Google is Cool

Look at step number 23 on Google Maps' directions on getting from New York, NY to Paris, France.

It made me smile.

(not as much as Firefly, but still...)

Huh

If Neil Gaiman can get a movie made, why not Chris Moore?

I love Gmail

I especially love the context sensitive ads.

Prediction

Since it is intuitively obvious to the most casual observer that I am the greatest future-teller (I don't like to go by "soothsayer", as it sounds too similar to "sleuth-slayer", and I would hate to be considered a new-age Dr. Moriarty) in the modern world, I shall once again astonish and amaze you with a prediction. Set your alarms to mid-February, 2008, at which point you will be able to marvel at the accuracy of this claim:

When Paolo Nutini does not win Best New Artist at the 2008 Grammy Awards, I will be outraged. Outraged!

Your Next President of the United States of America!

I'm sure you've seen this by now, but it's always good for another view.

Christmas Came Early

I was in my local library picking up a book for Michelle (Pilgrim, by Sara Douglass), and just happened to see this staring at me:

I have been out of the Christopher Moore loop for a while, so I didn't even realize he had a new book out. It's one thing to get a book you've been waiting for, but it's something quite different to have the perfect book magically appear out of thin air.

And it was, of course, delightful.

It was one bright spot in my otherwise dreary, pitiful, horrid existence.

Corner Diner

Here's a happy tale I wrote. It probably has some kind of deep metaphysical, spiritual or scatological meaning. Let me know what it is.

Corner Diner

The door shuts with a bang as a Jerry Craznic enters my diner from the Fourth Street entrance. A rush of cold air follows him in, rustling the top pages of the newspapers beside the door. He flips shut his cell phone and pockets it as he takes his normal booth by the old jukebox. I can't help but smile. He's a bright, strong, good looking guy. I get lots of business men and women, impatient and demanding, but Jerry is always calm and relaxed.

“How's your kid, Judy?” he asks me. He always asks me that.

“Conner's fine. He's doing really well.”

It's a lie, of course. Conner isn't doing well at all. The chemo has destroyed lots of things – his hair, his appetite, the little savings I had – but the tumor is still healthy.

“What can I get you, Jerry?” I ask, coming over to his table. I place a white paper placemat in front of him, and place the silverware, wrapped in a napkin, on top. I take out my order pad, but don't bother with a pen, since I never need to write the orders down. Not even sure why I hold the pad anymore.

“Just some dessert tonight. How about a slice of apple pie and a cup of decaf.”

I nod to him and head behind the counter. Get a mug, pour the coffee. Get a plate, uncover the pie tin, dish the pie. How many times have I served pie and coffee on a late night?

I bring the plate and cup over. “Here you go, Jer.” He gives me one of his smiles, his eyes looking right into mine. For a second I imagine a different life – Jerry taking care of us, maybe at a resort somewhere with a beach next to some clear blue water. Conner digging in the sand while Jerry and I lay on beach towels, hand in hand. Conner and I could use that. Heck, we deserve that.

Yeah, right. People don't get what they deserve. Life doesn't work that way.

I sigh and turn away. The customer at Table 5 gets up and begins to put on his coat. “Thanks a lot,” he says, “Keep the change.” He's a large man. No, let's be honest - he's a fat man, maybe two hundred and fifty pounds. Probably pushing forty, slightly balding. Wearing a fading blue jacket that was once expensive and new. He starts walking quickly towards the door.

Meat loaf meal, glass of Coke, slice of pie, cup of coffee. The bill was eleven fifty. “Keep the change” probably means he left thirteen bucks. If I'm really lucky all he had was a five and a ten, that would get me a three and a half dollar tip. Sometimes fat guys tip well after pie. Must do something to their brains.

I cross over to his table, nodding to the man as we pass. “Have a nice night.” He looks straight ahead and struggles with the zipper on his jacket as he walks to the door. The cash is under the ticket, it looks like two bills, and there's a five on top. A smile comes to my face as I reach towards the table, but the smile disappears when I realize the second bill is a one. Six bucks! He stiffed me! I turn around, looking for him, just as the door slams shut.

______________________________________________________

Rush out the door and take a left out of the diner. Jog down the street and turn left onto Sixth Avenue, shove my hands into pockets and hunch my shoulders, trying to keep the cold night air from my neck.

What did I just do? I've never stolen anything in my life. She's just a waitress, but at least she's got a job. She can afford it more than I can. Hell, it's not like I didn't leave her anything.

“Hey! Where'd you go?” I hear a woman's shout faintly. I huddle against a doorway, looking down the street, but nobody comes. She's not coming after me. How did it get this way? Stealing meat loaf from a diner? I had it. I had it – good job, nice house, kids, money. Now look at me.

It's that damn Simmons. I'll never forget the look on his face when he let me know they were laying me off. He knew it wasn't fair, but he always had it in for me. He was sitting in his office, wearing one of his stupid turtlenecks under one of his stupid sports coats.

“Scott is taking classes to get his Master's degree, and Brad picked up on the new technologies really quickly,” he said. Suck ups. If I had kissed ass like those two did, I'd still be there. I might not have gone to as many training courses, and I didn't come in as early or stay as late as they did, but I worked hard.

And then he says I could come back, but with less pay as a second shift maintenance technician. Second shift! How was I ever going to see my kids if I was working evenings?

Damn it. Tonight was Lexi's dance recital. Margie said that if I forgot again she wouldn't let me know when Lexi or Tyler have events. Shit! That damn Simmons! He put all this stress on me, and now I'm forgetting my kids.

Margie's going to try and take my weekends away, too. She always wants to make me look bad to the kids. I've got to find a job. Tomorrow. Tomorrow will be my day. And once things are back on track for me, I'll go back to that diner and give the waitress a big tip.

I start walking again. I'll find some flowers for Lexi, bring them to her tomorrow. I'll tell her how sorry I am. Buy her ice cream or something. I think she likes ice cream. She's got to like ice cream. What kid doesn't?

The street is quiet, empty. The shops are closed, and the only light comes from a street lamp across the street. The lamp on my side is burned out, and I hug the wall, trying to stay in the shadows.

Suddenly I feel a body up against me, pushing me into a dark doorway.

“Just give me your money. Now. Hurry up!”

I'm being mugged? What is there to take? “Listen, I don't have any money. I'm broke. Please leave me alone.”

He's got my back pushed against a wall, one hand on my chest. He's not a big guy, but he's strong. I can't tell what he looks like in the darkness. He pushes my chest hard, I catch my breath. “I ain't in the mood for no shit, Fatty. Give me your damn money!”

Oh, God. I'm not built for this. I've never been in a fight in my life. This guy is going to kill me. My eyes close. “Please. Please. Please.” Warmth runs down my left leg.

The pressure is removed from my chest. I take a deep breath and open my eyes. The man is still there but he's backed up a step. I begin to thank him, but he speaks before I can say anything. “You're pathetic, you fat fuck.”

I see him reach back, and his fist crashes into my face.

______________________________________________________

His nose cracks. Damn, it's a nice sound. I dance back, ready to avoid the counter attack which is never going to come. The pussy has both hands on his face, whimpering, blood running between his fingers and onto the back of his hands. Too fucking easy. I place one final right hook at his temple, and he drops. Flops down like a beached whale waiting to die.

I rummage through his pockets until I find his wallet. Twenty bucks in cash, pictures of some ugly kids, and an expired AAA card. What kind of moron doesn't carry a single freakin' credit card? I kick him in the side. Next time carry plastic.

I keep looking. He's got no watch, and nothin' of value in his pockets. There's a reason I've never mugged a guy before – it ain't worth the aggravation. I slip the cash in my pocket and head down the street. Twenty bucks sure as hell ain't gonna square me with Crowbar.

I take a left onto Fifth Street and flip open my cell. Speed dial 4.

“Stevie, it's Bug. Give me some good news. How we doin'?”

“Sorry, Bug, but it's not good. The whole shipment was junk. You're going to have to try and get your money back from Wang.”

I stop. This ain't good. “Shit. You know that can't happen. What we gonna do? We need the money now! Where you at?”

“I'm gone, man. You borrowed from Crowbar. He's going to be looking for you. I don't want to be anywhere near when he finds you. Good luck, man.”

“Stevie, wait! At least get me a ride out of town! Stevie!”

He hung up. He's gone. The bastard is ditching me. I need three thousand dollars right now, and I've got no angles. I'm gonna have to rob a bank or something. Ain't never done that, either. Shit.

I continue down the street. Man, I need a miracle.

“Hello, Bug.”

Oh, fuck. He's right behind me. How the hell did he find me here? OK, just play it cool.

“Hey man. I was just coming to see you.” I turn around to face him.

“I bet. I'm sure you're loaded with cash right now. I'm sure you've got my three large. I'm sure you beat up that fat guy just for fun.”

I look at his face and shudder. Crowbar is one ugly bastard. One of his eyes is dead, pea soup green and seeping pus out of the inner corner. A ragged scar runs from his left ear to his mouth, and his nose has been broken numerous times. He's a scary fucker, even when he's not carrying a crowbar.

“Listen, Crowbar, I'm a bit short right now, but in two days I'll be able to pay you. Hell, I've got a buyer coming in tomorrow – a big sucker. I'll be able to pay you back then.”

“Somehow, I just don't believe you, Bug.” He's got his crowbar in his right hand. He's holding it lightly, like he's not even thinking about it. Just swinging it back and forth. Back and forth. I can't take my eyes off of it. “I think you're gonna have to pay up right now.”

I knew this day would come, and I'm ready for it. I've practiced at home, I've played it out a hundred times. When he moves his arm, I'm going to duck and roll to the right. There's a boot knife on my right leg, bought for this exact moment. It's stainless steel and double bladed, sharp as hell. In one motion I'm going to pull the knife from its sheath, leap towards Crowbar and extend my arm. I'll stick the big bastard right in the gut before he even realizes that he missed me.

Good bye, Crowbar. Hello, Boot Knife.

His fingers tense, his arm begins to rise and I make my move. Dive to the right and roll. It's not as smooth as I would have hoped, but he didn't hit me. I reach down to my boot, but I can't get the knife. Shit! My pants leg is over the sheath. I fumble at the denim, trying to raise my jeans to get at the knife. I look up.

Crowbar has his arm raised over his head, and he's looking down at me. He's smiling. He didn't miss, he hasn't even tried to hit me yet. This is not good.

“Good bye, Bug.”

The crowbar comes down in a blur.

______________________________________________________

My crowbar cracks Bug's skull with a small splatter of blood and the sound of splintering bone. One swing and it's over. I look down at Bug's limp body. Squished Bug. That's pretty funny.

Yeah, these are the times I live for. The simple times. Just me, a crowbar, and some loser who thought he could rip me off. I still remember my first – Johnny Z, the crack dealer. He tried to stiff me, right in front of my buddies. We had just finished working at McGarvey's place, demolishing their old garage, and ran into Johnny Z in the alley behind George's Pub.

“You're going to have to wait a week,” he told me, “I'm out right now. Unless you want some blow.” He straightened the collar on his fancy silver suit, wiped off some imaginary lint.

“I gave you fifty bucks yesterday, and you said you'd have some for me today! You owe me, now!” I was pissed.

“Fuck off, man,” Johnny Z said to me. To me. I looked down to my toolbox, and saw the handle of the crowbar rising above the screwdrivers, tape measure and wood handled hammer, almost begging me to pick it up. I grabbed it, swung it hard and fast, and smashed it right into Johnny Z's face. One shot, down he went. Blood all over his suit. There were maybe twenty people standing there, but nobody said a damn thing while I took his stash and his cash. Instant respect.

Bug might have been able to pay me back in a couple of days, but I don't care. I'll get five payments this week after word gets out. It's like a goddamn TV commercial.

There's not much in Bug's pockets. Two hundred bucks, two fake Rolex watches, an ounce or so of smack. I open up the baggie, lick a finger and scoop out some of the powder. Sniff it, taste it. Low grade, probably mixed with baking soda. Worth maybe twenty bucks, but only to a junkie.

I pocket the baggie and walk down the street. I'm revved up now, I need something more. I take a left onto Fifth Avenue, and see the entrance to the corner diner at the end of the street. Yeah, that'll do it. Finish the day off with some extra cash.

I reach behind me and pull my revolver out from my jeans. Not as good as a crowbar, but sometimes a piece does the job. Gun in my left hand, crowbar in my right, I push open the door and enter the brightly lit diner. I rap my crowbar against the closing door and raise my gun to the ceiling. “Everybody shut up and stand still! Don't move! You! In the back! Get out here!” I point my gun at the cook in the kitchen, he puts his hands up quickly and comes out, shuffling sideways. Always making sure his hands are in plain view. I point to a booth with the barrel of my gun, and he takes his seat, like a trained dog.

“All right, wallets, watches and jewelry on the tables. You,” I point my crowbar at the waitress, “get behind the counter and open up the till.”

There are only three customers, an old couple and a young guy. A pretty boy. Looks like he spends time in a gym. Spoiled rich kid, probably thinks he can be a hero. If he makes one move he's going to get his head cracked.

The waitress slowly goes behind the counter to the cash register. She puts her head in her hands.

“No.” Good. The bitch better be scared.

“Just do what I say, sweetie.”

I hear something by the jukebox. Beep of a cell phone. Is Pretty Boy trying to call the police?

“Don't get fucking cute!” I stalk over to Pretty Boy, lifting the crowbar. He cowers back into his seat, tosses his cell phone onto the table. Probably noticed the blood dripping off the end of the crowbar. Knows that I ain't here to piss around. “Stay right there and you just might live.” I love saying shit like that, like I'm in a mobster movie.

I hear a click to my left and turn to see the waitress, the pretty little thing, with a gun pointed right at me. Where the fuck did she get that? For a split second I notice her eyes, not scared, but hard as steel. Dammit. I fucked this one up.

My eyes focus on the barrel of the gun. It's a shitty place to be, staring at the bullet hole of a .38 Special while your piece is pointing at the ground. Maybe she'll try something cute, give me some speech, try to be a hero.

But she doesn't.

I see the flash from the gun, and I know that I've only got one hope – that the bitch misses. But that ain't gonna happen. I was looking square down the middle of the gun, and that girl's shot a piece before. I've got a fraction of a second to live, and not a damn thing I can do to save myself. I can't move in time.

The gun starts to lift up and I see the smoke begin to rise out of the barrel. I know the smell, the feel, the taste of it, even though it hasn't reached me yet.

I can't see the bullet, but I can see the shimmer of air that the bullet passes through. From my dead center perspective it's a halo, and everything behind the halo is a wavy blur. The damn thing is a true shot. The only thing I don't know is if it will get me in my right or left eye, or right in between. Closed casket for sure.

Another slice of time passes and I can't see for shit. Everything is stars and rainbows and blackness, all in different places and overlapping each other at the same time. Kinda pretty, if it wasn't going to kill me.

The sound reaches me a split instant before the bullet does. I knew it would end this way, but I didn't expect it to come from a pretty waitress. Life's a fucking mystery.

My world ends as I hear the bang of the gun.

Klund's Meme Meme

This meme needs to be done.

1. Memes have been called "crack for bloggers" - why do you agree with this statement?

2. Which is more gay - writing a meme or answering a meme?

3. In what way is this the best meme you have ever answered?

4. Scooter said he never made out in a movie theater, while Mean Mr. Mustard is a fan of Sam Shepard. Which one of them is the biggest loser?

5. I've only been tagged once to do a meme. Does this mean I'm very lucky, have no friends, or both?

6. If you were stuck on a deserted island, which three memes would you want to have with you?

7. Why is question number 7 always the best question in a meme?

8. If you could answer a meme about any topic, which topic would it be?

9. Which would you rather answer - a meme about homosexual giraffes or one about dryer lint?

10. Does your answer to question number 9 mean that you are A) a homophobe, or B) a lintphobe?

11. How happy are you that this meme is done now?

Naturally, I tag Scooter and Mean Mr. Mustard, since they're the only people I know who blog.

Flash Fiction IV

OK, here's the last of my flash fiction pieces. This one was a bit rushed, since I had to miss the class because of play rehearsals. But I did email it to the prof so it could be included. The assignment this time was to write a confession. I think. Something like that. Anyway, this is what I came up with.

Omnipology

I'm sorry. It's my fault. All of it.

I'll take the blame for the whole thing. You got a complaint? I'm the cause. Poor grades? I could've made you smarter. Acne? That was a bad idea. Mosquitoes? Annoying little bastards. Black Plague? What, I couldn't have killed a few rats? Genocide in Rwanda? Messed that one up.

But do you know what my main mistake was? Free will. Stupidest damn thing I did, handing that out. I tell you, if there was no free will then this world would run as smoothly as a baby's bare butt. Honestly, I can not believe some of the choices that you people make. Did you know that in the United States alone there are 23 people who have partially eaten human bodies in their refrigerators? I know everything and I didn't see that one coming.

What do you expect, though, perfection? People think that just because a guy's omniscient, omnipotent and omnipresent (and let me tell you, that's a hell of a lot of “omni's”) that he's not supposed to make any mistakes. Well, you know what? Everybody screws up at some point. It's just that when I do it, it's on a slightly larger scale. You miscalculate your checking account balance, take out too much money, and get a twenty dollar overcharge fee. I miscalculate the tectonic pressure on a transform plate boundary, and suddenly there are 20,000 dead Turkish villagers.

So yeah, it's my fault. But Jesus Christ, why don't you try spending one god damn minute as the all-fucking benevolent ruler of the universe. Let me see how you like it. It's not – and this can't be stressed enough – it is not a walk through a fucking patch of daisies. Have you ever tried coming up with a cohesive set of rules to govern a physical universe? You get one conflicting rule of thermodynamics, and suddenly BOOM! Your universe is toast. Learned that one the hard way.

Here's the deal: I'll take the blame, since it is my fault, but how about you cut me a little bit of slack? Think you can do that? You keep your free will, try and live your life, maybe even be happy once or twice, and I'll take the fall for the big stuff. Hurricanes, bigotry, inequity, the meteor that's heading your way – it's all on me.

So there you have it. I built the world, and it's a damn screwy place, and I'm sorry for that. But you got free will, so you can make of it whatever you want. Now go on and do whatever it is you do, and give me some peace.

Could be worse

Your results:
You are Dr. Doom

Dr. Doom 55% The Joker 51% Dark Phoenix 48% Apocalypse 47% Magneto 45% Poison Ivy 45% Mr. Freeze 43% Green Goblin 41% Juggernaut 41% Lex Luthor 40% Mystique 37% Catwoman 36% Venom 31% Riddler 28% Two-Face 21% Kingpin 18%

Blessed with smarts and power but burdened by vanity.

Click here to take the Super Villain Personality Test

Flash Fiction III

The assignment for our third flash fiction was to write a piece where you could only use words that were 6 letters or less. There was an exclusion list, but I don't think I used any of those words. And again, an attempt was made to hide authorship. I don't think anybody guessed that I wrote this one.

I don't know if that's good or not.

Sunset

He holds her hand and helps her climb down to the craggy rocks below. They step around thorny bushes, moving to a clear slab of wind blown stone. They sit and huddle close to each other for warmth. His hand finds hers, and they wait, still and silent, as the sun slowly moves to its end of day ritual.

The cape juts out from the land, a rocky point that houses the temple to the sea god. Choppy water rushes to meet the rugged coast thirty feet below the temple. Surf sprays the ground, making the uneven paths slick. The few plants that cling to the cape remain small, afraid to battle the wind and water.

He turns to her, places a kiss upon her cheek. His hand pulls a strand of auburn hair away from her eyes and curls it behind her ear. A finger keeps in touch with her skin, slides down her face to her chin, up and over her lips, then leaves, for a brief second, to return with a light tap on the tip of her nose. She laughs and smiles, her gaze still to the west.

The sun, larger than ever, burns deep red as it meets the sea. An island is shown in stark relief, purple and maroon sky ablaze behind it. The sea boils and flames as the sun meets its end. Paths of color streak away from the point of impact, bottles of wine poured over the sea - merlot, shiraz, pinot noir.

"It's lovely." She turns to him, his gaze still intent upon her. "You missed it."

The temple glows red as each column holds onto the last light of the day. The cool marble shines, just as it did ages ago. At last the sun sinks into the sea, and the temple goes dark.

"I didn't come here for the sunset."

Movie Meme

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Flash Fiction II

The second time we did a flash fiction day (four weeks later) there were two wrinkles. The first is that I now knew that sometimes people tried to copy the style of others in the class, or modify how they write, to make it harder to guess who wrote what. The second wrinkle is that our professor gave us a challenge - write the piece without using one letter. Ideally the missing letter should be something that would be important, not a q, j or z. I had already started working on a piece, and since it was first person, I decided to write it without using the letter i. Try it some time. It's fun.

Truth

The old lady nods and beams at me, the baby clutched to her chest. Confused, my words tumble out, “No. She can not be my daughter. Tell them. Tell them that!” Our translator doesn't deserve my anger, but nobody else presents themselves as a target.

He speaks to the lawyer who works for the placement agency. Not enough words are exchenged. He turns to me, “No, they know. Your daughter. Huan Yue.”

“No! Look at the old lady. She holds a baby! She can't be more than two months old. Huan Yue was born fourteen months ago!” My purse holds photographs of Huan Yue that have come to us from Hangzhou over the past seven months. The newest ones are always ready to show our folks, co-workers, and other people who we would see. As the only attachment we've had to our baby daughter for seven months, they are treasures to us.

Pulled from my purse, the small framed photograph acts as my proof, shown to the translator, to the lawyer, to the old lady, even to the baby herself. “Look! Here you can see Huan Yue! Here you can see my daughter! You do not have Huan Yue!”

My heart beats faster. My breath catches. The walls encroach upon my body. We have made plans for today for over a year. We completed such a great deal of work, and expended so much energy to be able to come here. Then, at last, we learned that there was a baby who would be able to become our daughter. We accepted Huan Yue as a part of our household. She was our baby daughter, even though she was across an ocean. She was ours.

And now, after seven long months, my daughter should be before me, and they present me a falsehood! After a thousand dreams where we meet, Huan Yue held to my breast, her small cheek pressed to my blouse, and they offer a fake. A fraud!

Who can come to my rescue? My husband, back at the hotel, probably on the bathroom floor? He has suffered from some unknown malady upon the moment we landed at Hangzhou. Our help here was supposed to be the agency attorney, yet he refuses to acknowledge the truth!

The attorney takes the baby and comes at me, places her upon my arms. “Huan Yue. Yes.”

He looks at me, nods and backs away. Do they see me as a fool? Slowly the facts become clear to me. Only two ways to choose are before me – take the baby offered to me home, or return empty handed, alone.

The baby opens her eyes and reaches out a small hand. She looks at me, dark eyes aglow. She was a blameless pawn, used by others to secure some goal.

A prayer forms as my thoughts turn to the real Huan Yue. May she have a home where she can grow, play and learn. May she have a mother and father to care for her. May she have love.

“Yes. My baby.”

Flash Fiction I

Four times during the course of my class we distributed flash fiction (1 page, 300-500 words). We each bring in enough copies to share with everyone in the class (the professor brings one of his own as well, and sometimes a ringer), which are randomly distributed. We read each of the stories, and then at the end try and guess who wrote which story. I don't know why we did that, but it was entertaining. The first flash fiction was the first day of class, which meant that I had to bring in homework (my first college homework in 11+ years), without having any sense of what the class, program, or other students were like. So I went for odd. I guess.

Jeremiah Finkelbom

Jeremiah Finkelbom was not a happy man. The source of his discontent had nothing to do with his name - Jeremiah Finkelbom - although that had certainly been the cause of many difficulties in his life. Today Jeremiah Finkelbom was agitated due to the actions of the man in front of him.

Jeremiah's response to this issue is one that had been perfected by generations of Finkelboms. Indignation, generally righteous, followed by an internal debate between the Finkelbom and the object of Finkelbom ire (the Finkelbom always winning the debate quite handily). Bouyed by the imaginary victory, the Finkelbom's indignation slowly heats to frustration, then to anger, and eventually to a white-hot rage.

And so, knowing that he had the higher ground against his adversary, both morally and literally (as it happened in this particular instance) Jeremiah turned and completed the centuries old Finkelbom ritual – he took a deep breath, straightened his jacket, and quite softly made a cutting remark about the vile person's choice of attire.

What some would view as cowardice the Finkelbom considered practicality, or in some cases muted bravery. While every society needs its heroes, it is also true that it cannot function without its Finkelboms. There are only so many heroes to choose from, and eventually the young ladies in a town will come to the realization that it is better to have a Finkelbom husband than no husband at all. It was truly glorious in times of war, when the Finkelboms (who had to stay away from the fighting due to flat feet, trick knees or weak wrists) were actually prized – a complete Finkelbom makes a much better spouse than a warrior who returns from battle with a limb shortage.

It is true that Jeremiah did not realize that his actions were part of an eons old ritual, but past generations of Finkelboms would have nodded their heads in agreement as he spoke, barely above a murmer, “I saw a homeless man on Seventh Street who wants his jacket back.” (It was certainly a Finkelbom who muttered to William Wallace, “I see that your mother let you wear your prom dress to the battle.”)

The target of this cutting remark, hearing something, looked around quizzically. Jeremiah merely stared straight ahead, exhibiting the practiced Finkelbom look that said I didn't say anything, I'm just standing here looking at the trees.

And so the victim walked away, knowing nothing about the gross indignity which he perpretrated upon Jeremiah Finkelbom, the terrible mental tongue lashing he received, or the harsh criticism of his choice of outerwear. Jeremiah smiled, having once again defeated a worthy foe, and continued on his way.

Brotherly Love

Drew Davies stared into his coffee and exhaled, swirling the thin
tendrils of steam that rose from the hot drink. He put both hands
around the mug, feeling the warmth, and sighed. “I already told
you everything. I don't know what else you want me to say.”

Officer Antione Gates wrote in his notebook and took a sip of
coffee. “I'm sorry, Drew, you know I'm just doing my job.”
He stood up from the table and brought his mug over to the kitchen
counter, poured the rest of his coffee down the drain and rinsed his
glass. He looked out the window and stared quietly for a minute.
“Steve's motorcycle, right?” Officer Gates pointed to the
driveway, where two wheels poked out from under a dark green storage
cover.

“Yeah.”

“Doesn't look like it's been used for a while.”

“It's been at least two years.”

“Did he ever make it to Sturgis? I remember he always talked
about that in high school.”

Drew walked over to the fridge and slid a picture out from
underneath a magnet. “Five years ago.” He handed the
picture to Officer Gates. A young man, black jeans and black t-shirt,
dark sunglasses, sat on a Harley-Davidson Fat Boy motorcycle, its
chrome glinting in the sunlight. Hundreds of bikes stretched out
behind the man, clogging the wide street.

“Good for him.” Officer Gates headed towards the door,
then stopped and turned back towards Drew. “Oh, yeah, one quick
question. I talked to a couple of people who thought that there was
no way Steve could have done it. What do you think about that?”

“I talked to Brad yesterday. He warned me that you were
fishing for something. You saw the same thing I did, I don't know
what you're hoping to find. My brother did it, all by himself. What
other explanation is there?” Drew shoved his hands into his
pockets and stared into Officer Gates' eyes.

“You're right. I saw it, too. Oh, I think this is yours.”
He pulled a plastic yellow ball from his pocket and tossed it to
Drew. Officer Gates turned and walked out the door.

“Yeah, this is mine.”

* * * *
* * *

“Thanks for coming,” Drew said, shaking hands with Brad
Stenson, Steve's business partner.

“Of course. I still can't believe what he did. I swear, I
never thought he would do something like that.” Brad ran his
hands through his hair. “Have you talked to Gates yet? He was
in the office this morning for almost an hour. I think he's looking
for something, but won't come out and ask it directly.”

“No, we haven't talked yet. He's going to come over tomorrow
morning for coffee.”

“I'm sorry, this isn't what we should be talking about now.
There are lots of people who want to talk to you. I'll see you
around.” Brad shook Drew's hand, gave him a pat on the
shoulder, and walked away.

Drew looked at the group of people milling around, dressed in somber
black suits and conservative dresses. He nodded to men that he knew
and endured hugs from older ladies as he crossed the room. Soft piano
music filtered into the room from overhead speakers. He stopped,
placing his hands on top of the casket.

“Steve was a good man.” Drew turned to see Vanessa,
Steve's high-school sweetheart and one-time fiance. “I can't
believe he's gone. He's too young.”

Drew tensed, his fingers pressing hard to the top of the oaken
casket.

“I know you're mad at me,” Vanessa continued, “I
know you think I shouldn't have left him. You probably think that I
should have supported him more. I'm sorry. Please forgive me.”
She placed her hands on top of Drew's. “Please, I can't stand
to have you mad at me, on top of all this. I know how hard it's been
for you, I've felt this loss, too.”

Drew lifted his hands away and looked her directly in the eyes. “You
have no idea how hard it's been for me. You don't know what he was
like to live with. You don't know what I had to do. You left.”

“I know. But I had to think about myself. He was so difficult
to live with. I needed freedom.”

“Well, you got it.” Drew turned and walked away, facing
straight ahead, ignoring the dull murmer of the crowd, focusing on
the door.

* * * *
* * *

“215 Ash Street! My brother is dead!”

Drew threw the phone down and ran into the bathroom. Steve's body
was on the floor, eyes open, staring blankly into the pool of blood
around his head.

“Dammit, Steve! Why couldn't you have been stronger?”
Drew slowly sat down on the floor next to his brother's body, gently
lifting Steve's head onto his lap. Wiping the blood from his hands
onto his pants, he used his thumb and forefinger to close Steve's
eyes.

Drew didn't notice when the sound of sirens got louder, or when his
front door banged open. He was still staring at his brother's quiet
face and stroking his brother's hair when the first paramedic entered
the room. The paramedic knelt down and felt Steve's neck for a pulse.
“Are you hurt at all, sir?” he asked Drew.

“What? No. I'm fine.”

Officer Antoine Gates stepped into the bathroom with another
paramedic. “Jesus Christ, Drew, what happened here?”
Kneeling down, he pulled a cloth from his pocket and used it to pick
up a black pistol.

“He wasn't strong enough. He just wasn't strong enough.”

Officer Gates set the gun back down and walked over to the sink.
Bending down, he picked up a ball, yellow and slightly squishy, and
placed it in a plastic baggie. “Drew, these men need to do
their job. Let me help you up.” Drew carefully placed his
brother's head back on the floor, and took hold of Officer Gates'
hand.

Officer Gates' nose wrinkled as he lifted Drew off the floor. “Drew,
do I smell gunpowder on you? What happened?”

“I tried to stop him, but I was too late. I had my hand on his
when he pulled the trigger. I couldn't stop him.” Drew held up
his hands, shaking and blood stained.

“I'm so sorry, Drew. I know this has been a tough time for you
guys, but I never expected it to end like this.”

“I didn't either. I honestly didn't.”

* * * *
* * *

“Steve?” Drew walked through the house, looking for his
brother. He went into Steve's room, and saw the door to his private
bathroom closed. Putting his ear to the door, he heard quiet crying
from in the room. He opened the door and entered. “Are you OK
Steve?”

He saw Steve on the floor, his wheelchair next to the shower. Steve
was leaning against the wall, and a gun was in his lap.

“I can't.” Steve said, the words slow and slurred. He
looked up at Drew, tears streaming down his face. “I can't.”

“It's OK, Steve. It'll be OK.” Drew sat down on the
linoleum floor, slowly reached out and took the Glock 21 away from
his brother. The black polymer body of the gun was cool to the touch,
and Drew carefully removed the magazine from the handle of the gun,
then set them down on the floor, away from his brother.

“No!” Steve's shout was low, and followed by a slow
wheeze. “I can't.” He reached to his side and
picked up a bright yellow ball from the floor. It was made of squishy
plastic, the size of a tennis ball, with a smiley face on one side.
Steve attempted to squeeze the ball, but his fingers only made small
indentations in the plastic. “Too late.”

Steve let go of the ball, and it bounced off his knee and rolled
underneath the pedastal sink, resting next to the white marble base.
He slumped over, his head resting on the floor, and began to sob.

“Steve, I'm so sorry. Come on, stop it, we'll get through
this. There's still that clinical trial I told you about, remember?”
Drew slid over to Steve, lifted up his head and put it in his lap.
“We'll keep fighting, right to the end.”

“I want to die. You promised.” The words were slow, and
muffled, and slurred, but Drew heard them clearly. When Steve was
newly diagnosed, they had talked at length about how vigorously to
fight the disease. Steve was a fighter – a strong, bold young
man who tackled problems the same way that he took down opposing
players as an All-Conference linebacker at Central High. Steve made
it clear that the thing he feared the most was wasting away, a
prisoner in his own body.

“I'll fight this as long and as hard as I can, but once I
start to lose, I'm going to end it.”

The brothers were sitting in a waiting room at Memorial Hospital. A
coffee table was in front of them, plastic covered copies of Good
Housekeeping and Sports
Illustrated scattered on top.

“What are you talking about? We're going to beat this thing.”

“Come on, Drew, you and I both know what's going to happen. At
some point I'm going to be stuck in a wheelchair with a tube in my
throat. I won't be able to eat, or breathe, or wipe my own ass. I'm
not going to end up like that. When I start going downhill, I'm going
to use the Glock. Screw it.”

Drew put his head in his hands. “Stop it, Steve, don't talk
like that. You can't kill yourself.”

“I will. And don't even try to stop me. It's happening already
- I couldn't even use the twenty pound weights this morning. I could
pick up fifteen, but not twenty.”

“Yeah, but there's exercises you can do to help strengthen
your hands. And there's all kinds of new research and medicines
they're developing. You don't need to talk about killing yourself.”

Steve grabbed Drew's head in both hands and pulled his face towards
him. “I will try all the exercises and drugs that I can,
because I am scared to death of dying. But it absolutely freaks me
out to think of being trapped in a body that can't do anything. I
would rather be dead. You have to promise me, brother to brother,
that when I decide to do it, you won't stop me.” Steve panted,
taking a deep breath. “Promise.”

“OK, I promise. It's your decision to make. I promise.”

Drew picked up the Glock, and slowly clicked the magazine into
place. “I promised.” He placed the gun in Steve's right
hand, curling his forefinger around the trigger. “I promised.”
He covered Steve's hand with his own, lifted the gun and placed the
barrell to his brother's temple.

Steve looked into his brother's eyes, blinked away tears, and
nodded, slightly. He closed his eyes and tensed, and Drew squeezed
his hand. The sound of the gun resonated in the small room, and it
was all Drew could hear, even as the gun clattered to the floor and
Steve's body collapsed in a heap. Drew stared at the wall, looked at
his hands, and closed his eyes.

“I promised.”

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Can Sam Vimes fix it?

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