Simon Parsons

Like he did every night, Simon Parsons sat under his bedroom window reading. The book was spread out on his lap and his eyes were squinting with concentration as he fought off sleep while trying to focus on the history of Japanese haiku.

 

He stayed up every night because that’s when the cats met and made their plans.

 

For a year and half, while everyone else he knew slept soundly dreaming peaceful dreams, Simon Parsons stayed awake listening in terror for the cats to talk about horrible things that he’d never understood.

 

He knew he was the only one who heard them. And he also knew he was completely unable to stop them.

 

Simon’s alarm clock went off at exactly 7:15 in the morning. But like every morning, he’d been awake long before the music was playing. His bed was made. His clothes were laid out. And he was exhausted. He slowly walked down the hall and into the bathroom. Staring into the red-rimmed eyes of his reflection, Simon thought that he looked older than most eleven year olds. He felt older than most eleven year olds. In fact, he felt older than a lot of twenty year olds. Splashing cold water on his face, he felt the familiar pain of his morning headache and quickly finished his bathroom ritual so he could get downstairs. Trudging back to his room he put his clothes on and then walked out.

 

Walking down the stairs, every part of his body cried out for sleep. It was gravity that kept him going down the stairs because his legs were too heavy to move on his own. His arms were lead logs with useless lead twigs for fingers. He had to fight to keep his eyes from slamming shut. Even his hair was tired. 

 

Stepping into the sun-soaked kitchen, he was greeted with a cheerful, “Good morning Simon.” Every morning, Simon’s mother could be found in the kitchen, making a pot of coffee and fixing his lunch. And every morning she kissed him on the cheek and went back upstairs to finish getting ready for work. Simon walked over to the coffee pot and poured a big mug of thick, black coffee. He lifted it to his lips and poured the bitter, horrible, blasphemous concoction that passed for his mother’s coffee down his throat.

 

Quickly filling his mug with warm water he poured it back into the pot. Then he added three shakes of vanilla and a spoonful of sugar and sat down at the table just as his father came walking down the stairs.

 

“Morning Simon.”

“Morning Dad.”

“You sleep okay?”

And while Simon’s father proceeded to make his breakfast Simon lied to his father and said he slept great, like a log, best night’s sleep he’s had in a long time. And Simon’s father nodded and smiled then poured a cup of coffee.

The Hunkapillar

This is a children's story that I wrote that my friend Mike is supposed to illustrate. But he's too busy running an ass-kicking company. Nerd.

The Hunkapillar

 

Now, everyone knows that the Hunkapillar is the most colourful creature in the jungle. And while the the Hunkapillar should have been happy with being himself, that wasn’t enough for him. The Hunkapillar wanted to be the biggest, fattest, fastest, and loudest creature in the jungle. So out he went.

 

The first creature he came across was the Explodapig. The Explodapig was wallowing in a mud pile, screaming and burping at the top of his lungs.

 

“I’m the Explodapig! I sing loud, I talk loud, I even eat loud! No one is as loud as me and that’s the way it’ll always be! Hey! That rhymed! Even my poems are loud!”

 

“You there!” screamed the Hunkapillar, “Everyone knows you’re the loudest creature in the forest. But I want to be the loudest so now I’m going to be louder than you!”

 

“Oh little Hunkapillar you should be happy the way you are. After all, you’re the most colourful creature in the jungle.”

 

“No!” yelled the Hunkapillar, “That’s not enough. I also want to be louder than you.” And he burped, he shouted, he screamed, squealed, and hollered.

 

“Wow little Hunkapillar, you are louder than me!”

 

“What?” shouted the Hunkapillar, “You’re talking so quietly I can’t hear you!”

 

The next creature he came across was the Bottomlesspopotamus. The Bottomlesspopotamus was just finishing up his third meal of the day, which is saying a lot because the Bottomlesspopotamus had just been woken up 10 minutes before by a screaming match that was going on in another part of the jungle.

 

“Hello Bottomlesspopotamus! I’m now louder than the Explodapig and I want to be an even bigger eater than you!”

 

“Oh little Hunkapillar, that’s not a good idea. You should be happy the way you are because you’re special the way you are.”

 

“No!” shouted the Hunkapillar, “That’s not enough. I’m going to eat as much as you!”

 

“You could try Hunkapillar, but I’ve just visited two all you can eat buffets, eaten two small pizzas, four large pizzas, six dozen doughnuts, some liquorice, a bag of chips, an apple, an apple pie, six dozen bananas, and a wafer thin mint.”

 

“Well watch this!” shouted the Hunkapillar. And he visited two and a half all you can eat buffets, ate two and a half small pizzas, four and a half large pizzas, six and a half dozen doughnuts, a lot of liquorice, two bags of chips, two apples, two apple pies, six and a half dozen bananas, and two wafer thin mints.

 

“Wow Hunkapillar, you did eat more than me.”

 

“Of course I did,” burped the Hunkapillar. And he walked away. Very slowly, very loudly,  and very burpily.

 

The third creature he came across was the Omegaphant. Well, he actually came across the Omegaphant’s foot because everyone knows that Omegaphants are gigantic.

 

“You there! Omegaphant! Everyone knows that you are the biggest creature in the jungle. But I want to be the biggest, and I won’t be happy until I’m bigger than you!

 

“Hello little Hunkapillar, I don’t know why you want to be bigger than I am. I’m so big that everyone is always calling me and asking me if I can reach things off the top shelf for them. People stand underneath me when it’s raining and no one makes hats in extra, extra, extra, humongous, extra large sizes. You should be happy the way you are.”

 

But the Hunkapillar wasn’t going to be happy the way he was, so he held his breath, he puffed out his cheeks, stood on his tiptoes, and he grew and became bigger than the Omegaphant.

 

“I hope you’re happy Hunkapillar.”

 

“Not yet little Omegaphant, but I will be!”

 

And with that he pushed past the Omegaphant and galumped through the jungle.

 

The Wunceasloth, who was in the jungle minding his own business suddenly heard a

 

BOOM.

 

It wasn’t a loud boom, as far as booms go, in fact, it wasn’t even the loudest thing in the jungle. After all, every one knows the loudest thing in the jungle used to be the Explodapig.

 

But it bothered the Wunceasloth enough that he stopped chewing for a moment and very slowly thought, “What was that?”

 

But Wunceasloths think slow. They talk slow. They eat slow. So by the time the Wunceasloth finished thinking several more BOOMS had already boomed through the jungle and the “What was that?” that the Wunceasloth was thinking about was suddenly there. And it was unhappy.

 

“I am the Hunkapillar,” said the Hunkapillar, “and I demand that you move, for I am the largest, loudest, and hungriest thing in the jungle and now I’m off to become faster than the Unitiger!”

 

“No,” answered the Wunceasloth two days later.

 

“What?” yelled the Hunkapillar, “You dare defy me? The Hunkapillar! The largest, hungriest, loudest animal in the jungle? Why I am larger than the Omegaphant, hungrier than the Bottomlesspopotamus, and louder than the Explodapig! Now get out of my way!”

 

“No,” answered the Wunceasloth, later on that afternoon. “It is rude to yell and tell people to get out of your way.”

 

“It took you three days to say that!” yelled the Hunkapillar. “And I’m not even sure what you said!”

 

“I said,” started the Wunceasloth.

 

“No!” shouted the Hunkapillar, “I’m in a hurry to become faster than the Unitiger and you are in my way!”

 

“Why?” asked the Wunceasloth that morning, “Do you want to be faster than the Unitigger?” and finished later in the afternoon.

 

“Because,” screamed the Hunkapillar, “It will make me happy. I wasn’t happy being just a Hunkapillar, I wanted to be better than everyone else.”

 

“Hmm,” hmmed the Wunceasloth, “And are you happy?”

 

“No! My feet hurt, I’m so full that my stomach hurts, I have a sore throat from all this yelling, and I’m beginning to think I’m afraid of heights! I liked it better when I was a happy little Hunkapillar.”

 

“Well,” said the Wunceasloth over the course of several days. “Maybe you should go back to being yourself. You’ll be happier.”

 

“I think I know what you said there, although I kind of fell asleep for most of it! And you’re right! I’ll go back to being a colourful and happy Hunkapillar.”

 

And he did. And he was.

 

 

The Cleaner

I pictured this as a first person confessional. Picture a police station interrogation room from the perspective of the guy being interviewed. I thought this would be a good idea for a comic. If only I knew someone who could draw comics...

The Cleaner

Right in there? Do I have to sit closer or will it pick up what I’m saying? I’m fine like this? Great. I’m just gonna start at the start and give you the whole bit okay?

 

In 1972 I dropped outta school. I wanted to own a business, not study business, ya know. So I got a job working for Dougie Beerdstrom. Dougie owned three buildings downtown and I got the contract to clean one of them. I had to work nights, they were long and lonely, but they were mine.

 

The toughest part was getting used to eating dinner when everyone else was having breakfast. I’d be at a diner eating steak and drinking a beer while everyone else was drinking coffee and eating muffins. I’d get a lot of looks and at first I felt like I needed to explain ya know, but after a while I just didn’t care.

 

After a year goes by, Dougie calls me into his office. And I’m all scared, thinkin’ I’m gonna get fired. But Dougie sits me down and says, “Okay Chuck, you’re a good kid. You do a good job, you work hard and every day I come in here and nothing’s missing. I was giving you tests all year, leaving files and shit out, but you never touched anything. Even pennies man, pennies and you’d pick them up and put them on my goddamn desk!

 

Okay, so this is what’s gonna happen. I fired all my other contracts, they’re yours now. You’ve got the three buildings but I’ve gotta problem. You’ve gotta get some more guys in here. You’re gonna have to hire some people or we can’t do business. You’ve got three weeks to hire some people so get to it.”

 

It took me two weeks to find some people. Five more guys. I figured we’d work two to a building. So before we get working I sit them all down in my living room and say, “This is the way it is. I find out from our clients that anything is missing, you’re all fired. I don’t care what it is, you’re all gone and I’ll hire new guys. Okay?”

 

Oh, you couldn’t do that nowadays, no way. The government or the fucking unions would get right on your ass and shut you down. But back then I could, mainly because the guys were illegal so that meant I could pay them shit wages too. It’s weird how things work out though, I thought I’d get a couple of years out of those guys. Pepper and Jose are still with me. Juan died in the fire of ’86, Tariq went back to his country that doesn’t exist no more, and the other guy is really, better off…where he is.

 

Pepper and Jose don’t know nothing about this. They’re good guys.

 

So after two years of only working for Dougie, I got a call from some guy wanted me to clean his buildings, so I got Pepper to hire some people and take them over there. Soon after that everyone was calling me. Jose got his own crew, Tariq and Juan got crews, Devindar, Vinnie Patel we call him – he got a crew and we were busy all the time. We had to fire Jose’s crew and he got a kick out of it. Hired his brother, a cousin, and his nephew. They still work for me too.

 

Anyway, in ’82 everything changed. I must’ve been one of the first people to see Smoke in action. I was having a cigarette outside the Millside Bank when I see this guy running along the tops of the buildings. Now in ’82 the Dashielle Building wasn’t there, the tallest building might’ve been ten floors. So I see this guy running along, then all of a sudden he jumps off the Florshiem! Holy Shit! I seen him sort of floating in the air for a minute then he disappears in a puff of smoke…literally! He turns into this black cloud that was darker than the sky and it drops, Bam, on these guys running down Millside. Well holy shit, the next thing I know, I’m running up Millside and the guy is gone, all that’s left is these three punks that got the shit kicked outta them.

 

There weren’t so many of them then. You’d maybe hear people talking about the same five all the time. There was Smoke. And Crossfire – he was pretty amazing I’ll give him that.  And Spark, Dogstar, and Spitfire. Then as the city got bigger, there’d be more and more of them showing up. And the thing was the more supers show up, the worse the crooks got. Those punks Smoke caught that night; the worse they had on them was a knife. Now some high-school drop out drug addict is carrying around two sawed off shotguns and a shitload of grenades just so’s he can go and rob convenience stores. Jeez!

 

Anyway, I guess I had the idea when I saw Smoke grab those kids. He’d tied them up to a lamp post that got knocked over. And that’s what got me thinking. So I joined the chamber of commerce, got a bug in the mayor’s ear. Told him I could do the city clean up for a third of what it’d cost the city. The Mayfair Bank job is what sold him on it.

 

You remember the Mayfair? Yeah, it was a beautiful building. They don’t make em like that no more. Anyway, they were holed up in there for four days, waiting for the weekend. Problem was, they didn’t think about how they were going to the bathroom. Then that woman, the one that was on the news all the time after, she went downstairs to the vault and thought she smelled sewer gas. Next thing you know, the city sends over some maintenance guys and the fire department all because this bank broad smells some shit. Anyway, they open the vault and find fifteen guns pointed at them. Then all hell breaks loose. The robbers hold everyone hostage, no one can talk to them, then Crossfire busts in. That broad says he got shot about hundred times and nothing happened, then he channels all that energy back at them, blows the back wall out of the bank, gets the hostages out and saves the day. Only problem is, the bad guys set off a whole bunch of explosives in the vault, that along with the previous structural damage cause the building to collapse. The bad guys all died, but that was okay because the good people got out. It cost me four grand to clean that up and I did it in a week. Charged the city fifteen thousand and told ‘em it would’ve cost them fifty-five if they did it themselves. Got a long-term contract after that.

 

The Mayfair was the biggest job I had to do for a while. I mean, mostly it was uh, small jobs like busted lamp posts and some damage to the facades of a lot of buildings. “Mopping up” we called it. But then there weren’t a whole lot of the supers around either.

 

What’s frustrating is that the public doesn’t know anything, hell, we didn’t know anything was wrong until we pulled out the extra rubble and discovered the other building, But then I found a body. Then we found another. All in all we found fifteen people in there, you know. And then that got to be part of the job. Cleaning up the bodies. But the media never reported that, the people didn’t know. I’d try to tell someone and, and they wouldn’t listen! That goddamn Spitfire killed 220 people but it wasn’t his fault. Sure he set the fire around Sticks, but he didn’t know there was a gas main under there. I knew! I knew it! But did anything happen? No! Because it was for the greater good that they died. He saved two people that day. That’s all Sticks had was two people. And I’m not arguing that Stick wasn’t bad, I know he killed a hell of a lot of other people, but I don’t think he killed 220. What? Yeah, that was the fire Juan died in. The fire of ’86.

 

Fucking Spitfire he didn’t even know those people died. But I told him before I killed him. It was a few years later, but I told him.

 

The thing that turned me, you know, the thing that opened my eyes was that big fight in ’89. You saw the news footage, jeez you’re old enough, Crossfire carrying that plane down, the wings crashing into a building, but Crossfire, saved all 300 people on that plane. What they didn’t show you was the two buildings that collapsed when the wings cut into them. I pulled fifteen bodies out of those piles. Rescue crews saved 37. And the supers, who for once cleaned up after themselves, pulled out 100. Not bad, though, 152 people were saved, but 46 died. I say it opened my eyes, but I didn’t want it to, you know? I wanted to think that they still did good. But then it got to the point where every time we had a crew on a site, they was digging up bodies. We had ta get special suits made just in case there was biohazards and shit! And here I started out with a broom and some glass cleaner, now I got guys wearing hazmat suits and getting training on how to deal with ambient radiation.

 

Anyway, we kept pulling bodies out and cleaning up after them and they kept standing in the spotlight wearing those ridiculous costumes.

 

Ramrod was my first one. And he was easy. Well, he wasn’t easy, I followed him for five days before I got up the nerve to do it. On nights when Ramrod is on patrol, someone drives around the city, taking notes of where he’s been and what we’re going to have to fix; ‘cause he’s just so damn reckless and destructive. Anyway, it was my week to drive around. The first night I tracked him to his apartment. He lived in this shitty little ground floor apartment on Forrester. I was surprised you know, I figured a big shot like that would live in some huge house or something. But I guess that’s all he could afford. Anyway, I watched him from the bushes. But I couldn’t do it.

 

Every night I couldn’t do it. He’d be alone and I’d talk myself out of it. Finally, on the Friday, I watched him. He was sitting on his couch, in his underwear. I watched him drink an entire bottle of whisky like it was water. Then he put his head in his hands and cried. He cried for about twenty minutes and passed out. I realized I wasn’t going to get a better chance than that. So I slid the window open, snuck in and smashed his skull with his war hammer.

 

Seeing him like that I knew, they were just people. That’s all. Once you strip away the costume, they’re nothing special. Just meat. Just garbage.

 

The funny thing was, we got the call from his landlord to clean his rooms. Pepper took the call, I had nothing to do with it.

 

So there was a death in the family. Everybody was really upset over Ramrod, talkin’ about what a great hero he was and everything. You know, it was like once he died, everybody forgot how vicious he was. One guy I heard about had a car that Ramrod smashed and he turned it into a shrine to the guy. Had people lined up around the block to leave flowers there. Fucking morons.  

 

It never got easy you know? I was always sick afterward. I’d hold it together long enough to get home, then I’d puke all night. My throat’d be raw for days afterward.

 

After Ramrod, I did the Farmer. Nobody knew that Farmer was Dave Ramsarran. I only figured it out because I got the contract to clean his offices. To be honest with you, aside from Ramrod duty, I don’t normally do small jobs like that anymore. I tend to stay in the office, or I’ll help out on bigger sites. But I did Ramsarran’s offices because our regular guy was sick and no one else was available.

 

So he was there at his desk and I was talking to him. Once he realized I owned the company and wasn’t just hired help, he was a lot nicer to me. So we’re talking about nothing really important and he gets up outta his chair. Only he must of done it too fast because I see him wince and grab his side. Now, I’d seen the news the night before. And they reported that the Farmer was hurt in a brawl down on Main. The news said he’d been hit and beaten pretty bad. I go over to help him out and I get right beside him and notice that he’s wearing make-up. And I can see that his face is all bruised up. Then I see that his nose is broken and his knuckles are all banged up.

 

I thought that was pretty funny you know? The Farmer is some hick who loves to brawl and this Ramsarran guy is smart and rich and runs a business. I figured it out pretty quick then. So I poisoned his coffee. Took me three weeks.

 

Now I know Farmer died in a fight. So I didn’t directly kill him, but you saw the news. These guys always seem to have a news crew following them around. You saw how bad that fight was. Normally, he’d get kicked around a bit, but that last fight, whoo, he was dying on his feet. Didn’t even get a punch in, took a bat to the back, puked, went down, then that was it.

 

I figured someone would figure out how he died. But nothing happened. Then when I found out that you guys don’t do autopsies out of respect for their “secret identities”, I knew I was in good shape.

 

After Farmer, I took some time off. I focused on work and landed a huge contract. Just huge. After Ramrod and Farmer died, the city wanted to do what they could to protect the supers. So they commissioned an architect and built the Hall. I played some golf, took some guys out to dinner and got the contract without even having to bid for it.

 

That was a pretty impressive building, pretty high-tech, you know? My people had to go through security checks, psychiatric exams, and some other unbelievable shit. So we got the keys and contract and when it was all built up we moved in. You know, it was more like a remote office. My people wore uniforms and had badges, but none of the supers told them what to do. I gave Pepper that gig.

 

Have you ever been inside the Hall? It’s amazing. Stuff you’d see at a computer factory or a NASA. A lot of technology that is really out of place in a city like this. And medical equipment; they got surgeons and doctors who do shifts there like they do at the hospital. And I heard that a lot of doctors weren’t goin’ back to the hospital because they wanted to hang out with the supers. That bugged me a lot. That was wrong, they should’ve been helping everybody, not just the supers. So no, I don’t feel too bad that a lot of those doctors got hurt when I blew up the Hall.

 

Yeah, that’s right, I blew it up. Just me. Okay, I want to make that clear, I did it on my own. I’ll tell you later how I did it, but I’m glad it’s gone. It took up too much space, space that could’ve been used for houses or businesses. And I hear that they’re turnin’ it into a park. I guess I shouldn’t a done that one. Kinda came back and bit me in the ass.

 

So we cleaned the Hall. While Pepper ran the day to day, I made sure everyone had a chance to go in. We had 12 hour shifts, six people per shift. I had everyone do a week’s work because it was fair. I knew they were all dying to be around the supers, and I didn’t think it was fair to exclude anyone. And Pepper liked it when I came for my shift because he could boss me around. Pepper got pretty comfortable there. He made a lot of in-roads for us. They trusted Pepper a lot of those guys. And he deserved their trust. Pepper is a great guy, one of the nicest guys around.

 

Pepper always worked hard and I appreciated it. We’d go fishing in the summer. Well, we pretended to go fishing. He’d just say that to his wife so we could go up north and drink for a weekend. I don’t have a family, so you know? Who cares what I did right.

 

I never had time that’s why. I was always working, setting stuff up, buying supplies, making contacts. I woke up one morning and realized that I hadn’t thought about sex in three months. You know what happens when you realize you hadn’t thought about sex in a long time? It’s all you think about. So I thought about it then it went away.

 

Having access to the Hall was a real blessing. I could come and go as I pleased, I could find shit out about the supers. Like where they lived and other stuff. I mean, I can’t believe how stupid they are! How arrogant! I knew everything about them from one file on a computer. I knew everything about that building from another. They made it so easy.

 

You know what. I did the right thing. They’re gone now. And things are getting back to normal aren’t they? People still walk the streets at night. They go out and live their lives. No one has to worry about being hit by a thrown car or a collapsing building. We can live normally again.

 

I didn’t like killing any of them. I mean, it had to be done, but I never felt good about it. You know, after a while the shakes stopped, but I still have dreams about them. The stupid thing I did, but it was the right thing, was to blow up the Hall during the company picnic. I didn’t want any of my people getting hurt, that’s why I did it then. I keep care of my family.

 

Who? Diva? Yep, Diva had to die too. She really did. Some of those guys, a lot of those guys, they did what they did because, maybe, they wanted to help. Diva wanted the attention. I mean, her fucking name showed that she wanted attention. The only reason I got to her was because I overheard a few of them talking. I was cleaning out the change rooms and a few of the supers were in there talking about, well, about stuff guys talk about while they’re in a locker room. Crude stuff especially since they were talking about a colleague, someone who’d risked her life for them. Anyway, the one guy said that after she sings, she’s exhausted, can’t move a muscle at all. It’s almost as if she’s catatonic. So I followed her around one night.

 

She used her powers a lot that time and then got picked up by Bodyguard. Diva and Bodyguard. What a ridiculous team. He picks her up in the Cadillac and drives her home, puts her to bed. I broke into her house, that’s how I know. I was hiding in her closet. It was pretty easy to do, she was wiped right out, couldn’t move at all but her eyes were wide open. I watched her eyes the whole time. She was just looking at me as I came over and I strangled her. I figured that Bodyguard would be coming up to check on her sometime so I left him a note and a handgun. The note said, “good job.” You guys thought he killed her, then killed himself. No, it was me. I did it. Not sure what he did with the note though. That’s a mystery to me too.

 

Jarhead? Yeah, I did him. You haven’t found the body? I threw it in the river. Last November. Jarhead was a wannabe. That guy dressed up like a soldier, acted like a soldier, but I’ll be goddamned if he ever saw combat. He pranced around here like a flamin’ hero while kids overseas, real heroes, are dying. My dad fought in World War 2 and it pissed him off that there were kids still dying in wars. Broke his heart every time he heard about some poor kid dying away from home.

I followed Jarhead home. He was a loner. Didn’t like to stay at the hall and I figured out why. He was a druggie. Took a lot of drugs. Not sure what kind, but I went through his medicine cabinet and there were a lot of bottles. Different names on them, but the same looking pills. No. I don’t remember. I can’t tell you what the drug was. Because I don’t remember. It was a while ago that’s why. I was tailing him for a while. He was up at Bester and Fitz, breaking up a smuggling job. I don’t know what they were smuggling. He threw some smoke grenades in there, jumped in while no one could see, beat up six guys and after the smoke cleared, he was standing there in the middle. Like he was posing. Hoping for someone to see him. And he stood there for a while and I watched. And still no one came up to him. And his shoulders dropped, his hands came off his hips, and he looked like he was sulking. Damn! No one saw him save the day and he acted like a six year old kid who’d just been spanked. Like I said, I followed him home. He went in, I saw a light go on upstairs, then it turned off. I had a gun. Figured I’d pop him while he slept. But when I broke in he was sitting on the couch, in his underwear with a bottle and a bunch of pills. He looked at me and laughed. Not scared or cocky or nothing like that, just like seeing me standing in his living room was the funniest thing he’d ever seen. And I says to him, “How many of those have you taken?”

“A lot,” he says.

“Take a lot more,” I says and point the gun at him. And the son of a bitch laughs again and says okay. And I watch him take the pills, a few at a time until he nods off, then I watch him until he stops breathing and then I get rid of his body. Easy.

 

What pisses me off the most was the costumes. They look so ridiculous in those costumes. They were there to hide their identities, you know, to keep their private lives private. But they gotta wear those costumes so everyone can see them. So they can set themselves apart from everyone else. So they can get the attention.

 

Farmer was just a normal guy who liked throwing punches around. That Ramsarran guy probably went to his shrink, the doctor told him he had anger issues that he needed to work out, so he puts on a costume and beats people up. Because he needed the attention. A normal guy with anger issues would’ve taken up boxing or bought a heavy bag and beat the shit outta it. But not these supers. Fucking prima donnas!

 

Yeah, I said I’d tell you how I blew up the hall. It was easy. You know what kind of shit your average household cleaner is made of? Pretty dangerous stuff man. And I had gallons and gallons of that shit you know? It was simple. I hid the bags and buckets around the place. There’s this one room they don’t use, I don’t know what the hell it’s for, it’s like a closet. Anyway, I hid about sixteen gallons of the shit in there, wired them to detonate through a signal from a beeper and a disposable cell phone. Then I got all those bleaches and cleansers and stuff, you mix those together and you’ve got some toxic gases too. Shit like that’ll burn your lungs pretty bad. That’s how Puddle died. He inhaled a lot of those gases. You heard it took him three days to die? Yeah. I know. That’s a long time. No. No, I don’t.

 

Well, you can find that shit out pretty easy. The goddamn internet has it all right? Anarchists Cookbook? Library books. Hell, it’s easy. So I made sure none of my people where there. Made sure that I did it during our company picnic. I know that was suspicious, but there’s no way any of my people were going to get hurt in that, no way. And you guys weren’t going to figure it out were you? What? Bullshit! You guys found shit all. You don’t think I know how to clean up after a crime scene? Hell, I’ve been at more crime scenes than you’ve been to birthday parties. There was nothing you guys could’a found there that woulda linked anybody to it. Accelerant walked around that place all the time, who’s to say that the fumes from that closet didn’t mix with those flames of his and blow up. You wouldn’t have figured me for it. No way.

 

Hey, tell me honestly now, you guys must be lovin’ this. Really, you cops was here first and got looked over for all the good shit ya did. I always thought it was bullshit how you guys get sued by some asshole carjacker who got his arm broke when some cop kid pulled him out of a stolen car, but one of them fucking supers beats up Marginalized and no one gets sued at all. Bullshit man, it’s cause the city’s got money that’s why. That fuckin’ Farmer’s got deep pockets right, but the Repo Man never sued him. He should though, take Ramsarran’s fuckin’ estate for everything. But you cops right, you’re doing better now right? People’re respecting youse guys again right? Good.

 

Four o’clock, that’s when the timers were rigged, well, that’s when I called the beeper. I was in the middle of barbecuing hamburgers and Polish sausage. Davinder loves Polish sausage, his religion tells him to be a vegetarian, but I’ve seen him shut down buffet tables. I’m gonna miss those guys. Anyway, I was pretending to call my messages while I was flippin’ burgers and blew the fucking thing up. We didn’t hear anything about it until the picnic was over. People were crying, saying how tragic it was, others were crying saying they could’ve been caught in it, others were thanking me for not makin’ them go to work that day.

 

Yeah, I don’t think you guy’s ever woulda figured out it was me that done it. I don’t feel bad fer doin’ it either right? I don’t. I saved a lot of people’s lives. People who might have died because some super got thrown through a building, people just working for a living end up dead when their office collapses on them ‘cause some bastard with a huge ego needs to see hisself in the papers.

 

So why am I confessing? Maybe cause I haven’t slept right since it happened. It’s been three months since I blew them up and I might have gotten four straight hours of sleep in one night. And people’re still crying over them. They need to know how lucky they are that the bad guys are gone. They need to know that they’re actually safer now. Way safer. And I needed them to know. I need them to know. I saved them. And they need to know.

 

Do you need more than that? I think I covered everything.  I’m not sorry they died. I’m really not. They hurt too many people, did more bad than good, but everybody just fucking bought into it. And it didn’t matter. And they didn’t care and that made it so much worse than it should’ve been.

 

 

 

more

“I was reading the paper, apparently there are a bunch of homeless people reported missing.”

“Yeah, Tommy mentioned that at work today.”

“I assumed vampire, is that what you were thinking too?”

“Yeah. So I guess that means we’re going to work?”

“I guess so. Let me change first, I don’t want to get my suit dirty.”

 

We search for hours. We walk up and down Main, shining our flashlights down alleys hoping to see some greasy looking guy tearing into another, more attractive greasy guy. No luck. In fact, we don’t see any homeless people out at all. And it’s a nice warm night, so it makes sense that there would be more out. Ashley keeps telling me to call Linds, get her insight into things but I can’t. There are too many people around. Someone might see her. After a while of searching Ashley wants us to stop and grab a drink, but I know that’ll turn into several and I don’t want to fight a vampire while hammered.

 

We play fearless vampire hunters for a few more nights then we stop because we’re bored. Hey, don’t judge, we’re two guys in our late 20s. We have five minute attention spans thanks to youtube. Three if we’re looking at porn, thanks to youporn.

 

We go out at night, not vampire hunting, but drinking and Ashley will occasionally bring someone home and I will drunk call Linds and she’ll come over, tsk, tsk me and then send me to bed.

 

One morning I smell coffee before I get out of bed. That makes me uncomfortable, and I start to think that some strange girl that slept with Ashley is using my coffee maker. She’s going to make it wrong and I’ll have to drink it because I don’t want to waste it but it’s not going to be good. This is the worst day of my life.

 

When I get to the kitchen there’s no strange girl there, just Ashley. Drinking coffee. That he made.

 

“Richard my dear, why is the paper reporting that all the homeless people have returned?”

“I didn’t know that. That’s not good, that’s not good at all.”

“So now I’m not thinking single vampire, now I’m thinking vampire army, Richard, are you?”

“Yeah, now. Crap. Fucking vampires.”

 

Okay, so I know I said that vampires aren’t much to be afraid of. Neither are grasshoppers. But imagine a thousand grasshoppers coming at you. You’d be pretty freaked out and a little over-whelmed. Same thing with vampires. One vampire you could handle. Seriously, anyone can handle a vampire. Just push it down and walk away. They’re usually too weak to do much. They don’t have super strength either. Remember, they’re walking corpses. All being undead means is you’re dead but walking. But an army of vampires can muster enough strength to eat a lot. And they’ll stay intact for a while. And they’ll do some serious damage while they’re up and about. Vampires can either turn you or kill you. Usually, they’ll just drain you, kill you right out. It’s easier for them and they like it because they’re full for a couple of days. The only way to turn you is to drain you until you’re almost dead. Then you’re a vampire. Easy.

 

You might be wondering why would a vampire make more vampires? Wouldn’t that just mean there’s more competition for food? Well I figure a vampire makes more vampires for the same reason my fucking neighbours think it’s okay to let their dogs shit on my front lawn and not pick it up. Because they’re both assholes.

 

Ash and I weren’t always the fearless supernatural monster fighters we are now. We actually had a pretty good scam going. It was an incredibly good scam actually.

 

We held séances.

 

It was easy. Ash played the role of the cultured British medium and I’d supply him with the info. People would come in with an item belonging to their dearly departed. Ash would ask them to leave it with him for a week while he became “attuned” to it.

The next week they’d come back and I would have spent some time with their dead relative, getting to know them, hanging out with them and generally getting all the dirt on them that they had.

 

At our busiest, I’d have 10 spirits walking around our apartment, talking about their lives, interacting with each other, walking through each other.  I’d have to write everything down to keep it straight, but Ash would read the notes and pull off a dazzling show the next week.

 

They’d come in, old ladies, old men, young women, whatever and they’d hand me five hundred dollars in cash. I solemnly walk them into the living room, a room that Ash had dressed up to look like a whore’s bedroom with silk scarves, dark woods, and big overstuffed pillows strewn all over the place. He greets them with open arms, gives them a hug or a kiss on both cheeks and directs them to sit on a nice wingback chair, a chair that we picked up from someone’s house on garbage day.

 

He’d make small talk, I’d bring in tea, then he’d tell them everything we’d learnt about their family member the week before. We’d tell them they’re happy where they were, that everything is fine. Then Ash would hint at maybe, if they wanted, if it was really important to them, then maybe, just maybe, we could call them forth and they could have a minute with them. And it would only cost another five hundred dollars and yes, a cheque was fine.

 

As they scrambled to write the cheque, I’d bring in the personal item of their dearly departed. Ash would explain that I was there to act as his focal point. To bring him back from the other side if he got too deep into the spirit world. Let me tell you, there were a few times were Ash had a pretty close call but I was able to bring him back. And when you almost don’t come back from the spirit world, people tend to leave a nice tip.

two new pages...because I'm just the best

She’s spooning sugar into her coffee when Ashley walks in. Ashley generally announces his presence in a room by whistling ABBA’s “Dancing Queen”, but this morning it’s “Macho Man” by The Village People. That’s my pal, subtle and classy.

 

Lucky for me, I have to go to work soon, so I’m going to miss out on all their post-coital tenderness. I pour another cup of coffee, add the cream while they’re sort of necking, and head for the front door. I can hear her giggling as I step into my shoes and lock the front door on my way out.

 

I wasn’t lying when I told her that I was middle-class, I really am. There are two comic book stores in the tri-city area and I own the one here. I also own the other one, so I do okay. Ashely doesn’t work. He doesn’t mooch off me either. I’m like Chandler to his Joey. Actually, that’s a pretty accurate description, he gets all the ladies, and I hear it that night or the next day.

 

I spend my working days at the shop here in town. I have a guy who runs the other store. I stop in once a month to review the books, check inventory, that type of stuff. I don’t like those days because I have to take two busses to get to the store and there’s something about stepping onto a city bus that makes me think of failure. Maybe it’s the looks on the people’s faces. They do their best to avoid eye contact, by staring out the windows, staring at the floor, or on horrible days when the bus is really crowded, at someone’s crotch.

 

I’ve had to do the crotch stare. It’s unsettling. If I was into wieners it might be okay, but I only like my wieners on the barbecue.

 

This is Saturday. And Saturdays are busy days in the world of a comic-book store employee, owner, or hanger-on. There are comic-book store hangers-on. They’re not exactly groupies, just huge fans of the books. They like talking about the books, they know a lot about the books, and they find comfort in hanging out with their ilk. Our hanger is named Dwayne and I’m running late. But hey, that’s okay, I can’t really get fired.

 

The store has been open for an hour and a half by the time I actually show up and it’s pretty full. I can smell coffee and paper and that musty smell that only comes from a fat guy in a Thundercats t-shirt. I like Saturdays at the store. Guys come in, spend a lot of money, occasionally a girl will come in and no one will know what to do, she’ll leave and everyone will breathe a big sigh of relief and stop holding their guts in.

 

“Jerry, turn off the coffee, it’s starting to burn.” I can’t stand the smell of burnt coffee, it kind of reminds me of the smell of pee. I also can’t stand the taste of burnt coffee which might in fact actually taste like pee. I don’t know, I’ve never tasted pee. I’ve never been that thirsty.

 

Jerry is my only full-time employee, the rest of the team is all part-time. Kids really, which is funny for me to say because I’m not that much older than the oldest one of them.

 

 

 

“Hey Rich, did you hear, there’s all these homeless people missing from downtown man, you know who’s taking them man? The government dude. Totally. They’re experimenting on them. Finding cures for cancers and shit you know? Or they’re making new cancers to kill people with. Either way man, it’s seriously messed up.”

 

That delicious piece of insight comes from Tommy Nofar. Tommy’s a huge conspiracy buff who talks like a burned-out hippie. Which is fucking ridiculous because he’s like, nineteen or something. He also kind of smells like a burned out hippie which makes him one of the better smelling guys here. Anyway, Tommy’s so paranoid he won’t let them scan his purchases at the grocery store or my store because he thinks the government tracks you through the UPC bar. And while he’s probably right about the homeless people who are missing, I know it’s not the government who’s doing it, it’s probably a vampire. A vampire will feed on weak and helpless people, like the homeless. And let me tell you something, vampires are not cool. Vampires are gross. They’re not these gothic, romantic, tortured creatures, eternally young and eternally beautiful. They’re greasy looking with bad, pale skin, ugly teeth and poor personal hygiene. They’re like Gollum. They’ll sneak up on some passed out drunk and feed on them. The most pathetically ravaged homeless person is better looking than a vampire. People always seem to forget that vampires are dead. Dead! They’re not alive. And when you stop being alive you start rotting. And that’s why they need to eat other people. As long as they eat, they stop rotting. Sort of. They still rot, but slower. There’s no such thing as a hundred year old vampire. Ten years tops.  Vampires are the near the middle of the scary monster food chain.

 

I’m not sure what’s at the top but it’ll probably be really scary.  

 

“That’s great Tommy. Um, do you have stock to inventory or coffee pour or another job you would rather be at?”

 

“Yeah sure Rich, sorry man, just thought you’d like to know you know. Freakin’ government man, that’s out of control!”

 

I’m kind of torn. On one hand, I’d like to grab Tommy and give him good shake while informing him that he’s not living in the 60s. But on the other hand, his naivety is good for a laugh. Besides, it would totally blow his mind if I told him that there might be a vampire living downtown.

 

I spend the rest of the day behind the counter, selling limited editions, some graphic novels, action figures. We don’t actually sell hard here. My guys don’t do high pressure sales, my customers know what they want. We just tell them if the book they’re looking for is in. We tell them about the stuff we hear down the grapevine, stuff we’ve usually heard from some other customer.

Page 3...you know, if you wait for a bit before reading, you might have something to do in the john.

Well there was a missed opportunity. If I had told her the truth, then she probably would’ve dumped me. But, because I didn’t tell her the truth, does that mean that I want to stay with her? Man, I do not have time for this sort of existential philosophizing. I have a bag of chips I need to eat.

 

We watch television for a while. Lyndsey tells me about her day. For Lyndsey, her eternity is spent shopping, or sitting in a park, praying at church. But everybody’s eternity is different. I’ve dealt with one dead guy, who’s eternity was spent in a coffee shop downtown. Another who spent it in the television section of a department store. After she’s finished talking, Lyndsey kisses me good-bye. It’s a cold kiss, kind of damp. They didn’t used to be. When we started dating her kisses were hot, passionate, lingering like she was putting everything into those kisses that I wasn’t going to get otherwise. And maybe they still are, maybe they’ve never changed but they feel like it to me.

 

Ashley brought his date home last night. I know this because when I walk to the kitchen, I can see an extra set of shoes by the door. There’s also a faint, lingering odour of flowers and sandalwood, which offsets the usual smell of feet, farts, and mouthwash. I also know he brought his date home because I heard them going at it. I woke up to, “Oh my God, yes, yes!” and “harder, harder, harder!” and some other things that were pretty dirty.

 

As I’m making coffee I can tell that she just walked into the kitchen.

 

“Hi, you’re Rich?”

 

I never know what to say to Ashley’s friends. I mean, should I invest in a witty line that might make her smile, which in turn could lead to us talking, getting to know each other, me liking her as a person, only to discover that I’m never going to see her again. I can’t take that kind of emotional devastation.

 

“I’d say middle class actually. Upper-middle class tops.” I give her the warmest smile I can and she just stares at me.

“I was kidding.”

“I know you were,” she replies, “I just didn’t think it was funny.”

 

Well, I don’t think I’ll be missing this one once she leaves.

 

“I was just kidding,” she laughs and she’s got a nice laugh, it tinkles. With a laugh like that, I’m going to be able to forgive her.  

 

“Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes please.”

“We don’t have cream, is milk okay?”

 

We do have cream, but we only have enough for another cup of coffee and I don’t want to share it with her.  I’m not a horrible person, but I can’t drink coffee without cream.

 

page 2? I'm open to suggestions, these are first drafts

Lyndsey and I were together for six years before she died. I met her at seventeen and she wanted to save herself for marriage. She was the first girl who paid attention to me, so I was willing to wait. Heck, I’d already waited for 17 years, what was a few more?  Then, after a booze-up with Ashley, I decided (he decided for me. I’m very susceptible to peer pressure) that I should break up with her. Just before I was going to do it, she got sick. Then she died. And because I was “always there for her” and “giving her the strength she needed” her mother gave me her ashes. And that’s why we’re still together, two years after she died.

 

It’s because her ashes are still with me, and because that’s the kind of guy I am, that Lyndsey is able to communicate with me. And by communicate I mean she’s in my apartment, she puts an ass dent in my couch, and she tries to make out with me.

 

Anyone know how I can break up with my dead girlfriend?

 

Calling Lyndsey’s easy. I just pick up the phone. I don’t have to do anything else. The symbolism of the event is what’s important. And when I hang up the phone, she’s there sitting on my couch leafing through my “men’s” magazines.

 

“Those are Ashley’s!”

 

She smiles at me. She has a beautiful smile. She had a beautiful smile too. To be honest, spiritual Linds is a lot hotter than corporeal Linds was. I mean, her features are all the same, but she’s hotter, like she’s become her ideal Linds…or my ideal Linds.

 

“I’m sure they are sweetie.” She knows I’m lying, but she always gives me the benefit of the doubt.  She always gave me the benefit of the doubt? One of the difficult things of dealing with the dead is how do you speak of them, past or present tense. 

 

I go to the kitchen and grab a beer and a bag of chips. I like to eat chips when Linds is here, it gives my mouth something to do.

 

“You’re drinking beer and wine?” She doesn’t tell me not to, but the lines on her face tell me that she disapproves. She was always a teetotaller, which was awesome when we’d go out to a bar because we always had a designated driver. Actually, she never went to the bars with us, but I could always call her for a ride.

 

“No, I am drinking beer. I was drinking wine.”

“Why were you drinking wine?”

“Ashley wants me to gain an appreciation of wine. He thinks it’ll help me get…” I trail off, before I tell my dead girlfriend that he wants me to get lucky.

“It’ll help you what?” she asks, too trusting to figure it out.

“Um, it’ll help me get a better appreciation of life. You know Ash, he thinks being British means you have to be full of yourself and crap at the same time.”

 

Well there was a missed opportunity. If I had told her the truth, then she probably would’ve dumped me. But, because I didn’t tell her the truth, does that mean that I want to stay with her? Man, I do not have time for this sort of existential philosophizing. I have a bag of chips I need to eat.

Untitled awesome story I wrote that's awesome.

This is the first page from a book I'm working on. No title yet.

 

“Tell me how I look darling.”

“You look fine.”

“You’re an atrocious liar. I never look fine. Right now, I can best be described as stunning. But you are much too hetero to admit that.”

“Yep you’re right. I am blissfully cemented in my vago-centric universe.”

“Oh my God, the way you said “blissfully” sounded so gay!”

“Shut up. Why are we drinking wine?”

“It’s an educational experience that will hopefully lead to you living a more fulfilling life.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I’m hoping it will get you laid.”

“Laid? That’s rather crass for you don’t you think?”

“I was using a vernacular I thought you would understand.”

“Bugger off.”

“Oh look, you’re using a vernacular I understand.”

“So your date is soon right?”

“Nine thirty. We are meeting for drinks. Do not look at me like that. I’m having one drink with you so that I can relax a little. You are going to finish the bottle, all the while trying to understand about tannins, subtle nuances, bouquet, and all that other malarkey that wine drinkers mention in order to sound more couth than the rest of us. Arrogant bastards.”

“Arrogant bastards? You’re a wine drinker, isn’t that a little bit like the pot calling the kettle black?”

“It is not, because, unlike them, I deserve to be arrogant. And what will you be doing tonight?”

“I’ll probably play some video games and call Lyndsey.”

He rolls his eyes and says, “Loser. You are a pathetic loser.”

 

I am. I really am.

 

Lyndsey is my dead girlfriend. So I guess she’s actually my ex-girlfriend. That was Ashley Bancroft, my effeminate, anglophile, straight, room-mate. I’ve been friends with Ash since high school. We lived in the type of town where a guy named Ashley, who acted like Ashley acts, was destined to get beat up on a regular basis. I mean he once wore an ascot to school! Anyway, the only reason Ashley didn’t get beat up on a regular basis was that there were enough women who were willing to admit that, while they hadn’t slept with him (as that would tarnish their virginal facades) they had made out with him rather heavily on several occasions.  

 

While these girls would publicly admit to a little kissing, Ashley explained to me, often, the finer details of these make-out sessions. And he never spared any details. Let me tell you something, not even a British accent can make the story of your sister’s first blow job sound classy.

 

Lyndsey and I were together for six years before she died. I met her at seventeen and she wanted to save herself for marriage. She was the first girl who paid attention to me, so I was willing to wait. Heck, I’d already waited for 17 years, what was a few more?  Then, after a booze-up with Ashley, I decided (he decided for me. I’m very susceptible to peer pressure) that I should break up with her. Just before I was going to do it, she got sick. Then she died. And because I was “always there for her” and “giving her the strength she needed” her mother gave me her ashes. And that’s why we’re still together, two years after she died.