The Men Who Rake Leaves - A Short

    It always ended at the Vegas Lounge.  I don’t mean to say it didn’t end other places.  It certainly did.  But the Vegas Lounge had this power of holding you hostage until the night ceded.  Nobody popped in for a few cocktails before a show or stopped by for a beer and a little mundane work gossip.  No, far from it.  Once you entered that bar, there was no going back.  It led you down a path of destruction and blackness, and on the last day of autumn, on a surprisingly hot and putrid day, Billy Buttle, Jerry Saint, and Wally Martin were taken by the Vegas Lounge.

    But I fear I’m getting ahead of myself.  Allow me to start from the beginning, as stories usually do.

    Their afternoon started with vodka, lemon, and ice, but they soon graduated to Old Fashioneds and Torontos.  They drank their drinks, mostly in silence, intermittently placing the condensation-laced glasses against their foreheads.

    “It’s too hot for December,” one of them said.

    The other two wiped their brows, but said nothing.

    They were atop a swanky terraced bar in downtown and were in the midst of a perfectly lovely, and respectable, Saturday.  But as they finished the last of their drinks a plan began to formulate.  Mayhem was brewing.  What that mayhem would be was unclear.  But one thing was for certain: they would find another bar; some place bound to have a happy hour.  Downtown terraces hardly screamed thriftiness, so their wallets were thirsty for a dive.

    “There’s a place across the river,” Wally said.

    “What’s it called?” Billy asked.

    “Terry’s.  They have good burgers and a decent happy hour.”

    “Sold.”

    Jerry chewed the last of his ice.  “Yeah, why not?”

    They paid their check, tipped (handsomely, of course), piled into Wally’s Saturn, and drove the mile and a half across the bridge.  They parked adjacent to Terry’s and were pleased that it wasn’t terribly busy.  They found three open seats, took them without asking, and ordered three burgers, three fries, three beers, and six whiskeys.  They ate and they drank, but anything beyond that is of no significance to this story and I will promptly move on from it.

    The sun dropped and the moon rose and they stumbled out of Terry’s and back to Wally’s rusty Saturn.  They had spectacularly full bellies and a blaring buzz; the day had treated them well.  But just as they readied themselves for the comforts of the Saturn’s bucket seats, a light from across the street caught their eye.  But it was more than a light.  It was a beacon.  And though they would never admit it, the beacon was calling to them.  Under the beacon’s glow was a modest concrete building similar to the outside of an elementary school.  There were two windows, tinted black, and a parking lot that housed mostly pickups.  

    They let go of the door handles and made their way toward the building, moving like drunken zombies, souls possessed.  Billy saw a loveless couple standing out front, a cigarette burning in the woman’s hand.  She inhaled and exhaled calmly.  The man, however, was irate.  He frantically waved his arms and pointed his finger at the woman.  It was the most accusatory thing Billy had ever seen.  Wally and Jerry seemed not to notice.

    As they got closer they noticed what the beacon was: a nondescript sign hanging loosely over the building’s entrance.  It almost seemed to be dangling.  One strong gust could rip the thing from its screws.  On the sign were full block letters against a coarse white background.  The words were simple: THE VEGAS LOUNGE.  Though, nothing about the place screamed Las Vegas.  If anything, it seemed like some podunk place you’d stumble upon in east Nebraska.  But flashes of Nebraska were more than all right for Billy, Jerry, and Wally on that good night.

    The Vegas Lounge had the faint aroma of stale tobacco and Coors Light.  It was filled with blue—hairs and little else.  The people, who smelled of freshly trimmed grass and gasoline, milled about listlessly, as if the bar was some sort of purgatory.  Billy, Jerry, and Wally were paid little attention as they cut their way through the faceless seniors.

    Crazy Connie was working.  Even in the darkness of the Vegas Lounge they could tell her exterior was exceptionally pallid.  Wrinkles crowded the sides of her mouth and eyes.  Her grey hair was spiked with gel that glistened against the bar’s spinning disco ball.  Of course, none of them had come across Crazy Connie before, but she made her presence known even before they stepped to the bar.  “Whatcho doin’ in here?”  The place was swimming in a sea of Oldies—tons of Ricky Nelson, Fats Domino, and The Ronnettes—but the three could still hear Crazy Connie’s voice boom over the jukebox.

    “Got anything good to drink?” Jerry asked.

    “It’s all good to drink,” she said gruffly.

    “Is that right?”  Jerry was acting a sleaze. 

    “I just said it was, didn’t I?”

    “Did you?”  It was unclear if Jerry was hitting on Crazy Connie or not.  But, in the Vegas Lounge, who hit on who was hardly of concern.  It was who you woke up with that mattered.

    Billy looked to his left and saw a man standing next to him.  He wore a grey beard and a leather jacket that had seen the ends of time and had come back unscathed.  He sipped on a Coors and gave them a knowing nod as Crazy Connie laid into them.  “I ain’t got time for an attitude, boy!  Now did you come to drink, or did you come to drink?”

    Jerry took a step back and said plainly, “Three whiskeys.”

    “What kind?”

    “Maker’s.”

    “Real predictable.”  Connie sauntered off as The Shirelles came over the jukebox.

    “What is this place?” Billy asked.

    “I have no idea,” said Jerry.

    Wally wandered off as if he heard some noise the other two hadn’t.  There was a place Wally needed to be, and only the Vegas Lounge knew his path.

    “Where’s he going?”

    “Who cares?” Jerry said.

    Crazy Connie came back with three glasses of brown.  The color of the booze didn’t seem like whiskey, and it didn’t seem like rum, it seemed like something Crazy Connie had concocted shortly before dawn in the unsanitary depths of her bathtub.

    “$9.50,” she grunted.

    Jerry handed over the money (a tenner) and she returned with no change.  Billy grabbed two of the drinks and Jerry grabbed the other.  “What a battle axe, huh?”

    Billy shrugged.

    They turned to the rest of the bar and, amongst the slew of old people, saw a dwarf with curly hair, a drag queen (or an otherwise poorly dressed woman), and a gay couple engaging in an act of domestic abuse.  Everyone passed in front of Billy and Jerry like a dream.  And not the kind of dream you’d want to wake from, the kind you are a part of and you know it’s a dream.  There was nothing real about the Vegas Lounge, but there was also nothing fake.  Everything existed, and it existed specifically for them.  They drank their “whiskeys” and watched their puppets, and suddenly the world didn’t seem so complicated.

    Wally came back some time later—after many whiskeys had been downed.  Crazy Connie had quit keeping a tab and the men merrily drank on.  Wally had a woman with him.  It was a low-class broad who was missing one of her front teeth.  Her eyebrows, painted, had merged into one.  She wore a purple sequins dress that hugged every one of her horrible curves.  And when she smiled, Billy and Jerry swore the mirror behind them cracked.  (Though this fact has never been proven).  There was something awful about the woman with Wally.  But there was also something majestic, mysterious—but in the worst kind of way.  Sometimes people have secrets you never want to know.

    “What about you two boys,” the woman asked abruptly.

    “What about us?”  Jerry was drunk and irrationally aggressive.

    “What’s your boys’ story?  I know Wally’s story…” the woman ran a hand through Wally’s matted hair.  “But what about you two?  You boys like to party the way Wally does?”

    “Party?” Billy asked.

    The woman laughed with that toothless mouth.  “Oh, you boys are a delight!”  She laughed again and they caught a whiff of her fishy breath.  “I’m gonna go freshen up, sugar.  We still good for later?”
    “You know it,” Wally said drunkenly.

    The toothless woman wandered off.

    Someone put on John Fogarty and a bevy of couples took to the dance floor.

    “Wally, what are you doing, man?” Jerry asked.

    “What do you mean?”

    “What are you doing with Una-brow!” 

    “She doesn’t have a Una-brow.”  Wally thought about it and then,  “Does she?”

    “She does!  But that’s not the point.”

    “What?  She’s nice.”

    “She’s a hooker.”

    Billy turned and looked at Jerry with the same puzzled expression Wally was wearing.  “What?” they both asked.

    “She’s a prostitute,” Jerry said, dropping his volume to a whisper.  

    Fogarty blared on.

    Wally glanced back at the bathroom, but the toothless woman was still inside.  “She’s not a prostitute.”

    “Yes,” Jerry said.  “She very much is.”

    “Really?” asked Billy.

    “Are you sure?” asked Wally.

    “Yes!”

    Wally stroked his chin and glanced back at the bathroom.  He said absently, “How much do you think she costs?”

    “What?”  Billy couldn’t believe his ears.

    But Jerry said, almost instantly, “A hundred bucks.”

    Billy blinked.  “Okay, what is happening right now?”

    “Really, a hundred bucks?” Wally asked.

    “No doubt.”

    “Are you guys putting me on?”  Billy’s eyes flitted between them.  “Is this a con?”

    “A hundred bucks ain’t bad.”  The wheels in Wally’s head were turning.  He pulled out his wallet and flipped through the cash.  Even in the gloom of the Vegas Lounge, Billy and Jerry could see he only had a few bucks.  “All I got is eighteen.”

    “How are you even thinking about this?” Billy asked.

    “What’s the problem?”

    “She’s a hooker.”

    “So what?”

    “It’s illegal.  It’s immoral.  It’s unconstitutional.”

    “It’s not unconstitutional.”

    “You know what I mean!”

    Jerry, meanwhile, considered the prospect.  After a few moments of contemplation he came to the conclusion that Wally’s point was far more valid than Billy’s.  He took out his wallet and rifled through it.

    “Oh, not you too,” said Billy.

    Jerry counted out $94.  “Surely enough to cover the cost and tip,” he said.  

    “Tip?” Billy asked.

    Jerry stuffed the bills into Wally’s pocket just as the toothless woman returned.

    “We still gonna do this?” she asked.

    “Hell yeah we’re gonna do this,” Wally said.  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the wad of bills.  His hands were a clammy mess.

    “What’s that?” the toothless woman asked.

    “It’s for you,” said Wally.

    “Why is it for me?”  Her face seemed to darken.

    Wally looked at Jerry who merely shrugged.  “Well…because you’re a hooker.”

    The toothless woman took a step toward him.  For a brief moment Billy thought they might kiss, but then she hissed, “Excuse me?”

    “Oh,” Wally said nervously.  “I’m sorry.  I guess you people don’t like that term.”  He corrected himself, “Because you’re a prostitute.”

    “Is this some kind of joke?” the woman asked.

    “I hope so,” Billy muttered to himself.

    “Jesus,” Wally slurred.  “You want me to call you an escort?  I can call you an escort if you want.  It’s just that, hey, I’m the one paying for it, so it seems like I should be able to call you whatever I want.”  With each passing word Wally sounded more and more intoxicated.  His eyes glazed and then his eyelids fluttered.  He was sounding moronic. 

    “I’m not a prostitute, you dick!” the woman screamed.

    “Wait…What?”

    “I’m not a prostitute!”

    “But…wait…what were you talking about before?  About partying?”

    “You came up to me and said we were gonna go dancing.  That’s what we were gonna do.”

    Wally’s nose scrunched into an odd sort of angle.  “Oh…”

    The toothless woman whipped her hand around and struck Wally in the face.  Blood exploded out of his mouth.  By the glare of the disco ball, Billy and Jerry saw Wally’s lateral incisor shoot out of his mouth and follow after the shower of blood.  The toothless woman now had a toothless companion.

    She stormed off, but they didn’t watch her go.

    Wally grabbed the side of his face, sobbing.  “The f’ck ‘as ‘dat?” he gurgled.

    “That’s your tooth,” Billy said, pointing to the floor.

    “You tol’ me s’e was’a hooker!” he screamed at Jerry.

    “I thought she was.”

    The toothless woman returned, this time with the drag queen (which, as it turned out, was an actual drag queen and not a poorly dressed woman), the dwarf with curly hair, the gay couple, and—as if things weren’t bad enough—Crazy Connie.

    “What’d you say to my girl Rhonda?” the drag queen asked.

    “It was an honest mistake,” said Jerry.

    “Look what she did to my face?” Wally cried.

    Crazy Connie ignored him.  “You think calling a poor girl a whore is an honest mistake?”

    “I mean, she’s in the Vegas Lounge and only has one tooth,” Jerry said.  “It seemed like the odds were pretty much in our favor.”

    The gay couple advanced on Jerry and slapped him across the face, one hand to each side.  Jerry slapped them back and they recoiled with the most awful expressions.

    A melee followed.  At one point the dwarf bit down on Jerry’s thigh so hard he drew blood.  Glasses were flung, punches were thrown, and the boys were eventually thrown out the back exit by the drag queen and the gay couple.  Billy, Jerry, and Wally landed to the asphalt with a dull thud.  They had cuts and they had bruises, but they had left with no bill and a buzz.  Crazy Connie would comp them, as she had done so many times for the souls whose nights had ended at the Vegas Lounge.

    The three gathered themselves up, dusted their pants off, and found a cab home.  The Saturn could wait until morning.  Their night was over and autumn had come to a close.

Variance - Book 1, Issue #19

Sweetwater Creek State Park

Lithia Springs, GA

Day 39 of The Rise

   The basecamp survivors were no more than a hundred yards from the plane when the Variants descended upon them.

   “Move!”  Lieutenant Cole was out in front, waving his arm like a sputtering propeller, an AK-47 clutched in his free hand.  The people followed, emitting soft cries of panic as their feed pounded across the preserve.  The Variants were waging war, but this herd was set on survival.  

   The first shots were fired when they were nearly to the plane.  For one silly moment, Enrique thought they would make it without any bloodshed.  

   Silly Enrique, happy endings are for kids.

   Enrique noticed Lara had two .357’s fastened in two holsters and he wondered where she had gotten them.  That thought was quickly erased when he saw her discharge them on two approaching Variants.  Their heads exploded in a flurry of blood and they dropped to the ground without a further ounce of movement.

   The four engines of the Globemaster coughed and sputtered before finally catching.  They whipped with such fierceness Enrique thought he’d be sucked into the blade.  Lara pulled on his arm and he was thrust back to reality.  “We’re almost there!” she called over the engines.

   Enrique was near the back of the pack.  Those in front quickened their pace.  They curled into the aft of the plane and Enrique had an ephemeral moment of hope.  He was going to make it.

   Green light!

   He couldn’t have been more than fifty yards away when a Variant grabbed his ankle.  Enrique fell forward and when his chin hit the runway stars illuminated his vision.  He barely remembered turning over and spitting out one of his molars.

   The Variant was on top of him.  Enrique saw a red flicker in the Variant’s eye and rage foamed at the sides of its mouth.  The Variant tore Enrique’s right sleeve clean off and was clawing at his skin like a wolf.

   There was a gunshot and a shower of blood spurted from the Variant’s chest.  The Variant cocked its head forward and stared at Enrique in stifled confusion.  It fell forward, collapsing on his sternum with a dull thud.  Enrique heaved a dry breath and rolled the Variant onto the tarmac.

   “Get up!” he heard a gruff voice say.  Enrique’s mind was still spinning when he realized he was being yanked from the ground.  “Y’all right?” he heard a man ask.

   Enrique’s eyes clicked shut, then opened again in a haze of bewilderment.  There, standing before him, was an astonishingly svelte old man.  His hair and beard were white but his body was chiseled and youthful.  There was an M-16 hanging loosely from his arm.  He looked almost cartoonish.

   “Go!” the old man called pushing Enrique toward the plane.

   Enrique was off, but his heart dropped when he saw the plane heading down the runway, picking up speed as it went.  The faster Enrique ran, the farther away the plane seemed to get.  The cargo load door was still down and sparks were spewing from the end in a glorious blaze.  He could see the other survivors calling for him to run faster and he heard the engine groan another thunderous rush of power.

   The plane was leaving.  The Variants were coming.  Death was imminent.  Those were the only guarantees in life at that point.

   Enrique had never remembered running that fast.  His thirty-year old potbelly bounced up and down, his pudgy legs almost flailing. 

   Lara stood at the end of the cargo door with her hand out. “Come on!”

   Red light, green light, the plane said.  Or, Hurry up, motherfucker!  Either way, Enrique got the message.

   His strides lengthened and he felt his foot hit the base of the loading door.  The jolt was so jarring he momentarily lost his balance.  Lara reached out, grabbed hold of his dingy brown shirt, and pulled him forward.  They tumbled to the ground, him on top of her.

   “Thanks,” Enrique grunted.

   “Get…off…” she said, her words strained by Enrique’s weight.

   “Come on, old man!” Enrique heard Lieutenant Cole yelling.

   He sat up and saw the lieutenant standing at the edge of the loading door.  Sparks continued to spit up.  The plane picked up speed.  Enrique looked into the darkness and saw the old man who had saved him.  A platoon of Variants ensued, and the plane that would make or break him was still ten yards away.  The old man turned the M-16 around, fired off a couple shots, and then threw it to the tarmac.  

   Red Light, Green Light. 

   The old man leapt forward through a shower of sparks and grabbed hold of Lieutenant Cole’s arm.     They fell to the ground and the loading door began to close.  Those inside watched as the Variants sprinted toward the plane with abandoned regard.  The loading door had barely closed by the time the plane lifted off the ground.  The Globemaster banked left, shook through a patch of turbulence, then steadied.

   Throughout the plane, handshakes and hugs of congratulations were exchanged.  Enrique, however, didn’t move.  He lay with one leg cocked and his elbows stuck to the plane floor.  He stared at the loading door half-expecting the Variants to pry it open and crawl inside.

   “Helluva night, huh?”  Enrique looked to his right and saw the old man lying next to him. “Captain Richard Blake,” he said extending his hand.  “Retired, of course.”  He took Captain Blake’s hand.  Enrique thought he gave his name, too, but couldn’t say for sure.

   The plane continued north, flying through the night sky with more safety than any of them had felt in weeks.  There was only hope aboard that plane.  

   Splendid, profound hope.  

   And for the next three hours, those aboard the Boeing C-17 Globemaster felt as if they were going to make it.

   Green Light, the plane screamed.  Glorious fucking Green Light!

   At precisely 2:17am, the Boeing C-17 Globemaster would be shot down and crash in Castle Rock Lake, just outside of Madison, Wisconsin.  Of the two hundred thirty on board, only twelve would survive.

   Red Light.

Doorways - A Fable

    As I traveled down the Path of Vitae, I got lost along the way.  The path was shrouded with deep bushes and wavering trees, layers and layers of them, each one intent on hiding the intricately woven trail.  Along the way, and through all the travels, I found only darkness.  When I would come to a fork in the path I took the one that seemed less threatening.  But, more often than not, this path would result in the most foreboding, haunting things.  When I came to another fork I took the path that seemed most terrifying, but then that path would lead me to horrors and macabre I never expected to find.  There is no rhyme, no reason, there is only a series of moments that lead to startling conclusions.  I am an aimless wanderer, never learning, only drifting.  

    During my travels I would collect coins, scraps of bread, or little bits of crystal, each item more meaningless than the last.  I was a peasant, a beggar; I had been on this road for over thirty years and my bag was littered with pounds and pounds of emptiness.

    When I slept, I dreamt of paths filled with flowers--flowers that bloomed three times their normal size.  I dreamt of bushes consumed by plump raspberries, blackberries, and strawberries.  I dreamt of sunlight shining down on me, bathing my face in warmth and reassurance; sunlight that would shine on the path I was meant to travel.  But when I woke the dreams seemed further and further from my grasp.

    Along the way I met many travelers, and these travelers seemed just as lost as I.  They wandered around, their bags filled with the same nothingness I carried.  But they did this in secret.

    And they told many lies...

    The Path of Vitae is filled with liars, waiting to steal your goods or lead you astray.  There is no room for followers on the trail; followers will be lost, forever forgotten.  “You remember that funny lookin’ fella with the cleft palette?”  “Nah, can’t say I do.”  “Maybe I’m thinkin’a someone else.”  “Yeah, maybe.”  These people blended into the shadows and became the darkness that followed me like soldiers.

    Nothing makes sense.  The days are filled with walking, the nights are filled with consumption.  I wake plagued by coughing fits, cotton tongue, bloody noses, raspy throat; it is all grating and horrific.  Days are never days; there are only nights and nights you don’t sleep.  And nights without sleep are nights filled with desperation, for the dreams are the only true luxuries on the path, devoid of any famine, disease, retribution, abandonment, and--worst of all--death.  There is no death in dreams, for when there is death you wake, and when you wake, you are riddled by reality.  And there is nothing quite as brutal as reality on the path.

    Upon my thirtieth year I met another traveler who showed me his bag of tricks.  In this bag he had a collection of stone, a few dead snails, a rock hammer the size of my palm, thirty-eight pennies, and a goat bladder where he claimed he was fermenting cheese.  I showed him my bag and he scoffed at its contents as if I was some naïve wanderer.

    I cursed him silently as he zipped up his pack.

    I offered him some of my water and he refused.  I took a drink, stowed the water away, and then he asked for some.  I found this peculiar, but I placed the canteen in his hand and he drank like a savage beast.  Water rushed down his chin and I saw his stomach expand.  He immediately began to cramp and double over, overwhelmed by his gluttonous hydration.  This man had not seen water in days, maybe even weeks.  When he handed the water back he grabbed at his stomach and fell to the ground.  He looked up at me with pleading, helpless eyes.  I watched as the whites flipped his irises away.  He began to shake uncontrollably.  The traveler opened his mouth and a cloud of smoke raced out from the depths of his throat.  The cloud circled my head and ran off into the darkness like a frightened animal.  The man’s body convulsed and his skin turned cold and grey.  It began to crack and peel.  And then, all at once, the traveler himself turned into a giant cloud of ash and vanished like dust.  

    His pack lay on the ground where he once had been.  A few of the coins had spilled out as had one of the stones.  I picked up the stone and inspected it.  It was bright green with a smooth, sheen coating.  There were no imperfections, only brilliance.  In all my travels, and down all those paths, I had never encountered such a stone.  It was immaculate.  I looked at the other stones and found they all shared the same purity.

    I folded up the traveler’s pack, stuffed it into my own, and took the fork to the right because this particular path had a glimmer of light.  It was distant and faint, like a diamond star miles off in space’s black; but it was there.  The fork to the right offered no deception or cruelty.  Of course this path would inevitably lead to many other tributaries and many other choices, but at least there was a glimmer of light.  And that was all I needed.

    I opened my bag and cast one final glance at the traveler’s pack.  There was a small bit of soot near one of the buckles.  I wiped it away with the edge of my finger and smudged the bit of ash on a nearby bush.  The bush sparked, burst into flame, and turned to ash just as the traveler had.  The diamond light down the fork grew and became brighter, calling to me.

    I fastened my pack and began walking again.

Giancarlo Stanton & Jeff Loria - A Conversation

A note to the reader: Apart from the financials and statistics, this conversation is purely a work of fiction.

A second note to the reader: I can't believe the financials and statistics aren't fiction.

    Giancarlo Stanton walks into Jeff Loria’s office.  Jeff Loria sits at his desk, a steaming bowl of ramen set in front of him.

    “Sit down, Giancarlo.”

    “Okay.”  Giancarlo sits.

    “We have an offer for you.”

    “Okay.”

    “Do you want to hear it?”

    “Okay.”

    “It’s good.”

    “Is it what my agent asked for?”

    “Better.”

    “Better?” asks Giancarlo, a bit perplexed.

    “Yes,” insists Jeff Loria.  “Much better.”
    “How can anything be better than $240,000,000 for 9 years?” asks Giancarlo.

    “How about $325,000,000 for 13 years.”

    Giancarlo blinks.  “What?”

    “The Miami Marlins want to offer you $325,000,000 for 13 years.”

    Giancarlo blinks again.  “Why?”

    “Why?!  Because you’re the face of this franchise.”

    “But I could have been the face of this franchise for $240,000,000.”

    “But this is better.”

    “Oh, so it’s 9 years with a 4 year option.”

    “No, it’s $325,000,000 for 13 years of guaranteed money.”

    “I don’t understand.”

    Jeff Loria shifts awkwardly.  “It’s just to show you how much we appreciate you as a player.”

    “I would have thought you appreciated me for $240,000,000.”

    Jeff Loria shifts again, but this time because he’s annoyed.  “I thought there’d be a bit more enthusiasm, Giancarlo.”

    “I guess I’m just confused.”

    “About what?” asks Jeff Loria.

    “Well, for one thing: you spent $303,000,000 on the entire Marlins roster combined.  For a second thing: that $303,000,000 was spent over a period of five years.  Now, I’m no math whiz, but that’s about 60 mil a year for 24 players.  Which comes out to about $2,500,000 per player, per year.  Right?”

    “I guess.  Maybe.  Yeah, that might be right.”

    “And you want to pay me an unnecessary sum of $325,000,000?”

    “Correct.”

    Giancarlo coughs.  “Thirdly: I just got plunked in the jaw with a baseball last spring.  I haven’t played a game since.  Aren’t you worried I might not be the same player?”

    “You’re Giancarlo!”
    “That doesn’t make any sense.”

    “To the Miami Marlins from office, it absolutely does.”

    “That still doesn’t make any sense.”

    “Why, sure it does.”

    “I’m the one getting the money and I’m telling you: it absolutely does not.”

    “How so?”

    “You just built an entirely new stadium for $155,000,000.  You’re saying I’m worth two stadiums?”
    “Two stadiums and then some.”

    Giancarlo scratches his chin.  “I’m sorry if I’m sounding ungrateful, but how can you afford that?”

    “If the Dodgers can afford big salaries, then so can the Miami Marlins.”

    “But the Dodgers current television deal is upwards of $300,000,000.  The Marlins television deal is around 18 mil.”

    “So what?” asks Jeff Loria.

    “So what?” Giancarlo asks, confused.

    “Giancarlo, I’m gonna level with ya, your agent came and asked us for $240,000,000 for 9 years.  And we told him to go to hell.  We told him that Giancarlo deserves what Giancarlo deserves, and if he can’t see how talented we know Giancarlo is, then he shouldn’t be agenting Giancarlo.”

    “So you out agented my own agent?”

    “I got him so good!  You should have heard his voice when he hung up.  Tail between his legs!”

    Giancarlo looks about Jeff Loria’s meager office.  “This still doesn’t make any sense, sir.”

    “Giancarlo, you’re the $325,000,000 Man, you don’t need to call me ‘sir.’  Call me Jeff Loria.”

    “Okay, Jeff Loria.”

    Jeff Loria purses his lips.  “I’m worried you’re not happy with the offer.”

    “No, I’m happy with it.”

    “Splendid then.”

    “I just don’t understand it.”

    “You mentioned that.”

    “Only because the numbers have no basis in reality, sir—I mean, Jeff Loria.”

    “Let the Marlins front office worry about the numbers, Giancarlo.  We’ve got everything under control.”

    “Do you?”

    “The numbers don’t lie.”

    Giancarlo blinks a final time.  “Yeah…you’re right…they don’t.”

    “So you accept?”

    “I mean…I guess.”  He pauses.  “Why wouldn’t I?  Right?  Unless this is some sort of trick.  I mean, it’s still not too late to…you know…save this organization and tell me this is all a big joke and I’ll walk out of here having been had, and then you and my agent can start talking real numbers.”

    “This is no joke, Giancarlo.”

    “Isn’t it?”

    “The Miami Marlins are serious.”

    “Are they?”

    “Yes,” says Jeff Loria.  “Very.”

    “All right then…Setting aside the fact that the offer is twice as much as the stadium value, and $20,000,000 more than you’ve paid your roster for the last 5 years, and the Marlins make only 6% of my salary in TV sales, and the current estimated value of the entire team is $520,000,000—which is 190 mil less than my 13 year offer—and I’ll be almost 40 years old when my contract expires…Sure…yeah…I guess I’ll accept the offer.”

    “Excellent, Giancarlo, excellent!”  

    “All right…”

    “I’ll walk you out.”

    Jeff Loria walks Giancarlo Stanton to the door.

    “You’re a master negotiator, Jeff Loria.”

    “Giancarlo?”

    “Yes?”

    “You’re goddamn right I am.”

    They shake hands and Giancarlo leaves.  Jeff Loria goes back to his ramen and eats it cold.

Bill Withers Had It Right - A Rant

A note to the reader: Bill Withers is meant to be played LOUD.

Bill Withers is smooth as fuck.  He is the brass, the boss of all bosses.  Withers is the man about town who owns everyone and everything.  Anybody who can pull off a purple turtleneck has a leg up in this world.  He plays the guitar with these massive hands that shouldn’t fit the strings, but what comes out is a melody of brilliant madness.  He talks the way he sings and he sings the way he talks, with perpetual ease.  Listen to Lovely Day and try not to party, listen to Ain’t No Sunshine and try not to reminisce, and listen to Just the Two of Us and try not to dance.  Withers crushes the competition and he does it with gut-wrenching soul.  If you don’t like Bill Withers then there is absolutely, positively something wrong with you.  He’s an unrivaled master who wins at life and does it all while holding notes for preposterous lengths.  In case you haven’t surmised, Miles ain’t got nothing on Bill Withers, and Bill Withers makes Sinatra look silly.

Roger Donnell & The Woman - A Conversation

   A man sits at a bar.  A woman approaches him.  She sits down.

   “How about I buy you a drink?” the woman says.

   The man takes a drink of his drink.

   “Did you hear me?” she asks.  “I wanna buy you a drink.”

   The man takes another drink and says, “Get away from me.”

   “Excuse me?”

   “I said, ‘get away from me.’”

   “What’s made you such a Sour Sally this evening?”

   The man finishes his drink and orders another by simply pointing at the bartender.  The bartender sets to work.

   “Ain’t no need to be rude,” says the woman.

   “I’m ain’t being rude.  I just want you to get away from me.”

   “What for?”

   “I’m not in the mood.”

   “And why’s that?”

   “Because,” he says, “I think my wife just left me.”

   The woman blinks.  “What?”

   “I said, ‘I think my wife just left me.’”

   “You’re married?”

   “Did you not hear what I said?”

   “Huh?” the woman grunts.

   “I just told you my wife left me and your follow-up question was: ‘You’re married?’”

   The woman blinks again, mouth agape.

   “Obviously I’m no longer married,” says the man.

   The bartender returns and sets the man’s drink in front of him.  He looks to woman for her order, but when she doesn’t speak he shuffles away.

   “Well…how do you know she’s left you if it just happened?” she asks.

   “Earlier today, I had just finished mowing the lawn and she walked up to me in the garage and said, ‘I’m leaving you.’”

   “Oh…”

   “Yeah…”

   “And then what happened?” the woman asks.

   “And then she left.”

   “Oh…”

   “Yeah…”

   “Maybe she was just blowing off some steam.”

   “She left her wedding ring on the lawnmower,” says the man.

   “Oh…”

   “Yeah…”

   “Well, at least she gave you the ring back.”

   “Yeah…” he says.  “I guess.”  He takes a nip of dram and loosens his tie.  “She also didn’t take the car.”  The man raises his glass in a mock toast.  “So cheers to our 1999 Ford Fiesta.”

   The woman leans forward.  “I think that’s great she didn’t take the car.”

   “Yeah,” he says.  “Her lover was the one who dropped her off, so he was able to give her a ride.”

   The woman looks to the bartender for a drink, but he’s nowhere to be found.  She says, “I bet you get decent gas mileage.” 

   “What?”

   “I said I bet you get decent gas mileage with that 1999 Ford Fiesta.”

   “It’s okay.”

   “Just okay?”

   “About 30 MPGs.”

   “I think that’s pretty good!” the woman says, impressed.

   “Yeah,” he says.  “I guess you’re right.”  He loosens his tie further.

   “And heck, owning your own car in this climate!” she exclaims.  “At least you got assets.  Your wife—or ex-wife—sorry—she ain’t got no assets.”

   “Yeah,” the man says, thinking about it.  “You’re right!”  He loosens his tie a third time.  “So what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this so long after dark?”

   She smiles.  “Ohhhh, I’m just waiting for some schmuck.”

   “Some schmuck, huh?”

   “Yeah.  But don’t worry about him.”

   “Yeah?  Why’s that?”

   “I’ll ditch him.  Only need to say one thing to him anyway.  You let me say my peace, tell the guy to take a hike, and we’ll find some place quiet to talk.”

   The man turns to her.  “You were saying something about a drink.”

   “You don’t want me to ‘get away’ anymore?” she says playfully.

   He half-smiles.

   “What’s your name?” she asks.

   “Roger.”

   The woman shifts uneasily.  “Roger what?”

   “Roger Donnell.”

   Her face darkens.  “Roger Donnell?” she asks, almost petrified.

   “Yeah, why?”

   “Your name is Roger Donnell?”

   “Yes,” he says.

   “Oh…”

   The bartender returns and the woman orders Roger Donnell a double.  He saunters off to pour.

   “Hey, aren’t you getting something, too?” Roger Donnell asks.

   “Afraid not.”  The woman gets up, reaches into her bag.

   “Hey, I thought we were having a nice talk.”

   The woman asks, “Roger Donnell?”

   “Yeah.”

   The woman hands him a manila envelope.  “You’ve been served.”

   Roger Donnell blinks.  “What?”

   “You’ve been served,” she says again, this time devoid of any emotion.

   “With…what?”

   “Divorce papers,” she says flatly.

   “Divorce papers?”

   “Yes.  Divorce papers.”

   The bartender returns with the double and Roger Donnell drinks it down.

   “Sorry about your wife,” says the woman.

   “Yeah…”

   The woman makes to leave, but then turns back.  “You know…I bet the Blue Book value of that Fiesta is around a $800…maybe even $850.”

   “You think?” 

   “Yeah,” she says.  “I really do.”

   Roger Donnell says, “Thanks.”

   The woman says, “You’re welcome.”

   The woman leaves.  Roger Donnell tightens his tie.

Variance - Book 1, Issue #18

Sweetwater Creek State Park

Lithia Springs, GA

Day 39 of The Rise

    Captain Blake and Lara had arrived (separately, of course) to Sweetwater Creek basecamp three days before Enrique.  They hadn’t said a word to one another.  As far as Captain Blake recalled, Lara hadn’t said a thing to anybody.  If you asked Lara, all she remembered of Captain Blake was “an old, wrinkly guy who kept muttering about his missing wife Hilary or Heidi or some shit like that.”

    You didn’t have friends in the barracks.  You had comrades.  People would share a knowing nod or a tip of the cap, but that was the extent of it.  There were no stories.  No jokes.  No “sit-around-the-fire” chit-chat.  It was a murky reality and those who survived acted as if they were better off dead.

    When the alarm sounded signaling the breach on the north end of base, Enrique was lying in his cot reading the only book he managed to grab when he fled, Travels with Charley.  He hadn’t gotten far in the story, and found himself reading the same page over and over.  His mind was elsewhere.  Whether his thoughts were on the whereabouts of his mother, the current state of the nation, or the way the Variant looked when Enrique pushed him out of a twelve-story window, he didn’t really know.  All he knew was that his journey led him to the barracks with a book he didn’t particularly care for, and an alarm so shrill it rattled his eardrums. 

    Enrique popped up along with the 83 other souls in the surrounding cots.  Next-door, the family barracks erupted in mass conversations of panic; 150 men, women, and children shouting over one another in incomprehensible tones.  Enrique could see their shadows moving back and forth like spastic ragtime dancers. 

    “Any idea what that alarm is?” Enrique asked the burly man next to him.  The man had a thick with veins popping out like water-swollen roots.  Enrique never did end up getting the man’s name.  But, in the end, it was probably better that way.

    “Never heard it before,” the burly man said.

    The loudspeaker crackled a momentary hiss and then an authoritative voice sounded over the camp, “This is Colonel Jackson.  We have had a breach.  I repeat: We have had a breach.  All persons need to report to the military barracks immediately.” And then Colonel Jackson was gone.

    Screams and shrieks ripped through the camp.  Cots were tipped over, people were trampled as they made their way to the exit, one man even punched another in the jaw when they simultaneously reached the door.  Enrique stupidly watched this unfold, unmoving, until a hand wrapped around his forearm.  The grip was tight, but cold.  His muscles twinged against the grasp.

    “Don’t just stand there ya dumb fuck!”  And there was Lara Holliday, her dirty bleached hair pulled back in a tight ponytail.  A dingy white tank clung to her body like wet paper and her already short shorts were rolled an inch higher than necessary.  She pulled him toward the exit as the herd of frantic pedestrians pushed their way through the door.  

    Outside, they saw no Variants.  Though the acreage of the state park was sprawling and massive, Enrique figured they’d see something…anything.  But all appeared quiet in the night.

    They hustled to the military barracks and piled inside.  Within minutes there were over 300 people jammed in a room that was only meant to hold a hundred.

    “Listen up!” Colonel Jackson yelled as he stepped up on a chair.  “There’s been a breach on the north wall.  Now, while there were only six Variants reported inside before we lost contact, it is our belief more will come.  We need to evacuate immediately.  Only problem is…”  His words hung in the air.  “Only problem is…” he said again, “…is that the plane only holds 230.  What we got amongst us is over 300.”

    The murmurs of realization tore through the room and soon the murmurs morphed into shouts of protest.  “Who would go?” “How will you choose?” and, “You have to take the children,” were just some of the things Enrique heard.

    “We don’t have time to debate who goes and who stays,” said Colonel Jackson.  “My men are passing out cards as we speak and that will determine who goes.”

    More protest.

    “The louder you yell, the sooner the Variants find us!” Colonel Jackson yelled.

    The shouting softened to a low rumble.

    “Now, if anybody else wants to yell they can consider themselves excluded from the flight out of here.”

    There wasn’t a sound.

    “We’re passing out two cards at random: a green card and a red card.  You get a green card, you’re on the plane, you get a red card…” his voice trailed off again, “…well then I’m sorry.”

    Enrique’s eyes flitted around the room until he saw one of the officers holding a small burlap sack.      The soldier approached Enrique, sack open.  He stared at Enrique with his marble black eyes and motioned for him to reach inside.  “Take one.”  The soldier’s voice echoed no notes of sympathy or remorse.  Enrique clammed up. 

    “You hear me boy?” the solider asked.

    Boy?  Boy?  The soldier couldn’t have been a year or two older than Enrique.  He was just a boy himself.  He was a boy who was passing out the fate of several hundred people.

    Red light.  Green light.

    “Hey!  You hear me?  I don’t got all day, boy!” 

    Enrique lifted a trembling hand and placed it in the burlap sack.  Rigid construction paper slipped through his fingers and he thought he could detect the color of the paper by touch.  This thought was quickly crushed when he grabbed at a piece of paper and pulled it out.  He kept his eyes on the solider, studying his licorice skin with plain curiosity, anything to distract him from the destiny in his hands.

    The soldier’s eyes fell on the paper first and then came back to Enrique’s.  His facial expression was constant, but he held out his arm and put a hand on his shoulder.  “I’m sorry,” he said and then stepped away.

    Enrique looked down at the paper and saw the red.  It flashed before him like the devil, hopeless and vivid.  He looked around and saw the soldiers had finished passing out the cards.  A vague sense of mourning crippled the barracks.  Enrique saw Lara had a green card tucked away in her hand.  She seemed almost embarrassed that she had been chosen, but also relieved.  She offered him a sad smile and lowered her head.

    “For those of you with red cards, I’m terribly sorry.  We’ll leave all the weapons we can spare so you can defend yourselves.”  Colonel Jackson’s voice cracked.  “I wish we could have done more.  May God be with you.  May God be with all of us.”  He stepped down from the chair and whispered something to the officer next to him.  His name was Lieutenant Cole and he had a brooding, arrogant way about him.  There was a small scar under his right eye and his skin was so rough you could rub his hands across a couple of 2x4s and have a table by dinner time.

    Lieutenant Cole stepped up on the chair Colonel Jackson had just descended from and held his hands behind his back as he spoke, very military-like.  “Those of you with green cards, you’ll have three minutes to collect your belongings before we make our way to the runway.  If you aren’t outside the barracks in three minutes we will leave you behind.  Is that understood?”

    There were whispers of understanding, and then everyone filed out.  The C-17 Globemaster was waiting.  But so were the Variants.

* * *

    When they got back to the barracks it was bedlam at its best.  Those who had picked the green cards were hustling about, stuffing anything they could into bags whether it belonged to them or not.  Those with the red cards sat on their cots, staring at their hands in mock reflection.  Enrique neither sat nor hustled.  He stood in the middle of the room as people passed by him without so much as a look.  

    “Sorry ‘bout that, brother,” he heard a voice say.

    Enrique turned and saw the burly man he had spoken to earlier.  He was stuffing an oversized shirt into his pack.  The green piece of construction paper was still firmly gripped in his hand.

    “Huh?” Enrique grunted.  

    “I’m sorry,” he said again.

    Enrique waved him off and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

    “You’re goin’ be all right now,” the burly man said.  “Ya hear?”

    Enrique nodded, but lowered his head.  He had never been so sure in his life that he would not be all right.  The Variants were coming.  Lots of them.  Did he really expect to fight them off with a military rifle and a few smoke bombs?  He wouldn’t even have the luxury of retreating, the Variants would get him before that, and the burly man knew it.

    “Hey,” the burly man said lifting his head, “kill some of those sons a bitches for me, will ya?”

    “Sure,” Enrique sighed.

    “Attaboy!”  The burly man slapped him on the back.  “Hey, watch my stuff for me while I hit the head, yeah?  Don’t wanna be ten-thousand feet up, stuffed ‘gether like cattle and I gotta drain my lizard on some broad’s anklet, know whatta mean?”

    Enrique nodded and the burly man headed toward the back.  

    “Two minutes!” Lieutenant Cole yelled.  He was standing near the entrance, his arms tucked behind his back, looking as constipated as ever.  “Hurry the fuck up!”

   Enrique looked at the burly man’s pack.  It was neatly propped on the cot.  In spite of how the burly man looked, he was very meticulous and well organized.  Enrique glanced back at the bathroom.  He chewed on his lip, contemplation getting the best of him.  Finally, he grabbed a long, cotton towel from under his bed.  It was what they had provided him when he arrived.  The towel was a brilliant shade of white, but the material was flimsy and cheap.  God bless the United States Government.  He balled up the towel and headed for the bathroom.

    “Hey, where ya headed?” came Lara’s voice.

    “What?”

    Lara was standing behind him.  “I asked where you were headed.”

    “Bathroom.”  He continued on.

    “I’m sorry you gotta stay behind,” she called after him.

    Enrique stopped and turned, his eyes offering a small pocket of tears.  He nodded.

    “Well…good luck,” she said clumsily.

    “You too,” he said and then he made his way to the bathroom.

    Military personnel kept the bathroom spotless.  The walls were lined with immaculate blue tile and the floors were so pristine it was impossible to believe a hundred people used it on a regular basis.    There were two stalls and three urinals made of polished white porcelain, and four sinks adjacent to the urinals that were polished to a glaring shine.

    When Enrique entered he noticed one of the fluorescent lights was out.  A rare oddity in the world of the bathroom, he thought.  He could hear the burly man still taking a leak.  He was humming some tune Enrique didn’t recognize.

    The door hadn’t made a sound when it opened or closed, and Enrique was thankful for that.  He took off one of his shoes and wedged it under the door.  He tested to make sure it wouldn’t open.  It didn’t.  So far, so good.

    Enrique rounded the set of stalls and saw the burly man at the middle urinal, a steady stream still running between his legs.  He took a step toward him and the burly man flinched.  Enrique stopped, his feet locked to the ground as if stuck in mud.  But when the burly man didn’t turn, he took another step closer.  Then another.  And another.  Soon he was so close he was sure the burly man could feel his breath on the back of his neck.

    The stream ceased and the burly man zipped up.  Enrique wrapped the towel around his fingers and pulled it taut.  He raised the towel and, just as he did, the fluorescent light near the entrance flickered back on.  There was a momentary buzz and it illuminated.  

    The burly man looked up and, in his peripheral vision, saw Enrique standing behind him.  “The hell you doing, Rico?” the burly man asked, more than a little peeved. 

    Enrique didn’t answer.  He brought the towel up and over the burly man’s head and wrapped it around his thick neck.  The burly man grabbed at the towel, trying to get his fingers between his neck and the fabric, but Enrique was too fast.  Enrique tightened the noose and the burly man’s eyes bulged.  He spun around and Enrique went with him.

    There was a brief moment when they caught each other’s eyes in the mirror.  The reality right there before them.  The burly man’s eyes turned red and glossy and a vein popped out on his forehead.  His cheeks turned a violent shade of crimson then transformed into a dense purple.

    He reached back, trying to swat Enrique off.  Enrique was momentarily lifted off the ground, but he held the ends of the towel as if riding a bull. 

    The burly man ran backwards and slammed Enrique into one of the urinals.  He could feel the stainless steel handle click down as it jammed into his lower back.  A rush of water cascaded down the porcelain as the burly man slammed him back again.  Enrique pulled hard on the noose and he felt the fabric start to tear.  Flimsy fucking fabric.  Fuck you, United States Government!

    He nearly lost his grip on the towel, but managed to hold on by pushing his feet off the urinal and throwing them both forward.  Enrique spilled over the burly man’s body and the towel twisted in such a way he could hear his neck crack.  And then the fabric tore in half.

    Enrique sat up and rolled the burly man over.  His eyes were still bulging and the dead pupils stared up at him with haunting clarity.  His short, thick tongue was hanging to one side and had swelled to nearly double its original size.

    Enrique was surprised at how quickly he managed to drag the burly man to the second stall, prop him up on the toilet, and remove the green piece of construction paper from his back pocket.  He stared at the emerald-colored paper with a genuine mixture of fascination, regret, and relief.

    Death and life.  Red light and green light.

    Enrique nearly dropped the green ticket into the toilet when the pounding on the bathroom door started.  He folded the burly man’s legs back, making it look like no one was inside, and left the stall. 

    Knock!  Knock!  Knock!  Knock!

    He turned on the faucet, splashed water on his face, and put a cool hand on the back of his neck.

    Knock!  Knock!  Knock!  Knock!

    “Open up!” came the thundering voice of Lieutenant Cole.

    On the floor lay the torn cotton towel.  Enrique gathered it up and threw it in the trash.

    “Open up, I said!”

    He gave one last look around the bathroom, removed his shoe from its perfectly wedged placement, and opened the door. 

    “I’m sorry, sir,” Enrique said.

    “What in the hell you doing in here, boy?” Lieutenant Cole asked, his brow furrowed into a look of suspicion.

    “Just going to the bathroom, sir.”

    The fluorescent light flickered.

    “Takes you a helluva long time to go to the bathroom, don’t it?”

    “It was an emergency, sir.”

    Lieutenant Cole glared at him.  “You think I’m stupid, boy?”

    “No, sir, of course not.”

    Lieutenant Cole cocked his head to the left, inspecting Enrique’s eyes.  Enrique looked anywhere but at the Lieutenant, trying not to quiver.

    “Listen,” Lieutenant Cole whispered, “you gettin’ sick before a flight, especially one as rocky as this one’s gonna be, is understandable, but we gotta move, boy.  Variants are right on our ass.”

    The muscles along Enrique’s jawline relaxed and he couldn’t believe he found himself half smiling.  “You’re right, sir, you’re absolutely right, I’m sorry.”

    “You ready to go?”

    Enrique held up his green piece of gold and said, “You bet, sir!”

    “Good man!”

    Lieutenant Cole stepped aside and let Enrique pass.  “Let’s move out!” he shouted and headed for the entrance.

    The only eyes that met Enrique’s as everyone was headed toward the exit were Lara’s.  Her eyes saw that green piece of paper stuck between his fingers.

    Enrique grabbed the burly man’s bag without breaking stride and continued toward the exit.  Lara gathered up her own pack and sidled up alongside him.

    “What the fuck are you doing?”

    “What do you mean?”

    “You had a red card…” she whispered.  “…You had a red card…and now you have a green card…What the fuck?”

    “I didn’t have a red card,” was all he could muster.

    “Where is he?” she asked, and Enrique knew he was caught.  But he didn’t matter anymore.  He was part of the past.  He didn’t make it.  A lot of people didn’t make it.  So it goes…

    “There is no he,” Enrique responded.

    The burly man was dead.  There were no two ways about it.  His body was abandoned in the cleanest stall this side of the Mississippi.  His tongue was curled up against the outside of his cheek and his lips were two purple crescents that were forever unmoving.  People died every day.  That’s just how it was.  And the burly man was one of those unlucky to join their company.  Being a religious man, Enrique hoped the burly man was a good man, the kind who donated to churches, who volunteered at schools, who gave twenty-five fucking cents a day to some scrawny refugee so she could eat a fucking bowl of fucking rice.  Anything!  Everything!  Enrique’s thoughts pounded against his skull with such guilt he thought his legs might give out.  He felt Lara’s arm tuck under his bicep and when he looked at her he knew he was safe.  She knew he had done wrong.  She knew he had killed a man, but that didn’t matter, at least not to her.  The world was over, so they’d best get a move on.