Wanderings

 As I write this, I know you've already made up your mind. I know this 'letter' is in vain, and yet here I am writing it nonetheless. I know you're leaving, in theory you left a long time ago in the emotional and mental sense. It is just the physical manifestation of you that has stuck around. It's not a a surprise, you've left before. It is a sad commentary on my life that it generally takes people more than once to leave. They come and go, but never quite leave. It's frustrating, it's painful, and it's fantastic all at the same time. It's just a question if or when you'll be back. I don't know that answer, I've never known that answer, and I probably never will. I am sorry I am not, can not be the man you want or need to be. I am not sure I can be the man anyone needs me to be. That is something I have yet to sort out, and at this advanced age, I am beginning to wonder if I ever will sort it. 

The process of you leaving is a painful one, it is not something I enjoy watching, especially since, in theory, I am supposed to be able to stop it. Maybe you'll head west, maybe you'll be in Amarillo by morning, or Los Angles to live forever, maybe you'll wash up on the beaches of Cheyenne, or Denver with the snowfall.  Or maybe you'll head south to somewhere like Cartersville, Georgia, New Orleans, or San Antoine, where they like to break legs. Who knows perhaps you take out for points east, head up to Boston in the springtime with friends who have lots of room, or spend some time in New York, New York. Perhaps north suits your purpose, they say Cleveland is cold, and south Detroit doesn't exist, but somewhere up there is the starting point of the Mississippi River that you can cross in five steps if you try. Who knows where or in what direction you'll go, all I know is that you will go, and that is enough to break the springs of my soul. 

I know for the time you are gone, I'll be in love with your ghost for a while. Ever been in love with a ghost? Of course you haven't. Let me clue you in to how it feels. You pine away for something that used to be, something you had and then lost. The major problem is you've no real idea how you lost it, which is a bit sad and perplexing. Your first instinct is to blame yourself, because if someone ghosts you, then it must be your fault right? Which is what they want you to think, as they fade into the mists of your history, they want you to blame yourself. They want the cancer of your intellect to feed upon, and eventually destroy itself thinking it is your fault. 

Truth is you have left for fairer weather, leaving me in the middle of a storm of painful self recrimination. and worse self -doubt. You have made me doubt myself, not the greatest accomplishment in the world, but one that redounds to your fame. You are sailing happily away, indifferent to the fact that you left me tearing myself apart searching for some sort of actual reason that you left. You leave me here stupidly in love with your ghost, expecting you will come back, because you have before, and idiotically hoping that you will again.  The smart money, which is not my money, is that I have seen the last of you. It's the easy  bet to make, and the easy to pay bet. The bet that simple minded men who don't like to take chances place. The type of bet that you expect to pay something because it's simple and it's safe.

Simple and safe are not words anyone would use to describe you, and the bet I place in my storm of goofiness is that you'll be back. The odds are not forever in my favour, nor will they ever be. I want to let what happened between us stay in the past, but all we have is a past. We have had a fleetingly attempt at a present, but never really possessed a future. The joy of this for you at least, is that wherever the fuck you are, you will sleep the sleep of the 'just' tonight. Safe in the knowledge/belief that you've done nothing wrong. Drooling the drool of remorse into the pillow of regret is not something you will be doing. No, the sleepless nights belong to me. The one you left, the one still trying to sort what I did wrong.

However, after considerable thought, I have eventually, slowly, come to the conclusion that I did not do anything wrong. Forgiving you is easy, not that I have, or ever will, but that the easy bit. It's the forgiving myself that is that hard bit. Being stupid is something that takes a long time to forgive. Don't give a scorpion a ride across the river and be shocked when he stings you in mid stream and drowns you both. I want you to burn to the ground, but I stubbornly refuse to light the match to make it happen. More the fool to me I suppose. Somewhere in me are another 2-4 thousands words telling the world what a disaster you are, and what a fool I am/are for standing around waiting for you to return. Those words need not be typed tonight. Let's just settle for the simple fact that, to quote Blink 182 "I love you, but I hate you." 

For those of you that wonder where Felix has been, fear not he's still here, and with these two bad attempts at writing, we have rekindled Felix's interest in ruining our life. 

 

The River

 As you wake up drenched in sweat, it takes you a moment to realize that it isn't water from the river a former friend of yours was pushing you into just a scant few seconds ago. It was a former friend your certain of that much, the details are hazy. This haziness isn't brought on by alcohol for a change, but from sleep, that wide blessing that has eluded you as of late. You had shared a fair amount of alcohol over the years with that former friend, and truth be told alcohol was probably the main cause of the "former" part of your friendship. As you continue down the boring path to complete and unwelcome consciousness, you wish the fellow that is screaming would shut up for a moment so you could think. That is when it becomes painfully clear that the fellow doing the screaming is you. It was that scream, timed with the feeling of hitting the cold water of the river that is the reason of you being awake. As you take stock of your actual situation you realize you are merely at home in bed. Sure you're curled up into a ball of sweat soaked terror, but you are at home, not sinking towards the bottom of a very cold river. 

You manage to stifle the second scream, and feel around your surroundings. The bed is empty as usual. You, the sole occupant are the main reason for its sole occupancy. Something to do with, being "emotionally crippled" or at least that's the main thrust of the argument you had with the last dual occupant of the bed right before she removed herself from the scene on what is beginning to seem a permanent basis. Pity that, she was a fun playmate, and helped to keep the wolf of coldness away in a lot more interesting ways than an extra blanket does. Further inspection shows you that the extra blanket in question has also left the scene and is now lying in a neglected pile at the foot of the bed. If blankets had eyes, you suspect it would be looking up from the floor at you with a slightly hurt expression as if wondering what it had done to deserve to be discarded in such a fashion. At least you and the blanket would then have something in common, because you also wonder that exact same thing quite often, and as of yet have failed to come up with or be provided an answer. 

You doubt the question will be answered anytime soon or at all considering the "I hope you die in a fire" speech she left you with as the door slammed on her way out, but hope springs eternal as they say, and maybe today will be the day. Now that you are completely, unhappily awake, you also begin to put together the fact that the former friend that was pushing you into the cold river is the same former friend that was the cause of the exit stage left departure of her. It did teach you a life lesson or two, one is when you move into a new abode to make sure the doors are sufficiently sturdy to stand a good slamming, two hide the matches and other fire starting material, and three most of your friends appear to be cunts. It's that last one that stings the most, after all you are not the type to make friends easily, and losing one of a solid cadre of like five actual friends is much more of a loss than it would be to the social butterflies of the world. Social butterfly is not, and never will be a term applied to a description of you.

However much as you wish your subconscious would pick a new theme to use in place of an actual alarm clock to jolt you awake, it seems to be on a run of death in convenient rivers. A theme made all the more fun by the fact that you can't swim a stroke, in fact you sink like a stone in any body of water you happen to find yourself in (on purpose or not). Your former friend knew of your stone like quality (when it comes to bodies of water) and perhaps that is why they chose a not so friendly push to help you along your way to becoming deceased. It would be like them to pick a cold river to use to decease you, since it is pretty close to the opposite of dying in a fire. You are not sure if that is irony or not, and if it is you are certainly not sure your former friend is clever enough to come up with the idea. More likely the river just happened to be handy. And if a woman can't find you handsome, she should at least find you handy.

Perhaps a move to a desert would help? Hard to drown in a desert, but then again you figure if anyone can manage it you could. At least rivers do solve the 'where to bury the body' problem, and saves the expense of a decent shovel, and the effort of digging a hole. After all, the killing of you (or anyone for that matter) is really only have the problem. Unless, you really want to get caught, have a really good reason (or lawyer) getting rid of the body is a useful way to help hide the fact you've made the person into a 'body' that needs to be disposed of. No one wants to answer awkward questions about their whereabouts whilst being shown pictures of a dead body. The questions might be just as awkward, but answering the "have you seen X lately" is a lot easier to answer than "so you shot him how many times?"

Rivers are generally an accepting lot, they don't discriminate on race, creed, or political beliefs, hell rivers will take all sorts of trash, even Liverpool supporters can be dumped into a river with no fear that the river will reject them. Some lovely, secret hoarding rivers even manage to never give up the body you none too gently offered it. They will take it into their cold embrace and let it find its way to the bottom for all eternity. Of course, the lead weight you attach might facilitate that along, but who has time to attach cement shoes to a body they are pushing into a river?  Being the drowning sort, you've never really considered the body disposing qualities of rivers in any depth. You doubt you'd ever be in a position to have to get rid of a dead body, and you also figure that on the way to depositing aforementioned dead body into a river, you'd probably somehow contrive to drown yourself as well. Which would at least save you the awkward question phase of the drama.

Of course, some rivers are better than others in their ability to accept unwilling partners. They need to be deep, and cold helps as well. The colder the better, and your brief recollection of the river you were being introduced to was that it was sheep stealing cold. Maybe it was the water, or maybe it was the fact that the extra blanket had been discarded but cold was the main theme of piece. Cold as your ex's heart as you like to say, but in reality she wasn't cold, in fact she had a warmth about her that could have been the reason you wanted her around to begin with. After all, blankets are nice and all but they just don't suit certain purposes. 

** This aside was brought to you by the second nightmare of being drowned in a river, and while a poor effort it was at least an attempt to get back to writing. An attempt that while poor, has been encouraged by a few people for which I am grateful. I just wish the result was as good as the encouragement.

 

Two Trolls walk into a bar

 I promised more, I didn't promise it would be better. Grammar Nazis prepare for another assault upon your citadel of purity. I hope it kills you.

I was happily finishing my first pint of what promised to be at least an 8 pint evening when two trolls walked into the bar, and trundled/lumbered over to my booth. Of course, they weren't actually trolls, but if trolls exist then these two fellows certainly had questions to ask of the female leafs on their family trees. They even have actual names, not some cool troll name like Oric the Hammer or Baldric the Elf Eater, but everyday names like the rest of us. I even knew their names, though I never called them by their name(s). I tried to avoid encounters of any kind with this lot of bruisers. They worked for Felix, and the sight of them usually meant bad news for someone. Usually that someone was me. If they were in my local, they were not here for the fish and chips. They loomed over me, (they are champion level loomers) until I was forced to acknowledge their presence, "hello boys, here for the fish and chips? Pity that, today is chipped beef, or at least that what Sully calls it, my opinion is that the "beef" he uses had nine lives and liked to claw the chaise lounge too much, if you catch my drift." They didn't, Felix didn't hire too many fellows that went to the finishing academy, unless there exists a finishing academy for breaking heads. If so, these two were probably in that institution's Hall of Fame. 

The brighter of the two, which is a low bar to get over, grunted and said "I suppose that was designed to be clever.? I nodded. He continued "as usual if it was we don't care, you know why we are here Felix wants to see you, and said to make sure you were sober, so we came early just to be sure." The dimmer one of the two, the one I call Mutt, Jeff was the brighter of the pair, dropped a coin on the table, and said "your tab is paid, now get in the car easy like, it's too early to crack your head open." For him that was a speech similar to Antony's eulogy of Julius Caesar. I sighed, if they were paying my tab and coming for the sober version of me, then things were probably more serious than the sober version of me is equipped to handle. I stood up and finished my pint, "with such an eloquent invitation and fatherly generosity, how could I refuse? Plus I don't feel like waking up in two days wondering why my nose is pointed a different direction. Lead on MacDuff!, let's go see what fresh hell brother Felix has cooked up for me this time."

One silent car ride later, Mutt and Jeff deposited me at Felix's front door, Mutt knocked politely, which I had assumed was beyond his skill set, and the voice of Felix said "enter." My two "escorts" nodded to me to go in, and took their usual places on either side of the door, guarding it like two meaty, silent sphinxes. I walked in and plopped my ass into Felix's uncomfortable "guest" chair. The chair itself was fine, it was its location that brought about the discomfort. "Hello, Felix, what's the rumpus this time? Your favorite cat gone missing? If so, I can already tell you a good place to start looking." Felix, not known for his sense of humor, actually smiled at me, and that is when I knew I was in deep, deep trouble. Felix is not a smiler, and it's not because he is hiding crooked teeth, his are perfectly straight, and startlingly white. 

"Glad you can still make jokes GI, for a man in your position it shows that you still haven't given over to despair." I quirked an eyebrow, "my situation? other than being tragically sober, I don't think my situation is so bad in relative terms. I mean I had enough money left to get dramatically drunk, if your playmates hadn't interrupted me" Still smiling, Felix shoved two envelopes across his desk towards me, one white, one blue. "Open the white one first" was his command. I considered opening the blue one first just to express spite and independence, but then considered my "pretty" face, and how Mutt and Jeff were just outside the door, and probably itching for a chance to make it less pretty. Sighing, I opened the white envelope. The contents were not pretty, they depicted what could be politely called a murder scene, more to the point they were pictures of a fucking bloodbath. Five pictures (I am sure there were more) of a man whom was as dead as dead can be, and by the looks of his "remains" someone took a great deal of pleasure in making him deceased. 

"Looks like a fucking bloodbath Felix. not your boys", I nodded to the door, "work?" Felix's smile had disappeared "no GI, my 'boys' as you call them are professionals, this, he pointed to the pictures, was not a professional job, it was done either by a sociopath or someone who really disliked the dead fellow, or someone who is both." He peered at me as he said this and asked "surely you recognize the fellow? or at least what is left of him?" I glanced back again at the pictures, first time around I really hadn't looked at the face, I was too busy "admiring" the gore.  "Well fuck" I said "yes I know him, or rather I know of him to be more precise." Felix nodded "of course you do, you killed him after all, wouldn't be polite to kill a stranger in such a personal manner." This was a new tactic even for Felix, "I did what to him?" I asked with a sense of rising panic and impending dread. "You killed him, made him unalive, shuffled him off this mortal coil, however you wish to put it, but simply put you murdered him, and it is of course my job to make sure you are punished for it, despite my warm feeelings for you." You have to give Felix credit he said that line of shite with a straight face, Felix never had warm feelings for anybody, not even his mother. That is if he even had a mother.

Felix raised a forestalling hand, "before you say anything particularly stupid, you should open the other envelope." I sighed, "what's in it, a pardon from the governor? for this murder that I didn't commit." "Just open it GI you will see, and I will make it clear in due course." was his reply. I decided to open the other envelope, after all if it was another dead body what did it matter they could only hang me once. Felix noticed (he notices everything) the look on my face, and said "don't worry we aren't going to hang you, at least not yet. And besides hanging is passe, in these modern times we put you against a wall and shoot you. But, we aren't going to do that yet either. "Thanks for the "yet" you smug bastard" I replied as I opened the blue envelope, and to my surprise it contained a rather large amount of cash. "That's a lot of coin Felix is this my pay off for not killing that fellow?" Felix shrugged, semantics GI, semantics. That money is all yours, you will need it for your trip. I understand you only have a loose idea of money, so let me give you the highlights. Governments print it, and we can print as much of it as we want within reason, people earn it, steal it, or are gifted it. It even gets handed out to schmucks who 'earn' it with the sweat of their brow, it's called a job, you should try one sometime just for variety's sake. Rarely do people just hand it over to you in blue envelopes just for looking pretty. And as pretty as you think you are, this money is not for your looks. You will earn it." 

"I happen to think I am quite pretty, and the whole sweat of my brow thing never much appealed to me, there are other ways to make money you know. Plus, beer is cheap, and I don't have a lot of other needs in my life. Working is no way to make a living except as a last resort. However, I will bite, what is this trip that you seem to think I am going to be taking?" Felix tented his fingers together and said "oh just a little excursion to  R____ L_____.  I hear it's lovely there are a few mountains, lots of fresh air, and best thing about it, at least for you, is no one there knows you for a murdering scum on the lam from justice." I laughed out loud, "Felix, you wouldn't know justice if  he/she/it bit you on the ass on your birthday." I pushed the money back towards him and said "take your fucking money, and shove it up your arse. I am not going to R___ L____ or anywhere else other than back to my pints. You know I didn't kill that guy, and you've got fuck all for proof." I stood up to make an indignant exit, but Felix wasn't done with me. There are times when I think that Felix will never be done with me. The bastard will probably find a use for, or a way to abuse my corpse for public games, or if he dies first he will haunt me from beyond the grave like Marly and Marly did to Scrooge.  

To be continued . Don't want the TL/DR crowd getting bored, now do we?

 

joy

 "they" whoever the fuck "they"are, ask me what brings me joy. I tell them that writing used to, until the grammar nazis ran me from the field. I have the benefits of a classical education but, I must have slept through the grammar bit of the show. Truth be told that might have been on purpose. If you are reading this for a properly placed comma and a on point semi colon, well fuck you and your friends. This post isn't for the grammar Nazis of the world. They might actually be worse than the real ones, but that isn't for me to decide. Joy is a fleeting thing, it comes and goes but never quite stays. One man's joy might be another man's misery. I guess it depends on who you support, the Vikings, the Arsenal Football Club, the Nationals are sure fire ways to make joy not happen because they are failures. Maybe that is just birds of a feather flocking together.  Support Man City, the Chiefs and the Yankees if it helps, that is your right as a free citizen of a long standing republic plus they are winners.   Joy comes, or so I hear, in all forms. Maybe joy is music, maybe it is a well written paragraph, maybe it is a correctly spelled word, or maybe it is a Czar being blown to bits by a well placed bomb. 

This return to "writing" isn't going to be long, it isn't going to bring me a lot of joy. It is written, poorly, on purpose. It is a solid "hi, go fuck yourself" to the Orus' of the world (try that on for size you asshats let me know if you have a shrine to that OG grammar Nazi). The Felix's of the world don't worry about semi colons and commas while they are convincing you to betray your friends. They aren't asking for your seams to be straight, they just want names. 

Fear not citizens, Felix will return, he is there in silhouette, waiting for us to split an infinitive, and pounce upon us like a cougar on a deer with no clue as to their surroundings. Felix is not a Nazi, he doesn't give shit if you skip a comma, or if you can do the subject/verb thing. Felix will read your "shit" for what it is intended to be, a cry from the heart about telling Felix to go fuck himself. However, telling Felix that is not the most intelligent idea, after all Felix is designed to take your sunshine away. He will, you know, take your sunshine away, Felix will put you in a very, very dark place for a very, very long time. He will make you wonder if the world has gone completely dark.  Felix, god love him, reads you for your content. For that, you are grateful to him, but whilst he tosses you into a lonesome cell, you find it hard to give him a whole lot of love. 

Therefore, for the love of Felix, if for nothing else. I am back to "writing" it might take a while to sort out all the "stories" swirling around in my mind. It might be a while before I take the risk of standing in front of the wall for the grammar Nazis to put a bullet into me, Maybe they will, maybe they won't. I am not exactly sure as I sit here in this prison that I may have built myself, waiting for a judgement from a court that I am not sure even has authority over me. However, I can for certain say this. Read me for the story, fuck you if you don't like the grammar. If you are looking for perfectly built sentences, then you are in the wrong spot. And finally, for good measure, a lesson from history. The real Nazis, the ones that mattered, the ones that gave grammar Nazis their name, well they were eventually handed their collective ass(es) by a large group of mostly illiterate peasant Slavs. Perhaps that is irony, but it is worth remembering.

LJ the Painter

 I knew a painter once his name was LJ. Actually only part of that sentence is true, I find that you have to obfuscate the real story to make it more readable. His name wasn't exactly LJ and he wasn't just a painter, but for our purposes it is and he is.

LJ wasn't a natural painter. I say this like he is dead, and maybe he is or maybe he's not, it's not exactly the point of this story. Either way, LJ wasn't gifted by the gods with the natural ability to see light and colour and shade and all the other shit that the Boschs of the world seem to have been given. No, LJ had the curse of knowing he wasn't a natural talent. According to him this knowledge made it just ever so much worse. "I knew I wasn't a Van Gogh, but I knew I wasn't some house painter either, I was an in-betweener enough talent to be noticed, but not enough talent to make me famous while I was alive, and being famous after I'm dead isn't the kind of fame I want." I am sure this was the cause of a lot of things that LJ did, both good and bad, and he did a lot of bad things. I should know, I was with him when he did several of them.

LJ the painter as we called him, wasn't someone who would stand out at a party. He wasn’t exactly awkward but he wasn't a social butterfly either. I suppose he had what would pass as a normal enough life, if any life can be considered normal. He wasn't a refugee from some foreign war, or a child prodigy gone to seed. He wasn't ever going to be a contender for the heavyweight championship of the world, nor was he going to win the Gold Cup for his country on penalty kicks. LJ did have the desire to better himself, and he did eventually manage to do that. He realized he had just enough latent painting talent to be good, and hoped that with enough application, and hard work he might become a talent. It wasn't the longest shot on the board, and since he had no other skill, it was the best shot at success he was ever going to have. 

He did the things that painters do, which is I believe mainly painting, and getting too drunk too often. I am sure there have been sober, sane painting geniuses that live mostly simple lives of quiet desperation, but LJ wasn't one of those type. He knew that the "squandered his talent in the pleasures of the flesh" tag was never going to be attached to him, so he went ahead and indulged in as many pleasure of the flesh that he could legally get away with. It wasn't going to ruin him, and it wasn't going to "make" him (he would say) but it was a lot more fun drinking with certain types of ladies at 2 am than it was reading about perspective in the Dutch masters of the 17th century. I don't think he ever got around to reading about perspective, because he lacked it, and not just in his paintings. 

But he soldiered on, painting the stuff that might get him enough to make the rent, but not enough to retire to the south of France. He knew his stuff wasn't going to ever hang in the National Gallery, but he had ambition nonetheless. And like a lot of people, ambition is where LJ came a cropper. He started like we all do at the bottom, bottom for painters is portraits of dowager aunts, seascapes, and bowls of unoffending  fruit. It wasn't exactly the Mona Lisa, but someone had already done that. It paid the bills and kept him slightly ahead of the wolf at the door. It was the first step, and all journeys whether they be to the penthouse or the outhouse start with a first step. 

Eventually, he got some notice. Not the type of notice that allows you to sign autographs for people and have a table reserved for you at the Ritz, but notice enough to start being considered a rising talent in the painting world. Whatever the hell that meant. I can't draw a stick figure without fucking it up, so I wasn't exactly the target audience for LJ's talent. Which was probably one reason (if not the only reason) he never asked my opinion of his work. He would call us friends, I would call us friendly.  Which would made a difference when the time came for it to. Up through the painter's ranking LJ rose, and to the surprise of most of us he got into some rare air. Slaving away at his canvas and maybe meeting and making nice with the right people, LJ became a semi star. Not the walk of fame kind of star type, but a local celebrity type.The type to have his name mentioned in the local paper a couple of times,but nationally he was barely a blip on the radar. I think that at some point this began to bother LJ. 

I wasn't to be sure because by the time of his local celebrity, he had mostly forgotten my existence. Truth be told that was fine with me. I don't move in rare air. I find it hard to breath, and it makes me slightly sick to my stomach. I became more of a nodding acquaintance to LJ, and that was fine with us both. There were a couple of occasions where I needed LJ's advice or help, and he did the best he could, but by then his best was in the past. I think the rest of us figured that out before he did, which made for some awkward moments (in the few moments that our orbits crossed). I suppose that maybe LJ knew it too, but was in the kind of denial that comes from being hard to see because it is self-denial. 

Last I heard of LJ, which has been fairly recently, he is still painting. He has moved up from bowl of ripe fruit to other, more complex projects, but then again it doesn't take much to be more complex than a bowl of fruit. I think he still has the hope of fame coming to knock in his door, but we all know it isn't going to happen, but none of us are quite prepared to tell him. Not that he would listen, hope or so they say (whomever they are) springs eternal, but the last I saw of LJ, there was the look in his eyes that told me that he knew his star was on the wane. I possess no particular talent, and I am no judge of art, nor will I ever be, but perhaps we should pause and have a little pity for LJ the talented, but just not talented enough to be "brought home to meet mother" as the saying goes. God Jul people.

A tale of Two Cities or how to embrace the Mongols at the gate

 With apologies to M. Dickens this will not be a tale of the best of times or the worst of times, because sometimes the line between the two is so blurry as to be all but invisible.

We are also not setting our stage in fair Verona, these two cities, which we will call by the overly imaginative names of city A and city B don't really exist. Well outside of the realm of the possible they don't exist, they aren't real places on a map brought to you by the Rand Mcnally company, they could be anywhere, any place at any time. 

However, for the sake of the story, let's place these cities on some map either real or fantasy just to make it easier to understand their respective dilemmas. They aren't close neighbors, they don't border each other, they aren't physically connected in any way. However, they do share a common problem, both are about to be destroyed, they are also both blissfully unaware of the destruction that is bearing down on them. Or at least they were until it was too late to do anything about it. The manner of the destruction, the force doing the destruction isn't really important. It could be a hurricane, a cyclone, an earthquake, the plague, or a Mongol horde that has had enough of their shit. Though the Mongols pretty much stopped destroying cities in the latter 13th century, they could still serve our purpose in this story. 

Both cities, as cities have done throughout the ages, have had their share of disasters. The crime rate is too high, the weather is shit, the taxes are wasted on vanity projects for the upper crust, while the proles starve to death. As long as they do it quietly, and out of the way, everything is fine in the city. Neither city is remarkable, there aren't sites you have to see before you die in either city. They haven't conquered large swaths of their respective areas, and if they have sports teams, they are a little shit. Neither city has produced any great work of science or art, nor any artists or men of science that are famous. All roads lead to other places not to these cities. In short, they are bland, boring, and not particularly worth visiting. Of course people do visit, but that is to be expected. People come and go in these cities, some never quite stay, some never quite leave, and some haven't a choice in the manner. It is where they are from, and these cities will eventually swallow them without too much fuss. 

What distinguishes these two fair cities isn't the manner of their destruction pick one and multiple it by two, if you require TWO Mongol hordes to eliminate these cites, well then here they are, parked outside of each city, refusing to accept surrender terms, and only here to destroy. Maybe it didn't start out that way, but here we are regardless. Neither city stands a chance, whatever chosen force of destruction that is coming their way, is merciless, there is no escape, no negotiations, no tribute that will stop these cities from being flattened. The good news, if there is any good news, is that while they will be flattened, they will not be like Carthage, they will not be wiped from the map and have salt strewn over their remains to make sure they never can be rebuilt. 

Let's celebrate that bit of good news shall we? Let us realize, even if the denizens of the cities do not, that eventually they will rebuild. They might come back bigger and stronger, but then again they might not. They might rebuild as a shell of their former selves, or they might be better for the destruction. Maybe the destruction will clean out the slums a bit, wipe out the uglier side of town that was already gone to seed and needed more repair than a paint job and some green space. However, the rebuild isn't really something that overly concerns us yet. Because be the rebuild comes the destruction, and the destruction is going to happen regardless of either city's plans for a fancier zoo.

That destruction, that force that is bearing down on our fair cities is the unstoppable force, and our cities are very much movable objects. They have no real chance to avoid destruction, all they can do it hope for the best. Which is where our cities paths diverge a bit. City A's destruction, and their knowledge of it is slightly different that City B. City A isn't the brightest star in the sky, and has little to no understanding or actual knowledge of their impeding doom. City A should know, they are not a city of retards that haven't read their history. In fact, they don't even have to go back very far in their own history to see that Mongols (or their equivalent) are a real danger. A danger they have faced before and didn't exactly cover themselves in glory with their response. However, City A is a "happy" city, a city that thinks (they are wrong, but they don't know it yet) that everything is coming up in their favor. The odds are with them, the cards love them, and the ponies run swiftly solely to suit their pleasures. City A is a bit like your annoying friend who always looks on the bright side of life. Sure Pollyanna sing your songs of joy, and ignore the dragon in the doorway if you must, but realize the dragon isn't here to listen to you vocalize how happy you are. 

City B is slightly different, certainly they are no better than City A, let's not give them credit where credit is not due. They aren't the shining city on a hill that we all aspire to move to, and create a happily ever after. City B is just as vulnerable as City A to destruction, and will suffer the same or very similar fate (no two destructions are exactly the same). The major difference is their indifference to it. The hand wringing, the wailing and gnashing of teeth that will follow City A's destruction will no happen in City B, or if it does, it will be so muted as to be barely noticeable to outsiders. City B isn't some bloodless, emotionless husk of a city, they just understand historical forces better than City A. It doesn't make them any smarter, better looking, or taller than City A it just makes them different. Maybe they are better, maybe they are worse, I suppose it depends on one's point of view. The major thing City B has 'going for it' is they understand the destruction is coming, they have heard the thundering of hooves on the plains that tell us the Mongols are at the gates, they have seen the dark clouds of doom forming on the horizon and are now heading their way. They understand it is going to happen, for City A destruction is a question of "if", for city B it is a matter of "when." 

That difference, more subtle than you might think, is the crux of the issue. City A isn't wrong for their way of thinking, no more than City B is right for theirs. That is the problem with destruction it is going to happen whether you think it will or not. One might think that expecting it would lead to preparing for it, and in some ways mitigating it. Sadly, that isn't how destruction works, the Mongols, the hurricane, the plague or whatever destructive force that swans into your city, and wipes it out does not give a fuck about your readiness to face it. It just destroys, that what it is here to do. It is not here to teach you any deep, long lasting, historical lesson, it is not here to make you 'better for the experience" it is here to (and will) destroy your city period. 

Maybe you will give the Mongols are harder time of it, if you are expecting them, but they don't care. You can't stop them, you can only hope they leave enough behind for the rebuild to be easier. And you will have to rebuild, you've no choice this is your city. Whether it be A or B it is still yours, and it is incumbent upon you to rebuild. No other city is going to save you, after all they have the Mongols to look out for too, and their own set of problems to sort. It will be hard, but it must needs doing, after all you can't live in a burned out husk for the rest of your life. The wailing of City A or the quite resignation of City B are just two examples of dealing with destruction. Maybe there is a City C out there somewhere that has figured out a better way to deal with destruction. Maybe they have rebuilt, better, stronger, and faster. But that isn't your concern, you don't live there, and they don't like immigrants. 

City A rebuilds in the hopes that destruction is finished with it, that it won't come again, and that they have been taught their lesson, learned it, and things are going to be better going forward. Here's to that, a hope for a brighter, better future is not something that should be dismissed out of hand. It might be the hope of the foolish, but it is still hope. It is not our job to ruin it for them. Let the hope drive the rebuild, the hope that better days are to come, and that the dragon in the doorway won't return. That perhaps the lesson to be learned has been learned, and that the future is bound to improve. We aren't them, maybe we don't want to be them, but let them dream, and hope. Who knows maybe they are right.

City B rebuilds with the expectation that the dragon, the Mongols will probably be back, and that this all might just happen again. Like a fifth season it is something that just happens, and must be endured in order to be survived. Survival is important, if you quit rebuilding, then the Mongols win. There is a certain sense of calm foreboding with City B, a sense that this rebuild is temporary and that you can make it as pretty as you want, but it will all come down just the same. Maybe is resignation, maybe it is accepting the facts for what they are, but City B rebuilds, and waits. The question of when is certainly important, but it is the time between that makes all the difference for City B. Enjoy the "time in the sun" make it count, make it serve as the reason for the rebuild. After all, you are going to rebuild, no matter what grumblings you hear from City B about "why bother, they will just be back to wipe us out again." They will rebuild, they understand the ephemeral nature of rebuilds, but they also know that it has to be done. Maybe the future is just more of the same. Rebuild only to be destroyed. Plant the fields to watch them burn. Maybe, or maybe not, they can't know until they try, and who knows maybe they are right.

Pense

 I wonder if you ever think of me, then again I have also been taught not to ask questions that I don't know the answer to. I also believe that if you are foolish enough to ask a question you don't know the answer to, then you shouldn't be upset at the answer. After all, you asked for it, and had no clue what is coming, so no complaints should be forthcoming. If the answer distresses you, well tough cookies buddy, you should have known not to ask the question in the first place.

Which is the reason that I don't ask you, though I am pretty sure of the answer, I feel that I do, in fact, know the answer and it might distress me. The answer that I believe you would provide would distress me, and would cause me to believe that you are a monster, and no one ever wants to admit that they made love to a monster. Of course, 'love' is a dangerous word, a feeling that a whole lot of people a whole lot smarter than I am have used a lot of 'ink' to try to express, explain, proclaim, deny, or swear revenge because of. Gluttons love their lunch, babies love milk, Romeo loved Juliet (or so he thought), Jim Morrison loved all the drugs, the world is full of billions upon billions of people who love or loved all sorts of things. Some of them healthy, some of them, well not so much. You fall into this latter category, and not just for me. 

The other 'guys' that are rowing the same boat of your monsterhood need not detain us. It matter not who, what or where they are. It matters not their present feelings, or lack of them for you. In short they just simply do not matter to me. Of course, they don't matter to you either, in spite of what you may have told them at the time. That is your gift; you convince someone that they are special and that you give yourself solely to them at the time. They fall for it, just like I did, others will fall for it just like we did. It is both a gift and a curse you share with us. Problem is you get the gift, we get the curse. Not to say that we didn't see it coming, in many ways we are the architects of our own downfall. If we had been paying attention (we weren't) we would have clearly seen the downfall of our successor in interest. It's not like we didn't know them, the trailblazers of misery that came before us, we did. We just simply thought we would be different, after all you told us we would be, and we so desperately wanted to believe you that we did. 

Of course, that's how you reel us in, you tell us we are different, that the others are just some passing fancy, and don't mean anything to you. We nod sagely, and assure you, and ourselves that we are different. Even though a small part of us knows better. It is a large gap of idiocy between knowing better, and doing better. Most of us never manage to bridge that gap. You weave a tale of golden times that sounds like the tale of El Dorado, that city of gold that led so many other men to their doom. Of course we aren't all Spanish explorers, we don't really buy the myth, but somehow we still chase it, like the fools we are, like the fools you turn us into. We wall our disbelief behind a wall of hopes and dreams, like Prospero did to Forunato, listen to your tales of casks of sweet, sweet wine that we know doesn't really exist, all the while praying like fuck that it does. Hopes and dreams are about as useless as 'thoughts and prayers', and are in many ways much more dangerous. Given hope a man will do all sorts of shit that would otherwise make an elephant pause, but hope will get us to storm the citadels of disbelief with the ladders of dreams. 

Maybe you are the stuff that dreams are made of, maybe to the right person you are a real life version of the Maltese Falcon. I've come to seriously doubt it, but I have been wrong before. After all, I trusted you at one point, and that was an unmitigated disaster on pretty much every level. So I will continue to ponder the process(es) behind your appeal. The reasons that myself and other fools like me have fallen for you, and can't seem to give you up, even after all the disasters you create and walk away from. You never seem to get so much as a scratch from all the 'wrecks' you cause. The detritus you leave behind in your wake makes the Titanic look like a mere fender bender.  Of course, all of us are of age, we aren't children (in the chronological sense at least), we are adults who are given the benefit of the doubt that we know what we are doing, even if we very clearly do not know what we are doing, or what is good for us. Each person has his own mistake(s) to make, but that doesn't stop it from hurting like fuck in the harsh morning light that we find ourselves in daily. I suppose I should say that I hope you rot, but I know that would just be a lie, and unlike your lies that I chose to believe, this lie I can only swallow if I don't think too much.

Dear Boris

 I finished your biography last night, as with all biographies I knew how it was going to end. It is how all biographies eventually end. With your end. I knew enough about you, in passing, from other sources to know how you were to meet your end, but I read your biography anyway. I wasn't hoping for a happy ending, you didn't have one, and I knew that. But as I wrote the date and the word "finished" (as I do with all the books I read) I still felt sad when I realized I had finished with the story of your life 5 days shy of the day you life actually ended 97 years ago. I don't think "celebrate" is the right word for marking that sad anniversary, but I suppose I might be tempted to raise a glass in remembrance of you, and what you did with your life. I doubt any of the people I will be sharing a drink with will have any idea who the actual fuck I am referring to when I toast "to Boris" but since they are my friends they are used to the vague shit I talk about, and are not the type to refuse a drink. 

Your life ended by "suicide" I put that word in quotes because the people who had you in their custody at the time of your death, were prone to have a lot of "suicides" on their watch. It is a lovely way to explain why or how you jumped out of a 5th story window and crushed your skull against the pavement outside of the prison in which that had held you for almost 9 months. Granted you made the most of your prison life. When they caught you, all you really had to say was "neatly done." And it was neatly done, they lured you back to the Motherland with a false flag operation that has made the text books as the way to handle false flag operations, and caught you as neatly as anyone as slippery as you can be caught. Perhaps you had other ideas, perhaps you had a plan to be caught, and to try to escape and pull of one final glorious act of counter-revolution before you shuffled off this mortal coil. Maybe you thought if they brought you back and you confessed your sins (but not really meaning it) they would let you live and would eventually get tired of you taking up valuable prison space. Then they would let you go, and you could try that one last act to cap a career full of a number of remarkable successes, but also marred by some pretty abject failures. All of our lives are full of successes and failures, but the scale of yours was an object lesson in how to "go big or go home." 

After they caught you, you confesses your sins (or at least the ones they let you) they put you on "trial" and you cooperated. You confesses and sought absolution. According to your prison letters, YOU of all people, saw the errors of your ways and went over to the other side. Your friends on the outside denounced you for the traitor you either were or appeared to be (it matters not in the end), and you even threatened to beat one of them senseless if you ever met them again. Funny that, threatening to kick someone ass from a prison cell, that no matter how luxurious, you were never going to be let out of. Well, they did let you out, they trotted you out from time to time, and took you to the opera, and to the park, and other places about town. After all, you were their prize canary, and they had you in a golden cage. A cage is a cage no matter how golden. And even though they let your mistress stay in the same cell as you, and let you furnish it with all the comforts of home, it was still a cage. Eventually, cages start to shrink, no matter how pretty they may be, and no matter if they let your latest playmate share it with you or not. 

They treated you well enough, for a man in a cage, let you write, even let you make money from your writings, and send the proceeds to your long suffering families. They knew that alive you were a showpiece of their cause. The great arch-enemy of the glorious revolution seeing the error of his ways,and telling the word that they were right all along, and you were a fool to ever think otherwise. They gave you a death sentence, but that was just to get your attention. Eventually they commuted that to 10 years of hard labour. You never laboured a day. You believed that you would do your time, and that they would let you go, or at least that what people think you believed. It is what you appeared to believe in your letters, but your letters were read by them, and they weren't the type to let you put your "true" feelings on paper, and publish them to the outside world.

 You began to go a bit stir crazy, and begin to push them to release you. Maybe you thought they would, maybe you were just tired of living. You wrote you own Felix (we all have a "Felix" whether we know it or not), and he either told you a lie, or didn't bother to answer you. All the while writing "never to be released" on your file. They could never let you go, you were worth more to them alive than dead. If you were dead they ran the risk of you becoming a martyr, and they didn't need any more martyrs. Once you began to sing the tune from their songbook, you were worth keeping alive, so you could keep singing. You were the prefect example of a long time foe seeing the light, and coming over to the "good" guys. They pictured themselves as the "good" guys, they were bastards. Not that you were a saint, I am pretty sure that if I had been alive at the same time, and had met you, you probably would have eventually had me shot. You were not one to do such dirty work yourself, you were too refined. Of course you didn't speak a word of my language, and I don't know a word of yours, but I still think we would have found a way to become enemies. 

In fact, I would have probably been on the side of the lot that put you in that gilded cage of yours, at least at the start. I figure at some point, I might have also had a change of heart and rebelled. Because after all, resistance is generally the more romantic position. After a while, being in charge begins to take the bloom of the rose of revolution. Scratch a revolutionary and you will find a gendarme underneath. Of course their exists a school of thought that produced some "evidence" to try and prove you were tossed out of that window. It's not the most far fetched idea, after all they tossed a few people out of windows, helped they down stairs the hard way, and took them on long walks in the woods in which they were the only ones to return. 

The only person who knew the answer to your attempt to fly was you, and with your brain matter leaking out onto the pavement upon which you landed, you were in no condition to give up your final, most perplexing secret. Perhaps that is a fitting end to your life of secrets, betrayals, and life on the fringes of polite society.  You didn't take pictures of your entire life, your every meal, or drink was not memorialized for the world to see, you didn't shout your latest successful trip to the bathroom to the world, you lived in a shadow world where lies were as common as dust. Maybe all the lies finally got to you, maybe you lied so often and so much that you couldn't believe a word that came out of your own mouth, and in some sense of misplaced honor you chose the window rather than the cage. Maybe it was your choice, maybe they left the window open for you, and pointed at it with a wink, or maybe they tossed you, kicking and screaming, out of it. I supposed we will never know. And somehow I think that put the cap on your legacy better than anything could. The ultimate mystery to a life lived in the shadows, the final secret that you took down all five flights to your final destiny. Maybe it was glorious, maybe it was terrifying, maybe it was fitting, but as I wrote the word "finished" all I could think that no matter what the reason, it was just sad.

Death of a Rationalist

 This post is another in the long overdue stack, but I am trying people just be patient. 

The job I came to do was simple they said. Find the Rationalist, explain his crimes, and kill him. Simple and easy instructions to follow, and I try to follow the simple, easy instructions. Makes the hard bits easier to 'fudge' if I need to. Either way it was supposed to be an easy job. Like most things that seem too easy to be true, it was a shit show. But, when your job is to whack people, easy is a relative term. People seem, for the most part, to be opposed to just getting whacked without creating a fuss. Oddly the Rationalist didn't create a fuss, and that is what made it so hard to whack him. 

The "people" that wanted him whacked were, as far as I could tell, a dodgy lot. I only ever talked to one of them, and he was a flighty as a chicken at a fox convention. He keep mentioning that "we" need the Rationalist killed, but I got the sense that "we" was just him, and he wanted to try to spread out his guilt like peanut butter (except onto imaginary people). Maybe that helped him, maybe it didn't I was beyond giving too much of a fuck at the time.  He referred to the group that wanted the job done as the "CC". I didn't have then nor do I have now any idea what that meant, again I was paid to do a job. And once I am paid I always see the job through. They gave me a goodly amount of the coin of the realm to whack a guy, so I would whack a guy. Sometimes the job is just that, no muss, no fuss, and no fancy stuff. I wasn't required to send a message to anyone, cut off part of his body to send to grieving relatives,  I was told there would be no grieving relatives (not that I cared), and no public display of the body as a warning to others would be necessary.

He wasn't hard to find, he blunders about the city he lives in like a drunk elephant and his habits are as regular as an old man eating prunes. He can generally be found in one of about seven places, and one of those is his house, which he occupies all by his lonesome. Easy enough, and the lock really posed no problem, mainly because the key he "lost" one night while he was too drunk to see, I possessed. Again he is as easy to track as a herd of buffalo, and it wasn't too hard to nick the key off his drunk ass. So far this job was as simple as falling off a log. Which if you've ever fallen off a log you will know how easy that can be, its the landing that is the hard bit.  

On a not so fine night in ________, I let myself into his shit hole of an apartment and waited for him to stagger home from his local. I figured I had a couple of hours to wait as he is the "drink till you're asked to leave type." I didn't bother to look around overmuch, no need to put too human of a face on the fellow you are here to make non-human, it confuses the mind, and leads to mistakes being made. I don't like mistakes, mine or other people's. My patience was rewarded a little while later when I heard the key turn in the lock, and the Rationalist make his (drunken) way into his apartment. With an ironic "honey I'm home!" he announced his presence to what he thought was an empty house. My sardonic reply of "Oh thank God! I've been worried sick!" was met with a great deal of swearing, and confusion. He made his way into the living room very slowly, saw me sitting on his favourite seat, and asked "who the fuck are you, and how the fuck did you get in here!" There was some bravado in his tone, but I could tell there was just a tinge of fear behind his eyes. After all, the large gun I had pointed in his direction did look pretty terrifying. I like to put most of my cards on the table from the beginning, it avoids confusion as to my purpose. 

He noticed the gun, and if you ever have seen some go from drunk to sober in a flash it can be quite an educational experience. He managed it quicker than most, perhaps he had a lot of practice. He looked down at the gun, and sighed out a question "what took you so long?" I arched an eyebrow at this, he seemed remarkably resigned to his fate, most people in his position at least try to bargain or beg. He seemed almost more ready than I was to get it over with.  "I assume the CC sent you?" he asked. I nodded my assent "yes they seem to think you've over stepped your bounds, and have backslid as well. They apparently take backsliding very, very seriously." He nodded agreement "yes, yes they do. How much did they give you for killing me?" I named a figure twice the actual price, it helps people who are about to get whacked feel more important. If someone would pay THAT much to have you killed, well you must be important indeed. He titled his head to the right as if thinking about it, and replied "seems a bit high, I would have done it for half that price if I were you." I nodded "well maybe you're more important than you think, dead that is, few of us are that important alive. Or maybe they just had money to spend to balance the budget, the end of the year is almost here after all. I don't really care much, they paid it, and told me to whack you, so here I am."

He sat down rather heavily, and sighed, "I guess that's a simple enough answer. You seem to prefer those." I nodded "I don't get paid by the word, I get paid by the job." He smiled a bit as if accepting that his time was being measured in minutes not years. "May I show you something? It requires me going into the other room but I don't own one of those" he pointed at my gun still trained on him, "and I want you to have what I am about to show you, I feel it will help. If not you at least someone." I nodded my assent, "sure, but hurry up, I don't have all night, there are other jobs to do, it's my busy season you know." He laughed, and replied "I won't be long, and no I had no idea that there was a 'busy' season for murdering people." He came back with a stack of papers in his hand that would do any bureaucrat proud. "Here, I know it's lot but at least it explains of all this," he waved his arm around vaguely as if "this" was in the room with us. I pointed the gun down to the ottoman "set it down there and back away." He did as he was told laughing "I'm not a hero, I am not going to try anything funny. In fact, in an odd way you're probably doing me a favour by murdering me. It might make the people who should feel bad, at least for maybe a day or so." 

"What is all of this?" I asked as I picked up the hefty stack of papers, "you're last will and testament?" He chuckled "no, I don't have anything to leave anyone except books that none of them would ever read. That are his and my records." I arched an eyebrow "his?" He nodded "they didn't tell you did they? Just like the CC never tell anyone the whole truth when a half lie will do." Letting out a long sigh, he continued "His, in this case, is a fellow we called the Romantic (notice the large R), and he was my successor in interest, just like I am yours." I frowned, "what the fuck are you on about? I am here to whack you, maybe have a snack after, and go home to sleep the sleep of the just. I am no crown prince, I am succeeding no one in anything." He sighed again "I know that is what you think, because I thought the same thing, then I started reading his records, for a Romantic, he kept pretty damn good records. I thought I would continue the 'tradition' and keep my own. I guess it becomes a thing after a while. It's why the CC sent you here, even though they don't really understand it. Of course, you'll have to start at the beginning of his and read through mine. Which is good news, it means the CC might let you have longer." I looked up at him "longer than what?" He snorted "longer than me you damn fool. Where do you think you are? What do you think this is all about, and who do you think you are that you can just whack me and walk away? No my friend, you are trapped, as trapped as trapped can be, and the CC knew it when they sent you here. So, do you damn job, read those records, and have a merry fucking xmas."

I sat down the large stack of papers, and stood up. "You're an even bigger fool than they told me you were if you think I am falling into your shoes. You know there is a place in the brain called ...." He interrupted me "... the Circle of Willis, yes I know all about it. Don't you find that odd?" I shook my head determined to finish this job, and get this lunatic to Charon for his 'trip across the river' as the saying goes. I walked behind him, told him to look down, which he did, and put one simple bullet in his brain, just like they trained me to do. He just slumped forward without a sound, and my job was done. I looked down at him with something approaching pity, "you were a damn fool for too long, I should have been sent to do this job months ago. But, better late than never." I looked around his shit hole room, nothing of any real value. My gaze lingered on the stack of paper. "I take this just for a laugh." I said to his rapidly cooling corpse. That was to be a mistake.

The Man from the North

 Warning some posts are, as Felix is about to say "as interesting as milk", I fear this one might be less interesting than most, but you have to describe the gray, winter day before you can describe the blizzard/storm that wrecks it and makes it worth remembering. You have been warned.

No one really remembers when the Man from the North first put in an appearance at Sully's. Sully is good at a lot of things, but names and faces isn't one of them. I didn't remember because generally I don't care for newcomers overmuch. As we (not the royal we) put it together later, when we actually were pretending to care, I figured out that I was, at the time we agreed upon his first appearance taking place, very, very busy trying not to die of some sort of plague like disease, that the wags liked to speculate was given to me by some "tart he picked up without remembering it."  There are people at Sully's who do pay attention to newcomers, mainly because Felix pays them to, Felix pays a lot of people to pay attention to newcomers. Felix is the jovial, rich uncle we all wished we had, but Felix is spending other peoples money, and is not particularly jovial. 

Even amongst the "paid to pay attention" crowd the Man from the North barely registered. He didn't appear to be overburdened with friends, and seemingly lacked much in the way of personality. He was, as Felix later said, "as interesting as milk." To which I replied "if you're lactose intolerant milk can make your life very interesting, unpleasant, but still interesting." Felix was not amused, not awful lot amuses Felix, and when Felix is amused it generally means you're about not to be. I was soon to realize, to my cost, that once again Felix knew something I didn't. It is, in my opinion, a particular failing of Felix's the knowing something you don't and probably needed to. I suppose it is what makes him good at his job, that and the ability to keep his mouth shut, even when asked not to. 

Either way, the Man from the North was just that. Some cove from a large city up north that has ideas above its station. It seemed so did the Man from the North. It is rarely a good plan to get ideas above your station. Life has a way of making sure that "water finds its own level" and if it has to make it rain in order to do that, well that's just life making it even. He wasn't much to look at, but then again few of us are. You don't get Adonis like physical specimens in Sully's very often. And even if you do, a few weeks of drinking Sully's finest will put a little softness on the hardest of men. Approachability isn't exactly the best quality to posses in Sully's bar. A certain amount of aloofness is usually the best tactic to employ. After all, the less you know or see, the less you have to testify to later (if such a need arises). Besides, Sully's isn't a social club, it is generally a place that a man (or the occasional woman if she's very brave) comes to drink alone, and try to forget that he (or she) belongs to a society that they loathe. 

I was not without resources of my own, and Felix isn't the only curious man in the city. I like to know a few things about the people that I am going to be "bending the elbow with" even if I am strictly speaking, drinking alone. I don't like surprises, and I don't care for Easter Egg hunts either. My source never one to waste words, merely replied "a perfect grey man." Not a lot of information in that report unless you know what the source meant by "grey man." I had a pretty good idea, but decided that my source was being too laconic even for me, and decided to have a little sit down with them to get the fuller story. The tavern that this particular source haunted made Sully's look like a palace, and served beer that might make you go blind on a permanent basis if you drank enough of it. Luckily, it tasted so bad that I could only stomach about 3 of them. It impaired my vision a bit, but no permanent damage was done, I could still see my own way out of the place.

"Hello sweetie" I said to my source as I plopped down on the bar stool next to them, "how's tricks, got any more information for me on that thing I asked you about earlier?" My source doesn't like pet names, and certainly didn't like being called sweetie out loud in public. I knew this, which is of course, why I did it. A certain amount of aggravation would make them get to the point more quickly, and I wanted to spend as little time as needed in their company, and even less time in their bar drinking what I considered to be something very close to rat poison.  "Stop calling me sweetie, you daft bastard, are you trying to get us a kicking? This isn't the place for that kind of bullshit, and what's more you know it, I should just let them take you out back and stomp some sense into you, but you paid on time, and fairly well, so I suppose I will refrain for the nonce." I smiled, it was the same reply I had heard many times, and I had no doubt I would hear again. A threat is usually only effective the first couple of times, unless you make good on it, after that it just becomes banter. "Now, now there's no need to get all wound up over a term of endearment, it just angers the blood, and isn't good for your long term health."  I pointed at his nearly empty beer glass, "drinking that swill is already enough of a burden for your health to bear." They frowned (they were a great frowner), pulled out an envelope out of their pocket and slid it across the bar towards me. "There is the full story for you to read later, but I'll fill in any details you want now as long as you're buying. You are buying correct?" I nodded to them, and then the bartender ordering us a round. "Yeah, I'm buying, your handwriting is so crabbed that I might as well hear the story first before I hire someone with a permanent squint to try to read what you've written."

 My glass of tavern swill arrived, as did whatever concoction my source was drinking. It was some sort of mixed drink, I didn't inquire as to the ingredients or the price for that matter. The bill is the bill and it just has to be paid, and I figured whatever they were drinking was probably as close to poisonous as the pint in front of me, so what did I care?  "Give me the highlights, I think this swill, and this place is bad for me, and I prefer to enjoy the things bad for me more than I am enjoying this." They nodded and said "Felix would have my head on a platter for this you know? But what Felix doesn't know won't hurt me." I replied "you let me worry about Felix, I will keep your head on your shoulders, just tell me what I need to know." "Okay, GI no need to get all upset, I'll tell you though it isn't much. Not because I didn't try, it just that this Man from the North is just as bland as unsalted butter. He is from _____, but you probably already knew that. He left there at least X years ago, came here, got some nowhere job, and has been busy being a nobody every since. He has committed no crimes, even Felix can tell you that, and has seemingly been living out a lifeof quiet mediocrity. He's not got any special talent like picking locks or anything. Has no major bad habits that would land him in Hotel Felix, and seems to be overall a rather boring piece of meat." 

I nodded, "I've already talked to Felix about this cove, and Felix gave me most of that. I was hoping you had something more interesting." My source finished their drink, and replied "that's just it GI, there isn't anything more interesting. I am telling you this guy is a unremarkable, bland, piece of milquetoast. That doesn't really leave much of an impression or much of a paper trail. He just exists, and it doesn't seem that he has much of a reason for that." I nodded, "well we can't all be super talented gentlemen of means now can we? I mean the vast majority of us just exist for the system to grind up into dust, so I suppose his being just a random piece of gravel in the machine isn't completely his fault." They took a swig of their glass of poison, and said "true, but some of us can at least try to better themselves, this fellow just seems to be there, like a house plant that doesn't need watering very often so you just forget about it. Also, I had the joy of conversating with him a couple of times." I raised my eyes from my pint, "you did what? Have you lost your entire mind? I said to follow the cunt, and find out about him, not engage him in person!" "Now, now GI, settle down, everything is fine. This fellow doesn't know me from Adam, and besides he also "knows me" as a ginger who likes horses a lot. I didn't just saunter up to him and announce myself, give my real name, address, and tell him my reason for talking to him, give me some credit will you?"

I finished my pint, and stood up. I had drank enough of the local poison, and had most of what I needed to know, and still had to read the 'report' my source had prepared. "I am sure you were on your most charming, and discreet behaviour, but it was still a damn silly thing to do. I don't need any tracers of me attaching to this fellow. It's important. I don't want to turn Hotel Felix into my permanent residence." They nodded their assent or their goodbye, I didn't care which. I just turned around and left feeling a little uneasy, but it was probably just the beer/poison working its magic on my digestive system. If only I knew then what I know now, I might have just stayed and drank enough of it to kill me. Because despite his being "as interesting as milk" the Man from the North's part to play in the passion play of my life was far, far from over.

Serge and his Apples IV

 (the poor tradition continues a year later the continued part, sorry?)

As I sat down on the well placed (for me) bench and waited for Felix's little red pill to render me unconscious, I pondered how much he had been paid for this little hack job that he was pulling on me. Felix, according to him, is merely a dedicated public servant and is above such horrible vices as greed and a lust for material things. The thing about that is, is that it is apparently true. Felix is one of those most dangerous of men, a true believer. A bit of a fanatic, with the belief of whatever he holds dear written clearly on his face, and burning very brightly in his eyes. A dangerous type indeed, and one that I cannot fathom. Being as I don't believe in much of anything at least anymore, but that is a tale for another time. 

As Felix had mentioned before his goons deposited me on this street like a sacrificial lamb, I had been to this neighborhood a few times before. Most of my visits had been welcome and pleasant the last one was unwelcome and unpleasant (at least for me). I had vowed, and been not too politely warned that my presence "wasn't particularly welcome in these parts, and it would be best for my long term health to avoid a return visit." Being a fan of my long term health, I had heeded that warning, and had avoided this place like the plague, for in many ways it is (at least for me). A first glance, and even after a few more glances it passed more as bucolic than bubonic. A gentlemanly neighborhood where you don't have to been situational aware every second of the day. Well that is if you live here, they don't exactly roll out the red carpet for strangers, and certainly not for strangers that happen to be me. I was aware that the non-welcoming committee had probably already spotted me from behind the fancy drapes that covered the big plate glass windows that this lot seemed to favour, but since Felix's pill was about to drop down on me like an anvil from the sky, I had little choice but to wait for all the unpleasantness to happen. Sometimes it doesn't pay to get out of bed sober. 

However, the committee was going to have one small problem. My eyelids were getting very, very heavy, and I felt the black pool of darkness open up at my feet, and I dove right in, they would have to carry my fat ass where they wanted me to go. I woke up in a chair in a mostly familiar room. It was like I had been here before, but only briefly and was more intent on other tasks more than memorizing the looks of the place. Pity that, since I am sure, like most places, it had an exit, but I couldn't begin to tell you where it was located. Not that I was going to be looking for the exit anytime soon mind you, it seemed someone wanted me to stay a while and had decided in order for that to happen they had handcuffed me to the chair. Not the happiest of ways to wake up, but I suppose I had seen worse days, or so I hoped. It is a testament to the optimistic nature of mankind that I was foolish enough to think that my situation would have anything but a bad ending, or perhaps I am just a fucking idiot. Either way I was, as is my custom, wrong. I sighed the sigh of the fool that I had become, and waited for my latest tormentor to put in an appearance. 

I was in the process of testing the handcuffs to see if they were, in fact, real when my tormentor put in their appearance. "You know they are real GI, you've seen them before. Granted under happier circumstances, but waste not, want not I always say." I suppressed something between a groan and a laugh. "Yes, you've always been a most efficient sort haven't you?" I replied, hoping that this encounter would end better than it started. "An efficient destroyer of things, no wasted motion in you is there?" I figured that I might as well be as big an asshole as my press clippings had made me out to be just to see how she would react. After all, I was handcuffed to a chair with no idea of the way out, and the only coves who knew where I was were Felix and his goons, and since they had delivered me here, I doubted they were going to come riding to my recuse. Felix is the "riding to the recuse type" generally you have to be recused from Felix, not recused by Felix. As I expected the backhanded slap arrived on cue jerking my head sideways with some force. The price you pay for wit these days seems to have gotten higher. "Don't smart me GI, when you smart me I start to think of reasons why you shouldn't be allowed to continue to roam the streets a free man." I rattled my hands in their cuffs, "well if this is your idea of free, maybe you should start working for Felix. To what do I owe this particular pleasure? Have I not abided by the terms of our little "agreement"? Though agreement might not be the correct word, let me rephrase. Have I not done as I was none too gently told?"

She nodded "you have, which I must confess is a bit of a surprise. We all figured that your miles wide self-destructive streak would eventually have you violate the terms you agreed to, and that I would be rid of you by now. Pity that." I arched an eyebrow, "where's the pity in that? You've got your peace of mind, and don't have to worry about me sullying your streets with my foul presence, or damage your reputation further by being seen around you. Sounds like we both win to me." She smiled what seemed to be a rather too large of a smile and replied. "You're correct after a fashion. I have peace of mind up to a certain point, and I confess not seeing you has been wonderful, but you see I don't like win/win situations, I just like to win. You know this, you should remember this, and you should realize that is what is going to happen." I rolled my eyes "what in the blue fuck are you talking about? You get Felix to bring me here, drug me, then drag me in here, not by yourself I am sure, and are making threats to a man handcuffed to a chair that hasn't bothered you in forever. Have you finally lost your fucking mind?" Another slap which at least I felt I deserved was my first answer. I would have preferred it to be the only answer. 

"Again with the smart mouth, you never learn do you GI? Always a witty reply like you're some damn hero in a novel waiting to save both the world and the damsel in distress. Well newsflash joy boy, you can't save the world, and I am not a damsel in distress. Though I am about to cause you a great deal of it. Distress that is. You aren't the only one who can be clever." I sighed, "I see, well if you could get on with whatever evilness you have planned for me, that would be great, I pointed my nose down at my watch, I've got plans for a smashing game of tennis at 5, and I am sure my partner would be very disappointed if I failed to show. You see we play for a lot of money per point, and I am dross at tennis, so I am running up quite a debt to them. They would be sad if I were to die owing them all the monies."  She laughed "oh, I am aware of how terrible you are at tennis, and I'm afraid you're going to miss your little game today. The 'evilness' as you put it, is going to last well past 5, and after it's done you've another appointment. One I am sure you will just love to keep........"  (to be continued again)

 

David the Liar Part 2

 These are the "nothing" days. The days of the summer season that require more effort to breath that should be necessary, and not melting in the sun is the only achievement worthy of note for months on end. This fair city, which truth be told, isn't much of a city, and certainly isn't fair, becomes more like an oven and its fair citizens (also not many of them are fair) just try to avoid getting overheated beyond the point of exhaustion. Nothing really moves more than is necessary in this heat, and not a lot of things worth writing down happen. Hence, the silence of the last two months. It doesn't exactly excuse my laziness, but it's all I got. 

Sully's was hot, but you couldn't hold that against Sully it was hot everywhere, and was going to stay that way for far too long for any of our tastes, but welcome to summer the season that the Devil created just to give you a taste of what was ahead of you for all time if you didn't change your ways. I was not in the mood to change my ways, and was considering sending someone to hell to give the Devil something to do, when in walked David the Liar. This was only noteworthy because we hadn't seen David the Liar around since his "friend" Mac the Knife committed "suicide" a few months back, and most of us had assumed that David the Liar went back to wherever the fuck he was from to grieve, and maybe find a new set of people to lie to. This was a good thing because I had a particular bone to pick with David the Liar, and had figured that it was going to remained unpicked since he had seemingly disappeared, and yet here he was in the flesh, and even better (since it didn't require me getting up and moving in the heat) he was walking towards me. I suppose that sometimes patience (or laziness call it what you will) is a virtue.

"Hello David, How's the lying business treating you?" I said as he slid into the side opposite me in my usual booth. "Haven't seen you in a dog's age, you been out practicing your lies on some new group of shills? And forgetting your friends." He snorted what seemed to be a laugh "you and your lot are several things, most of them bad, but you are not, and never have been my friends. I had one of those and we both know what happened to him don't we?" This last part was said with a meaning that I wasn't quite sure of. I had told David a lie, I mean after all lie to liars right? It was about the demise of Mac the Knife, and for his sake, I had hoped David believed it. The look on his face told me otherwise. "Yes" I replied "I suppose we do, pity that, Mac wasn't a bad fellow as long as you didn't set the "good fellow" bar too high." David the Liar gave me another look that didn't convince me that I had convinced him, and I figured it was time to buy him a beer, because I had no doubt that wherever he had been it was not at a job that earned him actual money, and he was, as he always is fucking broke. "Let me buy you a beer David old boy, because we do in actual fact have something to discuss." I waved the latest barmaid over, she is a ginger Sully hires all types it seems, but she looked suspiciously like the blonde from a couple of months ago, maybe it was her sister? I didn't feel the need to ask. Sometimes the less you know the better. "Two pints of Sully's finest swill for me and my mate here if you please, my good lass." I said with some relish. I had been looking for David the Liar, but as some people will tell you, I am a follower, not a finder, and had had no luck in my search. The barmaid nodded in a way that made me think she knew something I didn't and promptly came back with two pints of piss for me and David the Liar to catch up over.

"David, I've a bone to pick with you, and depending on your answer to my query, someone a lot less gentlemanly than I might have one to do more to that pick, so try to pay attention, and save your lies to the end if you can." He nodded his assent and took a drink of his (free) beer. "I recently found out, almost to my detriment, that you David the godsdamn Liar, told me the fucking truth about something. Now why would you do such a crazy thing?" I raised a hand before he could answer. "No, no let me continue setting the stage for you, then you can stride out and make your declamation of truth for me to disbelieve. You see David the problem with your lying all the time is simple. Once we figured out that you lie all the damn time, and we can't believe a word that comes out of your mouth. We stop fully processing your lies. By that I mean that we still listen to them, I mean some of them are quite entertaining, and sometimes even worth repeating to the right group of people, but we don't fully process them. We don't store them away in our memory because we know they aren't true, and that tomorrow you will have a new set of lies for us to hear, and why not just start afresh?" He barked a short laugh at this and said "thanks GI, glad to know that I am so predictable to you." 

"All of us are predictable David, if you pay enough attention, and in this heat paying attention is about the only activity that won't result in heatstroke, so I pay attention. It gives me something to do while I watch my ponies finish last more than first. But you decided to ruin my racing form profile that I've compiled on you, by telling me the truth about something. It was quite disconcerting to find out, and the way I found out almost gave me a fatal case of lead poisoning if you catch my meaning. I am sure by now you've figured out what I am talking about, after all you tell the truth so rarely that remembering the two times you've done it in your life shouldn't be too difficult. You see when you lie David, which for you is when you talk, we know you're lying and we can trust that. It's a bit of a negative trust, but it is trust nonetheless. We don't try to shift your lies, we don't try to figure out if we can or should believe all of what you are saying, or part of what you are saying, we don't go back and rethink what you've said to try to give it a different or deeper meaning. We don't lie awake at night and try to wonder if we believe you or not. Because we don't. You're David the Liar, not David the sometime Liar, sometime honest lad, and we have come to rely on that. Maybe we are just being lazy, and giving you too much credit (or blame) we don't wonder about your tales, and therefore we don't commit them to our long term memory. I guess this is very helpful to and for you. After all, you can tell us the same lie over again, and just start it with "remember the other day when we talked about this" We will nod our assent because why wouldn't we? We don't want to look stupid or forgetful, and we want to appear like we're paying attention even if we aren't. After you say that you could launch into whatever story you like and we will listen, and convince ourselves that sure we have talked about this before, and you are just reminding us to be helpful. But you're not being helpful (at least to us, it's helpful to you I suppose) you're just lying, it is what you do, and you do a fairly good job of it. So you could imagine my shock when I found out that you had told me the truth. Couldn't knocked me over with a feather. Problem was the fellow knocking me over wasn't using a feather."

David looked up from his beer and winced. "Took a beating did you?" I nodded "Not the worst one I've ever had, but a beating is rarely a pleasant experience, and the goon giving it to me neglected to tell me the safe word to make it stop, so it didn't until he got tired of using me as an alternative bit of exercise equipment." David winced again, and muttered "I'm sorry GI, I mean I told you the truth about that issue because you helped me with Mac the Knife, and because you lied to me about it." I arched an eyebrow at that but he kept on talking. "I know Mac didn't off himself GI and you know it too. In fact you knew it when you told me that little tale about him, and you lied to me anyway. It was an odd feeling hearing you lie and knowing you were lying. Don't get me wrong I don't think you and the truth are exactly fast friends, but you try to be honest until it doesn't suit your purposes, then you lie. You're decent at it, but you aren't "GI the Liar."" He laughed at his own little joke and continued. "I figured that since you were going to take on the role of lying, that I would try to see what this 'telling the truth for a change' idea felt like, and so I told you truth about X. To my credit I did tell you that I wasn't giving you the "facts as I know them" just that I was telling you the truth. I understand why you didn't believe me, but at the end of the day what else could I do? Call in a priest and swear to his god that I don't believe in that I am giving you the straight dope? No I just told you the truth, told you I was telling you the truth, and hoped you, for once, believed me. It is a pity you didn't but the beating you took might have been meant for me, so I'm not overly sorry that you took it."

"Fair enough David, but that makes going forward a bit difficult. If I can't trust David the Liar to lie to me then what the actual fuck can I trust? You see my point? I can trust Felix to on occasion have me beaten up because it pleases him, but he won't let Mutt and Jeff go too far and actually kill me, he needs me around for whatever dark purpose he's playing at. I can trust Sully to serve me horse piss in a pint glass and call it "world class lager, fit for the gods." And I can trust Bob the Viking to say as few words as possible. We all have roles in this passion play David, and when you start going "off script" it confuses people, and leads to all sorts of unintended things happening. Now as long as they don't happen to me, I could care less, but this did happen to me, and I am a might bit upset at the situation. But I understand I can't change you David, and short of beating the piss out of you, which does have it's appeal, don't get me wrong, what I feel I need to do is change a bit of myself. It's not a fun thing to admit that one was wrong, and to try to change themselves, but that seems to be what is called for in this particular situation. I suppose I will have to start paying attention to, and remembering your lies so I can eventually sort them out for myself. It seems a lot of work, for what also seems to promise little reward, but I can see no other way forward." I finished my beer and gave David what I hoped was a stern look, but I figured it was pointless, more and more of my conversations seem to be pointless now days, and I was tired. Tired of David the Liar and his lies or his truths. I didn't know which, and I was just about too drunk enough to care. 

"However David, I am just about too drunk enough to care about any of this, and am going home to bed, alone which is a pity." I cast a quick glance at the ginger barmaid leaning against the bar chatting it up with Sully. What was his appeal? "Either way David, have another drink on me." I slid enough coin for David to have several drinks on me across the table, and got to my feet. "Just remember this David, now you've got my undivided attention, and that isn't always as pleasant as it sounds."

 

The Cold

 The wind was cold, the rain was cold, and I was cold. Not that I was out in the cold wind and rain. The days had long since passed where I was the mug standing on the corner or in the lee of some doorway checking on people and their dirty little secrets. No, I was home in front of a nice fire, and a glass of overpriced whiskey close to hand. The cold I felt was internal, and no amount of liquid heat from the aforementioned glass (or even the whole bottle) was going to drive this cold away. This was a metaphysical cold, a cold that started somewhere in your stomach and spread like a cancer, like Genghis Khan's murdering hordes, like a stain from a stab wound perfectly placed to cause the most dazzling of blood splatter. It laid siege to my insides moving from stomach down to the guts, freezing things solid on its travels. It moved upwards as well to the lungs, making it difficult to fully breath, it moved east to the liver already under attack from the current bottle of whiskey, and all the other countless bottles of alcohol that had came before it. It moved west to the pancreas, laying waste to the ability to regulate blood sugar, a dangerous thing to have go tits up when you've a bottle of whiskey close to hand. This was beyond the sheep stealing cold that lead a man to commit all manners of odd crimes to get warm. This was a fatal kind of cold, the kind of cold that people dread when they throw another log on the fire, the kind of cold that leads you to cold, dark places where people don't talk above a whisper for fear of waking things better left asleep. 

 This cold had its external source, it lay on the desk opened, and read many times over to make sure there wasn't some cruel mistake. There wasn't. It was there in black and white, the things I had suspected but was too damn much of a fool to believe. Well now, thanks to someone spending some time in the actual cold, I believed them. The "report" left me very little choice. I had hired it done, as I said my days out in the cold (or the heat) had passed, and were not missed. No, these days I hired these things done by people like GI or his erstwhile "companion" Felix. Though I figured that Felix's days of unitrusively leaning against a convenient lamp post were now counted as being beneath his dignity. He had goons for that type of work. Unimaginative  goons that wrote reports that, while getting their main point across, made for some tough sledding in the reading department. I made a note to remind Felix to hire some thugs that had been to college or at least could spell words longer than 5 letters. This was one of those reports, I was in a hurry, and I chose to use Felix's resources because he had so many of them, and owed me a favor or two. You knew what you were getting when you used Felix, a straight, to the point detail of events. Presented without comment, or opinion and generally told in short sentences using small words. Sometimes these reports are exactly what you needed, sadly for me, this was not exactly one of those times. I would have to supplement this staid, listless, and lacking nuance report with something just a tad bit different. That meant finding, and sobering up GI. I sighed only one of those things was easy to do.

Of course, reading one of GI's reports had it own set of issues. When he was in a particularly expansive mood (or drunk) he would try to be as vague as possible. I had read several of his reports that mentioned elephants, peanuts, and Ferris Wheels that made me wonder if he was doing the job I had hired him to do, or was just drunk at the Circus eating fucking funnel cake and spending my coin before earning it. Others had referenced some Ape, and their cage(s), and hippos making me wonder if he had gotten lost at the Zoo, and was just taking the piss out of me for his own twisted amusement. They were at least better written than the ones Felix's goons produced, but I still despaired of his grammar. Apparently he was "all about content, and telling a good story, subject/verb agreement be damned." Sometimes, after a unusually vague report, a follow up report would arrive with the "key" which would put real names to the nicknames he so enjoyed labeling people with. I suppose that they had some sort of meaning in his head that made it worth doing, but since I never actually talked to him, it remained a mystery to me. Some things are best left in the dark. His naming system is one of those things. 

The days of finding lonely drunks with literary aspirations had also passed. I was not going to sully myself with finding GI in whichever dive bar would grant him enough credit for a night's drunk. No, I had people for that; finders are a different breed than followers. I had not yet found a follower that could compare to GI, or even to Felix's goons for that matter. Plus, GI worked cheap. You don't get to over pay for whiskey by overpaying the help.  Even when my finders were able to locate him, they never told him who he was working for, just an initial and a Post Office Box to drop his reports into when he was finished. If he ever found out he was working for me, then he would stop working for me, and I still had a use or two for him, before Felix inevitably had him shot. But until then I needed him to write something that made more sense than the report sitting before me. I made a few phone calls, and set the process in motion. It usually took a day to find him, a day to sober him up fully, and a day to convince him that he did in fact need the money. 

It was a simple enough job for someone just like him, there were details that he didn't need to know about it, they would just cloud his already suspect judgment, and I didn't need him going off half cocked and mucking up a simple job. In fact, once I had read the goon's report, I knew that I had to send GI to do the job proper like. He would not thank me for it, he can't really since he doesn't exactly know who I am, but it would be a lesson in life that he would come to appreciate. If I could have him found, and keep him sober long enough to do it. Afterwards, well afterwards, keeping him sober would be more difficult, and I don't think he would want to be found for quite sometime. I sighed heavily this would also mean talking to Felix. A task that I normally would delegate since talking to Felix is like talking to a razor. You feel shorn afterwards, and might be slowly bleeding to death from all manner of cuts you didn't know you had until you left the room. But it must needs doing, and the sooner the better as the saying goes. 

I duly made my appointment with Felix, showed up at the proper place and time, and was rewarded with Felix's presence. Reward might not be the correct word, but the cold bastard did show up on time, a quality that fewer and fewer people seem to possess these days. If 75% of success is just showing up, another 10% can be added by showing up on time. I pushed the report across Felix's desk towards him, and asked "You've read this correct? Is it true?" Felix glanced briefly down at the paper and replied "of course I've read it. Don't be fool enough to think that I let anything out of this office without fully reading it, and yes it is true enough for government work." I arched an eyebrow at that last bit, but held my tongue, because I had suspected that Felix might sometimes engage in "creative editing" with the reports I commissioned from him, and that was a close to confirmation as I was likely to get. Sometimes, direct questions can just cause confusion, especially to Felix's type of "truth tellers."  

"Well I figured as much, just nice to hear you actual come with pissing distance of telling me the "truth" Felix. Now, that we have established this is true enough" I tapped the report that Felix had slid back to me, "what the fuck should I do about it?" Felix leaned back in his chair steepled his hands together and replied in true Felix fashion "shoot him?" I sighed "Felix, that is an unattached pronoun, who is the "him" I should shoot?" Again in true Felix fashion he said "all of them, that way you know you've shot the right person." ........