that belonged to Scrapper.

“Is this the right one?”  said a heavily-accented voice.  Russian, Scrapper thought, as he stood and began to chase the smaller man.

“Spot on, lad,” said the smaller man, just as Scrapper was about to grab him. . .and then the Russian, moving far faster than his size should have allowed, swept Scrapper away from the smaller guy and a good fifteen feet back against the alley wall.  Amazed, he could only sit there on his crumpled box and trash bags and stare for a moment, trying to gather himself and decide what to do next.

“Are you sure?”  asked the Russian.

“Bob’s your uncle,” said the smaller man, and then Scrapper realized that the man was British, not Australian, though the fact made his presence no less unusual.  “Do it, and let’s get on our way.  This place is horrid.”

“Da,” the Russian said.  As Scrapper had gotten up and began to charge them again, the Russian’s hand flashed again, this time bearing a flash of metal as well, and just as Scrapper’s mind screamed GUN!, flame erupted from the metal’s end and the first bullet hit him in the face, glancing off his cheekbone and snapping his head back, giving him long enough to think I guess an open-casket funeral is out before the second bullet hit him in the chest, followed by a third in the chest, and a fourth in the stomach, and a fifth in the leg, and he felt them all for just a second before he couldn’t feel anything at all, then he couldn’t see anything at all, and then he heard the Russian voice say “You will forgive us later” and then he couldn’t hear anything at all and then he was just falling, onto the trash bags and the boxes, and only as he lay dying, just another bum dying in a dirty, stinking alley, this time dead for real, did he finally wish he could be back with his wife and child, wish he could go face them and apologize and maybe be taken back, and then he couldn’t think anymore and it was too late to do anything but die.

6.

    “How.  Did.  This.  HAPPEN!” Geneva demanded.

“All I know so far is that Observer 625 was following Brett – the husband – on his way to work, but Brett suddenly turned and went to a bar instead.  Brett went into the bar, kept watch for a couple of hours, and then. . .he says he just lost sight of him in the crowd,” Arthur answered.

“Lost him?”

“Lost him.”

“Let’s lose 625 somewhere in the Middle East.  Be sure to tattoo American flags all over him. . .oh, and give him a military haircut.”

“Geneva. . .” Dima began.

“What?”

“Let’s not worry about 625 right now.  Damocles is the bigger priority,” Dima said, with a calm he hoped Geneva would reciprocate.

“Okay,” she answered.  “Go on, Arthur.”

“Hang on, we’re turning. . .what’s our ETA, Captain?. . .okay.  I got the call from 625 that he’d lost the target just as the Medical Monitoring people called me and said that Damocles’ readings had spiked and slumped.  That was when I ran to the hangar and got on the Blackbird.  We’re still about 15 minutes from landing; MM says his signs are weakening fast. . .”

“What can we do?”  Thomas asked.  As the newest of them, an agent in trouble was not a situation he’d been through before, and it frightened him.   “Do we have anyone else on the ground there already?”

“No,” Arthur answered.  “All the observers in the city are gone, except for 625. . .and as angry as I might be at him right now, I’m not sending him into a gunfight unarmed.”

Geneva spoke up.  “Cipher’s in another city, as are Orion, Magdelene, all the others. . .Christ.  What about. . .”

“Got her,”  Takezo said.  No one had noticed the quiet Asian go to his own phone as soon as Arthur delivered his news.

“Got who?”  Geneva asked.

“Seraph,” he answered, his hand over the phone’s mouthpiece.  “She is in the same city for her mission, and since she’s still on recon, she can step out and help.”

A collective sigh of relief rose from the others.  “How fast can she get to him?” Dima asked.

“She says it depends on how many traffic laws she can break.”

Geneva smiled.  “Tell her she can run over nuns and orphans if she wants.  I don’t care, as long as I don’t lose another agent.”

“What’s going on?  I can’t hear,” Arthur said.

“Seraph is on her way,” Thomas said, his hands clasped at his chest.

“Tell her to put a great bloody hurry on – MM says Damocles just flatlined!”

7.

    When Damocles opened his eyes again, he was halfway up the stairs.  Blacked out, he thought.  Can’t do that again.

He could hear the struggle on the second floor, as Brett dragged Susan towards the bedroom.  She was fighting all the way, from the sound of it, cursing and yelling at him just as much as he was at her.  Good for you, Damocles thought. . .and then Susan broke away; he could hear her scrambling into the bathroom and trying to close the door.  He could hear Brett screaming and cursing, fighting to get the door open, then the thunk of Susan falling against the tub, the yells as she threw everything within reach at him. . .and then two more shots rang out.

Damocles stopped in place on the stairs and didn’t move at all.  Inside him, his mind whirred, praying that Susan hadn’t been killed, that he hadn’t been too late, that he hadn’t failed, that she wasn’t dead, maybe maybe maybe. . .

After a few seconds, he heard Susan crying, and Brett began yelling again for her to get into the bedroom.  Damocles listened carefully and heard the sound of bathroom tiles falling;  he guessed that Brett had fired wild or just warning shots to get her to stop fighting, and they’d apparently worked.  Damocles thanked God for sparing Susan’s life, and continued trying to climb as Brett resumed dragging Suasn to the bedroom.

Just as he reached the top of the stairs, he saw Susan’s feet slide into the bedroom.  Made it, he thought. Now all I have to do is. . .

    Then his heart stopped.

He felt it stop, felt the curious absence of the belaboured thumping within his chest.  He slumped against the wall, slowly sagging to the ground, wanting to do anything, curse scream, fight, anything other than die here, die a failure, die alone, but he couldn’t do anything, his body wasn’t responding again, and there was nothing he could do, nothing anyone could do but. . .

The first thump shocked him.

The second and third made him grin.

Alright, he thought, getting to his feet again. Not my time yet.  Better finish this before that happens again.

8.

    When Scrapper woke up, he thought he was blind.

“Great,” he said to nobody.  “I survived getting shot but now I’m blind.  Fuckin great.”

Scrapper realized his voice had an echo.  In trying to move his hands, he realized he was in a very very confined, but velvet-lined space; someplace he’d seen quite a few of as a cop.

“Oh fucking shit, I’m in a fucking coffin,” he said.  “HELP ME!  SOMEBODY!  GET ME OUT!  FOR FUCK’S SAKE, SOMEBODY PLEASE HELP ME! SOMEBODY. . .”

“Please calm down in there,”  a British accent said from somewhere outside the coffin.  “We’ve almost got you out; we’re just getting the straps fixed.  We’re trying to do this quietly, so please shut up.”

Scrapper calmed down as much as he could, and waited.  Soon he felt the coffin being lifted, and, once it had stopped, the lid was opened.

“Good eve-” the British man was able to say before Scrapper leapt from the coffin and grabbed him by the throat, the pain of his wounds forgotten in an adrenaline surge.

“What the FUCK is wrong with you people?  HUH?  You fucking shot me and then buried me alive?  What the FUCK!”

“Blame your wife, tovarisch,” said the Russian, who was suddenly behind Scrapper.  “If she had not insisted upon open-casket funeral, we could have taken you sooner, not buried you at all.  Also, if you do not drop my friend, I will be forced to hurt you, and as I do not wish to, I must ask you let him go.”

Scrapper couldn’t tell if the Russian was armed this time, and wasn’t really wanting to find out the hard way.  While trying to decide what to do next, his adrenaline surge began to fade, and he felt how weak and tired his body was.  His options waning along with his strength, he released the Brit and sat down on the ground, cradling his suddenly spinning head.  “Who are you people?” he asked again.  “What do you – why’d you shoot me?”

“Get in the car,”  the Russian said.  “Even though it’s 3 AM, we’d still prefer not to be seen in a cemetary, making off with a resident.”

“I’m not going anywhere until -”

“Get.  In.  Car.  NOW.”  the Russian said, with a glare that made a mockery of any possible dissention. Feeling weak and meek, Scrapper did as he was told, though he had to lean on the other two men for aid in getting there.

“Your life is over,” the Brit said as soon as all three were in the limousine.  “Your body’s been found, you’ve had a funeral, you’ve been buried, the whole bit.”

Scrapper sat listening, his head in his hands.  When he didn’t respond, the Brit chose to continue.

“Right now, you have two options.  You can jump out of this limo and go start a new life all your own. . .”

“For which,” the Russian added with a smile, “we will not be slowing down.”

“. . .or you can come with us, and work for us.”

Scrapper looked up at that.  “What would I be doing for you?”

The Russian answered.  “The same as you were doing before:  you’d be protecting and serving.  The difference is, you won’t be a police officer.”

“What would I be, then?  FBI?  CIA?”

“Neither one.  You’d be an agent, but you’d be OUR agent, answering only to us.”

“Who are you, exactly?”

The Russian shook his head and wagged a finger.  “No, no, no, my undead friend.  For answer to question, you must decide if you are with us or not.”

Scrapper turned it over in his head.  His family thought he was dead, so going back to them, even if he hadn’t hit his wife, was out.  Even now, she’d be making plans to move on, to keep on with her life.  She didn’t need him to come back and drag her down now.  Being homeless again was an option, but. . .

“I’m in,”  he said.

“Okay,” the Brit replied.  “I’m Arthur.  This is Dmitri.  Welcome to your new life.”

9.

    Damocles could hear them fighting in the bedroom, and he was grateful for it:  the noise covered the thumping and dragging of his footsteps.  From what he could tell, Brett was attempting to tie Susan up, and even at gunpoint, Susan wasn’t having it.  He wondered if she knew that help was on the way (such as it is, he added to himself), or if she was just stalling, hoping for the police to arrive.  Either way, she was buying time, and, since sirens weren’t yet audible, it was completely up to him.  Just to make sure, he stopped and strained his ears, hoping to hear any kind of wailing siren.

Instead, he heard a wheezing in his own breath.

Lung’s punctured, he thought, probably gonna collapse soon.  Shit.  Gotta hurry. . .as if there wasn’t a need to hurry before, he thought, looking at the holes in him and the blood spilling onto the carpet.

Just as he reached the bedroom door, he noticed that Susan had stopped fighting; instead, she was only crying as Brett ordered her onto the floor and on her knees.  Fight’s gone out of her. . .or been knocked out of her.  Gotta do something. . .Carefully he peeked around the doorframe.

From where he stood, Damocles was looking at Brett’s back.  In front of Brett, Susan sat kneeling before him, he r hands apparently tied behind her back.  Though Damocles couldn’t see her eyes, he could see the ugly mark on her cheek, where he guessed Brett had pistol-whipped her into submission.  He could also tell that Brett was holding the gun in her face with his right hand, and unbuckling his pants with the left.

Perfect, Damocles thought.

Damocles stepped in as light and quietly as he could, even holding his breath so that the wheezing wouldn’t give him away.  When Brett’s pants and underwear were to his knees, and his threats against Susan at their peak, Damocles readied himself. . .and acted.

“Hey. . .jackass. . .behind you,”  Damocles said, surprising even himself with how raspy his voice sounded.

Susan, open-mouthed and resigned to the coming oral violation, half-gasped half-screamed in surprise and sudden hope.

Brett, exactly as Damocles had hoped, began turning to face the new threat, the fire in both his mind and loins removing considerations for future consequences, his finger already starting to squeeze the trigger as he turned to his right, ready to shoot as soon as he could see this person. . .

But Damocles was ready.

As Brett began turning, Damocles stepped closer to him, extending his left hand to catch Brett’s right wrist as he turned, using his remaining strength to keep the arm down as Brett kept turning and Damocles stepped in closer, his fingers pressing the nerves inside Brett’s wrist, hoping to make the fingers contract, his thumb sliding up to the trigger if not, and then they were so close Damocles couldn’t see down there, could only see the rage and anger in Brett’s face, could smell the alcohol on his breath, and Damocles could only pray and hope he’d done the positioning correctly as he squeezed Brett’s wrist again, hard, harder, and Brett leveled curses and accusations at him and his thumb pressed on Brett’s forefinger and

BANG.

Nobody spoke, no one made a sound.  It seemed that Susan had even stopped crying, so absolute was the silence after the gunshot.

The first sound was the wet plop of raw, blood-filled meat falling to the floor, then soft dripping as it, and the wound it left behind, bled onto the carpet.

The second was a high-pitched, strangled, keening cry of anguish from Brett, as his nerves notified him of what had just happened.  His eyes, still inches from Damocles’, went wide in shock. . .as did his hands.  He dropped the gun;  it seemed to have lost all importance now as he sank to his knees, his hands going to his crotch and completely failing to contain the spurting blood.

Damocles watched him as he sank, almost feeling some pity for Brett. . .then he lifted his foot and crushed the sympathy, just as he crushed (and, in fact, twisted his foot to grind into the carpet) any hope Brett might have had of ever getting his penis and testicles re-attached.  Brett gave another strange wail, able only to watch the twisting foot, shock and disbelief keeping him still and inactive.

His blood pounding in his ears, some strange thumping vibrating his feet, Damocles looked at the shell of a man before him, and thought of the formerly-eager member now crushed beneath his boot-heel, and the morbid satisfaction that Brett’s life was over, as figuratively certain as Damocles’ life was now literally over (again, some part of him interjected) and did the only thing he could.

Damocles laughed.

It was hard, wheezing, rasping, laugh, but a laugh nonetheless, a laugh that shook his whole body as he fell to the carpet, on his left side, facing Brett and Susan, all his strength finally expended, all his hope finally gone, all that had gotten him to this point finally worn out, leaked out and staining the carpet,  and he kept laughing, the sound of it filling his ears so much that he couldn’t hear Brett’s curses, even though he could see Brett reaching for the gun again, picking it up and aiming it at Damocles head, determination and vengeance etched deep into his face, and Damocles’s breath hitched; he couldn’t laugh anymore, but that was okay, he didn’t want to, he only wanted to say the thought that just enetered his head, which was “I’ll be dead but I’ll still have a dick,” and then he realized what the thumping that vibrated the floor was and he smiled a split second before the

BANG.

Damocles had never seen anything like it, and knew he probably never would again.  One second, the angry hand had been holding a gun at him; the next, there was no gun and only mangled remains of the hand itself.  Brett, after another of those banshee-like wails, finally passed out from shock and fell to the floor, as Damocles rolled onto his back, hoping to see who’d given him a few more seconds of life before his injuries killed him anyway. . .

Seraph stood there, her gun still smoking and pointed at Brett as she slowly entered the bedroom.  Once she was sure he was out, she looked at Damocles.

“Cheers, Dam,” she said,  with a wholly inappropiate smile.  “You’re saved, boy. . .what the fuck happened to you?”

Damocles couldn’t help but smile back; even as he felt himself go numb, even as he felt his eyes close against his will, as the familiar thumping of his heart stopped once again, as all thoughts left him, he kept his smile.

10.

    Damocles awoke slowly, consciousness approaching his body as if from a great distance, afraid of what might happen once it re-entered.  He opened his eyes gently, against the harshness of the lights, and had been looking at Arthur and Dima for two minutes before realizing that something was wrong with his vision.  Arthur seemed to see the question on his face and answered it before he could speak.

“You’ve been out for two weeks.  Your left eye is bandaged.  We’re still not sure if it will recover or if you’ll. . .well, you might come out of this looking a bit like a pirate.”

“Avast, ye mateys,” Dima said with a smile.  “Arr, captain awakens!”

Opening his chapped lips, Damocles felt like his mouth was filled with cobwebs and dust.  Still, he managed – barely – to eke out one word.

“Su. . .Susan?”

“Such a good solider,” Arthur said, with a smile of his own.  “Mind always on the mission.  Susan is fine.  However, she thinks you’re dead.  She’s not exactly wrong, as you were dead the last time she saw you, when the ambulance finally arrived, a minute or two after Seraph got there.  Given the information you’d provided us about her self-esteem problems, we decided it would be most helpful for her to feel that you had sacrified your life for hers.  Give her a martyr to her own importance, so to speak.”

Dima answered his next unspoken question: “Yes, it worked.  Knowing someone she valued so highly gave themselves for her has made quite the difference to her.  The only hard part was getting her to realize that while she was determined to feel she was to blame for death.”

“Seraph handled that admirably,” Arthur interjected.  “She posed as your sister, saying that you’d called and told her about Susan and that you were moving her out that night, she had a bad feeling and came to check it out, blah blah blah.  Excellent improvisation, really.  She also insured a closed casket funeral.

“As for Brett, well. . .due to the state of the old chap, it couldn’t be re-attached.  In addition, the surgery was somehow mysteriously and expensively botched so that creating a new member from other body tissue couldn’t be done, due to improper preservation of the attachment site.  All that could be done was the insertion of a catheter tube, one of a removable variety, as his cellmates have doubtless discovered by now, and, I assume, as per your plan.”

The thought of Brett, one-handed, dickless, with a hole in his crotch and in prison with people much meaner and more desperate than him, made Damocles smile, even though smiling made his face hurt.

“Overall,”  Arthur said, getting back to business, “well done, Agent Damocles.  You are now on ordered medical leave until our doctors declare you fit to return to work.  Try to do some relaxing. . .oh, figure out a better way to accomplish your next mission than dying in front of her, would you please?”

“Please,” Dima added.  “Your funerals are not cheap.”

Damocles nodded and, smiling, settled back into his pillows, closing his eyes – eye, he reminded himself – and relaxed into sleep.

February 23 – March 28, 2005
©PCB 2005

crickets serenade us
with their songs of wanting,
wanting what we have

you snuggle close against me;
i smile at the touch, the warmth,
the length of you against me

i smile
because
we are here
together

the stars seems so close
we could touch them if we dared
and we could, we could
we could do
whatever we wanted
as long as we are
together

the cricket song is joined
by the rustle of a breeze
whispering through the leaves and the grass
beautiful music
for beautiful us

soon enough,
too soon,
we’ll go back to the rest of the world,
to jobs and bills and problems

but

none of that matters
right now
nothing matters at all
save that we are
together

.

.

.

To Beauty

.

.

May 19, 2011
©PCB 2011

Here are my insecurities
I’ll add them to the pile
To peel away all you feel away
So you’ll never again smile

Here are my self-loathing and hatred
I’ll take them out on you
It’s not fair but I don’t care
Down here that’s how we do

Here’s another weight, another, another
Until your bones collapse
We ignore your sound and tear you down
Until your spirit snaps

When you fold in upon yourself
We’ll act sad to cover our glee
Your world grown grim, your light gone dim,
Bright star turned singularity.

April 27, 2011
©PCB 2011

The church, while not the largest or newest in the city, did include a few amenities, such as the private dressing room Josephine sat in. For the first time in days, she finally had a few minutes to herself, and she intended to make the most of them. It was truly only a few minutes: soon, her Maid of Honor, Terry, would come and tell her it was time to start. She idly adjusted her dress while her thoughts travelled back in time, almost three years ago, before she’d even met Bradley, to the man she once she knew with all her heart that she would marry.

She’d kept these memories out of her mind for the past few days, fearing the combination of close friends and lots of alcohol would loosen her tongue. It just wouldn’t do for word to reach her soon-to-be husband that she was getting all weepy over an ex, and one who’d disappeared on her at that. But now she was alone, and sober, and her thoughts could go wherever she wanted. Of course, they went straight to him.

Where is he now? What is he doing? Is he in love with someone else? Does he ever miss me? Does he ever in think about me? she pondered in her head; all the same questions she’d asked almost daily since he left. Like every time before, she had no answer to these, so she turned her mind to memories instead.

2.

The gallery of the church was dark and quiet, the space unused for the wedding itself. Until an hour before the wedding, the gallery had sat empty, the door to it locked. In the hustle and bustle of last-minute arrangements, no one had noticed someone dressed like a photographer’s assistant quickly pick the lock and sneak up the stairs to the gallery. The heavily-shadowed space also ensured that no one would see him during the wedding, which was exactly what he wanted. However, not even he noticed a second man sneaking up the stairs shortly after him and quietly joining him on the balcony.

The first man stood just back from the railing, watching the last guests take their seats. His placid expression, so practiced it was automatic to him, easily hid the turmoil inside him. He wore sunglasses as well, just to make sure that his eyes did not betray him. As he watched, a draft brought a familiar scent to his nostrils.

“Dima,” the first man said, without turning, “if you’re really trying to sneak up on someone, don’t wear clothes saturated with cigar smoke.” An answering chuckle came from the shadows, but no reply.

“Just a tip,” the first man added. Again, no reply came, save for a tight silence. As the last guest was seated, the first man decided to get the inevitable conversation over with, before the opportunity to act – if indeed he decided to act at all – had passed.

“Why are you here, Dima?” he asked.

“Ah, I have much better question, Cipher,” Dima replied. “My question is, why are you here?”

3.

It was hard to believe, but it really was true: it had been only three years since the Bad Times. Three years ago, she’d had a heroin habit, a dead-end job, and an abusive, drug-addled, alcoholic loser for a live-in boyfriend. Her life, she often admitted to others, had been pretty much for shit up until that point. Then he showed up.

He caught her eye the moment he walked into the Gary’s Diner (both Gary and the sign outside insisted it was actually a restaurant, but that was extreme exaggeration on both their parts). Even stoned as she was, she could tell he was different from the regular clientele: he wasn’t obviously drunk, high, or stoned; his clothes were clean, and he was nicely, almost formally, dressed. Ties made about as many appearances in this diner as Jesus himself, fewer if you counted hippie Jesus-lookalikes. As he entered, she felt his hidden-but-somehow-still-intense eyes sweep over her; the feel of the gaze seemed almost a physical yet ghostly touch, made her feel as though something both dangerous and helpful was in the room with her, and she didn’t know which it would be for her. It also distracted her from the other waitresses, who were chattering about wanting the “money guy” in their section. Without hesitating or looking around, he went right to Josephine’s section and sat down, dropping a block of ice into her stomach. The other waitresses gave her a minute of half-fake envy, then let her go. She almost wished one of them had asked for the table instead; it had been a slow night, surely one of them needed the money? But this was, in their eyes, a “money guy,” and they would have asked why she’d given him up, and she couldn’t tell them the plain and simple truth: somehow, he made her very nervous. Though he appeared to be carefully studying the menu, she felt his senses – all but sight – were firmly focused on her, and had been since he walked in. That feeling only grew as she approached the table, and she prayed her hands weren’t visibly shaking.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” she said, attempting to hide her Midwestern accent with a fake Southern one. Southern accents always seemed to get more money out of people. “My name’s Jo, an ‘ ah’m yo’ waitress tonight. What can I do for ya’ll, honey?”

He looked at her from the corner of his left eye, and his raised eyebrow seemed to be pointed directly at her. His head still facing the menu, he replied, “First thing you can do for me is this: lose the fake accent. . .’honey.’ Second, answer a question for me: is ‘Jo’ short for ‘Josephine’?”

The response, and the question, took her off-guard. Trains of questions and smart-ass responses collided in her head, forcing her to pause before answering. “Yeah. . .yes. Yes, it’s short for Josephine. Why?”

“Did you ever think about going by Josephine instead? Sounds much classier and more sophisticated. Shortening your name like that denies it its full power, you see?”

She could not help chuckling at that. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, sir, but this isn’t exactly a ‘classy, sophisticated’ place.”

“Lesson number one, Josephine,” the man said, from behind an absolutely inscrutable expression. “Where you are does not dictate who you are.”

Josephine had no reply for that.

4.

“I came to watch a friend get married,” Cipher replied, his attention firmly focused away from Dima.

“Tvuyo mat! What fool do you think me, to think I would believe such a lie?”

“It’s the truth, Dima.”

“White lie, yes. Excuse, yes. Rationalization, yes. Weak conscious justification for the irrational and possibly dangerous decisions of your subconscious, yes. But truth, Cipher? No, not truth.”

Cipher raised an eyebrow at that. “You’ve been hanging out with Elena from the psych department again, haven’t you?”

“We are not here to discuss me. I ask again: why are you here?”

“I told you why I’m here.”

“You lied. Tell truth now.”

“Why do you think I’m here?” Cipher asked, annoyed with the questioning and returning his attention to the aisle. At the door to the church, he could see bridesmaids and groomsmen gathering. The wedding proper would begin soon, and Cipher didn’t want to miss any of it, especially the part where. . .Dima broke into his thoughts.

“There are many reasons you could be here. You might merely want to wish Josephine well in her marriage. You might want to torture yourself by watching woman you loved – and perhaps still do love – marry another man. My primary concern is, you are really here to suddenly re-appear in Josephine’s life, just in time to stop the wedding. If that is the case, Cipher, I am here to stop you.”

Cipher didn’t reply.

Below them, the wedding had begun.

5.

Josephine served the strange man in a semi-daze, bringing his chicken-fried steak and home-style fries robotically. Her mind whirled, thinking about this. . .man, this stranger. Who was he? Where’d he come from? What made him think he knew her well enough to give out advice?

“You’re thinking wrong,” he said as she attempted to drop the check and run away. She cast a desperate look around for something else to do, somewhere else to go, but she knew she was trapped. His voice held her more firmly than his hands ever could, and she knew there was nothing to do but play along.

“Okay, sir, tell me how I’m thinking wrong.”

“Figure I will,” he said, with a lopsided grin. It was the first smile she’d seen on him all evening, and she found it quite. . .mesmerizing? Scary? Charming? Unnerving? “You’re thinking more about who I might be than you are about what I’ve said.”

She couldn’t conceal her astonishment. She bent low to the table and whispered, “Are you a. . .can you read minds?”

He smiled, a full smile this time. “I can read faces very well, and what you were thinking was written all over yours.”

“Oh,” Josephine said, looking and feeling a little disappointed. “Well, there’s your check. . .I’ll be. . .” She stopped when she saw the $100 bill sitting on top of the check.

“Keep the change,” the strange man said, sliding out of the booth.

“You. . .you sure? The bill was only. . .”

“I’m sure. . .on one condition.”

Here it comes, Josephine thought. You can keep it if you meet me later, at such-and-such place, don’t tell my wife, come out to the parking lot. . .She’d heard it before many times, and prided herself on only going for it a few times, and then only when rent was due or other bills needed paying or she and Greg needed some stuff. Deep inside, she was crestfallen; she’d really thought this guy was different. She tried not to let it show on her face, though: she needed the money. “Okay, what’s the condition?”

“The next time I see you, make sure you still have it.” Before she could ask the question, he answered it: “I wrote down the serial number. If I am right about you. . .if deep inside you are who I think you are. . .you won’t have smoked it, shot it up, or drank it before then. Call this a test for me, of you, to see if I’m right.”

The train wreck of thoughts was even more visible on Josephine’s face this time. She wondered how he knew about the drugs, about the alcohol, everything. . .yet the only thing that came out of her mouth was, “What if you’re wrong?”

That lopsided grin returned to his face again, and he walked out, leaving Josephine stunned, confused, baffled. . .yet smiling.

6.

“Cipher,” Dima said quietly. “Are you here to stop wedding?”

Cipher watched the bridesmaids begin coming in, satin dresses swishing loudly. “You know, Dima, I hadn’t really decided yet. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“Let me help. Interference after mission is against rules you agreed to follow when you started working for us.”

“I know that.”

“Then why are you here?”

Cipher didn’t answer.

Dima answered for him. “I will tell you why you are here, tovarisch. You are here in the hopes your mere presence will change something, and if not, to make change happen. Only reason, I think, that you haven’t done anything yet is you don’t want to break rules. Tell me I am wrong.”

Again, Cipher didn’t reply. Dima walked up to the railing, looking to see what had captured Cipher’s attention so thoroughly. The final bridesmaid and groomsman had walked in and taken their places, and just as Dima looked towards the front of the church, Josephine walked in.

Her gorgeous, pearl-white dress shimmered as she entered, the long train carried by two of her neighbour’s children. All eyes were riveted on her, especially those of the few present who had known her during the Bad Times and were awestricken at the transformation from then to now. Cipher recognized the man beside her as Gary, the owner the diner she’d been working in when they met. Gary had been very supportive when Josephine had started turning her life around. Cipher was glad to see he’d been able to give Josephine away today, in place of her long-absent father.

“Let me continue to tell you why you are here,” Dima said. “You are perhaps hoping somehow she will choose to be with you, and you can find way around rules to be with her. Maybe you even. . .”

“Be quiet, Dima. Have you no respect for a bride on her wedding day?” Cipher hissed between clenched jaws.

“Respect, I have. Do you?”

7.

Even as she was leaving the dressing room to get into place, Josephine couldn’t shove the memories out of her mind. They replayed, unbidden and only half unwanted, Josephine as the captive audience.

She had waited three nights for him to return. The nights were long and difficult, filled with dreams of what the money could have bought and fear that her boyfriend would find the bill, steal it, and spend it, as had happened before. Luckily, her tips had been enough to keep them fed and high, so he hadn’t gone searching for hidden cash.

At the end of the third night, Josephine had given up on seeing the stranger ever again. Just another crazy, playing a game, she thought, closing down the diner. As she locked the door, she wondered why the thought of him never returning made her sad, seeing as how she’d only seen him the once and, in fact, didn’t even know his name. Searching for her keys, she called herself silly, childish, even -

“Good evening, Josephine.”

She dropped her keys, startled at the voice. She looked up and there he was, sitting on the hood of her car as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Before she could say anything, he spoke again: “Sorry for the entrance; I had some other things to do that kept me busy until late. So, do you still have the bill?”

Shaking slightly, she reached into her purse and pulled out the $100 bill he’d given her three nights before. Gently, he took it from her trembling fingers and replaced it with five twenties as he said, “Good. . .you did keep it.”

“And why is that such a good thing?” she said, her voice finally returning as she picked up her keys. “I could have bought a lot of. . .things I needed with this, instead of keeping it to prove something to you.”

“Well, what about what you’ve proven to yourself?”

“Which is?”

“That you’re ready for something different; ready to step outside of the life you’ve known and try new things. . .which means you’re ready to learn.”

“We’ll have to learn another time,” Josephine said, opening her car door. “I need to get home and. . .I’ve got stuff to do.”

“Josephine. . .I am offering only information, and assistance in changing your life into an existence you can actually be happy with. . .what’s more important than that?”

She closed the car door, sat beside him on the hood. . .and then her heel caught on the entrance into the church, making her stumble into Gary and bringing her back to the present, back to her wedding.

8.

“Don’t be silly, Dima. Of course I have respect.”

“Of course you do. . .so you’re here to disrupt happiness because you have such respect, yes?”

“How do you know she’s really happy with this guy?”

“Because she’s not going to make decision that would make her unhappy. You taught her, remember?”

Cipher was silent.

Dima continued: “You taught her life is her own, and she need not be slave to expectations of her. You taught her she does not have to do anything someone else wants her to do. You taught her she should not make herself miserable to please others, she should stand up for herself and do things that make her happiest; you taught her importance of taking care of herself, you taught her importance of making sure needs were met. . .I ask again, do you have respect? Because showing up to disrupt plans she made for herself does not sound like respect to me.”

Cipher turned on Dima angrily and pulled himself within inches of the other man’s face. “And what of the plans she once had to be marrying me today? What of the feelings that we had for each other? What of the love we shared, that only knew true expression once? What about respect for that?“

Dima, unruffled by the closeness or the anger, spoke calmly, as always. “Personally, I think you and Josephine, confused love and gratitude. You helped her change life for the better; I would find it unusual if she did not have great affection for you. But ultimately, obviously, once you were gone, she moved on, as you yourself have done numerous times before. This is her path now. Do not ruin it for her.”

“And what about my love for her?”

“Cipher. . .we have known from beginning you are polyamorous. It’s part of why we chose you to be agent. If you didn’t love them all, you wouldn’t fight so hard to help. If you couldn’t move on and love again easily, you would have broken rules repeatedly by now. If you didn’t understand seriousness and importance of what we do, and why rules are such, you would not be perfect agent. Are you going to throw all away for this woman, who is, as we speak, preparing to marry someone she really knows, as opposed to one she knew only as teacher?”

“So she doesn’t really know me! So what? She certainly loved what she knew, and that’s a good start! She never had a chance for the rest, because of this bloody fucking mission I’m so dedicated to! That I got chosen for! Did it ever occur to you or Geneva or Thomas or ANYONE that’d I’d get tired of it? That I’d want to settle down with someone I can love and be happy with? That maybe a situation would come up where I would complete a mission and not want to walk away?”

“Yes, it did.”

“And what did you do about it? What was the plan then? Because it looks to me like that moment is here!”

“When that situation arises. . .we will deal with it.”

“When it arises? Are you stupid? It’s HERE!”

Dima was silent, his face barely flushed beneath the heat of Cipher’s rant. His calm eyes locked into Cipher’s furious ones, and held their gaze without flinching.

From below rose the preacher’s voice, speaking its words quite clearly: “If anyone present today can think of any reason why this man and woman should not be joined in holy matrimony, let them speak now. . .or forever hold their peace.”

“Yes,” Dima said softly, “it would appear moment has arrived.”

9.

Josephine had begun to wonder if the preacher was always this long-winded, or only when he had a captive audience. The ceremony was so long, her mind could not help but wander back to those days when things began to change, when she and the strange man had begun meeting when she could get away from work or her boyfriend.

Those meetings had truly changed her life; within a year, she had felt stronger, more secure, wiser. . .and free, finally, of the places she had been. Even more amazing that all this had been done only through talking and through sharing experiences; only towards the end had there been any sort of physical intimacy: a few kisses shared, a few snuggled sleeping nights together, and at the end, finally, they gave themselves to each other, and she knew she wanted to marry this man.

Then he was gone.

She was devastated for a time, but remembered his words and did not let his absence deter her from making her life into what she wanted it to be. She kept on, sad but undaunted, and was able to stay off the drugs, get a better job, find positive, more beneficial friendships. . .everything that had led to this day, the day she honestly had never expected would come, had only in her most private moments even dared to dream about, the day she become the lawfully wedded wife of the man she loved above all others, for all the world to see.

Above all others? she thought. She had, for a long time, imagined that when her wedding day came, if to someone other than the one who had changed her life, that when the preacher asked for objections, he would suddenly appear, swoop in, and reclaim her and their love. . .it had been a fantasy to sustain her through the hard times, something that made her smile and keep going, but now those very words were falling from the preacher’s mouth into a still and silent church, and that moment was here, and did she want him to come back now, to swoop in, rescue her, and save her from. . .from what? From this man who’d made it obvious that all he wanted to make her happy? That he wanted to share his life with her, and her to share her life with him? Who’d made it clear that he truly loved her and was deeply devoted to her. . .and seemed infinitely overjoyed that she found those feelings reciprocated in her? Did she want to be saved from this?

No, she had to admit to herself.

No, she did not.

10.

“That it has,” Cipher said, stepping back from Dima and towards the railing. The Russian made no move to stop him as he placed his hands upon the railing, looking over at Josephine and deciding what, if anything to do, his mind working at a million miles a minute, trying to figure out a course of action before this moment could pass.

“One reason,” he said to Dima. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t jump over this railing right now. Give me one reason why I shouldn’t walk away from you, from the others, from the Agency, and go be with this woman, whom I love, and live a happy, normal life.”

Dima said nothing.

“One reason,” Cipher repeated, his foot lifting to the railing, preparing to vault himself over.

Dima still said nothing.

Cipher’s shoulders tensed, preparing for either a blow from Dima or to propel himself over the railing.

Suddenly, his cellphone turned itself on, jumping into walkie-talkie mode without being touched; the Agency had an override for all the agent phones and, on rare occasion, used it.

“Cipher,” Thomas’s voice crackled. “You’re needed. It’s mission time.”

Cipher turned to glare at Dima.

“One reason,” Dima said flatly.

11.

Just for a second, Josephine thought she saw someone in the gallery, looking over the railing when the preacher said. . .but no, it must have just been her imagination, perhaps the last vestiges of an old dream playing tricks on her mind. Then the moment passed, and it was time to kiss her new husband, and the thoughts of Cipher left her as she embraced her new life.

12.

Cipher continued to glare at Dima, who simply stood there, placid and unmoved.

“Cipher?” Thomas asked, through the phone.

Still glaring, Cipher lifted the phone from his pocket. “On my way, Thomas,” he said, and turned the phone off again. Dima continued looking at him with calm brown eyes.

Cipher crossed the railing until he stood nearly chest-to-chest with Dima, the angry heat radiating from him posing a stark contrast to Dima’s cool demeanor.

“Fuck you,” he said, and stalked off towards the stairs. As he left, Dima smiled, lifting his own cellphone.

13.

“This is Geneva.”

“Good evening, Geneva.”

“Dima. I tried to wait to for you to call in, but this mission is very time-sensitive. We had to go, and we had to go now. What happened there? Is he ready for this mission?”

“Nothing of note happened here, and he is indeed ready for this mission, dear Geneva. The timing of the call was perfect. . .as, I suspect, you knew it would be.”

Dima could feel Geneva’s smile through the phone. “Of course I knew. But I must ask again: are you sure he’s ready for this mission? It will be very, very, very difficult, and sending him in unready could mean disaster for all involved. If he’s not 100 percent. . .”

“Dear Geneva, I would think I have your trust after all these years. After all, I did not ask you if you were certain about the outcome of this mission, did I?”

“That’s true, Dima. Come back to headquarters. We have a lot of prep work to do before. . .well, you know.”

“I do indeed. I’ll be there just as soon as I leave wedding gift.”

14.

Sitting at the reception, going through the gifts, Josephine was slightly drunk and quite giggly. Someone she didn’t recognize, probably one her husband’s coworkers, handed her a card to open next, and she did, barely noting the blank envelope.

The card itself was completely blank.

Nestled inside was a $100 bill; one that, somehow, she knew she’d seen before.

With a smile, she tucked the bill inside her bra, close to her heart. . .and went on opening gifts.

.

.

for all I’ve loved and left behind

January 2-February 19, 2005
©PCB 2005-2011

Dear Sharon,

I know that you don’t like letters, and I’m sorry that I have to tell you something so important in a letter, but I just couldn’t face you and tell you this. You deserve to know and you deserve to hear it from me.

If you’re reading this, I’m not at home. Don’t wait up for me to come back, because I’m not ever coming back. I wrote this letter to you to explain why I’m never coming back and you shouldn’t look for me. I took the spark plugs out of your car to make sure you couldn’t follow me. That’s why it wouldn’t start this morning. I’m sorry you had to take the bus, but I had to make sure you couldn’t come looking for me. Mitch from next door should be able to put them back in real quick, so you won’t be without a car for long. . .just till he gets off work, around midnight. By then, it’ll be too late.

You deserve better than me. I know I’ve been a bad husband the past few years, with all those arguments and cheating on you and hitting you. You need to know that I’m sorry and I shouldn’t have taken my problems out on you like that. I know that now. I’m sorry. I can’t tell you how sorry I am, and I don’t know if you even want to hear it, since it’s all over now. I wish I could make it up to you, but it’s too late now and this is the only way to do it.

I said I’d explain why I’m never coming back, and here’s why I’m never coming back:

I fell in love with another woman.

2.

Sharon barely managed to finish the letter. By the end, by the time she reached Leonard’s signature, her eyes were pouring tears and her hands were trembling badly.

“No. . .no, no, no,” she repeated to herself as she got up from the couch. Though the letter had warned her not to go looking for him, she had to something, and that was all she could think of to do. Maybe, she thought, Cindy will let me borrow her car or something. . . She nearly fell up the stairs to her closet, rummaging through it swiftly for a warm sweater and her jacket. Finally finding them (after passing by them twice in her haste), she struggled to put them on over her work clothes, not bothering to change clothes, or even noticing the throb in her thigh from the last time Leonard had hit her, a few days ago. He’d been very angry that night, though, she could tell, not at her, and she’d wondered what had been bothering him. He had been far too angry to be upset over some unfolded laundry. Now she knew, and felt only pity for him. . .pity, and an urgent need to save their battered love.

She was downstairs again, searching for her keys, when someone knocked on the front door.

Sharon froze in fear. Was it the police? Had they already found Leonard? Was it too late to go searching for him? Was it her mother, coming to say “I told you so?” Was it Leonard himself, having changed his mind and come back to her? Or was he merely coming to beat her again? Or was it. . .

They knocked again.

Sharon quickly wiped the tears from her face. Whoever it was, she figured she could get rid of them and go look for Leonard faster than faking not being home and waiting for them to leave would be. Hands trembling, she opened the door.

A statuesque redhead stood there, her eyes hidden behind sunglasses, a long black coat, belted at the waist, failing to hide her hourglass figure. Her shoulders were wet with raindrops and, though flattened slightly from the rain, her hair still held an appearance of being both wild and carefully maintained. Susan’s mind flashed back to the letter, and she wondered if this was the woman Leonard had fallen in love with. She was beautiful, much more so than Susan, or so Susan felt. . .then the woman spoke, and, hearing her voice, a melodic British accent with clipped yet musical tones, Sharon knew without doubt that this was the woman her husband had fallen in love with.

“Mrs. Turner,” the woman said. “Come with me, please.”

“Who. . .who are you? Where are we going?” Sharon said, the tears returning at the realization that her husband had been right to love this woman, that she was much better than Susan, that. . .

“My name is Maggie,” the woman answered, interrupting Susan’s thoughts. “We’re going to go save your husband.”

3.

Leonard wiped his nose with his sleeve. Whether the moisture removed was his own excretion or merely raindrops, he could not say; truthfully, he couldn’t even think of why he’d done it, since it wouldn’t matter anymore very soon. Nothing would matter anymore very soon, save that maybe he’d finally made things right.

He stared at the ground, noticing like he never had before how the lights reflected in each drop of water, on every blade of grass. Amazing, he thought to himself, what you notice when. . .

He took a deep breath, to calm the shudder that passed through him.

Exhaling slowly, he decided to get started, staring at the ground as he whispered the words.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness the union. . .”

4.

I guess it really starts before that, when I got that promotion and became a district manager. I always thought before that managers, especially in an office, were overpaid but I realized pretty quick that they earned that money every single day. At least, the good ones do.

I’m saying that’s where it all started because that’s when I got unhappy at work, from all the stress and pressure and meetings and reviews and all the bullshit I had to deal with all of a sudden. Me being unhappy at work carried over into me being unhappy at home, too. And that carried into to me being unhappy with you, just because you were there.  But really, I’d been unhappy long before that, not so much unhappy as just. . .stuck in a rut.  Bored.  And I never talked to you about it, never tried to talk it out, never did anything to help fix it, and now. . .now it’s too late.  You might not believe me, but I’m really sorry about that.

Anyway, after a while, I guess I was doing so good, or doing so much, that they hired a secretary for me. I didn’t choose her; my boss chose her for me, and I gotta admit, that didn’t sit well with me. You know how I am: if I don’t do a job myself, I at least want to pick who does, so I know that I can trust them and that they’ll do as good a job as me, and you know how unhappy I get when something isn’t done right. So that made me unhappy, too.

So I was at my desk Monday morning, waiting on this new secretary to show up, already ready to hate her because I figured she must have had some in with my boss, some kind of way she got the job without me getting to interview her. Maybe she was his niece or god-daughter or he owed somebody a favor or something. I had stacks and stacks of stuff to file, had made up letters to be taken, all kinds of shit to give her the worst first day of any secretary anywhere ever.

Then she walked in, and I forgot all my plans.

5.

Susan watched Maggie walk halfway down the sidewalk before she stopped, apparently realizing that Susan was not behind her. She turned and stared at Sharon, still standing in the doorway, wrapped in her own arms, one hand clutching Leonard’s letter.

“And you are waiting for. . .what, exactly?”

Sharon looked down at her feet, not wanting to look at the beauty that had stolen her husband any more. “You’re her. . .aren’t you?”

“We don’t have time for that right now, we have to get to -”

“You’re HER!” You’re the woman he fell in love with! You’re the reason for this letter and for Leonard being out there, doing God knows what right now! You’re the woman. . .” Her voice dropped to a strained whisper, as if the words tore holes in her throat as they passed. “. . .you’re the woman he really loves.”

Maggie sighed. “We’ve not the time to fight over your husband, Susan. Cut your pity party short and help me find him. We can talk on the way.”

Sharon looked up at her, with sad, tear-filled eyes, her lips trembling.

“NOW!” Maggie yelled. The commanding tone that came from Maggie’s mouth brooked no argument, and, in spite of herself, Sharon ran to the car and got in.

“Thank you,” Maggie said, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Right, first things first. Where did you two first meet?”

6.

Leonard could remember every moment, as if it had happened yesterday. He remembered Reverend Sims droning on and on, as if he’d been paid by the word. Leonard looked to his side, imagining that Sharon stood there again, beautiful and radiant in her gown, looking with love and anxiety at the man who stood beside her. He idly wondered what she would have thought if he’d been standing there then like he was now, dressed in a soaked, bedraggled, torn suit instead of a sharp tuxedo. He wondered if she would still have said “I do” if she’d known all the pain he would put her through several years later, the abuse and impatience and affair. . .

Somehow, he doubted she would have.

Then again, she had looked that day like she would have followed him to the furthest corners of Hell itself, purely for love. Well, here I am, he thought, and to make it right, you can’t follow me.

Suddenly, he wanted to apologize to her, to hold her and tell her everything would be all right. But he’d done that in the letter, he’d already put the words out there, and, as soon as the memory of the wedding played itself to the finish, it would be time for the action to back those words.

In Leonard’s head, Reverends Sims droned on and on: “. . .truly a blessed day, for two people so in love being brought together can only be a blessing from the Lord Himself. . .”

7.

She was just stunningly gorgeous. That doesn’t even cover it. She was beautiful, graceful, fine, hot, whatever words you want to use to describe it, she was it. Any word that means “good-looking,” she was it. Tall, red hair, perfectly shaped, blue eyes shaped like almonds; I had never seen a woman that flat-out beautiful before. Well, I had, but right then, I didn’t know it. Somehow, despite being all prim and proper for her first day, she still had those “bedroom eyes.” She moved like she’d just been fucked and fucked good, and her voice added to the appearance.

“Good morning, Mr. Turner,” she said, and honey dripped from that accent. That and her looks: instant hard-on. I’d been planning to stand by her, maybe intimidate her by being taller than her, but since she was easily my height in those heels, that plan was out. Plus, moving out from behind my desk right then might have been good evidence for a sexual harassment suit.

“Umm, yeah, good morning Margaret,” I mumbled, all my thoughts gone. Her skirt was long enough to be decent for the office, but short enough and slit enough to see a glimpse of thigh and stocking tops when she walked, and I couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to have those legs spread across my lap, and no panties under the skirt, and her tits in my face, and her hips pumping me, riding me for all I had, and I was so lost in that I completely tuned out and didn’t hear a word she said for a couple minutes.

“Mr. Turner? Mr. Turner? Are you all right?”

Somehow I came back from the daydream. “Yes, Margaret, I’m okay. Just zoned out for a second. Long day. Anyway, what were you saying?”

“I was saying to call me Maggie.”

“Well, yeah, I saw ‘Maggie’ on the paperwork, but thought it was short for Margaret, so I. . .”

“It isn’t.”

“Isn’t what?”

“Short for Margaret.”

“Oh. What is it short for?”

“Call me Maggie. I really must get to work,” she said, turning and walking out, revealing an ass that should have been plated in bronze and put in a museum somewhere, “it appears I have a lot to do today.”

“Ummmmm. . .yeah. . .just do what you can. . .no rush. . .no hurry. . .” I stammered. She smiled closed the door, and I thought about her, bent over the desk, legs spread, moaning and groaning and begging for more. . .

I only thought then that I was in serious lust.

It wasn’t till the affair really got going that I realized it was love.

8.

The black BMW sped through the night, hurrying towards Lighthouse Baptist Church.

“It was some bake sale his mother was doing for the church,” Sharon rambled, “and I was there helping my dad. He came in to buy some stuff, and his mom, she always thought she was kind of a matchmaker, and she made some excuse to get both of us at her table, and. . .are you even listening to me?”

“No, I’m not,” Maggie replied. “I’m on the phone. Sorry, not you, Mr. Calibur. Everything has been fixed? Yes, it is important, as I’m breaking several traffic laws here, and I’d rather not depend on sheer luck to. . .Thank you. The rush? Please don’t start questioning me now. I’ll report in later tonight. Ta.”

“Who. . .who was that?” Sharon asked.

“A friend,” Maggie replied, putting her phone back in her pocket and speeding through a yellow light.

“‘A friend,’” Sharon snorted, with not-at-all-hidden contempt and tears still streaming from her eyes. “Some other married man you’re fucking? Some other marriage you’re ruining? Some other happy home you’re wrecking?”

“I’ve never wrecked a happy home,” Maggie replied calmly.

“What about mine? What about what you did to-”

“I’ve never wrecked a happy home. . .Mrs. Turner.”

The impact of the words sank in and Susan fell silent, turning her eyes to the letter in her lap. Finding that unattractive as well, she looked out of the window instead, and noticed how swiftly streets and houses were blurring by them.

“How fast are we going?” she asked, without turning to face the redhead.

“Fast enough to save your husband’s life, hopefully.”

“We wouldn’t have to if you hadn’t-”

“If we save him, you can blame me all you like.”

“And what if we don’t?”

Maggie gave Sharon a wry smile. “You can blame me for that, too. Now shut up and hold on.”

Amidst the sounds of brakes being pushed to their limit, the car suddenly turned to the left, throwing Sharon hard against her door. “What was THAT for?” she yelled, rubbing her head where it had bumped against the window.

“We’re here,” Maggie replied, jumping out of the car. “Looks empty.”

Sharon opened her door and gently stepped out. The church did indeed look empty; no lights were on and theirs was the only car in the parking lot.

“You think he’s here?” Maggie asked sarcastically.

“I guess not,” Sharon replied, just as sarcastically.

“Right,” Maggie said. “Where was your first date?”

9.

“Now,” Reverend Sims said in Leonard’s memories, “I understand that the blessed couple has written their own vows. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Leonard and Sharon said in unison, smiling in the past as Leonard cried in the present.

“Then let us begin.”

Leonard went first, and in his mind he noted how he’d broken each and every single vow of faith and care and love. He remembered her vows and the deep, loving look in her eyes as she’d recited them, and realized how completely and totally unworthy of each and every single one he’d turned out to be. She was a far better wife than he’d deserved, then or now, and only now did he realize it, when there was really no way to make things right, except to remove himself from the picture, so maybe she could find someone better and know he’d really paid for what he did to her.

Suddenly what he’d come to do seemed like a much easier job.

10.

Maggie had been working for me for about two months, the first time it happened.

Sharon, I know you won’t believe me, but I swear, I really never intended for anything to happen between us. I fantasized about it a lot, yes, but I really never meant. . .you know what? I’m lying. I promised I wouldn’t do that any more. Yes, I wanted it to happen, and when it did, I didn’t do anything at all to stop it. In fact, with my little innuendoes and jokes around her, I freely admit I encouraged it. But. . .damn. There’s just no excuse. None at all, for what I did, for any of what I did. Not for the strip clubs, not for the porn videos, none of it.

Speaking of those, I have to admire how you acted when you found them. You didn’t panic, you stayed calm. Lots of women would have freaked out. But you just wanted to talk about it, and you understood when I explained that I was looking for some new and different things for us to try out sexually. That was great of you. That’s what makes you a great woman, and me such a piece of shit for cheating on you with Maggie, and wanting to cheat (looking for something and someone different, I guess) long before she came along.

Anyway, we were working late, because a major order got changed at the last minute. That meant extra time for me and Maggie, since the company was trying to cut back on overtime and, since we’re on salary, we both weren’t eligible for it anyway. So, we were there. . .sounds like a goddamn Penthouse letter, I know, but it’s what happened.

So it was about 2 AM, and we were finally done with everything. I leaned back in my chair, relieved that it was done, and hoping maybe for a raise from all the work. Both of us were exhausted and just ragged-looking, and somehow. . .hair and clothes disheveled and all. . .she was still just unbelievably fucking gorgeous. She was sitting on my desk, looking at me and talking to me, and even though I was just worn out, it took a lot of effort not to try to look under her dress. Just the thought of what I might see was turning me on.

“It’s all done,” I said, “everything’s done and ready to go. It’s all taken care of.”

“Well,” she said, “not quite everything. . .” Even tired, that voice dripped like honey and sugar.

“Fuck a duck,” I said, and put my head in my hands. “What the fuck did we not take care of?”

“This,” she said, and I felt her stocking feet on the crotch of my pants, rubbing up and down.

I was shocked. I was thrilled. But the company didn’t need a lawsuit, and I. . .I wanted it, but. . .I just didn’t want to fuck it up, either for me or for the company. “What, um, what do you mean, Maggie?”

“You know what I mean. . .Mr. Turner.” She slid off the desk and sat beside my legs, running her hand where her foot had been. “You think I don’t know how you look at me. . .or just about any pretty woman that passes by?”

“I’m uh, I’m just, I just admire beauty, that’s. . .”

“Please, Mr. Turner. You look because you want us. You want to touch us, to feel us, to have us. . .” She opened my legs and sat between them, resting her arms on my thighs. I wanted to say something, but I was just too busy sweating and stammering to really say anything – except one thing.

“Maggie, I’m, you know, I’m married. . .”

“Not happily,” she replied, her stroking hand on my pants not missing a beat. “You think I can’t tell that, too? I can’t tell when you’re sexually frustrated? I don’t notice when your knuckles are bruised? When your eyes are red from sleepless nights or your throat sore from yelling?”

“Look. . .I. . .we can’t. . .we shouldn’t. . .”

“We shouldn’t. . .but you want to. You know you want to, and I do too.” Her hands unzipped my pants, and I was too surprised to resist.

“But. . .Maggie, we shouldn’t. . .my wife. . .I. . .”

“You, Mr. Turner, are hungry. . .very, very hungry,” and she slid my pants and boxers down in one slick move, “and you,” she said as she took my dick in her hands, “need,” and she breathed on the head, “to be fed.” And she took my cock between her lips.
It was the best blowjob I’ve ever had. Her mouth was like silk soaked in oil, and she used her lips and cheeks and tongue all together, slurping and sucking and pulling, slurping and sucking and pulling, slurping and sucking and pulling, and when I couldn’t take it anymore, swallowing deeply and sucking even harder.

It was fucking exquisite. . .but what really blew my mind was that, after I came, she kept on until I was ready again, and then stood up and bent over the desk like every businessman’s fantasy and wasn’t wearing any panties, hadn’t been all along, every day she came to the office, and that thought just drove me out of my mind, and I couldn’t wait, I just plunged right into her, hard and fast, and as hot and wet and sweet as her mouth was, her pussy was even better. It was like wet velvet and felt so good I couldn’t last more than two or three minutes. . .but she knew how to use her muscles and slow me down and make sure I lasted till she got off, too. She was good. She was goddamned great. And when it was over, she got up and walked out like nothing had happened. Not even a goodnight.

That’s how it started.

That’s how it went for the next month or so. Once a week, sometimes twice, with no warning, she’d just be on my dick and we’d fuck. She never said anything about it any other time, or even winked at me. It was damn strange, but it was great sex, so I wasn’t complaining.

There were two problems, though.

The first one was that the more I fucked her, the more unhappy I was with you. . .so I shouted at you more and hit you more, just because. . .shit. Just because I thought I was fucking this perfect woman, and you just couldn’t match up, but you were who I was married to, and you were keeping me from being with Maggie. It’s fucking stupid, I know; I’m cheating on you and I’m mad at you about it. But there it is, and it’s just another reason I’m never coming back.

The last time I fucked Maggie was last week. To tell the truth, it was the same day I came home late, drunk and angry, and hit you and put that big bruise on your leg, from when I kicked you when you fell down. I think you probably knew I wasn’t that pissed off about the laundry, so here’s what I was really pissed off about.

We fucked after work, when everybody else was gone. When we were done, Maggie got off my lap, straightened her clothes, and was walking towards the door when I realized I just had to tell her how I felt. I’d been planning to tell her for a while, and trying to figure out how to leave you without losing my ass to a divorce lawyer, but it just. . .seemed to matter that I tell her, right then.

“Maggie.”

“Yes, Mr. Turner.”

“Maggie. . .I love you.”

And she laughed.

11.

“I just don’t understand,” Sharon said.

“I’m not surprised,” Maggie replied.

“What did you say?” Sharon said, her hackles rising.

“What I meant was that this is a very unusual circumstance, Mrs. Turner; it’s a bit beyond your average, everyday occurrence. I’d not expect many people to understand this turn of events.”

“Oh. . .well, help me understand.”

“How could I do that?”

“Tell me why. Tell why you did that to my husband. Tell me why you’re helping me find him. Tell me. . .oh fuck,” Sharon blurted, as a police car pulled out of a parking lot behind them and turned its lights on. “How fast are you going?”

“About 85. Give it a second.”

“Maggie, pull over, he’s trying to pull you over, just pull over, get the ticket, and be done. . .”

“Don’t have time. Give it a second; he should be running the plates right now. . .”

“For fuck’s sake, woman, will you pull over before he thinks we’re felons and starts shooting or. . .holy shit.” Behind them, the flashing lights turned off, and the police car turned around as Sharon watched. “How. . .”

“Don’t ask,” Maggie said with a smile. “Is that the place?” she asked, gesturing to a small diner.

“Yes, that’s it.”

Maggie quickly drove through the parking lot, then screeched to a halt in front of the door and jumped out. Inside, she and Sharon walked among the tables swiftly, looking for Leonard, before asking the servers and staff if they’d seen Leonard and to check the restrooms. No one had seen him, and the two walked out, dejected, as they got back into the car.

“Think,” Maggie said. “Where else could he be?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sharon said, staring again at her hands in her lap. “It’s too late, got to be too late by now, he’s dead, and it’s my fault, my fault I couldn’t make him happy, my fault he had to go out and cheat and. . .” She mumbled into the tears she’d been keeping inside before.

“It isn’t your fault, Sharon. Now stop being such a downer and think. Where could he be?”

“You’re right. . .it’s not my fault.”

“I told you that. Now where -”

“It’s your fault.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s your fault, Maggie. . .all of it. . .you’re the one he really loved. . .you’re the one he really wanted. . .and you broke his fucking heart and now he’s going to kill himself over some stuck-up British WHORE!”

“Listen, dearie -”

“No, fuck you, you listen, you don’t know him, not at all, and you fucked him and fucked him over, you were a total bitch to him, and I hope you’re fucking happy ’cause he’s dead now and all I have left is this fucking meaningless ring and. . .oh God. . .the wedding. . .”

“Are you quite finished ranting now? Because we still have to -”

“No, listen to me! We got married! Here! In town! At Robinson Park!”

“Give us directions,” Maggie said, revving up the engine.

12.

“Leonard Turner, do you take Sharon Harris as your lawfully wedded wife, to have and hold, to cherish and make safe, through sickness and health, for richer or for poorer, as long as you both shall live?”

“As long as you both shall live” echoed in Leonard’s head, as his hand reached into his pocket and caressed his pistol.

“I do,” he whispered to himself, to his own tears, to the trees that bore silent witness to his wedding memories, his voice catching as he spoke. “As long. . .as we both. . .shall live . ..”

Almost time.

13.

She laughed, so hard she cried. It was her usual honey-dripping laugh, but at the same time it was cruel and mocking. I was so shocked, I couldn’t say or do anything, until she stopped. Then she started talking, and everything she said is burned into my head, and I’ll remember it until. . .well, until today, I guess.

“You love me,” she said, still wiping tears from her eyes.

“I do,” I mumbled, “and I want to be with you. I can leave my wife and we-”

“Shut up,” she said, all the laughter out of her voice. Her eyes, still wet, were suddenly burning, like little blue flames looking right through me.

“You love me,” she repeated, and I could only nod. There was no honey or syrup in her voice at all, only a condescending and painful tone. . .like she was talking to dogshit on her shoe instead of another human being. “You don’t know shit about love. You love fucking me, I’ll grant you that. But love me? You don’t know enough about me to love me, and you don’t know the first thing about love anyway.”

I stammered some kind of reply, I don’t even remember what, but she brushed it aside like I hadn’t spoken at all.

“Love isn’t about fucking. It’s not about who’s hotter than who, you bloody dingbat. Love is about dedication and perseverance and value. Love is about giving all you have because you care so much, and accepting whatever your love can give you in return, even if it’s nothing at all. You don’t know the first fucking thing about love, I can tell from your eyes.”

I finally found my tongue, and said, “I only told you because. . .”

“Because you thought I was in love with you? You were just fanny floss to me, child. Why on earth would I love you? You think I’d be with some balding, over-stressed, infidelitous, wife-beating, insignificant little thing like you? You can’t even be a real husband to the woman you already have, and I know that for myself, so why on earth do you think that I would want you?”

“You. . . I thought you. . .were beautiful. . .”

“I am beautiful, and do you know why? It’s because of love – namely, the love and value and care I place upon myself. And even then, there are others far more beautiful than me, because they have their own self-love and still give love to others. I do not. Here, take a lesson: to a child that knows and feels the love of their parents, their parents will always be the most beautiful people in the world to them, because they look upon them with love and see love reflected back. That is beauty, and that is love.”

I didn’t know what to say. I felt ashamed and stupid and. . .every word out of her mouth made me feel like less of a man.

“Look,” she said, picking up your picture and holding it up in my face as she sat on the desk. “To me, this woman is far more beautiful than me, because she loves you. She accepts you, is dedicated to you, and perseveres in her love with you even though you beat the shit out of her for no goddamn reason at all. She gives love – radiates all this love for you, worthless fuck that you are – with all her heart, even when her skin is bruised and battered by you. By you, Mr. Turner. Right now she’s probably at home, cleaning and cooking to make things right for you, while your shortsighted and stupid little brain is plotting to run away from her with someone you just like to fuck and you think is more beautiful than her. She deserves better than you. You don’t deserve a woman that good. And I love myself more than enough to know that I certainly deserve better than you.”

I started to cry. I couldn’t help it. It just hurt too much, to hear it like that.

“The truth hurts, doesn’t it, Mr. Turner?”

I could only nod.

“Good. The pain means something finally got through to that stillborn lump you call a brain.”

I kept crying. I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t know what to say. Maggie leaned in close to my ear, and I could still smell her perfume, even through my stuffed-up nose.

“Leonard,” she whispered, “you don’t deserve me. You don’t deserve Susan. Both she and I can do much better than you. Unfortunately for her, she’s in love with you. She loves you, and trusts you, and you’ve fucked her over six ways from Sunday.”

I could only nod, the tears flowing even more freely.

“Be a man,” she whispered into my ear. “Be a real man, just for once, and make things right with her.”

I looked up, into her eyes, but they were cold and they didn’t say anything at all. . .except, maybe, that she hated me.

“I’m done here,” she said as she stood up and starting walking out.

“Maggie,” I said between big sobbing breaths. I wanted to know why she’d done this, why she’d said all that, what the point of the whole thing was. . .but my heart hurt too much to say anything more than just her name.

“Make things right, Mr. Turner,” she answered as she opened the door. “Oh, by the way, I quit.”

You know what happened after that. I went out, got drunker than a skunk, came home, fought with you about the laundry, and passed out.

The next day, Maggie wasn’t at work. I tried to call her, but her number was disconnected. I went to her apartment, and nobody was there. Her name wasn’t on the buzzer tags at the door, so I figured she’d moved out.

I never saw Maggie again.

I did a lot of thinking, though, about what she said. I do need to make things right, I realized, but I couldn’t really think of how to do it, until I had this idea.

I’ve gone to go kill myself, Sharon. With the money from our insurance, you should have more than enough to not have to work for a few years, so you can take things easy and relax and heal from all the damage I did to you. I can’t take back all the yelling and shouting and hitting, so I figured the next best thing was to get myself out of your life and let you go find somebody that will really appreciate you and treat you like you really deserve to be treated, some guy that really deserves you, and having a few hundred thousand from a life insurance policy should be enough that you can afford to wait and afford to be picky. Love is about sacrifice too, and this is the only one I can really make for you.

I’m sorry I let things get to this point, Sharon. It really is all my fault. Since it is my fault, it’s only right that I have to pay for it, that I have to make the sacrifice that makes it right.

I’m sorry, Sharon, you just don’t know how sorry I am. I can’t say it enough. But time’s a-wastin’, like the cowboys used to say, and I need to be gone before you get home.

Don’t go looking for me. Just call the police and let them look.

I love you, Sharon, and I wish it hadn’t taken all this for me to realize that you really are more beautiful than her, for me to realize what a wonderful lady I had at home, for me to realize how wrong and fucked-up I really am. I’m sorry, Susan, I’m just. . .

I’m sorry, Sharon.

I love you.

Goodbye.

14.

“He’s a good man,” Sharon said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“What?”

“I said, Leonard’s a good man.”

Maggie raised her eyebrow, but said nothing.

“He is,” Sharon insisted. “He just. . .he made a few mistakes. He got in over his head at work, but all he wanted was to provide a good living for us. He didn’t want me to have to work, that’s why he pushed himself so hard. It just got to be too much for him, that’s all, and he just. . .just lashed out. Made some mistakes. He’s really not a bad guy at all.”

Maggie remained silent, her eyes firmly fixed on the road.

“I know you don’t believe me. . .I know you think Leonard’s just some wife-abusing, cheating, lying piece of shit, but he’s really not like that. I mean, even I was starting to think badly of him, but tonight. . .thinking about losing him, and going back to the church and the diner. . .it made me remember what things used to be like. . .and how we let ourselves drift and lose sight of what we had. . .it was really special back then. . .we lost sight of that, getting all caught in bills and trying to have kids and trying to make ends meet. . .God, I probably wasn’t as good as I should have been either, you know, so it’s not all his fault. . .he really is a good man. . .”

“For the record, Mrs. Turner, I agree with you.”

“You do?”

“Yes. I think he is a good man, who took on more than he could handle and lost himself.”

“Then why did you do this to him? To us? Why did you. . .”

“His house was on fire.”

“What?”

“One of the thirty-six strategies of war: ‘Rob a burning house.’ Leonard’s house was on fire, and the robbers would find it soon. . .so I tore it down before they could get there.”
“I don’t understand. . .”
“He was going to cheat on you, whether I came along or not. He was hungry in his crotch and larcenous in his heart. What if I hadn’t come along? What if he’d cheated on you with someone who would have blackmailed him to keep it secret? Or threatened a sexual harassment suit? Or, God forbid, gotten pregnant with his child? What if some gold-digging little tramp came along, instead of me?”

“Well, what if you had gotten pregnant?”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. . .you might not believe it, but any woman can, all it takes is one mist-”

“I. . .can’t.”

“Oh.” Sharon said, and turned her eyes out of the window. After a minute, she turned back to Maggie. “Okay, so you tore down his burning house. . .so now what?”

“I tore it down so that you and he could rebuild it. . .after we put out the fire.”

Sharon turned back to the window as the car pulled into the park’s parking lot. “I still don’t under- THERE IT IS! THERE’S HIS CAR! STOP!”

Before the car had even come to a full stop, Sharon was out and running. Maggie parked the car, then jumped out and followed her, intentionally lagging behind a bit, trying to stay out of Leonard’s sight, dodging from tree to tree. . .and then a shadow separated from the trees and grabbed Maggie’s arm from behind. Before she could scream, a hand covered her mouth, and a deep, low voice murmured into her ear.

“Where you goin, pretty lady?”

15.

It’ll be tricky, Leonard thought, but yeah, I can do it.

He held his pistol backwards in his hands. He’d have to pull the trigger with his thumb, but it was certainly possible, and definitely necessary if he wanted to shoot himself in the eye. This way, he reasoned, Sharon would have to have a closed-casket funeral, thus sparing her sight of ever seeing his face again. Even he didn’t want to look at himself, knowing now how much he’d mistreated her and how much of a self-centered, thoughtless little shit he’d been. Now she wouldn’t have to see him either, and she could put him behind her and move on a lot easier. It was touching, really; so much so that he was crying again, for the second time in a week. He leveled the pistol at his tear-wet right eye as, in his mind, Reverend Sims finally finished the service.

“. . .I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

“I love you, Susan,” he said out loud, as he closed his eyes and braced himself.

“LEONARD! STOP! DON’T DO IT! LEONARD! I LOVE YOU!”

“. . .the fuck?” Leonard said, opening his left eye. He saw something moving through the trees towards him; it took him a second to realize that the dark running shape was Sharon.

“Sharon?” he said, stunned that she’d found him, the gun falling to the grass as his arms opened to welcome her.

“LEONARD. . .Leonard,” Sharon said, her own eyes flowing with tears as she crashed into his arms and knocked him over.

“Susan. . .I. . .left the note. . .didn’t want you to see. . .”

“Leonard, shut up, just shut up, kiss me, please, shut up and kiss me and tell me you love me. . .please. . .”

“I do. . .I just. . .I wanted to make things right. . .I wanted to get out of the way, so you could be happy. . .”

“Leonard, you idiot. . .you can’t fix things like this, Leonard. . .it’s never the answer. . .you stay and fix things, and if they can’t be fixed, you move on. . .you stand and fight or let go in peace. . .you don’t die and let other people sort it out, Leonard, you don’t die. . .” Her words faded into wracking sobs as she held Leonard tight, both of them lying on the grass.

“You’re right. . .you’re right. . . ,” Leonard said between his own sobs. “I’m sorry, Sharon, I’m sorry. . .I’m so sorry. . .I just. . .wanted to. . .do something to. . .make it right. . .”

“Stay. . .try to. . .work things out. . .that’s how. . .you make it right. . .I love you. . .”

“I will, ” Leonard replied, “I will. . .I will. . .I love you too. . .”

They stayed there for several minutes, holding each other tight, before Sharon remembered that she had not arrived alone, and looked up.

“What is it?” Leonard asked.

“Nothing. . .thought I heard something,” Susan answered, with a small smile.

Leonard looked around for a second as well, then suddenly remembered something.

“Sharon?”

“Yes, hon?”

“How did you get here?”

Sharon smiled and snuggled against her husband’s chest.

“I’ll tell you later.”

16.

The black BMW sped away from the park, almost blending in with the night as it cruised along the avenue.

“Sorry I scared you back there, Mags, but if you’d gone 10 more feet, Leonard would have seen you and your whole plan might have gone tits-up,” the man in the passenger seat said. “You know, you cut that really fucking close, Maggie.”

“Aye, I did, but what can I say?” she replied with a grin. “The adrenaline makes me moist.”

“Why can’t you just watch porn like normal people?”

“I’d rather star in it,” she replied with a wink. “Give us one of those odd little fags of yours. I’m dying for one right now.”

“We gotta work on Americanizing your mouth,” he said, as he handed her a cigarette.

“No light for a lady? What kind of gentleman are you?”

“Show me a lady, and I’ll show you a lighter,” he replied, grinning, even as he lifted his lighter to her lips. “You’re just lucky I had a break in my current mission. Nobody else could have gotten here fast enough to trail Lenny-boy and make sure he didn’t knock himself off before you and his wife showed up.”

“All hail the mighty Cipher,” Maggie said, grinning around her cigarette. “You’ll have to excuse me for not getting on my knees in worship.”

“Maybe later,” Cipher said, returning her grin with one of his own.

“How is your mission going, by the way?”

“Allow me to keep the good mood I got from helping you and not discuss it right now, okay?”

“As you wish. . .maybe later.” She smiled again, a warm smile of genuine concern for her friend.

“Speaking of missions, though. . .you have a phone call to make.”

“So shut up and let me make it, then,” Maggie said, reaching for her phone and keying the speed-dial.

“Mr. Calibur speaking.”

“Arthur, this is Agent Magdalene, reporting in. Mission accomplished.”

.

.

April 23 – July 18, 2005
©PCB 2005