FINANCING THE SOUL
By: M.M. Anderson
Gilfre paused the plow, granting his aged dappled beast invite to nibble the few early sprigs of green, poking through the departed winter’s fallow soil. It was not fatigue, but curiosity that prompted the farmer’s attention elsewhere, to the adjacent road, whereupon a team of black horned goats pulled a gilded wagon. Alone, managing the reins, appeared to be a crimson-robed king, of sorts, his hands gnarled, jeweled wooden crown worn upside-down.
“Stranger!” called Gilfre. “A foreign sight to behold, insooth!” The farmer’s hearty amusement chuckle short-lived, extinguished by sudden stench of brimstone, arrived in a hot whirl of grey smoke. The stranger now stood beside the startled farmer, and his even more terrified horse, that in a frenzied instant managed to release from its yolk and hasten home, towards the barn.
“A gallant steed,” commented the Stranger.
“In a day long passed, perhaps,” replied the farmer, whilst exchanging fear for marvel, at the speed of his spooked beast, fast fading from view.
“Perception determines value,” said the Stranger.
Every hair on Gilfre’s body prickled in foreboding, yet his curiosity was piqued by what he could not comprehend. “I am a simple farmer.”
The Stranger smiled and removed a rolled document from beneath his red robe. “Riches await. May we strike a deal?”
Finger-prick sangre signature, in exchange, the Stranger’s promissory note. Gilfre sold his soul and his horse to the faux king, for a magnificent sum, twenty pieces of gold, secured by indiscernible verbiage, pre-penned on parchment paper. At the Stranger’s instruction, as noted in the agreement, the farmer was required to immediately buy back his plow horse, and return the afore signed note, promising twenty pieces of gold, plus two additional silver coins, as interest. Silver coins, Gilfre’s sole life savings, that he was required to retrieve (much to his wife’s angry dismay) from a hidden box beneath the cottage hearth, and present in tangible actuality, to the open-handed Stranger.
Transaction complete, with verifiable receipt.
Gilfre could now tout his plow horse, to the entire village, as a fine equine specimen, one that he had purchased for twenty pieces of gold, plus two silver coins.
A stud craze ensued. Every townsperson, from near and far, who wished to capitalize on Gilfre’s invested fortune, brought broodmare, along with gold and silver payment, hoping to breed offspring of equal or greater value.
In the name of conspicuous consumption, Gilfre’s wife forgave her husband for what she’d deemed foolish. Every coin earned by the procreating plow horse, two coins were spent by his jubilant spendthrift masters. Until the old plow horse died of pleasure, leaving Gilfre and his wife with numerous debts, and no means of repayment.
Desperate not to lose his only remaining asset, his land, Gilfre called upon the faux king for advice and assistance.
The Stranger produced a second binding document, one that required the farmer’s wife to sangre sign, before financial remedy could be divulged. She pricked and penned without inquiry or hesitation.
“Very well,” said the Stranger. “I will purchase your land.” He removed a tin coin from his robe pocket and handed it to Gilfre.
“This pittance would not garner a loaf of bread from the baker, let alone the land on which the wheat was grown!” Gilfre attempted to return the coin to the Stranger. “Do you think me a simpleton?”
“Who sought my assistance?” asked the Stranger. “Go forth and inform farmers the value of their land, and my offer to purchase it before prices fall lower. Each secured parcel purchase, I will reward you with a piece of silver as commission.”
The farmer’s wife pulled her husband aside. “A fair compensation, one that will pay our debts and provide means to repurchase our land.”
Gilfre agreed.
Gilfre’s past financial success, as master of a valuable plow horse stud, gave credence to his dire alarm: Sell your land before it is too late. Frightened farmers lined up to trade their properties for coins. The Stranger, in self-pronounced charity, offered consolation to dismal market values. Since most lands had been owned and worked by families for generations, the farmers could continue to plant and harvest on their former plots, in exchange for providing a portion of crop proceeds to the Stranger. All agreed.
Gilfre and his wife once again became rich, on commission silver. Rather than squandering as before, they paid creditors and saved half of the remaining silver coins; the other half were presented to the Stranger. “I come in good faith to repurchase my land,” announced the former farmer. “Offering the amount paid, plus fair profit, to give thanks for your prior assistance and generosity.”
“That land has increased in value, tenfold.” The Stranger laughed and tossed Gilfre back his bag of silver. “A barrel of gold would not suffice for property as precious as that which you once owned.”
Word of increased property values spread like fire throughout the village. The few farmers who had not sold for a pittance were tempted to finally forgo their lands for hefty profits, paid by other foreign investors, procured by the Stranger. Most of whom paid low-wage imported crews to manage, plant, and harvest the lands. Farmers who had sold cheap, rightly feared the Stranger would increase crop proceed amounts.
Amounts soon doubled, then tripled.
To make up for the deficit, farmers inflated the price of their crops sold to merchants, and decreased the wages paid to local hired laborers. The village bakery was the first business to close. Gypsies replaced local workers, who departed town to seek better compensation, elsewhere. Children of age fled family farms for big cities, without intention of returning. Those without means entered servitude. Instead of land and toil, the generation with means, inherited or borrowed, sought knowledge and progress. Skills and traditions were deemed useless by scholars who lectured about ideas in brick and mortar institutions, created and financed by the Stranger, for profit.
The village and surrounding farms fell into abject ruin. Consumption, crime, and poverty plagued the few who remained. Still, the Stranger grew richer, claiming for his own the deserted decay, and mortgaging it to a new crop of eager speculators, who also signed sangre on the dotted line.
Years passed. Nothing remained of the village, not even its name. Gilfre’s former way of life had become an industry, owned not by many, but by a select few. Gilfre blamed himself. On his deathbed, the old farmer pleaded for his wife to summon the Stranger, one final time.
He came.
“Please, tell a dying man who you are,” implored the farmer, fast fading. “You wear a misplaced crown, but are more cunning and powerful than any king.”
“True. I own what remains of you, and many others, for eternity,” the Stranger replied. He bent down and whispered into Gilfre’s ear. “Call me, The Banker.”
By: M.M. Anderson
Gilfre paused the plow, granting his aged dappled beast invite to nibble the few early sprigs of green, poking through the departed winter’s fallow soil. It was not fatigue, but curiosity that prompted the farmer’s attention elsewhere, to the adjacent road, whereupon a team of black horned goats pulled a gilded wagon. Alone, managing the reins, appeared to be a crimson-robed king, of sorts, his hands gnarled, jeweled wooden crown worn upside-down.
“Stranger!” called Gilfre. “A foreign sight to behold, insooth!” The farmer’s hearty amusement chuckle short-lived, extinguished by sudden stench of brimstone, arrived in a hot whirl of grey smoke. The stranger now stood beside the startled farmer, and his even more terrified horse, that in a frenzied instant managed to release from its yolk and hasten home, towards the barn.
“A gallant steed,” commented the Stranger.
“In a day long passed, perhaps,” replied the farmer, whilst exchanging fear for marvel, at the speed of his spooked beast, fast fading from view.
“Perception determines value,” said the Stranger.
Every hair on Gilfre’s body prickled in foreboding, yet his curiosity was piqued by what he could not comprehend. “I am a simple farmer.”
The Stranger smiled and removed a rolled document from beneath his red robe. “Riches await. May we strike a deal?”
Finger-prick sangre signature, in exchange, the Stranger’s promissory note. Gilfre sold his soul and his horse to the faux king, for a magnificent sum, twenty pieces of gold, secured by indiscernible verbiage, pre-penned on parchment paper. At the Stranger’s instruction, as noted in the agreement, the farmer was required to immediately buy back his plow horse, and return the afore signed note, promising twenty pieces of gold, plus two additional silver coins, as interest. Silver coins, Gilfre’s sole life savings, that he was required to retrieve (much to his wife’s angry dismay) from a hidden box beneath the cottage hearth, and present in tangible actuality, to the open-handed Stranger.
Transaction complete, with verifiable receipt.
Gilfre could now tout his plow horse, to the entire village, as a fine equine specimen, one that he had purchased for twenty pieces of gold, plus two silver coins.
A stud craze ensued. Every townsperson, from near and far, who wished to capitalize on Gilfre’s invested fortune, brought broodmare, along with gold and silver payment, hoping to breed offspring of equal or greater value.
In the name of conspicuous consumption, Gilfre’s wife forgave her husband for what she’d deemed foolish. Every coin earned by the procreating plow horse, two coins were spent by his jubilant spendthrift masters. Until the old plow horse died of pleasure, leaving Gilfre and his wife with numerous debts, and no means of repayment.
Desperate not to lose his only remaining asset, his land, Gilfre called upon the faux king for advice and assistance.
The Stranger produced a second binding document, one that required the farmer’s wife to sangre sign, before financial remedy could be divulged. She pricked and penned without inquiry or hesitation.
“Very well,” said the Stranger. “I will purchase your land.” He removed a tin coin from his robe pocket and handed it to Gilfre.
“This pittance would not garner a loaf of bread from the baker, let alone the land on which the wheat was grown!” Gilfre attempted to return the coin to the Stranger. “Do you think me a simpleton?”
“Who sought my assistance?” asked the Stranger. “Go forth and inform farmers the value of their land, and my offer to purchase it before prices fall lower. Each secured parcel purchase, I will reward you with a piece of silver as commission.”
The farmer’s wife pulled her husband aside. “A fair compensation, one that will pay our debts and provide means to repurchase our land.”
Gilfre agreed.
Gilfre’s past financial success, as master of a valuable plow horse stud, gave credence to his dire alarm: Sell your land before it is too late. Frightened farmers lined up to trade their properties for coins. The Stranger, in self-pronounced charity, offered consolation to dismal market values. Since most lands had been owned and worked by families for generations, the farmers could continue to plant and harvest on their former plots, in exchange for providing a portion of crop proceeds to the Stranger. All agreed.
Gilfre and his wife once again became rich, on commission silver. Rather than squandering as before, they paid creditors and saved half of the remaining silver coins; the other half were presented to the Stranger. “I come in good faith to repurchase my land,” announced the former farmer. “Offering the amount paid, plus fair profit, to give thanks for your prior assistance and generosity.”
“That land has increased in value, tenfold.” The Stranger laughed and tossed Gilfre back his bag of silver. “A barrel of gold would not suffice for property as precious as that which you once owned.”
Word of increased property values spread like fire throughout the village. The few farmers who had not sold for a pittance were tempted to finally forgo their lands for hefty profits, paid by other foreign investors, procured by the Stranger. Most of whom paid low-wage imported crews to manage, plant, and harvest the lands. Farmers who had sold cheap, rightly feared the Stranger would increase crop proceed amounts.
Amounts soon doubled, then tripled.
To make up for the deficit, farmers inflated the price of their crops sold to merchants, and decreased the wages paid to local hired laborers. The village bakery was the first business to close. Gypsies replaced local workers, who departed town to seek better compensation, elsewhere. Children of age fled family farms for big cities, without intention of returning. Those without means entered servitude. Instead of land and toil, the generation with means, inherited or borrowed, sought knowledge and progress. Skills and traditions were deemed useless by scholars who lectured about ideas in brick and mortar institutions, created and financed by the Stranger, for profit.
The village and surrounding farms fell into abject ruin. Consumption, crime, and poverty plagued the few who remained. Still, the Stranger grew richer, claiming for his own the deserted decay, and mortgaging it to a new crop of eager speculators, who also signed sangre on the dotted line.
Years passed. Nothing remained of the village, not even its name. Gilfre’s former way of life had become an industry, owned not by many, but by a select few. Gilfre blamed himself. On his deathbed, the old farmer pleaded for his wife to summon the Stranger, one final time.
He came.
“Please, tell a dying man who you are,” implored the farmer, fast fading. “You wear a misplaced crown, but are more cunning and powerful than any king.”
“True. I own what remains of you, and many others, for eternity,” the Stranger replied. He bent down and whispered into Gilfre’s ear. “Call me, The Banker.”
THE COMEBACK
By: M.M. Anderson
Jake fired two warning rifle shots at the approaching off-road vehicle. One too high. One too low. The driver over-swerved and skidded and spun-up a cloud of dust like he’d been hit. “Dumb ass.” Jake stuffed a spare loaded magazine into his shirt pocket and climbed down from the camouflaged sentry tower. By the time he touched ground, the driver had exited his red Rubicon Recon. He was examining it for damage, mumbling PG expletives, and yanking on the little remaining rim of salt & pepper hair that flanked the perimeter of his black ball cap. Jake walked up from behind.
“Shit, shit, shit—going to kill me!”
“Put your hands up where I can see’m, or you’re right, I am gonna kill’ya for trespassing.” Jake lifted his rifle and took aim.
The driver did as he was told. “No idea this was private property.” His voice cracked, his knees buckled, but he kept explaining. “Picked up my new Jeep from the dealer this morning. Decided to break her in with a quick Las Vegas excursion. Turned off the freeway extension, to see how she’d handle in the desert. That was fifty miles back. Swear on my family, I didn’t see any signs. Thought this was public land.”
Jake believed him; the little pudgy guy looked like an accountant, or a banker, or some other sort of rich Poindexter who said stuff like “excursion” and could afford an over-priced designer decked-out Jeep, and the sissy logo hat, t-shirt, and faux-distressed denim jacket to match. But releasing trespassers wasn’t Jake’s decision. “I can’t let you go. Start walking.”
It was three scorching noonday miles back to camp.
Bossman was in a foul mood. Mostly because that was his personality, and extra because the kitchen was hotter than hell, a big order was due, and he hated cooking interruptions. Especially the kind that might land him and the boys in jail, three-strikes gets life, when a hard-earned Mexico retirement was in sight. “God damn it!” Bossman wasn’t ready to jeopardize his freedom or his future, but he also wasn’t ready to break his “no killing” rule. He leaned on the closed door outside the kitchen shack and focused an aggravated glare on the sweaty teary trespasser, who’d pissed his khaki pants. “You’ve given me a dilemma and ruined my day. What’a you have to say about that?”
“All I have to say, is what I told your friend. I’m a dermatologist. I sold my medical practice to a New York hedge fund. Treated myself to a new car with the buyout money, and went for a drive. I swear, I’m not a cop, or a fed. I’ll never mention you, or him, or this place, to anyone, ever. Please, let me go.”
Bossman rubbed his ginger beard and contemplated the situation. “You gotta excuse us for a minute, Doc.” Bossman motioned for Jake to take a private meeting, behind the dilapidated building. “Run Doc, and he’ll shoot you dead. Jake don’t miss.”
The wet spot on the doctor’s pants grew larger.
By the time they were out of earshot, Bossman had decided on a plan. “Gonna let’m go, but not till morning, not till Doc’s been scared sufficient for the rest of his days. Believing if he breaths a word about us, we’ll be coming for him.”
Jake nodded in agreement. “But where we gonna keep him, in the mean time? He’s already seen too much.”
“Tie’m up and put’m in the pit. Doc don’t need to know it’s only full of gopher snakes, not rattlers. Tell the boys to yell down threats, and fire off a few shots now and then, till sunup.”
Bossman returned to his cooking duties.
Early next morning when Jake went to fetch Doc, he regretted not checking on the boys during the night. It was obvious from Doc’s appearance that the boys had taken their terrorizing responsibilities too far. Doc’s pathetic whimpering, blood-shot-bug-eyes, and rubbery legs made him resemble one of those shellshocked WWI soldiers that Jake had seen in a black and white TV documentary. To add insult to injury, one of the drunken boys had hurled whiskey vomit into the pit, and from the looks and smell, most of it had landed on Doc’s fancy jacket.
“You can go home.” Jake untied the prisoner. “Don’t come back.”
The doctor’s silent, labored, chaperoned return walk to his Jeep took over an hour. Jake didn’t mind the slow quiet. Mornings weren’t his favorite time for big-moving or small-talking, anyway.
Atop the camouflaged observation tower, the sentry watched through binoculars as Doc’s red Rubicon Recon first sputtered and stalled, then crawled in second gear, and finally sped recklessly through the canyon, out of view.
Five hours later, Jake was startled from his afternoon siesta by the sound of tires tearing-up terrain. He didn’t need binoculars to identify the approaching vehicle, but he did need to rub is eyes, shake his head, and wonder aloud if he was still asleep, dreaming what he thought he couldn’t possibly be seeing. “What.. the… heck?”
The red Rubicon Recon, with two passengers—the doctor and a blindfolded woman, screeched to an abrupt halt beside Jake’s elevated perch. Before the sentry could climb down, the doctor had climbed up. He was just as filthy, but looking even more frightened than when Jake had retrieved him from the pit.
“Help,” the doctor begged. “Do what you want to me afterwards, but please, please help me.”
Jake reached for his rifle.
“I know I shouldn’t have come back, but my wife is down there.” The doctor began sobbing. “Please, it’s a matter of life and death.”
The hairs on the back of Jake’s neck stood on end. He cocked the trigger. “Doc, who’s going to die?”
“Me, if you don’t make her believe where I was last night.”
By: M.M. Anderson
Jake fired two warning rifle shots at the approaching off-road vehicle. One too high. One too low. The driver over-swerved and skidded and spun-up a cloud of dust like he’d been hit. “Dumb ass.” Jake stuffed a spare loaded magazine into his shirt pocket and climbed down from the camouflaged sentry tower. By the time he touched ground, the driver had exited his red Rubicon Recon. He was examining it for damage, mumbling PG expletives, and yanking on the little remaining rim of salt & pepper hair that flanked the perimeter of his black ball cap. Jake walked up from behind.
“Shit, shit, shit—going to kill me!”
“Put your hands up where I can see’m, or you’re right, I am gonna kill’ya for trespassing.” Jake lifted his rifle and took aim.
The driver did as he was told. “No idea this was private property.” His voice cracked, his knees buckled, but he kept explaining. “Picked up my new Jeep from the dealer this morning. Decided to break her in with a quick Las Vegas excursion. Turned off the freeway extension, to see how she’d handle in the desert. That was fifty miles back. Swear on my family, I didn’t see any signs. Thought this was public land.”
Jake believed him; the little pudgy guy looked like an accountant, or a banker, or some other sort of rich Poindexter who said stuff like “excursion” and could afford an over-priced designer decked-out Jeep, and the sissy logo hat, t-shirt, and faux-distressed denim jacket to match. But releasing trespassers wasn’t Jake’s decision. “I can’t let you go. Start walking.”
It was three scorching noonday miles back to camp.
Bossman was in a foul mood. Mostly because that was his personality, and extra because the kitchen was hotter than hell, a big order was due, and he hated cooking interruptions. Especially the kind that might land him and the boys in jail, three-strikes gets life, when a hard-earned Mexico retirement was in sight. “God damn it!” Bossman wasn’t ready to jeopardize his freedom or his future, but he also wasn’t ready to break his “no killing” rule. He leaned on the closed door outside the kitchen shack and focused an aggravated glare on the sweaty teary trespasser, who’d pissed his khaki pants. “You’ve given me a dilemma and ruined my day. What’a you have to say about that?”
“All I have to say, is what I told your friend. I’m a dermatologist. I sold my medical practice to a New York hedge fund. Treated myself to a new car with the buyout money, and went for a drive. I swear, I’m not a cop, or a fed. I’ll never mention you, or him, or this place, to anyone, ever. Please, let me go.”
Bossman rubbed his ginger beard and contemplated the situation. “You gotta excuse us for a minute, Doc.” Bossman motioned for Jake to take a private meeting, behind the dilapidated building. “Run Doc, and he’ll shoot you dead. Jake don’t miss.”
The wet spot on the doctor’s pants grew larger.
By the time they were out of earshot, Bossman had decided on a plan. “Gonna let’m go, but not till morning, not till Doc’s been scared sufficient for the rest of his days. Believing if he breaths a word about us, we’ll be coming for him.”
Jake nodded in agreement. “But where we gonna keep him, in the mean time? He’s already seen too much.”
“Tie’m up and put’m in the pit. Doc don’t need to know it’s only full of gopher snakes, not rattlers. Tell the boys to yell down threats, and fire off a few shots now and then, till sunup.”
Bossman returned to his cooking duties.
Early next morning when Jake went to fetch Doc, he regretted not checking on the boys during the night. It was obvious from Doc’s appearance that the boys had taken their terrorizing responsibilities too far. Doc’s pathetic whimpering, blood-shot-bug-eyes, and rubbery legs made him resemble one of those shellshocked WWI soldiers that Jake had seen in a black and white TV documentary. To add insult to injury, one of the drunken boys had hurled whiskey vomit into the pit, and from the looks and smell, most of it had landed on Doc’s fancy jacket.
“You can go home.” Jake untied the prisoner. “Don’t come back.”
The doctor’s silent, labored, chaperoned return walk to his Jeep took over an hour. Jake didn’t mind the slow quiet. Mornings weren’t his favorite time for big-moving or small-talking, anyway.
Atop the camouflaged observation tower, the sentry watched through binoculars as Doc’s red Rubicon Recon first sputtered and stalled, then crawled in second gear, and finally sped recklessly through the canyon, out of view.
Five hours later, Jake was startled from his afternoon siesta by the sound of tires tearing-up terrain. He didn’t need binoculars to identify the approaching vehicle, but he did need to rub is eyes, shake his head, and wonder aloud if he was still asleep, dreaming what he thought he couldn’t possibly be seeing. “What.. the… heck?”
The red Rubicon Recon, with two passengers—the doctor and a blindfolded woman, screeched to an abrupt halt beside Jake’s elevated perch. Before the sentry could climb down, the doctor had climbed up. He was just as filthy, but looking even more frightened than when Jake had retrieved him from the pit.
“Help,” the doctor begged. “Do what you want to me afterwards, but please, please help me.”
Jake reached for his rifle.
“I know I shouldn’t have come back, but my wife is down there.” The doctor began sobbing. “Please, it’s a matter of life and death.”
The hairs on the back of Jake’s neck stood on end. He cocked the trigger. “Doc, who’s going to die?”
“Me, if you don’t make her believe where I was last night.”
WHO CARES
By: M.M. Anderson
The Creator’s extended Eden absences increased.
Man looked up at the Heavens and complained. “You do not love me. You are never around anymore. I do all of the animal-naming myself. I am bored. I am lonely, and by-the-way, I never asked to be made in the first place. What are You going to do about that?”
God chose Archangel Jophiel to mind and mentor the solo garden human, Adam. Besides an honor, Jophiel viewed the Eden provisional placement as a welcome break from his full-time mission, directing fifty-three legions of angels, and assisting Michael with his battle against evil in the spiritual realm.
Naming animals and Man babysitting, a breeze.
Or not.
The Creator asked for an update.
Jophiel looked up at the Heavens and complained to God. “Man is no angel. I fear, without your constant presence, love, composure, and example, Adam will remain forever as he is: selfish, childish, and ungrateful.”
The Creator pondered, then replied. “I shall create an animal companion for Adam, to always be with him and reflect My love. This animal’s devotion shall be unconditional. Regardless of how selfish, childish, or ungrateful Adam is, the companion will remain loyal and loving. Because the animal will be a reflection of Me, God, I will name it, dog.”
Dog followed Adam throughout the Garden, ate his scraps, slept by his side. Dog was conscientious and content. Dog nuzzled, played, and wagged its tail often. Adam seemed pleased.
Or not.
The Creator asked for an update.
Jophiel looked up at the Heavens and complained to God. “Dog is your finest creature. Its kindness and patience, a mirror of You. However, there is a definite disconnect. With dog at his heels, Man has become as bold as bull, as proud as peacock, as lordly as lion, and as cunning as coyote. Adam has learned from dog’s unconditional faithfulness that he is protected and loved, but what Man gravely lacks is humility.”
The Creator sighed, then replied. “I shall create another creature companion that will see Adam for what he truly is. This creature will remind Man of his many shortcomings and weaknesses. When Adam realizes that he is not worthy of pure and unconditional animal love and companionship, he will become humble.”
God created cat.
Cat always remained near, but did not acknowledge or obey Adam. Sometimes cat would purr and accept affection, other times Man’s gentle touch would be met with a hiss or a sharp claw. When Adam gazed into cat’s penetrating peridot eyes, he was reminded that Man was not, and never will be, Who Am.
In time, Adam learned humility.
God was pleased. Jophiel was pleased. Dog was pleased.
Cat did not care.
By: M.M. Anderson
The Creator’s extended Eden absences increased.
Man looked up at the Heavens and complained. “You do not love me. You are never around anymore. I do all of the animal-naming myself. I am bored. I am lonely, and by-the-way, I never asked to be made in the first place. What are You going to do about that?”
God chose Archangel Jophiel to mind and mentor the solo garden human, Adam. Besides an honor, Jophiel viewed the Eden provisional placement as a welcome break from his full-time mission, directing fifty-three legions of angels, and assisting Michael with his battle against evil in the spiritual realm.
Naming animals and Man babysitting, a breeze.
Or not.
The Creator asked for an update.
Jophiel looked up at the Heavens and complained to God. “Man is no angel. I fear, without your constant presence, love, composure, and example, Adam will remain forever as he is: selfish, childish, and ungrateful.”
The Creator pondered, then replied. “I shall create an animal companion for Adam, to always be with him and reflect My love. This animal’s devotion shall be unconditional. Regardless of how selfish, childish, or ungrateful Adam is, the companion will remain loyal and loving. Because the animal will be a reflection of Me, God, I will name it, dog.”
Dog followed Adam throughout the Garden, ate his scraps, slept by his side. Dog was conscientious and content. Dog nuzzled, played, and wagged its tail often. Adam seemed pleased.
Or not.
The Creator asked for an update.
Jophiel looked up at the Heavens and complained to God. “Dog is your finest creature. Its kindness and patience, a mirror of You. However, there is a definite disconnect. With dog at his heels, Man has become as bold as bull, as proud as peacock, as lordly as lion, and as cunning as coyote. Adam has learned from dog’s unconditional faithfulness that he is protected and loved, but what Man gravely lacks is humility.”
The Creator sighed, then replied. “I shall create another creature companion that will see Adam for what he truly is. This creature will remind Man of his many shortcomings and weaknesses. When Adam realizes that he is not worthy of pure and unconditional animal love and companionship, he will become humble.”
God created cat.
Cat always remained near, but did not acknowledge or obey Adam. Sometimes cat would purr and accept affection, other times Man’s gentle touch would be met with a hiss or a sharp claw. When Adam gazed into cat’s penetrating peridot eyes, he was reminded that Man was not, and never will be, Who Am.
In time, Adam learned humility.
God was pleased. Jophiel was pleased. Dog was pleased.
Cat did not care.
SWISH
By: M.M. Anderson
The sleek silent tube came to a complete stop at its subterranean station, beneath our nation’s capital. Polished onyx portals slid open, revealing a single seat in the windowless iron horse. Flashing neon sign above it read: Members Only. No accompanying escorts, cohorts, bodyguards, spouses, or neurologists permitted.
A lone pantsuited matron on the platform stepped aboard. She smelled of boiled cabbage, urine, and farts. The woman clutched a punch-riddled ticket in her meaty fist. It did not display her name, but instead, the desire for which she had sold her soul: POWER. Many sacrifices had been made over the preparatory decades. Logistics demanded both balance and retribution. As her bodycount waxed, her health wained, until her ultimate prize came into view, orchestrated, wrangled, and rigged with venal precision. Nevertheless, when totals were tallied, she did not emerge victorious.
Orange was the new black.
She demanded answers.
The descended transport arrived at its destination. Doors opened. Temperatures rose. Like a miniature walrus in support hose, she made hindered haste along the brimstone corridor, forced her way through a crowded reception lair, and flung open the familiar chamber door. “What happened!” she bellowed.
The Dark One did not respond.
“It was my turn! Mine, mine, MINE!” Her erupting ire sent his attending reptilian scurrying out of the room. She removed a glass bottle from her blazer pocket. “Why was I not 50 points ahead?” The container held a milky liquid. She shook it at him. “Why? Because your so-called silent weapon, proved useless!”
The Dark One stroked his goatee, pondering for a moment before inquiring. “Used as instructed?” His voice was smooth and deliberate, like the demure hiss of a snake, emphasis on the S’s.
“Yes, I followed instructions!” Her cadence morphing from anger, to more of a whining cackle. “Drank my husband’s…his…his…” Her sallow skin turned nausea green. She couldn't bring herself to identify the liquid in the bottle, without retching. “I swallowed for nothing!”
He chuckled.
“You find this funny? Losing wasn’t my fault—it was yours!”
“We shall see,” said the Dark One. “If I am proved wrongfully accused, make certain, there will be consequences.”
“And if I was cheated,” fury pushed her Chardonnay bloodshot eyes to the outermost rim of their sockets. “I expect a full refund!” Her body jerked and trembled.
“Of course you do,” he replied. “But first, what exactly do you recall was the purpose and outcome of our last meeting?”
“Well, everyone said I was sure to win.” She sat her wobbly self on the smoldering sofa beside the room’s blazing furnace. “Then the press started taking my words out of context, ganging up on me. A smartphone recorded my 9/11 heatstroke on a 70 degree day.” She counted additional blames on her fleshy fingers. “Russians, uranium, sexism, misogyny, miners, deplorables, that socialist idiot from Vermont, or is it Maine? Doesn’t matter. They were all plotting against me! Email investigation, that damn compound in Libya, reality television, and on top of everything, a sexting weasel who—” Her rant was replaced by a raspy cacophony. Cough, COUGH, cough, COUgh, COUGH, cough, cough, wheeze, COUCH, cough, cough, COUGH, wheeze, cough, COUgh, COUGH, cough, cough, COUCH, cough, wheeze, COUGH, cough…
“Enough.” the Dark One held up his hand.
Her coughing ceased.
“My time is not free. Get to the point that concerns me.”
“The point is, I came to you for additional help, to fight against everyone trying to ruin my reputation, my chances, my RIGHT, and I was betrayed!”
“Betrayed?”
“You gave me a useless 11th hour defense!”
“I instructed, that when caught in a predicament, you should pause, and fill your mouth with —”
She interrupted. “Why did it have to be my husband’s?”
The Dark One shrugged. “Your humiliation is my pleasure. It could very well have been water, either way, I did not say swallow. I said swish, until the difficult situation had passed or the unflattering interview was through.”
“Swallowing, swishing, whatever!” You promised me what is in this bottle would improve my image, but it did nothing. Nothing but make me more unlikable!”
“True. Liquid, be it water, or other substance, does nothing on its own,” he explained. “It is the swishing that is the silent weapon’s operative component, meant to mask your true character, as I promised.”
“How so?”
“When swishing,” said the Dark One, “your mouth remains tightly shut; in other words, you are unable to speak…”
The subverter realized she’d been bested.
Cough, COUGH, cough, COUgh, COUGH, cough, cough, wheeze, COUCH, cough, cough, COUGH, wheeze, cough, COUgh, COUGH, cough, cough, COUCH, cough, wheeze, COUGH, cough…
The Dark One removed her soul scroll from his files and dangled it above the furnace fire. “Since you no longer drive a car,” he noted, raising his sanguine voice above the din of her second spontaneous round of hacking, “which do you prefer, heart attack or red scarf- doorknob suicide?”
A PRICE
By: M.M. Anderson
Maury mumbled as he scanned invoices and tapped computer keypad numbers into an accounting spreadsheet. “Fitness instructor, floral arrangements, jewelry, hair salon services, music downloads, spa treatments, Botox injections, New-Age Reiki sessions, psychic hotline calls, cases of imported French champagne, boutique and department store charges, cafe and bistro tabs.” His barnacled brow furrowed. “Twenty-eight lunches out last month? There were only twenty-eight days in February. Would it be inconvenient to eat an occasional noontime tuna sandwich at home? Have Consuelo fix one for you. I pay her good money to do house chores and make meals.”
Audrey remained silent, seated across the desk from her fiscally-vexed husband. Every beginning-of-the-month, for the decade duration of their May-December marriage, it was the same interrogation routine. Maury would retire to his study with a stack of correspondence, canvass the household bills, tally his wife’s expenditures, and then summon her for questioning.
“Shortest month of the year and you spent twice the purchase price of my first vehicle, a Lincoln Town Car that I bought with the—.”
“Money you made franchising your father’s furniture store. How could I ever forget? You tell me that long-winded rags-to-riches tale at least once a week.”
Maury stared at the final line in the total column. “$17,222…”
Old fart, Audrey thought. Don’t wonder why you only get once-a-year wedding anniversary sex, with the lights off. So I don’t vomit seeing your stingy face.
“I’m just saying, is all this spending necessary?”
“I don’t know, Maury, is it necessary?” Audrey employed her Minnesota modeling school pose know-how. She lowered her chin, fluttered her eyelashes, and focused her gaze at the imaginary camera lens that was the tip of her husband’s red bulbous nose. “Beauty has a price.”
The septuagenarian squirmed. “As gorgeous as the day I first laid eyes on my scarlet-haired starlet, wearing a skimpy white feather outfit, prancing like an albino peacock, up on that stage at Caesar’s Las Vegas.”
“You know, Maury…” Audrey leaned across the ink blotter and licked her faux-plump lips. “It takes more than dime store makeup to fight Father Time.”
Her husband puckered for a kiss that wasn’t delivered.
“But you're clueless.” Audrey stood. “Are we done here?”
“Honey Cakes.” Maury’s tone softened. “Awe, don’t be mad.”
Audrey dismissed herself. “I’m going to pilates.”
“Remember, dinner tonight at Chez d’Or,” Maury called after her. “Potential investors in my online sales expansion. I need you to meet us there at eight, after I’ve done my martini-hour schpiel. Wear something sexy and charm their socks off.”
**************************************
Audrey declined the doorman’s cab hail in favor of a brisk jog to her destination. March was a lion she did not fear.
As she passed an alleyway adjacent to the palates studio, Audrey noticed what appeared to be a homeless woman, wrapped in a frayed blanket, sitting on the ground beside an assortment of brown-bagged belongings. Their eyes met.
“Spare some change, please?” the woman begged. Her voice was as worn as her presence, yet more youthful and genteel than Audrey expected. “Any amount would help… so much.”
Audrey didn’t usually stop for vagrants. However, there was something about the woman. Audrey reached into her jacket pocket and removed a crisp $100 bill from her billfold. She approached. “I need to see you. Lift your face up, towards the street lamp.”
The woman obliged. She removed the blanket from her head, revealing long, gray and honey-colored hair, matted and mussed. She presented her once fair face for Audrey’s inspection. The woman’s sallow skin displayed an etching of hardships and woes. She surveyed Audrey as well. The woman forced a pleasant smile. “In another time, we could have been mistaken for twin sisters,” she said.
Audrey couldn’t deny, their resemblance was uncanny. She contemplated her haggard doppelganger for a long moment before replying. “If I give you this money, will you spend it on champagne?”
“Why would I waste money on champagne when I haven’t eaten a meal in two days?” the woman replied.
“How about shopping?” Audrey inquired. “Will you buy yourself soft silky undergarments with this money? Or how about nail polish and perfume?”
“Don’t you understand my situation?” the woman questioned. “My clothes aren’t warm. I sleep on hard filthy cement, in a cold alley. My body aches. I would not spend money on useless things.”
“Then would you go to a spa? Warm yourself in a jacuzzi or sauna, get a massage, have your hair washed, cut, colored?”
“No,” the woman assured. “I only need basic food, clothing, and shelter. That’s all I would spend the money on.”
Audrey held out the $100. “One more condition before I give you this—you must join my husband and me for dinner tonight, at a restaurant uptown.”
“Okay.” The woman took the money. “But why?”
“Because,” Audrey replied. “I want my husband to see what I would I look like if he were to deprive me of champagne, shopping, and visits to the spa.”
By: M.M. Anderson
Maury mumbled as he scanned invoices and tapped computer keypad numbers into an accounting spreadsheet. “Fitness instructor, floral arrangements, jewelry, hair salon services, music downloads, spa treatments, Botox injections, New-Age Reiki sessions, psychic hotline calls, cases of imported French champagne, boutique and department store charges, cafe and bistro tabs.” His barnacled brow furrowed. “Twenty-eight lunches out last month? There were only twenty-eight days in February. Would it be inconvenient to eat an occasional noontime tuna sandwich at home? Have Consuelo fix one for you. I pay her good money to do house chores and make meals.”
Audrey remained silent, seated across the desk from her fiscally-vexed husband. Every beginning-of-the-month, for the decade duration of their May-December marriage, it was the same interrogation routine. Maury would retire to his study with a stack of correspondence, canvass the household bills, tally his wife’s expenditures, and then summon her for questioning.
“Shortest month of the year and you spent twice the purchase price of my first vehicle, a Lincoln Town Car that I bought with the—.”
“Money you made franchising your father’s furniture store. How could I ever forget? You tell me that long-winded rags-to-riches tale at least once a week.”
Maury stared at the final line in the total column. “$17,222…”
Old fart, Audrey thought. Don’t wonder why you only get once-a-year wedding anniversary sex, with the lights off. So I don’t vomit seeing your stingy face.
“I’m just saying, is all this spending necessary?”
“I don’t know, Maury, is it necessary?” Audrey employed her Minnesota modeling school pose know-how. She lowered her chin, fluttered her eyelashes, and focused her gaze at the imaginary camera lens that was the tip of her husband’s red bulbous nose. “Beauty has a price.”
The septuagenarian squirmed. “As gorgeous as the day I first laid eyes on my scarlet-haired starlet, wearing a skimpy white feather outfit, prancing like an albino peacock, up on that stage at Caesar’s Las Vegas.”
“You know, Maury…” Audrey leaned across the ink blotter and licked her faux-plump lips. “It takes more than dime store makeup to fight Father Time.”
Her husband puckered for a kiss that wasn’t delivered.
“But you're clueless.” Audrey stood. “Are we done here?”
“Honey Cakes.” Maury’s tone softened. “Awe, don’t be mad.”
Audrey dismissed herself. “I’m going to pilates.”
“Remember, dinner tonight at Chez d’Or,” Maury called after her. “Potential investors in my online sales expansion. I need you to meet us there at eight, after I’ve done my martini-hour schpiel. Wear something sexy and charm their socks off.”
**************************************
Audrey declined the doorman’s cab hail in favor of a brisk jog to her destination. March was a lion she did not fear.
As she passed an alleyway adjacent to the palates studio, Audrey noticed what appeared to be a homeless woman, wrapped in a frayed blanket, sitting on the ground beside an assortment of brown-bagged belongings. Their eyes met.
“Spare some change, please?” the woman begged. Her voice was as worn as her presence, yet more youthful and genteel than Audrey expected. “Any amount would help… so much.”
Audrey didn’t usually stop for vagrants. However, there was something about the woman. Audrey reached into her jacket pocket and removed a crisp $100 bill from her billfold. She approached. “I need to see you. Lift your face up, towards the street lamp.”
The woman obliged. She removed the blanket from her head, revealing long, gray and honey-colored hair, matted and mussed. She presented her once fair face for Audrey’s inspection. The woman’s sallow skin displayed an etching of hardships and woes. She surveyed Audrey as well. The woman forced a pleasant smile. “In another time, we could have been mistaken for twin sisters,” she said.
Audrey couldn’t deny, their resemblance was uncanny. She contemplated her haggard doppelganger for a long moment before replying. “If I give you this money, will you spend it on champagne?”
“Why would I waste money on champagne when I haven’t eaten a meal in two days?” the woman replied.
“How about shopping?” Audrey inquired. “Will you buy yourself soft silky undergarments with this money? Or how about nail polish and perfume?”
“Don’t you understand my situation?” the woman questioned. “My clothes aren’t warm. I sleep on hard filthy cement, in a cold alley. My body aches. I would not spend money on useless things.”
“Then would you go to a spa? Warm yourself in a jacuzzi or sauna, get a massage, have your hair washed, cut, colored?”
“No,” the woman assured. “I only need basic food, clothing, and shelter. That’s all I would spend the money on.”
Audrey held out the $100. “One more condition before I give you this—you must join my husband and me for dinner tonight, at a restaurant uptown.”
“Okay.” The woman took the money. “But why?”
“Because,” Audrey replied. “I want my husband to see what I would I look like if he were to deprive me of champagne, shopping, and visits to the spa.”
UNIQUE SELECTIONS
By: M.M. Anderson
The Unique Selections reception area was identical to its in-flight magazine advertisement photographs: textured white walls, ornate white furniture, plush white carpeting, eight-tier gilded crystal chandelier, gold-leaf accent decor, and a platinum-haired twenty-something well-coiffed woman in tight white blouse and white leather pencil skirt, seated behind a glass desk.
Walter assessed the room’s ambiance—cross between a Venetian brothel and a psychiatric ward. Sixty-five thousand dollars, a clean credit report, and a first-class plane ticket from New York to Chicago bought the recently-divorced lonely guy one-percenter a chance at matchmaker love everlasting. Only the personal interview stood between Walter and his first date.
“Mr. Madison,” the woman in white summoned. “Ashley will see you now.” Ashley appeared in the doorway. She was the brunette equivalent of the receptionist, dressed in body-hugging neon pink and carrying a purple leather binder. The shocking color contrast caused Walter to momentarily shield his eyes before he followed her down a white-on-white wallpapered hallway to a conference room that resembled a royal boudoir, minus the bed. He seated himself in a Baroque throne chair across from Ashley.
“Coffee, tea, champagne?”
“No, thanks. I’m good.”
“Alright then.” Ashley made a quick note before commencing her speech. “Our Unique Selections goal is straight-forward and simple: We provide an introduction to your new love, without interrupting your important busy life. Our unique process uses a tried and true executive evaluation matchmaking system that allows us to accurately identify your perfect woman based on your history, preferences, and distinct desires. This exact recruiting selection spares disappointing dating, allowing you to meet your ideal mate in an expeditious and painless manner.”
Walter wondered how long it had taken Ashley to memorize her script. He guessed correctly that prior to becoming a love recruiter, she worked at an upscale department store makeup counter.
“I know you have completed Unique Selection’s extensive questionnaire.” Ashley flipped to the middle tabbed section of her binder. “However, our search will be greatly assisted if you can provide a brief but detailed relationship narrative history. Specifically, what attracted you to each partner, and what main factor caused the break-up?” Script concluded, Ashley sat poised with her gold fountain pen before a blank white page.
“How far back do you want me to go?”
“The beginning.”
“Beginning it is… Had my first girlfriend right after I turned seventeen.” Walter smiled at the sudden flooding recollection of his summer of firsts, including lifeguarding job at the lake community where his family resided from Memorial Day through Labor Day. “She had big boobs. Throughout high school, boobs were all I could think about. Being a lifeguard gave me a coolness and clout with girls that I’d never experienced before. That summer I had my choice of teenage sunbathers. I chose Daisy. She wasn’t the prettiest girl around, but her boobs were enormous, and best of all she let me touch them—squeeze, kiss, fondle, jiggle, suckle, rub them on my bare chest when we made-out, and bury my head between her deep cleavage when we weren’t lip-locked. Daisy’s boobs tasted like buttermilk and smelled of Coppertone. Enough detail?” Walter poured himself a glass of water from the crystal pitcher on the conference table and discreetly adjusted the bulge in his pants. “Daisy was totally passive; she went along with everything I suggested. I always picked the movies we saw and when we went out to dinner I never asked her food or restaurant preference; sometimes we went to parties. Mostly, I preferred to spend free time hanging out in my bedroom, listening to music, and playing with Daisy’s boobs.”
Ashley took copious notes.
“Believe it or not, by the end of August I was bored. Daisy was a nice girl, but she had no opinions, no conversational spark; she was passive, like a human inflatable doll. Walter, whatever you want is fine with me, that’s all I ever remember her saying. I promised to call and write when I went back to the city in September, but I didn’t.”
“Is it safe to assume you never got back together with Daisy?” Ashley asked.
“Yes.” Walter finished his glass of water. “I didn’t have another girlfriend until sophomore year of college. By then I was looking for someone with zest and passion. Layla had an abundance of both. She was a year older than me, a third-generation sister at the cliquiest sorority on campus. Layla took her posh status seriously, well-connected social butterfly, but she fretted over everything: how she looked, what she ate, what she wore, what I wore, where we were seen together. Everything that mattered to her had to be perfect or it transformed into an emergency. Ultimate drama queen. She cried over the slightest things. Chipping a fingernail sent her into a fit of sobs. Layla threatened suicide when I tried to break up with her. She finally broke up with me when I registered to do a semester abroad.”
“Give me minute.” Ashley removed a bottle of correction liquid from the supply cabinet and dabbed her paper. “Next relationship.”
“Sane, smart, stable Susan. She didn’t like being called Suzy or Sue. I was twenty-five, done with my MBA, and working at a brokerage firm on Wall Street. Susan was a research librarian. We rode the same train. She was pretty in a dowdy sort of way: glasses, dresses below the knee, hair always tied-back in a ribbon. I was more attracted to her calm; it was the complete opposite of everything and everyone I encountered at my greed is good job. I asked her out. Susan was great for me, initially. She cleaned my apartment, organized my closets and cabinets, cooked delicious wholesome meals, left them labeled in the freezer, and reminded me to call my parents on Sundays. Susan loved indy movies, museums, and classical music. She took me to my first opera. After a year, however, Susan became too predictable, too beholden to schedules. I could guess what she’d make for dinner—Mondays were meatless, Tuesdays Mexican, Wednesdays Italian, Thursdays… Well, you get the point. If I picked her up for a date late, or in a bad mood, or drank too much with the guys, she never nagged, never scolded. Susan was unflappable. Dull. I wanted an adrenaline rush. I wanted to ague with my girlfriend, like everyone else in the office talked about. I fantasized that Susan and I would have loud shouting matches, followed by crazy hot makeup sex. Never happened. So I broke Susan’s heart. Even then, she took the high road.” Walter shook his head. “All these years later it stings… Susan deserved better.”
“Yes, she did,” Ashely caught herself. “She did probably move on okay, since she was so level-headed, I mean.”
Walter studied the inside of his empty glass. “Do you have anything harder than champagne? Scotch?”
Ashley scurried in her suede stilettos to the liquor cabinet and retrieved a tumbler and a bottle of Glenfiddich 40-year-old single malt Scotch Whisky. She set them down in front of Walter. “Rocks? There’s an ice machine in the kitchen.”
“I like it straight.” Walter gave himself a generous pour. The initial sip burned away all Susan guilt. The next sip remind him of Kia; she was a Scotch drinker. “Played the field until I was twenty-eight and made my first million. Celebrated by flying to Paris for the weekend on the Concord. At a cafe on the Champs-Elysées I met Kia, a forty-year-old, chain-smoking, Bohemian-American, ex-pat artist. Her table had an empty seat with a view of the Arc de Triomphe. One cup of coffee together turned into a bottle of Johnny Walker, and the next thing I knew she was painting me in her studio. Literally painting me. I was naked, covered in acrylics; we had sex on a sheet of white butcher paper. Paint, sweat, saliva, semen schmeared by our bodies created a work of art Kia called: Garçon Perdu. I was a lost boy, she said, so consumed by success that I had misplaced my primal self. Kia promised to help me find him. She tore up my return ticket home. I spent the next three months in Paris. Kia was energetic and exciting; she pushed limits beyond my comfort zone—defacing buildings after midnight with her wild art, arousing my body in ways that bordered on frightening, perverse. I allowed her to shave my head and write French obscenities on my scalp. In the name of creativity, we were nocturnal creatures feasting upon the city of lights like hungry vampires. Kia hated structure; she preferred to live by impetuous instinct. After a while, it was exhausting, her frantic pace was maddening. I wanted to go home, rest, work, sleep during the night for a change. One morning when Kia was in the shower, I rolled up the butcher paper we made together and took a taxi to the airport. Never saw her again, but Garçon Perdu hangs in my bedroom. The only painting I didn’t lose in the divorce.” Walter paused and poured another drink. He finished it in a single swig. “Which brings me to Simone.”
“Your wife?” Ashley rubbed her writer’s cramp hand.
“Ex-wife,” Walter corrected. “When I was thirty I married a beautiful bright ambitious attorney whose feet were firmly planted on solid ground. Simone was so ambitious that we spent very little time together; nannies raised our two children, and twenty-five years later she dragged me through an expensive nasty divorce. It wasn’t about money; it was all about her winning.”
“I’m sorry…” Ashley closed the binder and pledge-placed her right hand on top. “The Unique Selections team is ready and able to find the woman of your dreams.”
Walter pondered in silence for a long minute. “I’m older and wiser now. I know exactly what I want in a woman, what I deserve, what I have earned, what I need to be a complete man, happy and whole again.”
Ashley leaned in. “What you're looking for in a forever mate, Mr. Madison?”
“Big boobs.”
By: M.M. Anderson
The Unique Selections reception area was identical to its in-flight magazine advertisement photographs: textured white walls, ornate white furniture, plush white carpeting, eight-tier gilded crystal chandelier, gold-leaf accent decor, and a platinum-haired twenty-something well-coiffed woman in tight white blouse and white leather pencil skirt, seated behind a glass desk.
Walter assessed the room’s ambiance—cross between a Venetian brothel and a psychiatric ward. Sixty-five thousand dollars, a clean credit report, and a first-class plane ticket from New York to Chicago bought the recently-divorced lonely guy one-percenter a chance at matchmaker love everlasting. Only the personal interview stood between Walter and his first date.
“Mr. Madison,” the woman in white summoned. “Ashley will see you now.” Ashley appeared in the doorway. She was the brunette equivalent of the receptionist, dressed in body-hugging neon pink and carrying a purple leather binder. The shocking color contrast caused Walter to momentarily shield his eyes before he followed her down a white-on-white wallpapered hallway to a conference room that resembled a royal boudoir, minus the bed. He seated himself in a Baroque throne chair across from Ashley.
“Coffee, tea, champagne?”
“No, thanks. I’m good.”
“Alright then.” Ashley made a quick note before commencing her speech. “Our Unique Selections goal is straight-forward and simple: We provide an introduction to your new love, without interrupting your important busy life. Our unique process uses a tried and true executive evaluation matchmaking system that allows us to accurately identify your perfect woman based on your history, preferences, and distinct desires. This exact recruiting selection spares disappointing dating, allowing you to meet your ideal mate in an expeditious and painless manner.”
Walter wondered how long it had taken Ashley to memorize her script. He guessed correctly that prior to becoming a love recruiter, she worked at an upscale department store makeup counter.
“I know you have completed Unique Selection’s extensive questionnaire.” Ashley flipped to the middle tabbed section of her binder. “However, our search will be greatly assisted if you can provide a brief but detailed relationship narrative history. Specifically, what attracted you to each partner, and what main factor caused the break-up?” Script concluded, Ashley sat poised with her gold fountain pen before a blank white page.
“How far back do you want me to go?”
“The beginning.”
“Beginning it is… Had my first girlfriend right after I turned seventeen.” Walter smiled at the sudden flooding recollection of his summer of firsts, including lifeguarding job at the lake community where his family resided from Memorial Day through Labor Day. “She had big boobs. Throughout high school, boobs were all I could think about. Being a lifeguard gave me a coolness and clout with girls that I’d never experienced before. That summer I had my choice of teenage sunbathers. I chose Daisy. She wasn’t the prettiest girl around, but her boobs were enormous, and best of all she let me touch them—squeeze, kiss, fondle, jiggle, suckle, rub them on my bare chest when we made-out, and bury my head between her deep cleavage when we weren’t lip-locked. Daisy’s boobs tasted like buttermilk and smelled of Coppertone. Enough detail?” Walter poured himself a glass of water from the crystal pitcher on the conference table and discreetly adjusted the bulge in his pants. “Daisy was totally passive; she went along with everything I suggested. I always picked the movies we saw and when we went out to dinner I never asked her food or restaurant preference; sometimes we went to parties. Mostly, I preferred to spend free time hanging out in my bedroom, listening to music, and playing with Daisy’s boobs.”
Ashley took copious notes.
“Believe it or not, by the end of August I was bored. Daisy was a nice girl, but she had no opinions, no conversational spark; she was passive, like a human inflatable doll. Walter, whatever you want is fine with me, that’s all I ever remember her saying. I promised to call and write when I went back to the city in September, but I didn’t.”
“Is it safe to assume you never got back together with Daisy?” Ashley asked.
“Yes.” Walter finished his glass of water. “I didn’t have another girlfriend until sophomore year of college. By then I was looking for someone with zest and passion. Layla had an abundance of both. She was a year older than me, a third-generation sister at the cliquiest sorority on campus. Layla took her posh status seriously, well-connected social butterfly, but she fretted over everything: how she looked, what she ate, what she wore, what I wore, where we were seen together. Everything that mattered to her had to be perfect or it transformed into an emergency. Ultimate drama queen. She cried over the slightest things. Chipping a fingernail sent her into a fit of sobs. Layla threatened suicide when I tried to break up with her. She finally broke up with me when I registered to do a semester abroad.”
“Give me minute.” Ashley removed a bottle of correction liquid from the supply cabinet and dabbed her paper. “Next relationship.”
“Sane, smart, stable Susan. She didn’t like being called Suzy or Sue. I was twenty-five, done with my MBA, and working at a brokerage firm on Wall Street. Susan was a research librarian. We rode the same train. She was pretty in a dowdy sort of way: glasses, dresses below the knee, hair always tied-back in a ribbon. I was more attracted to her calm; it was the complete opposite of everything and everyone I encountered at my greed is good job. I asked her out. Susan was great for me, initially. She cleaned my apartment, organized my closets and cabinets, cooked delicious wholesome meals, left them labeled in the freezer, and reminded me to call my parents on Sundays. Susan loved indy movies, museums, and classical music. She took me to my first opera. After a year, however, Susan became too predictable, too beholden to schedules. I could guess what she’d make for dinner—Mondays were meatless, Tuesdays Mexican, Wednesdays Italian, Thursdays… Well, you get the point. If I picked her up for a date late, or in a bad mood, or drank too much with the guys, she never nagged, never scolded. Susan was unflappable. Dull. I wanted an adrenaline rush. I wanted to ague with my girlfriend, like everyone else in the office talked about. I fantasized that Susan and I would have loud shouting matches, followed by crazy hot makeup sex. Never happened. So I broke Susan’s heart. Even then, she took the high road.” Walter shook his head. “All these years later it stings… Susan deserved better.”
“Yes, she did,” Ashely caught herself. “She did probably move on okay, since she was so level-headed, I mean.”
Walter studied the inside of his empty glass. “Do you have anything harder than champagne? Scotch?”
Ashley scurried in her suede stilettos to the liquor cabinet and retrieved a tumbler and a bottle of Glenfiddich 40-year-old single malt Scotch Whisky. She set them down in front of Walter. “Rocks? There’s an ice machine in the kitchen.”
“I like it straight.” Walter gave himself a generous pour. The initial sip burned away all Susan guilt. The next sip remind him of Kia; she was a Scotch drinker. “Played the field until I was twenty-eight and made my first million. Celebrated by flying to Paris for the weekend on the Concord. At a cafe on the Champs-Elysées I met Kia, a forty-year-old, chain-smoking, Bohemian-American, ex-pat artist. Her table had an empty seat with a view of the Arc de Triomphe. One cup of coffee together turned into a bottle of Johnny Walker, and the next thing I knew she was painting me in her studio. Literally painting me. I was naked, covered in acrylics; we had sex on a sheet of white butcher paper. Paint, sweat, saliva, semen schmeared by our bodies created a work of art Kia called: Garçon Perdu. I was a lost boy, she said, so consumed by success that I had misplaced my primal self. Kia promised to help me find him. She tore up my return ticket home. I spent the next three months in Paris. Kia was energetic and exciting; she pushed limits beyond my comfort zone—defacing buildings after midnight with her wild art, arousing my body in ways that bordered on frightening, perverse. I allowed her to shave my head and write French obscenities on my scalp. In the name of creativity, we were nocturnal creatures feasting upon the city of lights like hungry vampires. Kia hated structure; she preferred to live by impetuous instinct. After a while, it was exhausting, her frantic pace was maddening. I wanted to go home, rest, work, sleep during the night for a change. One morning when Kia was in the shower, I rolled up the butcher paper we made together and took a taxi to the airport. Never saw her again, but Garçon Perdu hangs in my bedroom. The only painting I didn’t lose in the divorce.” Walter paused and poured another drink. He finished it in a single swig. “Which brings me to Simone.”
“Your wife?” Ashley rubbed her writer’s cramp hand.
“Ex-wife,” Walter corrected. “When I was thirty I married a beautiful bright ambitious attorney whose feet were firmly planted on solid ground. Simone was so ambitious that we spent very little time together; nannies raised our two children, and twenty-five years later she dragged me through an expensive nasty divorce. It wasn’t about money; it was all about her winning.”
“I’m sorry…” Ashley closed the binder and pledge-placed her right hand on top. “The Unique Selections team is ready and able to find the woman of your dreams.”
Walter pondered in silence for a long minute. “I’m older and wiser now. I know exactly what I want in a woman, what I deserve, what I have earned, what I need to be a complete man, happy and whole again.”
Ashley leaned in. “What you're looking for in a forever mate, Mr. Madison?”
“Big boobs.”
SOME NUTS
By: M.M. Anderson
“This is the final boarding call for passenger Charles Vanderhoof booked on TouristAir flight #1612 to Seattle. Please proceed to gate 34A immediately. Final checks are in progress and the captain will order aircraft doors closed in five minutes. I repeat. This is the final boarding call for Charles Vanderhoof. Thank you…”
Charlie glanced at his boarding pass. The announcement was meant for him. Twenty minutes in line to buy a Bazooka Burger deluxe, Chunky-Monkey cheesy fries, and a cherry-cola Gulpie had been in vain. There were still ten people ahead of him, and he was about to miss his plane. Charlie looked left and right. No gate transport vehicle in sight. He’d have make haste by foot. Running wasn’t an activity Charlie engaged in regularly, or ever, for that matter. As he lumbered like a hippo in Star Wars Sketchers along the corridor, Charlie wondered why three-hundred pound football players could move their masses with relative ease, but not three-hundred pound computer programmers. Probably has something to do with brain size, he thought.
“Mr. Vanderhoof?” A TouristAir representative met Charlie five yards from the gate. “It’s your lucky day. The captain is still holding the plane, but not much longer.” She scanned Charlie’s palm-soggy crumpled boarding pass and ushered him onto the aircraft. Every settled seated passenger stared at the disheveled man with sweaty t-shirt armpit stains who had caused their delay.
There were more than a few empty seats on the economy flight from LAX to SEA. Charlie claimed an empty duo row in front of a solo little old lady. He’d have plenty of room to recline. The lead female flight attendant in fragrant lei and regulation floral moo-moo handed Charlie a belt extender before signaling to the crew that they were ready for departure.
Twenty minutes after takeoff the seatbelt light was extinguished; passengers began rummaging through their carry-ons for food. Aromas emitting from unwrapping hoagies, grinders, burgers, burritos, and pepperoni pizzas, circulating through the canned air, caused Charlie’s stomach to growl with envy. “Stupid slow Bazooka Burger,” Charlie grumbled as he dug through his backpack, looking for anything edible. In the front zipper pocket he found a soggy stick of gum and a packet of catsup. He pushed the call button above his seat.
A petite blonde steward dressed in the male uniform Hawaiian shirt, khaki Bermuda shorts, knee-high tube socks, and open-toe sandals promptly appeared. He reached across Charlie and turned off the flashing-dinging light. “How may I help you?”
“Can I buy one of those boxed meals?”
“Sorry, sir, we don’t sell meals on TouristAir.”
“How about pretzels?”
“No snacks for sale, either. However, for $5, credit or debit card only, you may purchase coffee, tea, or water when the beverage cart passes.”
“Do they come with complimentary cookies?”
“No cookies, no biscuits, no crackers, no chips,” the steward said. “No frills means BYOF—bring your own food. Two hours left in the flight.” He walked away.
Charlie was sure he heard the steward mutter, “Deal with it, fatty.”
“Sonny…” a gnarled finger appeared through the seat space and poked Charlie’s shoulder. “Would you like some nuts?”
“Sure!” Charlie reached around the side of his aisle seat; the old woman placed a napkin full of assorted nuts into his hand: peanuts, cashews, almonds, walnuts, pecans. “Thanks! What a treat.” Charlie gobbled with glee.
Fifteen minutes later the old woman reached around the B seat once again and handed Charlie another napkin, this one containing hazelnuts.
“Yummy, creamy, my favorite…” Charlie closed his eyes and imagined himself eating a hazelnut custard cupcake, the free hazelnut custard cupcake he chose every Monday-Friday from the 3:00 PM Microfirm snack wagon. The company treated its coders and programmers deliciously well.
“Here, Sonny.” Another shoulder poke disrupted Charlie’s gastric reverie. “Do you like Brazil nuts?”
“I do,” Charlie replied. He peered through the seat crack at the old woman who was holding a white paper bag. “Not to sound ungrateful, but why don’t you eat the nuts yourself?”
“Because I don’t have teeth,” she said. “I can’t chew.”
Charlie could see that the woman’s wrinkled ashen lips were caved in, no teeth or dentures to push them into place. There was a dark dollop of drool on her prune chin. “Why do you buy nuts then?”
The old woman removed a little brown oval-shaped object from her bag and popped it into her mouth. “Oh, I just love the chocolate on them…”
By: M.M. Anderson
“This is the final boarding call for passenger Charles Vanderhoof booked on TouristAir flight #1612 to Seattle. Please proceed to gate 34A immediately. Final checks are in progress and the captain will order aircraft doors closed in five minutes. I repeat. This is the final boarding call for Charles Vanderhoof. Thank you…”
Charlie glanced at his boarding pass. The announcement was meant for him. Twenty minutes in line to buy a Bazooka Burger deluxe, Chunky-Monkey cheesy fries, and a cherry-cola Gulpie had been in vain. There were still ten people ahead of him, and he was about to miss his plane. Charlie looked left and right. No gate transport vehicle in sight. He’d have make haste by foot. Running wasn’t an activity Charlie engaged in regularly, or ever, for that matter. As he lumbered like a hippo in Star Wars Sketchers along the corridor, Charlie wondered why three-hundred pound football players could move their masses with relative ease, but not three-hundred pound computer programmers. Probably has something to do with brain size, he thought.
“Mr. Vanderhoof?” A TouristAir representative met Charlie five yards from the gate. “It’s your lucky day. The captain is still holding the plane, but not much longer.” She scanned Charlie’s palm-soggy crumpled boarding pass and ushered him onto the aircraft. Every settled seated passenger stared at the disheveled man with sweaty t-shirt armpit stains who had caused their delay.
There were more than a few empty seats on the economy flight from LAX to SEA. Charlie claimed an empty duo row in front of a solo little old lady. He’d have plenty of room to recline. The lead female flight attendant in fragrant lei and regulation floral moo-moo handed Charlie a belt extender before signaling to the crew that they were ready for departure.
Twenty minutes after takeoff the seatbelt light was extinguished; passengers began rummaging through their carry-ons for food. Aromas emitting from unwrapping hoagies, grinders, burgers, burritos, and pepperoni pizzas, circulating through the canned air, caused Charlie’s stomach to growl with envy. “Stupid slow Bazooka Burger,” Charlie grumbled as he dug through his backpack, looking for anything edible. In the front zipper pocket he found a soggy stick of gum and a packet of catsup. He pushed the call button above his seat.
A petite blonde steward dressed in the male uniform Hawaiian shirt, khaki Bermuda shorts, knee-high tube socks, and open-toe sandals promptly appeared. He reached across Charlie and turned off the flashing-dinging light. “How may I help you?”
“Can I buy one of those boxed meals?”
“Sorry, sir, we don’t sell meals on TouristAir.”
“How about pretzels?”
“No snacks for sale, either. However, for $5, credit or debit card only, you may purchase coffee, tea, or water when the beverage cart passes.”
“Do they come with complimentary cookies?”
“No cookies, no biscuits, no crackers, no chips,” the steward said. “No frills means BYOF—bring your own food. Two hours left in the flight.” He walked away.
Charlie was sure he heard the steward mutter, “Deal with it, fatty.”
“Sonny…” a gnarled finger appeared through the seat space and poked Charlie’s shoulder. “Would you like some nuts?”
“Sure!” Charlie reached around the side of his aisle seat; the old woman placed a napkin full of assorted nuts into his hand: peanuts, cashews, almonds, walnuts, pecans. “Thanks! What a treat.” Charlie gobbled with glee.
Fifteen minutes later the old woman reached around the B seat once again and handed Charlie another napkin, this one containing hazelnuts.
“Yummy, creamy, my favorite…” Charlie closed his eyes and imagined himself eating a hazelnut custard cupcake, the free hazelnut custard cupcake he chose every Monday-Friday from the 3:00 PM Microfirm snack wagon. The company treated its coders and programmers deliciously well.
“Here, Sonny.” Another shoulder poke disrupted Charlie’s gastric reverie. “Do you like Brazil nuts?”
“I do,” Charlie replied. He peered through the seat crack at the old woman who was holding a white paper bag. “Not to sound ungrateful, but why don’t you eat the nuts yourself?”
“Because I don’t have teeth,” she said. “I can’t chew.”
Charlie could see that the woman’s wrinkled ashen lips were caved in, no teeth or dentures to push them into place. There was a dark dollop of drool on her prune chin. “Why do you buy nuts then?”
The old woman removed a little brown oval-shaped object from her bag and popped it into her mouth. “Oh, I just love the chocolate on them…”
CONTRITION
By: M.M. Anderson
Father Gabriel sat alone, in a metal chair, beside a still patient in a dimly-lit ICU. Eight hours earlier, surgeons stabilized the man beneath the white sheet, now guarded by a small army of security henchmen, poised on the other side of the hospital room door.
Padre folded his weathered hands, draped in black onyx rosary beads, and recited from ancient memory an inaudible assortment of prayers: healing, forgiveness, and praise. Mechanical blips and bleeps were a choir to his worship whispers.
It had been a long sleepless night. The call came shortly after 10:00 PM. Father Gabriel had returned to the hotel an hour earlier. He was watching Senator Grasso’s presidential rally speech on television when four black-scarfed shooters rushed the candidate’s stage from behind. Bloody mayhem ensued. Save for the grace of divine intervention, via a bout of colitis, Father Gabriel would have been in the front row, and a certain casualty of the killers’ premeditated assault. Unlike the senator, the padre did not wear kevlar beneath his garments.
Senator Grasso’s presidential bid was fueled by horrific recent world events and the anger, doom, and fear rhetoric that pointed an accusatory finger at all Muslims. According to recent polls, it was a lethal concoction that 49% of Americans were hungry to swallow. “ISIS is coming to a town near you!” and “Deport diaper heads!” were familiar chants at Grasso rallies. Only the religious right were initially able to prevent Grasso from securing his party’s unanimous endorsement. United Federation of Christian Churches ignored the senator’s multiple marriages, applauded his religious bias, but questioned his faith—meaning Supreme Court vacancy agenda, which is why Grasso’s team sought the senator’s former parish priest out of retirement. Father Gabriel wasn’t a fan of the Massachusetts senator; he’d heard too many of his confessions. However, the padre found retirement tedious, and he believed aloud that life before birth was sacred, guns of all calibers were a God-given second amendment right, and marriage was a heterosexual sacrament. He accepted the Moral Counsel puppet position, and procured for Grasso the UFCC’s blessing.
A balding doctor in green scrubs and white coat entered from the shadows of a connecting room. “Pardon me, Father, don’t be startled. Avoiding the crowd outside.” He removed a clipboard from the foot of the bed.
“The senator slept the whole time I’ve been here.” Gabriel stood and glanced at the doctor’s embroidered name.
“He was given a strong sedative.”
“Did you operate, Dr. Katz?”
“I was one of many who worked on the senator. That vest saved him. Others weren’t so fortunate, including Mrs. Grasso.”
Father Gabriel made a sign of the cross. “Vera was a good woman.”
“I’m sorry… There were a lot of good people who lost their lives last night.” The doctor stifled a yawn and made a note on Grasso’s chart.
“Any word on who committed this atrocity?” The padre had his suspicions.
“Saw a minute of the news before I came up here. ISIS claimed responsibility. The senator’s Islamic extremist prophecy coming true will make his approval ratings skyrocket.”
“Will that matter?” the padre asked. “Do you expect him to recover?”
“He should, but I’m concerned about infection. No kevlar protecting his legs. The AR15 did deep damage.” Dr. Katz rehung the chart and checked his watch. “I’ll be back in a few hours. Try to get some rest, too.”
****************
“Help… help me…”
The low raspy cry awoke Father Gabriel from his uncomfortable chair slumber. He rushed, as fast as an octogenarian with achy limbs could, to the side of Senator Grasso’s bed. “You’re safe and doing well… the doctor was here a little while ago.”
The patient seemed to understand. His eyes softened and closed. The padre commenced praying, for a brief minute, until the senator’s eyes once again opened wide; his breathing became labored—he grabbed Father Gabriel’s hand and tried to speak. No words came out.
“You have something to tell me?”
Grasso nodded, yes.
“About last night?
The senator shook his head, no. His breathing became even more distressed; he squeezed Father Gabriel’s hand.
“A confession?”
Grasso groaned.
“I won’t allow you to pass without contrition.” The padre reached his free hand and grabbed a square post-it pad and gray felt pen from the nurse’s supply stand. He held them for the senator who scrawled a message.
Machines began to buzz, chime, and blink. Two nurses rushed into the room. The senator was crashing. Father Gabriel slipped the unread confession into his pants pocket and prayed as the nurses hurried to locate the source of their patient’s distress.
Dr. Katz returned. “He’s not breathing! We need to get him back into the OR!”
Father Gabriel stepped away from the gurney bed. Whatever happened next was God’s will.
At 8:07 AM, Dr. Katz pronounced the senator dead.
****************
Our Lady of Sorrows church was filled to capacity. Tents packed with rented folding chairs and close-circuit TV monitors were erected in the church parking lot and on the nearby elementary school ball field. Even so, there would not be enough space to accommodate the many mourners and numerous news crews from across the globe. Tens of thousands were arriving to pay their respects to a man whom they believed would have been 45th president of the United States. An instantly great man, whose murder proved to millions that no place in America, or the world for that matter, was safe from the barbaric wrath of Muslim extremist terrorists. It had been an apocalyptic week since the shooting that left twenty dead and twice as many critically wounded, including the assailants—three men and a woman. Riots ensued. Mosques were burned, curfews enacted, accomplices arrested, sympathizers sought, firearm bans repealed in haste. The frenzy of instant media exalted Senator Grasso to a position of pop-culture prophet, one who warned his flock, then paid the price with his life.
The funeral speaker list was extensive and distinguished, clergy and lay, celebrities and politicians, doves and hawks alike, vied for high-visibility performance time at the pulpit. Father Gabriel was slated to give closing remarks and final prayers. It would be late afternoon or early evening by then.
In the interim, Gabriel retired to his former room on the rectory top floor to hone his speech and wait for an escort to seat him at the service. He reached into his pants pocket and felt the paper he’d placed there eight days earlier, a paper he’d touched a thousand times since.
Should I read it?
The final words of a famous dying man promised the distinction of being either an inspiration or a burden to the beholder. Italian artist Raphael’s last word was simply, “Happy.” Sir Winston Churchill’s final utterance was, “I’m bored with it all.” On his deathbed in 1994, Christian Spurling confessed that the famous 1934 Loch Ness Monster photo was a fake, masterminded by his step-father. What words or wisdoms had Grasso written? The padre pondered whether to share or discard the note. Days of prayer had not offered definitive guidance.
Curiosity finally won out.
Father Gabriel stood at the pulpit, before a rapt audience. “I have in my possession, Senator Grasso’s last words, in his own hand.” He removed the paper from his pocket, and for the first time read Grasso’s parting remark:
By: M.M. Anderson
Father Gabriel sat alone, in a metal chair, beside a still patient in a dimly-lit ICU. Eight hours earlier, surgeons stabilized the man beneath the white sheet, now guarded by a small army of security henchmen, poised on the other side of the hospital room door.
Padre folded his weathered hands, draped in black onyx rosary beads, and recited from ancient memory an inaudible assortment of prayers: healing, forgiveness, and praise. Mechanical blips and bleeps were a choir to his worship whispers.
It had been a long sleepless night. The call came shortly after 10:00 PM. Father Gabriel had returned to the hotel an hour earlier. He was watching Senator Grasso’s presidential rally speech on television when four black-scarfed shooters rushed the candidate’s stage from behind. Bloody mayhem ensued. Save for the grace of divine intervention, via a bout of colitis, Father Gabriel would have been in the front row, and a certain casualty of the killers’ premeditated assault. Unlike the senator, the padre did not wear kevlar beneath his garments.
Senator Grasso’s presidential bid was fueled by horrific recent world events and the anger, doom, and fear rhetoric that pointed an accusatory finger at all Muslims. According to recent polls, it was a lethal concoction that 49% of Americans were hungry to swallow. “ISIS is coming to a town near you!” and “Deport diaper heads!” were familiar chants at Grasso rallies. Only the religious right were initially able to prevent Grasso from securing his party’s unanimous endorsement. United Federation of Christian Churches ignored the senator’s multiple marriages, applauded his religious bias, but questioned his faith—meaning Supreme Court vacancy agenda, which is why Grasso’s team sought the senator’s former parish priest out of retirement. Father Gabriel wasn’t a fan of the Massachusetts senator; he’d heard too many of his confessions. However, the padre found retirement tedious, and he believed aloud that life before birth was sacred, guns of all calibers were a God-given second amendment right, and marriage was a heterosexual sacrament. He accepted the Moral Counsel puppet position, and procured for Grasso the UFCC’s blessing.
A balding doctor in green scrubs and white coat entered from the shadows of a connecting room. “Pardon me, Father, don’t be startled. Avoiding the crowd outside.” He removed a clipboard from the foot of the bed.
“The senator slept the whole time I’ve been here.” Gabriel stood and glanced at the doctor’s embroidered name.
“He was given a strong sedative.”
“Did you operate, Dr. Katz?”
“I was one of many who worked on the senator. That vest saved him. Others weren’t so fortunate, including Mrs. Grasso.”
Father Gabriel made a sign of the cross. “Vera was a good woman.”
“I’m sorry… There were a lot of good people who lost their lives last night.” The doctor stifled a yawn and made a note on Grasso’s chart.
“Any word on who committed this atrocity?” The padre had his suspicions.
“Saw a minute of the news before I came up here. ISIS claimed responsibility. The senator’s Islamic extremist prophecy coming true will make his approval ratings skyrocket.”
“Will that matter?” the padre asked. “Do you expect him to recover?”
“He should, but I’m concerned about infection. No kevlar protecting his legs. The AR15 did deep damage.” Dr. Katz rehung the chart and checked his watch. “I’ll be back in a few hours. Try to get some rest, too.”
****************
“Help… help me…”
The low raspy cry awoke Father Gabriel from his uncomfortable chair slumber. He rushed, as fast as an octogenarian with achy limbs could, to the side of Senator Grasso’s bed. “You’re safe and doing well… the doctor was here a little while ago.”
The patient seemed to understand. His eyes softened and closed. The padre commenced praying, for a brief minute, until the senator’s eyes once again opened wide; his breathing became labored—he grabbed Father Gabriel’s hand and tried to speak. No words came out.
“You have something to tell me?”
Grasso nodded, yes.
“About last night?
The senator shook his head, no. His breathing became even more distressed; he squeezed Father Gabriel’s hand.
“A confession?”
Grasso groaned.
“I won’t allow you to pass without contrition.” The padre reached his free hand and grabbed a square post-it pad and gray felt pen from the nurse’s supply stand. He held them for the senator who scrawled a message.
Machines began to buzz, chime, and blink. Two nurses rushed into the room. The senator was crashing. Father Gabriel slipped the unread confession into his pants pocket and prayed as the nurses hurried to locate the source of their patient’s distress.
Dr. Katz returned. “He’s not breathing! We need to get him back into the OR!”
Father Gabriel stepped away from the gurney bed. Whatever happened next was God’s will.
At 8:07 AM, Dr. Katz pronounced the senator dead.
****************
Our Lady of Sorrows church was filled to capacity. Tents packed with rented folding chairs and close-circuit TV monitors were erected in the church parking lot and on the nearby elementary school ball field. Even so, there would not be enough space to accommodate the many mourners and numerous news crews from across the globe. Tens of thousands were arriving to pay their respects to a man whom they believed would have been 45th president of the United States. An instantly great man, whose murder proved to millions that no place in America, or the world for that matter, was safe from the barbaric wrath of Muslim extremist terrorists. It had been an apocalyptic week since the shooting that left twenty dead and twice as many critically wounded, including the assailants—three men and a woman. Riots ensued. Mosques were burned, curfews enacted, accomplices arrested, sympathizers sought, firearm bans repealed in haste. The frenzy of instant media exalted Senator Grasso to a position of pop-culture prophet, one who warned his flock, then paid the price with his life.
The funeral speaker list was extensive and distinguished, clergy and lay, celebrities and politicians, doves and hawks alike, vied for high-visibility performance time at the pulpit. Father Gabriel was slated to give closing remarks and final prayers. It would be late afternoon or early evening by then.
In the interim, Gabriel retired to his former room on the rectory top floor to hone his speech and wait for an escort to seat him at the service. He reached into his pants pocket and felt the paper he’d placed there eight days earlier, a paper he’d touched a thousand times since.
Should I read it?
The final words of a famous dying man promised the distinction of being either an inspiration or a burden to the beholder. Italian artist Raphael’s last word was simply, “Happy.” Sir Winston Churchill’s final utterance was, “I’m bored with it all.” On his deathbed in 1994, Christian Spurling confessed that the famous 1934 Loch Ness Monster photo was a fake, masterminded by his step-father. What words or wisdoms had Grasso written? The padre pondered whether to share or discard the note. Days of prayer had not offered definitive guidance.
Curiosity finally won out.
Father Gabriel stood at the pulpit, before a rapt audience. “I have in my possession, Senator Grasso’s last words, in his own hand.” He removed the paper from his pocket, and for the first time read Grasso’s parting remark:
