L'Auto Nouvelle

"Well this is fancy" I thought to myself as I pulled my newly purchased, new to me, car out of the "dealership." Time to take her on the "open" road, open her up, and see what she will do. Odd how we give ships and cars the female gender (one notable exception Herbie the Love Bug, strange). I wasn't too worried about why we call our cars "her." Truth be told, I was more excited about the joys of ownership to worry about much of anything.  After all, I had possessed the same car for quite a number of years, and was pretty chuffed to try out the "bells and whistles" on my newer model.  Newness is a wonderful thing, be it a new pair of sneakers, a new pen, or a new car, we all like to try out the newness of our freshly "purchased" items. We like to show them off to our friends (and even our enemies) in a "see what I got you bastards" type of way. Envy me, you peasants, because I've got something new, and you are left with your "old" shit. Admiring glances are nice when they are cast in your direction, and you don't really care if the admiration is for you, or your new possession, at some point, you take what you can get.

Which is the point of new possession, taking/purchasing what you can get. It is a fundamental tenet of the market. If it isn't for sale, well then sorry lad, you aren't purchasing that particular model today. However, even if the luxury row isn't for you, there are other aisles for you to shop. We all need something to live for, and for some of us new possessions will do as well as anything else. In this mad, mad world where black is white, and up is down, why not live for a new possession? Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die has never before struck quite so close to home. Home might be where the hearth is, but this new toy of mine isn't ready for the staid garage that is attached to my lovely house. At least not quite yet. For now this new toy is ready to be taken out and given her head. Let home wait, it will be there when I get back, and eventually we have to head home at some point. Just not right this second.

No, this second, or minute or hour is going to be devoted to learning the "ins and outs" of my new toy. The previous owner didn't have much to say about her, not that I asked. The transfer of title between me and him wasn't the most "open" transaction on the market, but that is a "him" problem not (yet) a "me" problem, so I will leave him to solve it.  She is much sleeker than my older model, and quite a bit faster, this is not exactly a surprise, I mean after all technology is a wonderful thing, but it is a pleasant thing to have confirmed. Just a little press on the accelerator, and off she goes like a shot. Who knew she was ready for life in the fast lane? Oh yeah, the previous owner(s) probably knew. After all, I am not the first to sit behind this wheel, and while I am "ok" with that, I don't really want to give it too much thought. Thoughts like that might "angry up the blood" or take away a bit of the pleasure coursing through my body as my new toy reaches speeds that I haven't been at for a long, long time.   

As I reach those speeds, I imagine my new toy telling me that "she" had never been driven quite this fast or this well, I mean after all we all want to be Jimmy Johnson, and be the baddest driver on the road right? I have no trouble thinking this to be true, after all why would the new toy lie? Especially so soon.  The engine makes a lovely little purr when I give the fuel necessary, and it is a lovely sound to my ears. I haven't heard that 'purr' in a very, very long time, and I think I could get used to it. If this is the way this toy is going to react, then I believe it is going to require a lot more of my attention. Which is just fine with me. My other toys have gotten a bit staid by now, and gone to seed a bit as well. But this one, is just my type, as George Jones put it, "long and lean, and every young man's dream." And while I wouldn't be called a young man the idea is still the same. Turning heads is a lot of fun, especially at the DMV. This is the kind of ride that needs to be kept behind a gate, to keep prying eyes, and wandering hands away.

Motoring along the King's Highway headed west, I feel as if everything is coming up in my favour. New toy, old owner fleeced, and miles of unexplored road in front of me.  But wait, what the devil is that red light on the dashboard?  That's a new symbol, the old car didn't have as many bells and whistles, and now I might have a deeper appreciation of that. Less features, the less that can go wrong. Bollocks what was that grinding noise? Nothing to do for it but to pull over, and check out the owner's manual. Hopefully it can shed some light on the "break" that is currently happening with my new toy. I open up the glove box, and out falls some papers, not the owner's manual but maybe it will help? Unfolding them, I get a sneaky suspicion that perhaps my new toy, now belching smoke, and making odd rattling noises, might not have been the "steal of the decade" after all. I unfold the papers, and begin to read, the title seems to be written in French, oddly fitting since today is Bastille Day. The rest is written in English, which is a relief since I've no French to speak of.  It starts with "you won't thank me for this...", and only gets worse from there. The main take away from it seems to be that I have bought a "goer, not a stayer" and as the engine finally dies with a loud noise that could be heard a country mile away, I am beginning to think that might be correct.

Whomever wrote this little 'love letter' to the next generation seemed to have experienced the same problem that, it appears, I am about to have, I wonder how it turned out for him? Since I am in the driver's seat, I would guess not so well. Great just what I need a fellow traveler on the road to perdition. Reading further, I figure out that the previous owner will not actually walk with me to the city of fools, nor will he welcome me there when/if I make it. Well, that is just grand, he seemed a bit of a cunt anyway, but still in the meantime what the actual fuck do I do about my current situation. Trying to restart my toy doesn't seem to be working, and the owner's manual is not in the glove box, just that letter that was enlightening, but not helpful. I put my head in my hands and wonder, should I call  my wife? No that doesn't seem to be the best plan, at least at the moment. Wait, squinting into the middle distance behind me, I see a small building on the side of the road, and volia! I remember I had just passed an apple stand, I wonder if the apple seller might be able to help out a fellow in need. Nothing to do for it, but to hoof it that way and see.

Of Tallyrand and Banks

"Good Morning Chief" he said as he does almost every morning that he swans into my office to annoy me about some trivial matter or the other, and to steal chocolate, always stealing chocolate. I looked up from doing actual work, and noticed he looked a bit "different." I couldn't resist, so I asked "you look like death eating a cracker, something wrong?" He smirked at the insult, sat down heavily, and replied "I under slept a little." In fact, it looked like he had not slept at all, and I figured I was about to get the reason why. He likes to use me as a sounding board, and then generally does what he wants to anyway, but I indulge him, because shifting his fat ass out of my office would take a crane, and I don't own a crane. I gave him the opening he was going to take anyway, and asked "so what's the rumpus?"

"Aren't you so very clever?" he replied. "It's not like I hide the lack of sleep well, so I guess I'll lay it on you, and see what you think. Sadly, this time chief, I think I may have to leave the solution of this problem in your lap. I am very sorry for that, but once I explain it (using too many words) you will understand why I do not think I have much of a choice." He popped a chocolate in his mouth, chewed it slowly as if to give him time to think of how to start, even though we both knew he had already "written" it out in his head hours ago when he was not sleeping. I waited with as much patience as I could muster, which these days is not much, but rushing him generally doesn't do a whole lot of good. Plus, generally he can tell a good tale when the mood strikes him, and it had appeared the mood had struck him several times over the course of a sleepless night.

"I have a moral dilemma chief, and one of my long held theories is that when I have a moral dilemma, I always ask myself "what would Tallyrand do?" He sighed and waved his hand "I know this is going to require a bit of a side trip through history, but I owe a lot of money to the student loan people, so let consider this as a benefit of my classical (and as yet, unpaid for) education. Charles Maurice de Tallyrand, to give him most of his names, was an absolute bastard of a Frenchmen who lived from 1754-1838. A pretty wild time to be alive, and French. The main thing to admire about our boy Tallyrand is that he was able to serve as a high government official to King Louis XVI, to the government of the Revolution, to Napoleon, to King Louis XVIII, and finally, to King Louis-Phillipe. I understand that most people don't understand the talent it takes to pull off such a feat, and I struggle to put it in modern terms, but let's just say that collection of governments and masters were pretty much the entire "political spectrum" in France during his life. Sort of like being a Capulet and a Montague at the same time."

"One of my favorite quotes from Tallyrand is 'I condemn not, I praise not, I merely tell a tale' well chief, that's what I am about to drop on you, a tale (full of sighs) that I have been unfortunate enough to be a minor player in, involved mostly against my will. Well, at least for the last part." This last part was said with a grin, because he had noticed my arched eyebrow, and the skeptical look on my face. "One other thing to remember about our boy Tallyrand, is that he served a lot of masters, but few, if any of them every really trusted him, but he was the best they had, so they used him in some really important shit, like sending him to the Congress of Vienna. Also, he was not the only bastard around, Napoleon was not a sweetheart, and his rival the Minister of Police was a bit of a bastard as well. One last thing about Tallyrand that drew me to him years ago as I was borrowing the price of a F-35 jet fighter to get my education, was that he shared a certain physical handicap that I also possess. It was as close to an inspiration as I was likely to get."

"But let's leave Tallyrand, at, or near the top of the many greasy poles he climbed (handicap notwithstanding) for the nonce, and move on to part two of this story." Part two concerns banks, and Fat Uncle Carl." I interrupted "who the hell is Fat Uncle Carl, and what is this nonsense about banks, are you drunk, as well as sleep deprived?" He chuckled "sadly I am as sober as a judge, and it will all make some sense at the end I promise. Let's start with banks, since they are only a small part of the story, but still a critical one. We need not go through the history of banking, delving into the Fuggers, and the Welsers, and their near banking monopoly of the 16th century economy in Europe, it is an interesting tale, but one that does not need to detain us at the moment. A famous thief was once asked why he robbed banks, and he replied "that's where they keep the money." pretty simple, and a very clever idea. I mean why waste time robbing the liquor store, that's bush league. Go big or go home, rob a bank, write your name large in the history of thieving."

"As you're aware, I am a prole, and once a prole, always a prole in my view, and therefore I am not overly fond of banks. As an institution I understand why it has to exist, and I even use a bank on occasion, but that doesn't mean I have to like them. As Winston Churchill once said of his view on the church, "I could hardly be called a pillar of the Church, I am more in the nature of a buttress, for I support it from the outside." That's sort of my view of the institution of banking, necessary, but not exactly something I can get behind with any sort of enthusiasm. Besides there are so ever many choices in the banking world, and I just can never pick out which one is best for me. Some people stay with the same bank for years, and I guess that's commendable, but I also think that at some point familiarity breeds contempt. Maybe people get tired of the same bank after so many years, and want to take their money elsewhere. Who knows why people do the things they do? All banks are not exactly created equal."

"However, that's is enough about the joys and perils of banking, at least directly, for now let's move on to Fat Uncle Carl's Kleptomaniacs. No one is every really sure if there is actually a Fat Uncle Carl, there is a place, a club, a hangout, or a shithole (depending on one's tastes) that goes under the name of "Fat Carl's", but no one is really sure if he exists, or why the word Uncle got added to his description (it's just Fat Carl's on the sign). I suppose he might be a bit like Keyser Soze, a myth to keep the thieves that come to his club in line. Give us our 15% of the take, or Fat Carl will break your knees, don't steal from other member or Fat Carl will burn your house down to the ground with you in it. I don't know if Fat Carl is real or not, and even if he is, I sure as fuck never, ever want to be (knowingly) in the same room with him. There is no honour among thieves, but they can be convinced to act right by fear, and a healthy fear of Fat Carl keeps many a thief in line. Several miscreants have been led away to face the modern version of the Minister of Police because they broke Fat Carl's rules."

"Fat Carl's club is the hangout for a bunch of low characters, which is why I go there a lot. I like to fit in, and Fat Carl's is generally a judgement free zone. After all, you can't really look down your nose at a thief if you are polishing the silverware you nicked the night before from some unsuspecting citizen's house now can you? Fat Carl's club has a few unique rules. You can't just walk in off the street like some yeg, and expect people in there to accept you like you're one of Ali Baba's forty.  A vetting system, of which few people understand, is in place to keep the absolute riff raff out is in place. Also, there is a password system in place that is a twist on the usual password game. For to get into Fat Carl's requires a password, but the twist is that each 'patron' has their own, unique password, and you give that at the door to the guy with the password book. You say your password i.e. Kumquat, and he looks in the book and decides if your 'nest' is ready. Another unique thing about Fat Carl's is there isn't really a public room. There are sets of "nests"  two (or at a pinch) three seat stalls with curtains that allow you to conduct your business in private. If you see another cove at Fat Carl's it is usually only a fleeting glance, and you are best to forget the sighting as soon as possible."

"There is also a 'rent' system in place, you have to give Fat Carl his share or your nest ceases to exist. Maybe that's where the Uncle title originates.  Fat Carl is the jovial uncle that loves his nieces and nephews as long as they pay the rent, but skip a payment and Fat Carl's sunny, sweet disposition starts to cloud over. No one wants to cloud over Fat Carl's sunny disposition. We are all thieves at Fat Carl's hence the "kleptomaniacs" addition to the title. Of course, it is unofficial, can't put that on the sign out front, and not expect the gendarmes not to get wise to the idea. Obviously, there are more thieves that are 'members' of Fat Carl's than there are nests (it isn't an overly large establishment), and when you give your password at the door, you have to wait to see if your nest is free. Fat Carl's other innovation is the "time sheet." When you get there is not the important bit it is the when you leave that matters, and you have to sign a book when you leave. Each cove has his or her own book, and they are kept separately  by the gorilla at the door (for he is a large, large man who's bad side you never want to be on).  It is a system designed purely to protect Fat Carl. He has the ability to say to the gendarmes "nope don't know what time he got here, how long he stayed, or who he talked to, but this is the time he left. Hope that helps officer." Fat Carl is loyal only up to a point, and between you and him, Fat Carl will pick himself every single time."

"Now that the majority of the background is out of the way, I can get to the actual dilemma." You see I have my password book at Fat Carl's  and I know other people who do, of course we have to pretend like we don't but you don't get into Fat Carl's by openly wearing a mask, so sometimes a glance is exchanged in the joint. The other trick concerns the fact that me and this other thief got pretty cozy a few years back, and I sorted out their password. If I had to, I could access their visit book, and tell you what time on what day they left Fat Carl's. Not that I would. There is some honour among thieves, but if the gendarmes are trying to pin something on me that I know this dodgy cove may have had a hand in, well, honour is great, but freedom is greater. Which leads to the exact problem, I am about 92% sure that this daft cunt has pulled a bank job, I am also just a sure that the gendarmes have figured that part out as well, and in their rounding up of the "usual suspects" I am sure to have my chance to hold a number up in front of me, turn to the right, turn to the left, and speak some random line to an audience I can't see 'in a normal speaking voice'.  I've been there and done that, and it isn't pleasant. I also wasn't a part of the job, but I knew about it (I had seen them planning it at Fat Carl's in one of those accidental meetings we try ever so hard to avoid, and I put it together rather quicker than most)."

"One of the problems I have with the gendarmes is they aren't the type to accept Sargent Schultz's "I know nothing, I see nothing, I hear nothing" excuse. They want things simple. They want their man (or woman) they want them now, and they want it as neatly done as possible. Don't get me wrong, my hypocrisy only extends so far, I have pulled a bank job or two in my past, and I am not fan of banks, or what they represent, but I also like waking up in my own (or a pretty girl's bed) without having to wonder if there is an over eager gendarme waiting for me on my walk to the corner store to buy beef jerky and fizzy water." I held up a forestalling hand, "so what is the actual dilemma?" He sighed "I have a copy of the book..." He trailed off shaking his head,  "and I don't know which group wants to know what I know more, the gendarmes, or Fat Carl." I don't want to go to stir, especially for something I didn't do, but I also don't want Fat Carl to break my damn legs." I stopped him again, handed him a piece of paper that I had scribbled something on, and stood up ( I had work to do) "here go talk to this guy, tell him all of this, and if he doesn't throw you out on your ass, he might help you."  I watched him take the paper, unfold it, read what I had written, and with a look of bewilderment ask "who the fuck is Serge, and what the hell do I want to know about his apples?"

A Romantic Death

On this day, X number of years ago the Romantic made a decision that would ultimately lead him to receive the knife between the ribs that killed him. I know this because I have, finally, completed my exhaustive investigation into the many records he left behind him. Truth be told, today is the anniversary not of the beginning of the decision that would kill him, but the end of the beginning. He had put his feet on the path that lead to his demise about 60 days or so earlier, although it took him 30 days to figure out that he was headed the right direction. He never was the swiftest horse in the stable, and sometimes things just were beyond his understanding until they were spelled out for him. Which may be the reason he (and myself) were/are such terrible spellers. We've also been accused of writing with the skill of a poorly educated 13 year old, but I suppose that's never stopped us before (though it has given us considerable pause, and is part of the reason for the dearth of posts lately).

It seems that the Romantic not only liked to flirt with death, he liked to invite him home with him, have a romp with it, and then buy it cookies. No wonder the damn fool came to a bad end. With that kind of cavalier attitude towards death it is a wonder he managed to stay alive as long as he did. Perhaps the gods do smile on fools and children. However, it is no wonder that his death was as messy as it was, he just couldn't fathom certain things that when told to him were untrue.  It was that inability to discern a lie when it was told to his face (no matter how pretty the teller, or how pretty the lie) that distinguishes the two of us. I have a tendency to believe no one about much of anything, no matter what the situation or who they are. If you expect the worst out of people or things then when it happens (as it usually does) then you are rarely disappointed. I am not sure it is a better approach that my Romantic friend, but I think it will at least make the knife I get in the ribs (which I am sure awaits me at some point) less of a surprise and more of a relief.

The decision he made that day cannot be changed, and for better or worse I am still dealing with the results of it today. Maybe the anniversary thing has made me maudlin, or maybe it is just the need to write something, anything no matter the topic, and this was the only thing I could come up with last night before I passed out asleep, but it does feel like a release to be "writing" again even if it like a poorly educated 13 year old. My investigation into the records the Romantic left behind has been quite the education. The problem is I am not sure what the education is actually going to teach me. Sometimes it feels like he is trying to teach me maths, but my textbook is about German. Like sitting down to lunch, ordering a steak, and the waiter brings you chicken salad "because he thinks it's better for you." It is a twisted record, and although it is linear in nature it is still, at times, very difficult to follow. I know what I am supposed to be looking for in the record, but sometimes the Romantic took the long way around to get what he wanted or to express what he meant, and I have to follow that meandering trail, and try not to get lost in the forest of his obfuscation.

He had to be vague for reasons that need not detain us here, but sometimes vagueness can lead to a major misunderstanding, and since he is no longer around to question about his intent or his motives, one must be cautious with the conclusions that one tries to draw. I have been able to ascertain that he had a plan, a goal, and a future in mind when he did what he did X years ago. I don't think (though I am not sure) that the plan was fully developed on that anniversary day. I believe that he had the outlines of an idea, but was taken off guard when the idea was accepted by the other party as something they were on board with doing. Typical of the idiot that he was, he basically just closed his eyes and hoped for the best, and when the best happened, he was completely taken off guard. Like hitting a bullseye with your eyes closed. Fortune favors the brave, as the saying goes, and he was brave in his own way, probably as an offshoot of him also being stupid. He was just too dumb to be afraid, and when things didn't fall to shit at the beginning, he was committed, and that is when (I believe) the plan came into being. He talked about the "plan" gave it a name, and sketched it out with just enough detail to give you the general idea, but not too much as to make it easily apparent to anyone else.

In his defense, and I have no real desire to defend him, he was not the only "sinner" that day. The decision he made required a partner, like the getaway driver at a bank robbery, and his partner probably knew more about what was going to happen that day than he did. It doesn't excuse his stupidity, but it does goes a little way in helping us understand it. The less said of that partner the better their "guilt" in this conspiracy against common sense is their burden let them bear it, if they can. That they put the Romantic on the path to destruction should bother them, but if it doesn't there isn't a lot I, or anyone else can do about it. We have to "push our own rock up our own hill" and for his partner that is between them and whatever god/fate they choose to believe exists. It is not for us to judge, even though it is difficult not to do, it is still not our place. Their role in the passion play that led to the death of the Romantic is significant, but my fate is no longer entwined with theirs. The record is pretty clear that the "plan" the Romantic formulated, was agreed to by his partner, and maybe that absolves him ever so slightly from the charge of being an absolute idiot.

Another sad conclusion that I can draw from the record is that he would probably do the same thing again given the chance. Hindsight is 20/20, and we all hope we learn from the mistakes of our past, but given his track record, it is my opinion that, if he were alive, (and we thank fuck daily that he's not) he would follow the exact same path again. It is one of the multitude of reasons that the knife had to go into his ribs. Fool me once shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me, was not a saying that the Romantic seemed to understand. At some point doing the same thing and expecting difference results puts one on the road to the madhouse, and his inability to understand that lead him to the grave. Maybe, just maybe that is the way he wanted it. He was (as he mentions in the record several times) a man out of touch with his time, and maybe he realized that he was never going to get "in step" with the times, and this was his solution. He might have seen the problem as unsolvable, and taking that into account decided that the world needed one less Romantic. Lacking the courage to do it himself he managed to walk himself into the knife wielded by someone else with more sense. Perhaps it was an attempt at release or redemption.  Release from the inescapable prison of his "rinse and repeat" life, or redemption for the sins of his youth. 

The good news, if there is to be any good news, is that the death of the Romantic wasn't the end of the story, a new, hopefully brighter (in more ways than one) regime has taken over after the Romantic's demise, and for now things seem to have regained a sense of normalcy, or at least as close to normal as we can get. Yesterday's tragedy is tomorrow's triumph due to today's steadfastness.

Shell Game

"Sit down" I said a little more harshly that I had intended, but I had had a rough day, and the person I was "asking" to sit down had contributed to that in no small measure. I was really not in the super sparkly mood to play nice. With them or anyone else.  I received a slightly arched eyebrow at my tone, and my command, but I figured if that was the worst reaction I was going to get, then things were going to go smoothly. I knew better, but hope springs eternal.  I decided to just go ahead and press my luck, after all it was going to fall to shit anyway, might as well get it over with sooner rather than later. "Is there anything you'd like to tell me?" She looked puzzled, and replied "about what?" I smiled "well I'm not too concerned about the state of the nation, or the condition of the pork belly market, so just in general, is there anything you'd like to tell me?" "No" she said and shook her head. She has the great ability to shut down when faced with conversations she deems "unpleasant" and we had had several of those recently. So many that I began to call her shutdowns "going turtle" she didn't like it, but she did agree that is what she did.

"Well, since you've gone turtle again, I suppose I'll do all the talking. I hope the acoustics in your shell are good enough for you to hear me clearly, because I don't plan on saying this more than once, and I want to be clear." Another nod, this one briefer than the first. Another way of showing her retreat into her shell. The shorter the nod, the further back she had gone. It was a simple, but efficient way of trying to avoid things, and she had been doing it for years (and not just with me). I was in no mood to play turtles, "I'm in no mood to play turtles, so I am going to try to make this clear. The crux of the reason I've asked you here to talk, even though I know you won't do much talking, is that I have grown weary. Weary of hearing a set of things coming out of your mouth on a daily basis, and then watching you perform acts (well I don't get to see them, but you understand my meaning) that are the polar opposite of what you say." She actually opened her mouth to respond, but I wasn't in the mood. "No, for once stay in your shell." I said as I put up a forestalling hand. "I've no great desire to be interrupted at the moment, and plus I've been practicing this speech for a while, and it needs to be said, and today is the day I'm going to say it. You don't exactly owe it to me to listen, but it would be the decent thing to do, and if you have any shred of decency left, which I am beginning to seriously doubt, you'll just sit there and listen." She flushed red at that last bit, and I could tell she didn't like it, but then again her recent behaviour had lead to my doubts to begin with, and she knew it. She knew she could sputter some attempt to justify herself, but that I wouldn't even bother to listen, so she kept her excuse to herself. Better that way.

"Certainly words, and actions don't always have to march in lock step with each other, and we all say a lot of shit that we don't really mean. Especially in the 'heat of the moment', and we've had a lot of moments." I hoped she knew how I meant that, because it wasn't meant to be kind, she was a relatively clever lass (at one point at least), and I saw the anger flare again in her eyes, and knew that my point had been made. "But your actions and words aren't even going the same direction, they aren't on the same path, and they have two, very different destinations." I won't waste my breath, or insult your intelligence by sketching out the words, and the actions of which I speak. You know what you say, after all you are the one saying it, and you know what you do because again, you are the one doing it. The doing is a bit vague at times, and I wonder if you don't think I'm clever enough to catch on to it, but rest assured I am. After all this time you of all people, should know that. I am going to pretend, for my sake, that you do, and you either don't care or you somehow think that your actions and words are reconcilable. They aren't and that is the reason for this little tete a tete."

"Of course your problem, whether you know it or not (or care which I'm not sure you do), is that the fellow you would want to hear your words and see your actions is dead. That Romantic fool that you took for a merry ride has shuffled off this mortal coil, and I am here as his replacement. You knew that, I told you that, and yet you didn't deem it necessary to change your words or your behaviour. Pity that, because it makes a significant difference to me. You know which one I am, I've told you that too, if you were paying attention, and I think you were, you know I'm the Rationalist, and I am a different kettle of fish from that fool the Romantic. I killed him, this you know as well, I've told you that too, it wasn't hard, but it wasn't exactly the pinnacle of my career. I took very little pleasure in the act, but then again I also do not mourn the daft bastard. He had to die, in order that I might live, and in the game of "it's you or them" I pick them to get the short end of the stick, or in this case the pointy end of the knife. Putting the knife into him was necessary, and watching the light fade from his eyes was the price of keeping myself alive, it had to be done, for the greater glory of us all."

"The pity, at least for you, is that the Romantic wouldn't be having this conversation with you. He would tear himself apart trying to reconcile your actions and your words. The logical inconsistency of them would drive him mad, and he wouldn't rest until he figured it out. The problem for him is that he would NEVER figure them out, he wasn't that clever, another reason he had to die, and he would continue to bash his head against that brick wall until he was brain dead. He would desperately want to believe your words, and to be fair, they were sweet words, words he wanted to hear and sincerely wanted to believe. But, you knew that didn't you? After all, that's why you said them. He wasn't too complicated our Romantic, he confused easily, and wanted to believe those honeyed words. He was mad for sweets, and your words were like a jolt of sugar for him. One thing you and him had in common was that you are/were (in his case) cowards. Yours is the cowardice of avoidance, his was the cowardice of belief. Two very distinct types, but cowards nevertheless."

"No, sadly for you, I am here now and I quite simply don't give a fuck. I will not allow myself to give a fuck. Giving a fuck is what got him the knife in the ribs. It's a hard life to not give a fuck. People actually expect you to give quite a lot of fucks in your day to day life. It can be exhausting to try to pretend to give a fuck, I mean I'm not exactly a savage. I do, on too many occasions than I want, find myself pretending to give a fuck that someone's child is ill, or that the elderly gran of another has passed away, or that someone's dog finally learned to not shit on the Persian rug. Yes, a lot of my day is whiled away pretending to give an actual fuck about mundane things. Therefore, when you coming waltzing in here with your words saying X and your actions saying Y, I can't be bothered to give an actual fuck. I will not lose precious hours of sleep pondering the difference, I will not worry myself sick about which one of the two to believe, I will not skip meals because I pondering which is really "true" X or Y.  As far as I can tell, the only person who gives a fuck about me is me. Therefore, as the self-appointed custodian of my own mental health, I am not going to play this game just to keep things going."

"It is up to you to figure this mystery out, if you mean the words, that's just grand. As I said they are lovely words, and if I thought you meant them I might actually consider believing them. Notice I said consider, for that is the best I can promise (and it is dependent on your ability to convince me you mean them), and it's probably better than you deserve. Or, if on the other hand, your actions are the true indication of your character (or lack thereof) then you and I have nothing further to discuss. You can stop with the pretty words, and take yourself (and others) straight to hell.  Either way, it's your decision. I am pretty certain I know the answer, but I will let you have the final say in the matter. Call it my one act of kindness. Because, sister I am not that kind, and you made a murderer out of me. The vengeance that I took in your name was not a pleasant sight, and if I gave a fuck, it might actually haunt me, but we have covered that ground already. Also, I am not certain that my vengeance is finished, but that need not concern you overmuch."

"Well, that's about all I've got. I know it's a lot, and I don't expect an answer right now, or maybe ever, knowing you as I do, but somethings just have to be said out loud for their own sake. You can make of it what you wish, or you can ignore it in its entirety. I am not hard to find, nor am I difficult to talk to (at least in my opinion) you should know your own mind, and I would appreciate the benefit of you sharing it with me. I figure (because of course I do) it's the least you could do, and like most people in this world doing the least you can do is usually what people pick to do." For the briefest of moments she looked like she was going to say something, then she just nodded her head, got up, said "you are wrong on so many levels", and walked out of the room. I've not seen her since.

35degrees 8' 12" N 89degrees 59' 24" W

"I am not your enemy" my companion said as they tasted the cold, frothy beverage that I placed in front of them, and then let out a satisfied sigh" I glanced at them, a person I had known the better part of a decade, and wondered how much of what they was telling me was anywhere in the neighborhood of the truth, or were they just telling me what they thought I wanted to hear, and would say it was true regardless? I struggled not to give a detailed lecture on the Manichaeism temptation, the one that decrees that "if you aren't my friend, then you are my enemy." That temptation is just that a temptation a very alluring view of the world. Either you're with me or you're against me. It makes the world very black and white, divides it clearly between good (my side clearly), and evil (their side clearly).  It makes it very simple, and very easy to place objects in their place. That is if objects will just stay in place, funny thing about them is that they tend to move about.

I doubted my present drinking buddy had ever heard of Mani, the founder of the religion that leads to the temptation that bears his name, and I very much doubted they wanted to hear me fill in the blank space on their map of knowledge on this subject. I am not pedantic, but have been told that I would be a better person if "I learned to keep my mouth shut." "In fact, I would like to think that I am your friend." I nodded, let out a sigh, and figured that the "mouth shut" theory wasn't going to work this time. After all, only so much of a conversation can be carried on when all one person does is nod and smile, or grunt and grimace. The nature of the word conversation mainly implies that two people are going to be, at some point, talking (hopefully not at the same time, but that is how a lot of my "chats" with people end up going).  I took another long sip of my beverage, mainly in order to give me time to think of a reply, but also because it was fucking delicious, and replied (as laconically as possible) "I know that." I figured the fewer words I supplied in this conversation the better, for multiple reasons. One, I wasn't exactly sure I believed them, and therefore I couldn't be sure how much of what I said was going to be reported back to my actual enemies (of which my companion is very well acquainted). Two, I also wasn't sure I wanted to have this conversation, after all I was just here to get slightly drunk, and wake up tomorrow with a headache, but with no regrets about what I had said to them. Or worse get very drunk, and not remember what I had said to them, and worry how much of my theory on Mani, and his temptation I had shared.

However, I could tell that three words weren't going to be sufficient to finish this conversation to their satisfaction. Pity that, because I wasn't really prepared to reopen the wounds that they wanted to discuss, but Custer didn't exactly didn't get to pick the ground for his "last stand." I had hopes this wouldn't be quite that bad of a disaster, but when I'm involved, one never knows how badly things are going to go.  I did feel some sense of regret that we were having the conversation in the first place, after all my actions (to be fair I was acting in concert with someone) were what led us to the point of having to "clear the air" with this conversation. I never figured it would get this bad, but that is what I get for not expecting the worst to happen. If you expect the worst, you are rarely disappointed, and usually (if the worst doesn't happen) can be happily surprised. Sadly, in this case the worst (or at least it's first cousin) had happened. No one died, but a lot of trust, belief, and companionship were grievously, perhaps fatally, wounded. Those smug bastards that have a saying for everything will tell us "that time heals all wounds." What they leave out is that time also deals wounds, serious ones that hurt like the dickens, and feel fatal at the time. Time has to pass for them to heal, and it decides its own pace, and when you are wounded, time's march seems to be a crawl.

 I decided to try a simpler, more widely known approach. I bought them a shot, and hoped they got to the state of drunkenness that allowed me to just talk about sex, sports, and nothing of any particular importance. Sadly, I was wrong, they seemed to be trying to make a point about this "friend/enemy" thing, and cheap liquor wasn't going to sidetrack them. In fact, I think it might have made it worse, it made them more determined to talk about it, and neglect a perfectly good looking fellow barfly across the way trying to get their attention. One had to admire their determination while rolling ones eyes at their inability to spot a clue when it was placed in front of them. They were well into the "we've known each other a long time, and we've seen a lot of shit" portion of the friend speech, when I finally cracked, and put up a forestalling hand. I wasn't prepared to trot out Mani and his temptation, and therefore figured a more popular (if slightly different) world view might explain my theory on the situation.

"You watched enough westerns to know the general idea of the Wild West, so I will try to explain my theory in that context. The good guys wear the white hats, and the bad guys wear the black ones. That's the general conception, of course like most general conceptions it's wrong. I mean sure it's true of the Roy Rogers western, but even the cowboy world isn't that simple. You don't ride around in a white hat on a white horse saving the day from clearly defined (by their headgear) bad guys, and get the damsel in distress to fall madly in love with you, and maybe cook you dinner. That's not how any of this works. In the real world the "bad guys" aren't that well defined. Few of them are all the way bad, just like you (the hero of your own story) aren't all the way good. If you're honest (with yourself at least, lie to others, but try to be honest with yourself) you might realize that good and bad is a situational kind of thing. In someone's story, I am the villain, the bad guy that doesn't love his mother enough, and probably kicks dogs for fun, and I need to be the one "eliminated." This isn't as simple as the world where the "only good Indian is a dead Indian." That's just a dream world that some fellow who has never sat on anything other than a carousel horse dreamed up at some desk in some posh office in an urban jungle."

They nodded, and didn't reply, so I figured they had decided to let me ramble, and I decided to oblige them. "This isn't the world where the barkeep" and here I motioned to the fellow behind the bar, a fellow of long standing acquaintance, and a few shared drinks, "doesn't just take your order of whiskey, and place a whole bottle of it in front of you, and wait for you to drink it down like a good boy. That world isn't real, sure he will give you whiskey, but in measures he pours not you. That is probably symbolic of something, but I am not clever enough to figure out of what. Certainly no one wants to be the villain, no matter how good we look in black we all want to be the good guy. The guy with the strong jawline, strong chin, and an even stronger sense of morality. No one really wants to tie the damsel to the railroad, and wait for the train to slice her into neat halves, no one wants to shoot the teller of bank we are robbing for the sake of a few dollars (and out of greed). No one really wants to have to shoot the sheriff or his deputy. No one wants to be a tool, and become a cardboard cut out or a poorly drawn picture on a wanted dead or alive poster in the post office. Generally circumstances quite beyond our control decide the "good guy/bad guy" dichotomy, and we are just left to play the part to the best of our ability, or to try to convince the "director" of this passion play that we have been grossly miscast as the villain."

Another nod, and another sip was their reply, and I wondered if they were listening out of habit, or listening in order to remember and repeat. At this point I was no longer sure I cared. I had had enough of that whiskey, and it was possible that I was talking to myself, and they just happened to be sitting next to me. It didn't matter overmuch then, and if it did later, well that was a problem for sober me.  Sometimes you are the only audience you need, and that audience needs to hear what you are saying out loud for a change the running monologue in your head needs to be spoken aloud sometimes. I continued with my monologue "The one thing you don't want to be my friend is the little kid in the western." They arched an eyebrow "little kid?" "Yes" I replied. "You don't want to be the little kid that always somehow wanders away from his or her loving mother and winds up in the street standing between the two gunfighters about to settle their score the only was the West knows how. That is not the place for you, or for anyone, sure you hope the good guy won't shoot the kid, but if he doesn't will the villain shoot him for hesitating? You also like to hope the bad guy won't shoot the kid, but fuck he's the bad guy, he didn't get  that hat because he loves kids, apple pie, Jesus, and his mother. He got that black hat for a reason and it wasn't a gift from the benevolent society for all his (or her no need to be sexiest, you ladies can be villains too) good works."

 "Shooting a kid, on the way to shooting the good guy might just be what our villain would call the price of doing business, and if the good guy wants to play by some code of honour or a set of rules that they put into place for themselves, then more the fool to him. Just because you follow the rules, doesn't mean the rest of the world has to (there are rules, and there are RULES), or will. Certain people are basically above the rules, and the sooner you learn both that, and that you aren't one of them the easier your life will be." Finally, I began to realize they were still listening, but not really hearing what I had to say. I had reached the tipping point of giving them too much to ponder, and not enough time in which to ponder it. Knowing we to 'exit stage left' is a very difficult art to master, but it has to be done on occasion, and now was the occasion. I called for our tab(s), paid the friendly bar too little for the drinks, but over tipped him a ridiculous amount, sat down my, now empty, glass, and gave them one last parting gift. "Tomorrow you will have a massive headache, and will regret this night of boozing. But remember those drinks, think of them as individual moments in your life. Treat them like a relationship, sure it ended in pain, but you drank them all of your own accord, and enjoyed ever drop on the way. And in this world of shit, that's really all you can hope for. Bon chance."

34 degrees 37' 5" N 88 degrees 11'27" W

The fall when it came was a surprise, in theory it shouldn't have been, after all there had been warning signs of the impeding fall for quite some time. There had even been a couple of serious slips that almost turned into wonderful falls of their own. I had survived those slips, and near falls by the skin of my teeth, and I suppose the lesson they were trying to teach me went unheeded. I didn't stop on my trek out into the wilderness, I didn't think "hey it's been raining hammers and nails for a long time now, and maybe I should come in out of the rain." Or if I did think it, I ignored my own advice, which is usually a bang up thing to do considering I am pretty sure no one needs to ever heed my advice, not even me. I do not have a career as a Life Coach. But maybe for once, I was right, maybe I needed to come inside, sit by the fire, and enjoy the Wilsonian 'splendid isolation' that I had created for myself (if only for a little while).  Truth be told, (for once) I had planned my splendid isolation for quite a while, and was looking forward to the glorious absence of people, certain people more than others, but just people being absent was the point of my trip into the wild.

Of course planning a thing, and executing a thing are two very different kettles of fish. It is easy enough to sit in your ivory tower, behind a keyboard that (you think) gives you access to all of mankind's knowledge in an instant. That kind of planning is simple, or so it seems. It requires very little real thought. Vague search terms, and a scant knowledge of geography will get you a long way in that type of planning. You don't need to have the woodsman's skill and knowledge possessed by William Clark to plan the trip of your own personal Corps of Discovery (though I guess technically speaking, one man cannot be a "Corps"). The planning is the easy part, I've made plans before, we all have, be it dinner plans, plans for a drink with a work buddy, plans to rule the world, or plans for your collective future with that special someone. We have all made plans, and we have all had those plans fall to shit for one reason or the other. Usually, when they do fall to shit it isn't that big of a deal, after all, you will be able to have dinner some other night, you aren't going to stop eating forever just because your flake of a friend decided her "hair hurt too much" to come out and dine with you. You certainly aren't going to give up drink because your buddy's child decided that puking all night sounded like a fun thing to try, and decided to give it a go. The world still needs a supreme overlord, and why not you? Why not now? Well you might need some sort of army at your back to make that happen, and so far you, and the cactus you've recruited to your cause are lacking the necessary military hardware to rule anything other than your living room (and that is a close run thing).  And just because the "other one" in the collective future plan has decided to return to their true nature, and determined you're good enough as a playmate, but not quite good enough to take to Christmas dinner with the family,  isn't a reason to give up planning, what is now to be a solo, future. We all need something to live for, and you are best served figuring out what (not who) that is, and do it sharpish like.

Which is were the fall comes into play, whilst you were being the keyboard explorer, and planning the serene, no frills, simple trip into the wild that every misanthrope dreams of, you neglected to take certain things into account. Such as the weather, and other people, and the fact that food might be a necessary item to carry along with you on your trip, or that hey it might be glorious to not be around other people, but I still have a lot of time awake to kill, and it might behoove me to bring a good book or two. And, by the way, the 23rd book on Bolsheviks, doesn't count as a "good book." However, despite, or perhaps because of, all this piss poor planning here you are in the wilderness, and mostly (praise the gods) alone. You are occupying a broom closet, but how much room do you really need? It isn't like you're going to be entertaining the Queen of England, or the Margrave of Baden. All you need room for is to eat (once you've solved your lack of food problem), to sleep, and to poop (after eating the bad food you've obtained this might be the most important concern). In a pinch, mother nature, that murderous bitch, can provide you the room for the latter, if you are both lucky and careful.

Being lucky and/or careful didn't put you in the position for the fall, and since that position was a long time coming, it is unlikely you are suddenly going to become a cautious fellow who finds four leaf clovers everywhere he looks. It's fine to be unlucky, I mean someone has to lose at life, it is a zero sum game after all, but a lack of caution is generally a character flaw, not a quirk. Recklessness can, in the proper situation(s), be a whole hell of a lot of fun. Charging hell bent for leather up a hill is all well and good if you are Teddy Roosevelt, but if you're you (and you can't be anyone else no matter how much some people want you to be) well, you should make sure it's the right hill. Getting to to the top of the "wrong" hill, and sorting out you are there by mistake is not the happiest of realizations. The time you spent in that charge could have probably been better used elsewhere, but time waits for no man as the saying goes, and as you stand there panting for breath, and wondering where it went all so horribly wrong, the right hill has probably already been climbed by someone else. Someone with more style, sense of direction, and brains than you. It's a pity that your mother told you there would be days like this, even more of a pity that she didn't tell you want to do when they came.

None of this lately coming wisdom is presently doing you any good, because you are too busy falling. It was a slip, minor you thought, but that is what you get for doing your own thinking. Slips are slips, the minor fall becomes the major disaster in an instant, and that instant just passed you by on the way down the slope, no one falls in a major way, on flat ground. Down is the way of most falls, and yours is no different. It is not even unique, even though you think it is, in some ways you want it to be different. You don't want your fall to be so common that a toddler could have avoided it, that isn't how you want to fall. You want your fall to be unpredictable, that way after you land (and if you survive) you can justify the reason you fell. As if that matters, but I suppose when the fall is all there is, it matters. The tricky thing about falls is that one they start two things generally happen. They become faster, and your control of them fades generally in proportion to the speed. The faster the fall the less control you possess. We all like to think that when we start to fall, that we can somehow make the landing graceful, or at least less painful. Maybe some of us can, you are not possessed with that skill. Your fall, once it started is the boss of you, you are just along for the terrible, out of control ride, and are just awaiting the jagged rocks below that promise you a very, very painful landing.

And you will hit those rocks with an unsatisfying crunch, and it will hurt a lot, a whole lot. That's why those rocks are there, to teach fools like you (because in spite of you thinking it, you are not the only fool who falls). When that crunch happens, something in or on you will be badly bruised. The severity of the bruise depends on the speed, and the distance of your fall. And you gained a lot of speed on your lengthy fall to the bottom. Something may even be broken, and that something may never mend properly. You may acquire a limp, that will be with you for the rest of your life, and will serve as a warning to others, and make for a good conversation starter at parties you likely don't want to attend. Maybe, if you are lucky, whatever you broke will mend, and all you have to show for your fall is (hopefully) the wisdom not to fall (at least that particular way, each fall has its own unique set of circumstances) quite so hard again.

If you are very lucky, and most people have some luck (and not all of it is bad), there will be someone who comes along after your fall (but before you get up). They, again if you are lucky, will look down upon you, and out of something other than pity (because no one ever wants pity) offer you a hand up off the cold, hard, wet ground. It behooves you as you lie there, to think very carefully about accepting that hand. It is the normal reaction, almost a reflex, to take a hand that offers you help "out" of your current situation. It will be very difficult to refuse that hand, and you don't have to, what you do have to understand (eventually) is even that hand has it own set of problems attached. It may be offered out of kindness (you hope) or it may be offered with strings attached (you hope not), or it may be a way for the other person to pull themselves up from their own fall (a mutual get off our ass way of getting up). Problem is, you don't know, you can't know, even as you lie there and stare intently at that hand, studying it, pondering its reason for existing, you won't know the real reason that it is offered until you grasp it. All you can really do, in order to not become a joke to the world, is to get the ever living fuck up. Here's hoping that you do, with or without that helping hand.

35 degrees 8'27" N 89 degrees 59'54" W

She is asleep, or passed out depending on how one defines the term. She should be, I poured enough booze into her to knock out a bull moose, and she is happily unconscious. Lying next to me and snoring ever so gently, and in sole possession of the only blanket. She is a blanket thief, an accusation that I will level at her when she wakes up in the morning, but for now I will lie here sans blanket. Her blanket theft would be cute in a way, after all she's half my size and almost a foot shorter than I am so you would think I'd be able to fend the thieving off, but it is cold as fuck in here, and without a blanket (or clothes) it is an unpleasant way to spend the night. She also seems to find lying cross ways in the middle of the bed the most comfortable way to sleep, and who am I to argue? Dead weight which in the strictest sense of the word she is at this point, is really hard to move, and I decide to accept my cold, restricted space fate for the night. After all, it pays to be a gentleman even if they are unconscious, wrapped in your only blanket, and in the middle of your bed.

She is correct in her assessment of my lack of sleeping, it seems that as Coleridge tells us "sleep the wide blessing, seemed to me distemper's worst calamity. They (whomever they are) tell us you can sleep when you're dead, well that is not the most warm fuzzy thought to have running through your head at 2 am on a random Tuesday, as you watch the numbers of your life slowly change on the clock next to your bed.  Dead is not something I've ever been, and in spite of what some people think, it is not something I'm in a hurry to be. It seems, as far as I can tell, to be a rather permanent condition, and I have enough conditions already, even if they are almost all temporary. One would think that with all this "extra" conscious time on my hands, I would finally achieve something in my life, well one would be wrong. I have recently been told that "you are very intelligent, too much for your own good, and it is a pity that you've not accomplished nearly as much as you should have with that intelligence." The cliche of damning with faint praise sprang to mind when I heard that assessment of the waste of my lungs that I call my life, but in fairness it is correct. I have squandered my youth, wasted my prime, pissed away my middle age, and am aimless in my pending old age. I am not sure which is worse the doing of it, or the hearing about it from people.

However, it is not Tuesday at 2 a.m., the days of me celebrating Tuesday like a Roman Emperor have passed, and it is better that way. It is Saturday, the day that we all get a little tipsy, and listen to bad bands play terrible music in a bar that has seen better days. Which, according to some people, is part of my problem, one of many that I possess, and the only one they were right to complain about. Even though they never offered me an alternative. My day to day life is as predictable as Arsenal losing soccer matches in the most embarrassing way possible, and it doesn't take a troop of Boy Scouts, or a bloodhound to find me on any given day. The bulk of my life is spent in one of eight places all in the same city, and within about 4 miles of each other. My whereabouts, if they are important enough for anyone to want to know, are easily ascertained. I am not skulking in some alley with a weighted cosh in hand, and evil intent in my heart against anyone. It's not that I don't have evil intent, for a lot of things/people I do, it's just that alleys aren't the place to express it.

 When I kissed her, I didn't lose my St. Christopher, my St. Christopher lost me. More than likely she will leave me high and dry when someone with a steadier paycheck comes along. That is not a large R Romantic idea,but rather one posited by the small r rationalist, and the rationalist, as much as we hate him, is usually right when he starts placing his money down on people and how they will act. She knows about the death of the Romantic, she heard him state his fears that the rationalist was going to kill him, and she may have been an eye witness to the actual killing, but none of that seems to have bothered her overmuch. Which is good, because as far as I can tell, the only good Romantic is a dead Romantic, and his overdue demise is not something that anyone should mourn.

When tomorrow makes its awful entrance, I will wake her up (too early for her tastes), and send her on her way to face her day. My predictable day starts early, and the three things I do every Sunday are best done early. She won't like it, she never likes it, but we all do things we don't like on a daily basis. Some we have to in order to keep body and soul together, some we are forced to by the conventions of society, and some we do in order to keep the peace. It is said that peace starts at home, that is a lovely idea, but I've found it to be generally untrue. How many fights start over whose turn it is to take out the dog/trash? How many screaming matches begin with the toilet seat being left in the upright position? Home is not exactly the peaceful fortress of solitude that it is made out to be. It is a war zone that, on occasion, has sporadic moments of peace that keep the entire company from being slaughtered.  Her Sunday is also predictable, or so she has told me. It consists of something that I do not particularly like her doing, but it is not my place to either tell her that, or stop her from the doing of it.  She tells me she loves me (as a person, not sure what exactly that means guess it beats being loved as a kumquat), and her body does (when she's not stealing the fucking blanket) keep me warm, but she does what she does, and I am not in the position to stop it, even if I wanted to try, which I am not sure that I do.

She is also correct that I get lost in my own head a lot, and usually at some awkward times. It is not a pleasant lost. Not the purposeful lost of the man who is a thousand miles from nowhere, and to whom time no longer matters.  Not the lost of a fellow who has managed to postpone his duties to the human race for a while, and is now looking up at a mountain with the grim determination to climb it no matter the cost, but the fear that he will have a damn heart attack on the way up. Only to discover that the view from the top shows him the easier path to the summit that a 80 year old woman could make with ease. The tallest mountains are the most fun to climb, and heights (if you have the fear of them) are to be conquered, not avoided. Certainly, there is a war going on inside my head, and it is also certain that there can only be one real casualty, me. I understand this, I know this just like I know that Salem is the capitol of Oregon. It is also all too true that I can do the square root of fuck all about either one of these things. Oregon doesn't seem inclined to move its capitol to Portland or Eugene, and the war inside my head continues to rage with no end in sight.

It is my one attempt at kindness to the world, a world that I don't think has enough kindness in it, and a world that doesn't really deserve much kindness, that I keep this war on the inside of my head. There need not be any other casualties, one is enough. Even if they may or may not deserve it, no one else on this rock that is circling the Sun needs to be collateral damage to the war in my head. It might be a war that never ends, this latest campaign might just be one of  many in the long term war that is going to rage up there for the rest of my life. I don't know, I can't know, and the not knowing of things (as many people can tell you) is only making the war worse. I don't know if that is irony or not, because I am not that clever, but it sure as fuck smarts a bit when I realize it. Like all wars, things will get blown up, bridge will be built, and then burnt, and things will need to be buried in the graveyard(s) that will be created.

But for the nonce, I will lie here shivering from the cold, and listen to her breathing next to me, while I construct bridges in my head that I know I will have to burn down later. Bridges that lead to nowhere, but will burn just as merrily despite that problem. No one likes to be the backing vocals in a two man band, and I will lie here and wonder what song is to be sung in the morning that will make everything good enough for a return engagement. Songs of farewell and departure are generally my specialty, but maybe one should try to sing a different tune for a change it can't really be that complicated can it? Wish me luck, I've a feeling I am going to need it.

35 degrees 8'34" N 89 degrees 59'49" W

The clutter, and the gloom are familiar this time thankfully. It also helps that I am not blackout drunk, memories and locations are much easier to store when one is sober(ish). I am awake, alive, and mostly sober in my own bed in the coffin I call my apartment, and things are going fairly well for a change. Considering that I've had 3 months of unmitigated disasters, fairly well is a relative term, but nothing is on fire, no one has punched me in the face, I haven't (yet) sexted my boss, and no one has texted me that they want me to die in a fire.With all these things going for me, I figure it  is time to get moving, fortune favors the brave after all. These good times can't and won't last, because that's just not how the world works. Never get too high up the greasy pole, there are a whole horde of people who would like nothing better than to see you fall off of it onto your ass. They might not actively participate in attempting to bring you down, but they sure as fuck will be happy when you fall. Make no mistake, you will fall. It is just what we do, we stumble, we stagger, and we fall. It is called life, and if you're not, on occasion, failing at it then you aren't trying hard enough. Again, there will be (always) a number of those carbon based life forms that we call humans rooting for you to fail, and will gloat when you do. Some will actively try to facilitate your failure without understanding that if they just left you to your own devices, you'd probably fail all on your own, and probably in more spectacular fashion. Failure is an option, always has been and always will be. Michael Jordan failed, Albert Einstein failed, all of us fail, it's just the scope that makes the difference, that and the stage upon which you do it.

Those ignorant men who have been taught most violent ways that want you to fail, lack the fundamental understanding that by wishing you to fail they make it more unlikely. Left to your own devices you'll fail but in your own time. When people are rooting for you to fail, well fuck them, you start to try not to fail (which could be considered succeeding), and therefore they have prolonged the shameful joy they want to revel in when you fail. The odds are still against you, and you're a proper idiot, so failure is still waiting in the wings off stage to make its grand appearance in the passion play you call your life, but when faced with opposition, you start to engage and pay attention. Few things are more unwelcome than a person who has been challenged than their undivided attention. Whilst there are more of them than there are of you, and odds are still odds and can't exactly be evened out, or beaten on a regular basis, sometimes the solo performer, the lead actor, the virtuoso, can win (or at least prolong losing for a long time) because they have fewer weak points. A group of people is exactly that a group they generally aren't anything special. Sure they have their strengths (in numbers for one), collectively they are probably smarter than you, sleep less than you do, and can be in more than one place at once, but they aren't gods. They aren't all-knowing, all-seeing beings that know your every move before you make it. They are humans, using the term loosely, and they are also encumbered with their weaknesses. Each one of them have separate,distinct weaknesses that can be exploited. They also have the collective weakness that they are only as strong as their weakest member, and whichever one of them that is, the others can't really do much about screwing that one's courage up to the sticking point. They just have to try to gloss over that indivudual weakness, and hope other people don't notice. Wagons may be easier to circle when there is a group of them, but there was only one Alamo.

 Life isn't a stroll through the park, and those groups of people who want you to fail are here to make sure of that. Life is, for the most part, a zero sum game. The sooner you realize that, the better off you will be. One man's loss is another man's gain, most of the time it is just that simple. The loss/gain is usually proportional, and evens out on the scale of life, but sometimes the fellow losing doesn't see it that way, and wanders off down a path that leads to even further loss. It is the equivalent of throwing good money after bad in a casino, sometimes they just have better cards, and doubling your bet is just a way to lose more than you lost in the first place. Knowing when to hold them, and when to fold them is an extremely difficult thing to do, we all want to play the hand out to the end both in the hopes that it gets better (it has to get better right?), and quitting just goes against our nature. Mama may have raised a fool, but she didn't raise a quitter, or so you like to tell yourself. Sometimes that is a lesson that is hard to learn, harder than trying to catch a falling, wind-blown leaf on your way through the park, but it is a lesson that must be learned. All lessons don't have to be learned the hard way.

Once outside the physical clutter and metaphysical gloom, you might find a bright side, some summer sun of York may banish the winter of your discontent if you are lucky. It isn't a bad chance to take, and eventually you should take it. Barricading yourself behind walls of solitude isn't the healthiest choice in the long run, and you are in this for the long run. After all, it is the only run you've got. Exile is something that happens to almost of us at some point in life, things change, people change (I used to think they didn't now...), and eventually we change in response. Today's salad is tomorrow's steak, and it is important for you (and us all) to realize that. The slings and arrows you are suffering today, are just as likely to be accolades, and apologies tomorrow. If you happen to be the forgiving type, maybe all of it will even out (back to our zero sum game), and maybe if you are lucky you will be able to rely on your own good intentions.

35 degrees 8' 56 N 90 degrees 2' 10 W

Taking a look around the room, I notice the clutter and the gloom. I also notice that it isn't my room or my clutter, which is a bit disturbing. Waking up with the mother of all hangovers is bad enough when you are doing it in your own bed, but doing it in an as yet undetermined location makes things much, much more complicated. I have vague memories of the night before, something to do with peanut butter and whiskey, always a dangerous idea, and it might have been some one's birthday, or maybe we were celebrating the battle of Austerlitz? Fuck if I remember, and at the moment the why I am here seems less important than the where is here exactly? This becomes more imperative as I heard a soft snore next to me. Which at first blush is somewhat good news, at least I didn't just break into some other person's house and sleep in the bed, or did I? I suppose I will have to wait till my co-occupant of the bed wakes up and ask the awkward questions like do I know you? Do you know me? How do we know each other? Though that last bit is probably answered by the lack of clothing that we are both sporting. It would appear "in the biblical sense" would answer that particular question.

These questions only give me pause for a brief few seconds, I could do all of that, and get some answers that might distress me, or I could just quietly exit stage left, and let those questions remain unanswered. It is a remarkably caddish thing to do, but then again if I weren't a cad, I would probably be home alone in me own bed now wouldn't I? Exiting stage left is both a science and an art form, it also wouldn't be the first time I've attempted it. This time I do have enough memory to piece together this exit will be different than the last one I tried, but that doesn't mean it will be either easy or successful. I will have to remind myself to begin to ask the most important question of co-occupants which is "are you a light or heavy sleeper?" Try working that into the conversion over peanut butter and whiskey. Making that mental note to myself, I begin to take stock of my current situation, the only situation that matters at the moment. We can worry about the future of my investment in Chinese pork bellies tomorrow, if there is a tomorrow. For the nonce, I have to figure out how to get out of this particular mess with the least amount of disturbance to my otherwise ordered life.

Easier said than done considering my current state of undress. I gently take a look around the cluttered room, and offer a prayer to the wolf god that my cloths, or at least enough of them are close at hand to allow me to cover enough of myself to keep me from getting arrested for public indecency if I get lucky enough to make it outside without waking my latest playmate. Thankfully, one of us is a somewhat ordered drunk, and I notice my clothes in a neat bundle on a conveniently located chair. This might be easier than I had thought, clothes close by, playmate deeply sleeping, and sunlight crashing the party to light me the way out of the room. Perhaps gods (even the one of wolves) do smile on fools and children.  Graceful exits are for movie stars, and ballet dancers I pose no threat to either of those professions, and I will settle for quiet rather than graceful. Shoes seem to be an unnecessary risk so this exit will have to be sans shoes. Now just to figure out the least clumsy way to exit the bed, get myself clothed, and the hell out of Dodge before the owner of aforementioned bed wakes up. I mean denying someone the glorious sight of my Adonis like body in the buff is a cruel thing to do to anyone, but sometimes we have to be cruel in order to be kind. I am sure they will thank me later for not waking them to see the "show".

Just for my records, I take a look at my latest "conquest" or am I the conquered one? I guess that is a question that can be answered later, when I am safely home tucked into my own bed like a good, little boy should be at this time of day. All things considered, even though I haven't had time to consider them I am rather pleased. It would seem drunk me hasn't quite fallen all the way to single "A" ball yet. "Easy on the eyes" would be one term to describe the owner of the bed, which is nice. At least one of us had all that fun with someone pretty. At least I hope it was fun for us both, even if most of my fun seems to have escaped my current recollection.  Perhaps it will come to me later, once I make my furtive, but dignified exit from this foreign territory. I can't imagine what came over me to decide to play "an away game." Well, other than the obvious.  Smiling at a memory that I can't quite place, but am sure would be pleasant, I roll ever so gently out of the bed, and begin the sad process of getting dressed. I wonder about the name of my playmate, and if I was clever enough to put it in my phone as just the name, or was I too clever for my own good, and gave them a nickname that will leave me pondering who the fuck is this for days after? Again, another question that the answer can wait for me to relocate before it needs a solid answer.

Not being the actual monster that I have been made out to be, I ponder leaving a note, but what to write? I had fun, even if most of it is hazy? I'll call you later, even though I'm not sure of your name? By the time you read this I'll be gone, and don't bother to look for me? All these things are true, some more so than others, but none of them seem to strike the balance between rationalism and romanticism that is required (at least in my thinking) for this moment. Hallmark certainly doesn't make a card for this type of situation, and therefore I decide a wordless exit is the best exit.  We all want something beautiful to say, but this isn't exactly the time or place for that. Especially since I've yet to determine my exact place in the world. I can't even tell if I am lost because the bedroom really gives no clues as to its location on the planet. It would seem location will have to be (hopefully) determined when one makes it to the street, if one makes it to the street. The previously mentioned phone, once located, has been found to be a dead as a door nail, and will not provide me (or anyone else) a clue as to my present whereabouts. Pity that, I would really like to know where I am, it helps a great deal in order to determine where I need to be.

I whisper a somewhat fond, farewell to my host for the night, and tread ever so lightly out of the room, down some hallway, and in the direction that I hope leads to my freedom. Front door, back door, garage door, or dog door at this point any of them will suit my purpose which is to get the hell out of there before my host's slumber is terminated.  After a few tense minutes, I locate the back door (of course), and make my way out onto the street. Funny thing about streets, a lot of them look the same, and by looking the same they look familiar. It isn't until you find the sign post that gives you the name of the street that you begin to realize fuck I've no idea where I am or fuck I'm within a mile of home. This particular street's name need not detain us, I knew it vaguely. And vaguely was enough for me to know it was not a street I had any (other) business occupying. Whiskey and peanut butter work in mysterious ways, and ours is not exactly the reason to try to unpack those reasons. It was sufficient for me to get the laugh (at my own expense) to notice that the corner upon which I had stumbled was the one where we (yes that is an unattached pronoun) had went our separate ways.

Misery NOT Company

They say, whomever they are and if you figure out who "they" are please let me know because I've several not so nice things to say to "them", that misery loves company. People use that expression like it is supposed to really mean something, and that it has some deep transcendent meaning that will make the person who is miserable feel better. Or that it will explain why the sad sack bastard who is miserable is trying to make other people around him or her miserable as well. "Misery love company" they will say and nod knowingly. Never mind the fact that usually the miserable bastard isn't exactly having the time of their life by being miserable. "They" just use that tired trope to explain why the miserable one is trying to make the world miserable with them. Well, they are wrong.

True misery, the type of misery that has you looking for methods to find your way out of the world in the least painful but quickest way possible does not in fact love company. In many ways, company is the very last thing that misery needs. It doesn't help, all the fake pity, and the "it will get better, I promise" lies told to the miserable one as ways and means just to get them to come to work and do their job. I mean you may be miserable,but can you get me those TPS reports before Monday, and try not to off yourself over the weekend, "yeah thanks."  The miserable comes to work, because what is the alternative? To spend the day in some coffin they call an apartment, staring at the walls as they begin to close in? To go to the track, and hope the ponies run swiftly? Even if they do, a true miserable bastard will get little joy out of picking the right horse. They will, if they are truly miserable, and it is deeply rooted enough find a way to explain that because their horse came in, it probably means there is a piece of Chinese space junk about to land on their head and even the karmic balance out, and it will probably happen on the way to cashing in their winning ticket. Thus, the balance of misery is complete.

Good things happen to miserable people all the time, they get co-workers to bring them donuts, they get told they look good in that dress, or that when they smile it lights up the room. They have people remind them of their humanity, and that in spite of themselves and their current condition, they are, in fact, a decent human being that has value far beyond what they believe. They have people, whether they want to believe it or not, that are really, truly (as much as any other human can be) on their side. People who will take up for them, people who will try to help them (again as much as any other human can) slay the demons that are causing the misery in the first place. They have people who will pour them several drinks into the glass of "calm the fuck down" and sit with them while they get heavily intoxicated on its contents. They have people that, after all those drinks, will steer them out of the bar, after they have calmed the fuck down, as the miserable one tries very hard to keep their shit together and either not fall or break down in public. They have (if they are lucky) people who will, for reasons passing understanding, watch that break down happen (and it will happen, it has to happen) in private, and remain beside them as the miserable one is having a come apart like a Frenchmen at the fall of Paris. They even have people who will provide them the most basic of human comforts. The type that people don't talk about at polite parties.


Of course the miserable one knows this, they are miserable, not blind, deaf, or dumb. The misery has not robbed them of their ability to appreciate the good people that are trying to take the "misery loves company" proverb and change its narrative. The actual theory behind the proverb is that miserable people want others to be miserable as well in the hopes that it will make them feel better to see that they aren't the only ones miserable. That is a load of bollocks. The miserable one doesn't need to know that other people are just as miserable as they are. Again, they are miserable not stupid. The miserable one(s) understand that the world has enough shit sandwiches to go around for us all, and that they aren’t the only one taking a bite of it. That is the difference between being miserable and being pathetic. It isn't a contest to see who can hit rock bottom the fastest. There is no prize for being the most miserable, or rather if there is, you sure as fuck don't want to earn it. If such a prize existed, and thank fuck that it doesn't, I seriously doubt it would be the "cure" to that person's misery.

Misery is a temporary losing of the plot, a side road on life's journey that may be a bit more bumpy than you'd like, but here you are fucking miserable. This is not the Lewis and Clark expedition, you do not need a team of mapmakers, guides, porters, and camp followers to come with you on this trip. If you do, then you aren't doing it right. Those well wishers, and supportive people who you left behind on the turn down misery lane, will be there (if you are lucky, and if they are truly supportive) when you find the end of the road. You don't need them to, and if you are any sort of decent human being, you don't want them to come on this journey with you. Write them letters from the wilderness of misery, drive the point home that you are on a solo journey of misery, and have them pray that tomorrow gets much better. If they care they will, if they don't, well fuck them they aren't your friends to begin with, and they can rot in a hell of their own making.

That trip through the wilderness of misery is fraught with all sorts of pitfalls and all types of peril. There will be places that will appear to offer respite from the horrors of misery, places that seemingly offer you a quick way out. A short cut to a happier place. This is an illusion, misery is a tricky bitch. It (she? he?) knows just the things to put in front of you to trick you into wandering even further into the brambles they have constructed for you. Misery is a clever whore, always has been, always will be. Generally, misery is smarter than you are, and that's a problem. Misery will allow you to cry for help if you want to, but remember she is smarter than you. Those cries for help that you think are clear as day, misery will twist and turn into something far, far different. Just for fun, misery will provide you with images of people (and they are just images, they aren't real) that seem to offer you an escape from her clutches. Another illusion, a trick, a way to get you to believe that misery does love company, and that here is another soul on the same path as you, that can provide you a modicum of warmth, and support to get you out of your misery. It's a trap, such a person doesn't exist. This is a fan favorite of misery, allowing you to believe the horrible illusion that another person can save you from misery. They can't, and you can't let them. It is a siren's song that is very, very difficult not to listen to, but like the crew of Odysseus' galley, you need to stuff you ears with wax, and not listen to any type of song that promises a way out of misery.

The trials and the trails of misery are yours to transverse alone, if you are truly aware of the nature of misery, you understand and accept this. Acceptance, as "they" say is the first step, and you are going to have to take a lot of steps to get out of the trap misery has laid for you.  However, misery, the true misery that if you are unlucky enough to be suffering does not love nor want company. True misery is like Linus' security blanket, it is something that you wrap yourself, and yourself alone in, and work out alone and do not share. You may try to talk yourself out of your misery in the company of others, but they are not on the journey with you, they are signposts, way stations on your intensely solo journey out of misery. It is a trip that must need doing, and only you can do it, and only you can want to do it. Other people can smash you over the head in their attempts to get you to "snap out of it" they can cajole, beg, and plead for you to come to your senses, and see the light (as it were), but it is a trip you have to walk alone. Try to reach out for help, and misery will be there waiting to make things worse for you. That is what misery does, makes things worse. It is the sole reason for misery's existence. I've never seen a situation so bad that it cannot get worse is one of misery's mantras.

The weight of the world is not on your shoulders, the world doesn't really give much of a fuck about you, sure it is kind of out to destroy you, but the world doesn't have to try that hard, and generally if it waits long enough, you will probably destroy yourself anyway. That weight, that Coleridgeian albatross following your ship doesn't have to end up around your neck. Your can is not empty, don't rattle it too much, or people will grow tired of the noise though they might (or might not) be too polite to tell you. Think of it as a rebuilding project, misery has torn you right down to the ground, and you need to rebuild yourself and the image of yourself (for you and others) from the bottom up. Erect scaffolding to facilitate the construction process. Your enemies (misery and others) will deride the scaffolding as an eyesore, and try to shake it to the ground. The scaffolding will, eventually, collapse, and perhaps it will crush you, but if that be so, let it happen when the edifice of the reconstituted, liberated you is already standing. That time, whether you know it or not, is coming, for not only strength is on your side, but truth is also.

Serge and his Apples II

"She told me you'd be here, drinking yourself into oblivion."  I looked across the booth to see the latest "fresh hell" that had wandered into my life and sighed. "What is it with you people and your unattached pronouns "she"?" He looked perplexed, and eventually replied "the one with br...., stop it boy! I fairly shouted, I fucking know what colour eyes your "she" has, and I knew she'd send you, and if either you or her had any sense, you would have known that I knew that already. For fuck's sake how big of a drunk does she think I've become?" I put up a forestalling hand, as I could see that he was actually about to answer my rhetorical question about the level of my non-sobriety. "It's Monday boy, and I knew she would send you around today, so let's not waste any more breath on the subject of who (or what for that matter) she is. Hopefully she also told you to keep your gob shut, and let me do most, if not all of the talking, please just nod if that is the case, voices are a bit much for my head to take at the moment, or rather any more voices." He arched an eyebrow at that, but did as he was told and nodded once in affirmation. "Good, now that we've reached a partial understanding as to how things are going to work, maybe I won't have to stick a fork in your forehead." Again he nodded, quick learner it seemed, probably learning all sorts of things quickly, but that was no longer my concern, I had other more complicated problems to deal with that this latest idiot of inquiry, but I certainly wasn't about to share that with him in order for him to share that with her.

"You're here, just like the last one, about Serge and his apples. Whether you know it or not." He looked a bit confused and replied "Serge? Apples? Who the hell is Serge, and why would she send me to buy apples?" I laughed out loud at that. "She didn't tell you about Serge? Or his apples? Or that eventually that is the point of her sending you?" He nodded his reply again indicating that she had sent this idiot on his "mission" grossly under-informed. "For Fuck's Sake! Do I have to educate the entire free fucking world on this every time your mistress(es) feel the need to pump me for information?" I raised another forestalling hand, "that is a rhetorical question, boy and you don't need to bother making things worse by replying in the affirmative." Sighing, I continued "fine let's start near the beginning, since it seems I am like Sisyphus destined to push this rock up the same fucking hill for all of eternity. But, before I start his long tale full of sighs, I want to make sure of something from you."
"What is that?" he queried "I want to make sure you remember it or if you can't I will give you pen and paper so you can make some notes to write down, I grow weary of telling the same story over, and over again to you lot." He nodded and said "I'll remember it, can't promise you, that others will but I will remember it." "Fine," I said "I guess that's about all I can ask for or expect."

"Our boy Serge, which isn't his real name, was just a normal lad, well as normal as any of us can be in this madhouse we call a world, and around oh twenty years ago you wouldn't have ever thought Serge would turn into the 'man with the apples' that he is today. It isn't like he started to run with the wrong crowd or anything. In fact, Serge is a bit of a loner, and crowds bother him. I think it is his intense dislike of people that might play into his almost pathological hatred of crowds. But, that is his and his therapist's problem (if he has one, he certainly could use one or three). The process that got Serge behind that apple cart was a slow one, it wasn't some Kierkgaardian earthquake that hit him one day while he was singing show tunes in the park. It wasn't some piece of Chinese space junk that landed on his life and flattened it for miles in every direction. No, it was an slow, subtle process of the little things that most of us fail to notice, but that for Serge started to add up to the sum of all its parts."

"Let me know if I'm going too fast for you boy, and by the way this is thirsty work" I waved what was now my empty pint glass towards him and then the bar "be a good lad and stand me a pint, I know she can afford it, and I know she knows it's the price of doing business with me." He nodded and said "yeah she mentioned that when she handed me the money, she said you'd need some lubrication in order to talk." He got up, and walked to the bar while I pondered the double meaning of 'lubrication' and whether or not I was going to bring it up to him. I decided against it, no need to antagonize her even further I thought. He slid back into his side of the booth with our pints, and I nodded my thanks. "Since we had to start at the beginning of this story, I certainly hope she was generous with our allowance for the lubrication. He smiled "she wasn't stingy, and I would imagine that if her money runs out, and I have to use my own she will reimburse me. Oh I am sure that she will lad, I am sure that she will."

"Anyway, back to our boy Serge. He is a clever fellow, but he is also a bit too narrowly focused, which at times makes him look surprisingly stupid. I know it's a bit of a oxymoron but he is what we would call a "clever fool." It makes sense if you know him, but I seriously doubt you'll ever get that chance, so you will just have to take my word for it. Serge is mostly a closed book to new customers now days, and I would not recommend you trying to cozy up to him. He would, more than likely, figure out who sent you, and things would not go particularly well. Serge's path to the glory of his apple cart was not a smooth one, and he spent a long, long time wandering the "desert" as it were. He had, still has, an unique ability to make enemies, and he compounded that talent by making enemies in the highest places he could find. He is fond of saying that in order to judge a person correctly you shouldn't judge them by their friends, but by their enemies, and he made some pretty powerful enemies in his time. Remember I said he was a 'clever fool' and his enemy list is proof positive of the 'fool' part. Still, somehow he survived his wanderings in the desert, and though he would never admit it, it probably made him a better, stronger person in some ways. Sadly, in other ways it also made him a proper cunt, and it is that dichotomy that is central to figuring out Serge as a person. One example is that he will go out of his way every year like clockwork, to buy someone, who publicly at least, seems to loathe him, a birthday present. If you ever want to figure him out try to figure that bit out. I mainly gave up trying to sort out what makes him tick (if anything), and just try to stay out of his way for the most part. That is until, your mistress and others send idiots like yourself to bother me in my golden years."

"Even when he was wandering in the desert, a desert that he was responsible for putting himself into in the first place I might add, Serge was making progress. He probably didn't even realize it himself, because again he's a fool, but he was. Wisdom, if it comes at all, comes late, and that is doubly true for our boy Serge. Don't get the impression that Serge is an idiot, he's not, he's just too narrowly focused for his own good, and deep down he expects more out of people than he is willing to admit, and when they 'fail' him, it usually surprises him, even though he would never admit that out loud.  He will loudly proclaim his hatred of people, then turn around and trust one with something of major importance. It makes as little sense to me as it does to everyone. It is the fundamental flaw (or the multitude of flaws that he has) in his character. I don't believe he has ever really resolved it, and he probably never will. He is torn between the polar opposite ideas of trusting no one, and trusting everyone. And it seems he can't reconcile the two, or find a happy medium. More the fool to him."

I put down my freshly emptied pint glass, and gave him a look "don't gawk boy, go to the damn bar, get us another pint, and be generous ask them to 'leave space in one of them'. "They will know what that means, even if you don't." He toddled off to the bar, and I began to wonder if perhaps he couldn't hold his liquor. That was going to be a problem if he was to continue to listen to the story of Serge and his apples. He managed to make it back to the booth, and I took the one with space, and topped it off with the contents of the flask I had in my coat pocket, took a long drink of it. "Good stuff, boy. If I liked you more, I'd share, but I don't so I'm not. Also, I'm beginning to wonder if perhaps you might not need to slow down on your drinking the story isn't even half finished yet. In fact, let me help you out." I reached across took his pint from in front of him, and downed about half of it in one gulp. "There you go, don't say I never did you any favours lad." He took the now half empty pint glass back with a morose stare, and said "yeah she cautioned me against trying to go pint for pint with you. Guess she was right." I laughed "that she was boy, that she was indeed. Now, settle down, nurse your drink like it was your favorite dying auntie, and pay attention."

"Your attention will have to wait another day boy." Both he and I looked up to see who the intruder into our little chat was, and why he was being so very rude to people clearly engaged in a private talk. I let out a long, deep sigh. "Hello, Felix how are you doing today, killed anyone yet?" The tall, thin and exceedingly dangerous man that I had addressed, looked down his aquiline nose, and replied. "Not yet, GI, but it is just barely past 2 p.m., so the day is young. You know we like to visit people we need to talk to after dark." I laughed "well I guess that makes me a special project then huh?" It does indeed GI, it does indeed." I looked around the bar, and noticed them "I see you've brought your usual playmates with you." Felix, or as we call him 'Iron Felix' wasn't the muscle type, make no mistake. He is a bastard, and will make your life a misery, but usually he won't have to lay a hand on you to do it, it made him even more of danger than if he had just punched you in the mouth like any honest thug would. I gave a little wave to Felix's companions, Viktor, and Lazar, large men with very little skill in the finer art of communication, and even less in the way of a sense of humour.

Felix glanced at the boy, "run along to your mistress, and tell her that GI will have to finish his sad tale of woe and neglect some other time, for now he has other, more pressing business with me and my people." I nodded over to the boy "it will be fine, Felix here is an icy bastard, and loves to put the fear of god or devil into people, he's good at it so he does it a lot. I figure his mother didn't love or hug him quite enough as a child, which is why he's such a cunt, but that isn't really the point at the moment. Tell your mistress that I've not become a grave man yet, she will understand. Maybe she will fill in some blanks for you before she sends you back for the rest of the story of Serge." Felix rolled his eyes at this "you daft bastard, you're telling this whelp" pointing at the boy "about Serge and his Apples? You've gone madder than Sully thinks, and he thinks you're round the twist already."

I sighed "Felix stop being such a fright, you'll give the lad a heart attack or a complex. I'm just telling him what she wants to know, and you already know. It's not like I'm giving away the keys to the castle." I looked at the boy, "trundle along lad, I'll be right as rain, after I talk to this lot. Just a minor misunderstanding of the ways of the world among old friends. We are old friends aren't we Felix?" He shrugged "I've known you a long time, and haven't needed to kill you yet." I smiled "see lad, for Felix that's almost family." The lad got up, turned tail, and left in as much haste as a husband whose wife has found the naughty pictures of his boyfriend, and 'needed to talk to him'." I stood up, "lead on Felix, and tell Mutt and Jeff there will be no need for their unique brand of persuasion. I've known Sully has been wanting to talk to me for a week. I was beginning to wonder what was taking him so long. Let's go and get this beating over with, I've other things that must needs doing afterwards."   To be continued ...