Some time last year, my friend Paul Montgomery, as part of his writing duties on the website, iFanboy.com, made a creative challenge — to adapt a fable in comics form. Write, draw, whatever. I didn’t think I had the time to do it, but Paul’s challenge planted a seed. I started thinking of a crudely drawn strip that’s something very different from what I usually do. I decided that my personal challenge would be not only write the script, but to draw it too. I set about trying to teach myself how to draw a simple cartoon.

I didn’t complete the challenge, but the process itself was so fun that I put together a PDF and sent it to Paul. The package contained my original notes, doodles, scripts, and my attempt to teach myself to draw pigs and wolves. I had a lot of fun. I don’t think I’ll ever finish it, but for what it’s worth, it was a fun experiment, and I got a lot out of it.

Now I’ve put the PDF online for you to read, if you so wish.

Enjoy!

The following story originally appeared at part of the audio anthology, “Wormwood & The Five Fingers of Glory,” which was part of Season Three of the audio drama podcast, Wormwood: A Serialized Mystery. The following text introduced each story:

The Hand of Glory remains one of the strange artifacts at the dark heart of the many mysteries of Wormwood. An occult object of great curiousity, The Hand has crept into the very center of the chaotic maelstrom of murder and magic in Wormwood, California. The Hand’s true origin has never been revealed. Until now.
“The Five Fingers of Glory” is a new anthology kicking off third season of the critically acclaimed and award-winning audio drama podcast, Wormwood: A Serialized Mystery.

The anthology series charts the path of the fabled Hand of Glory through history, from its creation in 700 BC to its arrival in present-day Wormwood. Inspired by the works of writers such as Robert E. Howard, Bram Stoker, Dashiell Hammett and Richard Matheson, three Wormwood writers have taken up the task of revealing the storied history of the Hand of Glory from the dusty streets of ancient Assyria to a haunted  Sicilian Monastery to the shadowy backstreets of Chinatown and beyond.

Dead Man’s Hand

(with acknowledgment to the works of Dashiell Hammett)

I.  A Petty Death

“You know this stiff?” asked Lieutenant O’Malley, scratching the whiskers on his chin. He pointed to the dead man lying face down on the street, arms and legs jutting out at crazy angles.

Harvey Cross shrugged his slim shoulders. His eyes were small and close-set, almost invisible beneath his arched brows. He shook his head and said: “From time to time. He’s a snitch. Name of Petty. Linus Petty.”

“Well, looks like Petty was trying to overcome his namesake,” said O’Malley.

“What do you mean?” asked Cross.

“We found this on him,” O’Malley extended his hand. In it was a folded stack of bills.

“Christ,” said Cross, tipping his hat back on his head and rubbing quizzically at his left temple. It was a move O’Malley had seen before, back when Cross worked in the Homicide division.  “So why call me?”

“When’s the last time you talked to your snitch?” O’Malley’s thick brow creased, darkening his eyes.

Cross shot him a look: “What are you after?”

“We found something wrapped up in this wad of dough,” said O’Malley, flipping out a small white card. “Recognize this?”

Cross recognized the simple black font. He already knew what it said. He answered: “My card.”

“We’ve got a small-time snitch carrying some big-time cash… and your business card.  I’m going to ask you again, Harvey, and for the last time… when’s the last time you talked to Petty?”

“I haven’t talked to him in months, Tom. Maybe Petty just liked to keep my name handy. You know how it is.”

“How about your partner?”

“Johnny? No, Johnny’s been working a pretty basic cheating husband thing. You know how it is. Besides, he and Petty didn’t see eye-to-eye. “

“Enough of a difference to kill a guy?”

“You know Johnny.”

“Yeah, I know Johnny.”

“How’d Petty die anyway?” said Harvey, eyeing the corpse. He could clearly see the holes in the jacket, but wanted to steer the conversation down a different avenue.

“Gunshots. Looks like two. In the back.”

“Witnesses?”

“None. Yet. Folks are pretty tight-lipped in this neighborhood, but we’ll find one.”

“So Petty was running away. Out of the alley. Someone shoots him twice. But…” Cross circled the body, walking up to it from behind. “The killer would have had to walk out of the alley, past the body.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So, Petty has a wad on him. That’s no small amount of money, Tom.  Why didn’t the killer take it?”

Tom O’Malley scratched his chin again, then loosened his collar a little. “Jesus, Harvey, I don’t know. Maybe the killer wanted something more valuable?”

“More valuable than money?” said Cross, “Hell, Tom. Now that’s a thing I’d like to see.”

II.  Cross & Callahan

By the time Cross opened the door to the offices of Cross and Callahan, it was nearly five o’clock in the morning. Cross figured he might as well get a head start on the day since there was no use sleeping after the police had put the screws to him. The office was dark. Mindy wouldn’t be in for another few hours, and his partner Johnny Callahan wouldn’t be in for a few hours after that. Cross flipped on the light-switch, but was startled as the telephone began to ring in the early morning gloom.

“Cross and Callahan,” said Cross, nestling the receiver to his ear.

A low whisper of a voice crossed the line: “Harvey. I’m sorry.”

“Johnny?” asked Cross. It had to be his partner, but Callahan was a thick man with a voice to match his powerful presence. The man didn’t whisper.

“It’s the hand, Harvey. I had no idea…” Johnny’s voice trailed off.

“Johnny, I can barely hear you,” said Cross. “Where the hell are you? You hear that Petty just turned up dead?”

“I didn’t believe them,” Johnny rambling loose-jawed now, and Harvey had to wonder if the old rummy hadn’t returned to his ways. The big man had been known to like a drop of the hard stuff. “I didn’t believe him until I opened the door. I think I’m lost. I can’t find my way back. It’s so damned cold here.”

“It’s always cold this time of year, Johnny. Listen, just tell me where you are and I’ll come and get you. You down at that joint on Geary?”

“I’m not in San Francisco, Harvey. I’m not in the city anymore,” said the voice.

“Where are you?”

“Someone is… someone is following me. Every time I turn, they disappear like shadows. But if you don’t look closely, you’ll catch them.  There are doors, I keep opening the doors, but they turn in on themselves. I think I’m walking in circles. The hallway is always the same.”

Whatever was happening, it was clear Johnny Callahan, who had survived the Great War, who had been a decorated policeman and a fine private detective, was cracking up. It had happened to lesser men quite easily, Cross noted, but he never expected it of John Callahan.

“Listen John, I’m going to come and find you. Are you at a telephone box? Where are you?”

“Don’t let them take the hand, Harvey. You’ve got to destroy it. They’re already watching you.” The receiver clicked and the line went dead.

Cross tried to puzzle out his partners words, but it was too early and he hadn’t slept a wink. He dialed Callahan’s house. Maggie answered the telephone in a sleep voice.

“Morning, Maggie. Sorry to wake you.”

“Harvey? Harvey… what time is it?”

“It’s early. Listen, I’m trying to find John.”

“He didn’t come home last night. He said he was on a case.”

“He was. He is.”

“Is everything okay, Harvey?”

“It sure is, doll. Don’t worry.”

“Harvey? You’d tell me if… if  it happened again?”

“ Johnny’s on the job, that’s all. Forgets to check in sometimes.”

“Promise me, Harvey.”

“Mags, I—“ Cross caught himself. He rubbed the narrow bridge of his nose. “John’s my partner. This is entirely business. That’s how it has to be, remember? It’s best for all of us.”

Maggie went cold. “Okay, Harvey. Thank you,” she said reluctantly.

Cross hung up the receiver. He recalled the case Callahan had been working. He rifled through Callahan’s file cabinet, retrieved folder marked “Zane.” He sat down on the leather sofa and flipped through the pages.

III. One Gloved Hand

Mrs. Priscilla Zane stepped through the offices of Cross and Callahan at a quarter past nine o’clock. Despite the early hour, the woman appeared fully put together.  She wore a fur-lined brown overcoat tied over a neat silk grey dress. Her raven curls were smothered by a felt cloche hat. Mindy, the smiling blonde who ran the front desk, politely sent the woman to Harvey’s office.

“I got her as quickly as I could, Mr. Cross,” she said as Harvey lit her cigarette. He returned to his desk, where he retrieved a pouch of Bull Durham tobacco and proceeded to roll a cigarette for himself.

Cross said: “On the telephone you told me you hadn’t seen Johnny in three days, Mrs. Zane.”

“Please, call me Priscilla. Is there a problem, Mr. Cross?”

“Well, the problem… Priscilla… is that Johnny was in here yesterday, and he left this.” Cross slid an open notebook across the desk. “Now, I don’t usually go through John’s things, but I’ve reason to believe my partner is in trouble. He says here that he saw you two nights ago, and you two met with Linus Petty.”

“Yes, yes, I suppose the days have slipped my mind. It’s so difficult. I’m quite nervous all the time, wondering if Herbert is– ” Priscilla dropped her face into one gloved hand. “Do you know that I haven’t seen my husband in two days, Mr. Cross?”

“I’m sorry for your misfortune,” said Harvey flatly in a rehearsed voice. “But Linus Petty is dead, and John Callahan is also missing. About the same amount of time as your husband, I might add. I’ve reason to believe that my partner is in serious trouble.”

Mrs. Zane raised her eyes. “Oh? What makes you say that?”

Harvey considered telling the woman about the phone call but quickly thought better of it. He lit his cigarette and regarded her coolly.

“What’s your angle, Mrs. Zane?”

The woman touched her collar. She seemed taken aback by Harvey’s forwardness. “What do you mean, Mr. Cross?”

“I mean that I know what you told us about your husband, but something doesn’t add up. The whole situation’s queer, and I need you to clear it up for me.”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at, Mr. Cross. I told you what I believe, that my Herbert is seeing another woman.”

“Who is the Albino?”

“Excuse me?”

“Johnny tailed your husband for two weeks, Mrs. Zane. He kept notes. Your husband never even looked in the direction of another dame. In fact, your husband is nothing short of a perfect, law-abiding citizen — with one exception. Three times he met with someone Johnny called ‘The Albino.’ So, I’m going to ask you again: what was your husband up to, and who was the Albino?”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Zane, touching her lips with her handkerchief. “I’m afraid I haven’t been exactly honest with you, Mr. Cross.”
IV. The Value of Truth

The Albino was a man named Alfred Rogers. He was a peculiar kind of merchant. He dressed in smart suits, kept his hair shiny and thick with Brylcreem, but his place of business was a cluttered room the size of a large pantry. The door to his shop was hidden deep along a narrow alley in Chinatown.

“You must be Harvey Cross,” said the man as he emerged from a smoke-filled back room. The Albino was as pale as his namesake. He hid his eyes behind dark spectacles. He was a tall man; he looked down on Cross with a tight-lipped half-grin.

“Mr. White,” said Cross, quickly removing his hat. “Thank for taking my call.”

“I’m not one to meddle with an investigation. My little business thrives on the value of truth. Truths, of course, come in many forms.”

“Maybe you can help me get to the bottom of one particular truth.”

“And which would that be?”

Cross spat: “I’m here about ‘the hand.’”

“Which hand would that be, detective?” asked the Albino with a tight smile.

“Don’t get cute with me, White. The hand of glory. The one Herbert Zane was trying to sell to you. I know all about it.”

“Oh, my dear Mr. Cross, I’m afraid we’ve a bit of a misunderstanding. I’m not in the business of ‘buying’ merchandise. I’m what you would call… a facilitator of transactions.”

“You’re the middle man?”

“If you must put it that way, I suppose. I provide a valuable service.”

“The kind of service that ends with one man dead and two more missing?”

“In my line of work, you can never be certain,” said the Albino. “But in this case I can assure you I have nothing to do with your missing partner.”

“I never said anything about a partner, Mr. White.”

“No, I suppose you didn’t,” answered the Albino amusedly.

If the revelation rattled the man, Cross couldn’t tell. He said: “Tell me what you know.”

“Well, I know your partner was following Mr. Zane. He asked me about Zane’s doings, and I explained that Mr. Zane was looking to sell a family heirloom.”

“And this was something called a ‘Hand of Glory.’”

“Do you even know what it is you’re talking about, Mr. Cross?”

“Some kind of antique from what I’ve been told.”

“And who told you that?”

“Friend of the family. It makes no difference to me, Mr. White. I’m not here about a dusty piece of jewelry. I’m looking for two missing men. And one of them is a friend of mine, so let’s dispense with the pawn shop lessons and get to some answers.”

The Albino chuckled. He pressed his pink knuckles against the counter-top and leaned toward Cross.

“You’re embarking on a very dangerous course, detective.”

“As are you, Mr. White.”

The Albino eased back, returning to his prostrate position. He looked down for a moment, and Harvey noticed the man had a black-eye.

“Yes. Well,” said the Albino, “At any rate, it doesn’t matter. I told Mr. Callahan what he wanted to know, and he left.”

“Did you have a buyer lined up?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And did you give that information to Johnny?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“In exactly what manner are we speaking here, White?”

“My clients are… rather exclusive and peculiar. They prefer their privacy.”

“But you told Johnny.”

“He was… rather persuasive.”

Harvey grinned. The tall man was used to preying on his clientele, and Harvey figured that dealing with street toughs was a little out of his jurisdiction. He glared at White, leaned in, and said quietly:   “I can be pretty persuasive myself.”

The man tensed, and then sighed and said:  “Of that, I have no doubt. I have no intent to withhold anything from you. What I gave Mr. Callahan before he left was this.” White slid a small black card across the grimy counter.

Cross picked up the card. He flipped it over and read the small white type.

He shot The Albino a look: “This is what you gave Johnny?”

“Indeed.”

“What does it mean?”

“It’s the only link I have to my client.”

“One more question, White. Did Johnny tell you anything about leaving town? Going somewhere cold?”

“Not as such.”

“All right, then. Thanks for your time, Mr. White.”

“Mr. Cross? It’s funny that you mention the cold like that. It reminds me of something the client said. He wanted to meet somewhere. He called it the Cold Room. I thought it was perhaps the name of a club.”

“And did you meet the fellow in the cold room?”

“We never got that far. Communication ceased once Herbert disappeared.”

V. Lonely Women in Distress

The following morning Harvey dialed the operator and asked for the number printed on the card given to him by the Albino. The number had been disconnected. Cross set the hand-set back into the cradle and began to read through his partner’s notes and files. After Callahan’s brief note about the Albino, there was nothing to indicate the identity of the other party that the Albino had mentioned.

At half past ten, Priscilla Zane burst into Cross’ office. This morning she wasn’t as prepared as she had been the night before. Her coat was thrown hurriedly over a housedress, and her makeup wasn’t done. Dark shadows clung under her eyes, making the woman look much older than Cross had previously assessed.

“Mr. Cross! I’ve been trying to reach you!”

“Well, don’t you look the fright, Mrs. Zane. Has someone else gone missing?”

“Please, Mr. Cross. Don’t be cruel! Someone’s following me – and I believe they mean to hurt me.”

Harvey looked up from the newspaper he had been reading. The woman looked genuinely distressed.

“Did you get a look at him?”

“I… why, yes. I don’t believe he was even trying to hide the fact that he was watching me.”

“Describe him.”

“He’s a large man… muscular. He was bald. And… he wore a big red mustache.”

“That’s a good look, alright.”

Mrs. Zane continued: “There’s more. This was… very distinct. He had a tattoo. It was of a snake, coiling around his hand like this.” She pointed to the area between her thumb and index finger and then slowly circled her finger around the back of the hand and down to the wrist.”

“That’s very specific, Mrs. Zane. How did you get such a good look at this fellow?”

“I stopped in a store on Union Street. I pretended to try on hats, but I got a good look at him as he waited outside the store-front window.”

“You’re an attractive lady, Mrs. Zane. Perhaps he was just an admirer?”

“Please, Mr. Cross. You can’t be serious. With Herbert and Mr. Callahan both missing… why you can’t possibly… you can’t…”

“Relax, Mrs. Zane. I was just entertaining a notion.”

“Oh you were, were you?” she said, looking into his eyes. Harvey noticed the shift in her manner.

“Let’s go about finding your husband, Mrs. Zane.”

“But what about the man who was following me?”

“Did he attack you?”

“No. Not yet, anyway.”

“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“He could be right outside.”

“Then he’ll have to deal with me, won’t he?”

“And will you… always be close?”

Harvey raised his eyebrow slightly. “I need to ask you something, Mrs. Zane, and I don’t think you’re going to like my asking.”

“But I’ve told you all I know about the hand. It’s a family heirloom that Herbert was trying to sell—“

“This isn’t about your husband, Mrs. Zane. This is about my partner.”

“I don’t understand. You know him better than I do.”

“Do I?”

Priscilla said: “What are you getting at, Mr. Cross?” There was an edge to her voice. Harvey noticed a rosy blush spread across her pale cheeks.

“Look, Priscilla. I don’t care what you get up to in your spare time. My partner… he’s… well, he’s had some trouble with that in the past, you see. So, it’s nothing personal, my dear, but it has an exact bearing on this entire case.”

“Is that a common thing amongst detectives, Harvey?” asked Priscilla. “Lonely women in distress?”

“If you say Johnny took advantage of your… situation… well, I’ll believe you. Johnny was a good soldier, a good cop, and a good investigator. One thing he’s never been is a good husband.”

“And what about you, Harvey?”

There was a light knock on Harvey’s office door. Mindy’s round smiling face pushed through. “Lieutenant O’Malley is on the wire, Harvey.”

“Thanks, Mindy,” said Harvey with a curt nod. He reached across his desk and picked up the telephone receiver. “Cross here.”
O’Malley’s voice sounded tired. “Harvey, you’d better get down here. We’ve got another body. Your cheating husband just turned up dead.”

Harvey wrote down the details and then hung up the telephone.

VI. The Wrong Bed

Herbert Zane was a small, mild man by the look of it. His round spectacles were smashed against the pavement. His body was twisted at terrible angles, but his over-coat seemed to drape over the entire mess like a circus tent. A dark pool of blood surrounded the misshapen body.

“He took a dive, or he was pushed,” said O’Malley.

Harvey looked up at the buildings surrounding him. “He hadn’t seen his wife in days. How in blazes did he end up here? Where’s he been all this time?”
O’Malley said: “I thought that’s what you boys were hired to find out. Still no sign of Johnny?”

“I would have called you if I had,” replied Cross.

“You talked to his wife about this?” O’Malley sneered slightly as he spoke.

Cross tensed. He flexed his knuckles. “Don’t you have better things to be worried about right now, O’Malley?”

“I was just thinking that she must be awfully worried, Cross. Given your partner’s history.”

Cross stepped to the heavy-set man, reached out and grabbed the man’s coat with one hand. He hissed: “Johnny was a good cop, O’Malley. He got a raw deal.”

O’Malley took half a step back and put his thick fingers over Cross’ white-knuckled fist. “I never said otherwise, Harvey. Your partner was a good cop. He just chose the wrong bed to sleep in.”

Cross struck out quickly with his left hand, knocking O’Malley squarely across the jaw. The policeman stumbled back at the force of the blow. A uniformed officer rushed to Cross, grabbing him from behind.

“Leave him, Montgomery,” said  O’Malley, spitting blood on the ground. “You get one, Cross. And that was it.”

Cross wrestled away from the flatfoot. He glared at O’Malley: “Did you search the body, Lieutenant?”

O’Malley nodded to another uniformed officer, who stepped over to Cross and presented him with several objects: a ring of keys, a billfold, and a pocketwatch.

“Just your usual accessories,” said O’Malley. “No suicide note tucked into his pocket, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

Cross flipped through the billfold, which contained a few small bills but nothing more. He lifted the watch, snapped it open. There was a photograph of a woman in the opposite cover. It wasn’t Priscilla Zane.”

“Despite what you think about me, Cross, I do like you,” said O’Malley, “So I’m doing you a courtesy when I tell you that your partner is currently a suspect in this investigation.”

“I understand,” said Cross. He turned and walked away from the scene with more questions than answers.

VII. A Familiar Tattoo

Cross hopped a trolley to head back uptown. As he looked around at his fellow travelers, he noticed a man in a large black coat at the opposite edge of the car. He couldn’t make out the man’s face. He had seen the man on Powell Street. He observed the man from the corner of his eye. The man shifted his position to let a small Chinese woman on the trolley, and Cross caught a glimpse of the man’s large hand. A familiar tattoo wound its way between his thumb and forefinger.

Cross jumped off the trolley car at the next stop. He made his way past a grocer and wound his way through a small alleyway, littered with trash. He ducked behind a row of garbage-cans and waited.

Moments later, the man in the black coat came into view. He walked cautiously into the alley. Cross couldn’t make out much, but he could see the man was built like a Liberty tank. Cross hoped that the man wasn’t as bullet-proof as one.

As the big man passed by, Cross leapt up and prodded his pistol into the big man’s kidneys.

“Not another move until you tell me your game, big fellow,” said Cross.

The man spoke with a thick English accent: “That’d be inadvisable, sir.”

“So’s following a defenseless widow, pal. What’s your game, and why are you tailing Priscilla Zane?”

“The lass is queering a deal between Mr. Zane and an interested party.”

“She’s the one who’s queered the deal, eh? If this deal is so legitimate, why’d you kill Zane?”

“That’s not my doing, sir,” said the big man. “You’ll have to speak with the missus about that one.”

“I wonder what’s more likely… a big man like you pushing Mr. Zane out of a window, or a slim gal like Mrs. Zane.”

“That’s what you call…” the man fumbled for the words, “That’s circumstantial evidence, innit?”

“Following me ain’t helping your chances.”

“It was my client’s suggestion. He thought maybe you knew where the Hand had gone.”

“What do you know about the hand?”

“Not much, sir. I only know my client wishes to acquire it. Priceless artifact, it is.”

“Then why was Zane trying to sell it?”

“Can’t say as I know that one, sir.”

“Why did you say the woman’s trying to queer the deal?”

“The other man. Your partner. Put the screws to the Albino, didn’t he? Tried to stop the deal, get the hand from Zane. After that, they both disappeared. My client presumes your partner killed the Zane bloke and made off with the prize.”

“And they think Priscilla Zane put him up to it?”

“Indeed they do, sir.”

“What’s your name, fella?” asked Cross.

“Louis.”

“Good to know, Louis.”

“What happens now, sir, if I may ask?”

“I don’t know.  I’m still mulling that one over.”

“If I may make a suggestion, sir?”

“Sure, Louis, sure thing.”

The large man wheeled around suddenly, his massive fingers wrapping around Cross’ thin wrists and smashing his gun hand against the brick wall of the alley. The gun’s retort echoed off the walls. The last thing Harvey saw was Louis’ forehead speeding toward the bridge of his nose.

VIII. A Soft Halo

Bruised and bloodied, Cross arrived at the Zane house on Nob Hill. Cross suspected it was inherited wealth, as the neighborhood appeared to be well beyond the means of a meager accountant like Herbert Zane. He pounded on the front door.

A black woman in a white apron answered the door. Her eyes widened at the sight of Cross’ gory visage.

“Is Mrs. Zane available?” asked Cross.

“I’m sorry, sir, “answered the woman, “Mrs. Zane is quite ill.”

“Well, she was fine enough to see me this morning, and I’ve got a few questions for her, so I’m sure she’ll see me now.”

“This morning, sir? I’m afraid that’s no possible.”

“Saw her with my own two eye’s ma’am. So I think it’s pretty damn likely.”

“But…I’m sorry, sir. It’s just that… Mrs. Zane hasn’t been out of the house in quite some time.  The doctor has confined her to bed rest because of the illness.”

After a bit of cajoling, Cross convince the woman, whose name was Alberta, to let Cross into the house. The house was small but ornately furnished. Herbert Zane didn’t seem to be a man who needed to pawn a priceless antique.

Alberta led Cross up the stairs and down the hall to a large bedroom. She peaked her head in first, then quietly motioned for Cross to follow.
A woman lay motionless in a large canopied bed. Her arms were folded peacefully over her lap. She was pale and thin. Chestnut curls spun from her head in a soft halo. Cross recognized her instantly. It was the woman from Zane’s pocket watch.

“Ma’am?” said Alberta softly. “Mrs. Zane?”

The woman stirred, opening her blue eyes. She regarded Cross with mild surprise.

“There’s a gentleman here to see you, Mrs. Zane. Mr. Cross. He says you know him.”

The woman swallowed. She answered in a whisper: “Mr. Cross? Have we met?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Zane,” answered the detective gently. “I’m afraid we haven’t. But I’m acquainted with your husband.”

“I haven’t heard from Herbert in several days,” said the woman. “I’m afraid he may have left me to my illness.”

“Mr. Zane, well, he’s been busy,” answered Cross. “He’s enlisted my help in selling the hand.”

“Ah, yes. The hand.”

“So you know about the hand?”

“Yes. Herbert blames the hand for my current condition, if he hasn’t told you.”

“No I’m afraid he hasn’t given me many details.”

“It was a family heirloom, you see. My father passed away several years ago, and among his possessions was a strange locked box, carved with the most intricate patterns. Herbert broke the lock and discovered a ghastly sight – a mummified hand, encased in wax. At first it seemed a curiosity, but then our luck began to fail. Herbert lost several clients. There was a fire. Our daughter broke both legs in a horse-riding accident. And then my… my health began to fail. Herbert believed the hand was the cause of our dilemma.”

“Why didn’t he just throw it away? Toss it into the bay?”

“He tried. It only cemented his notion that the object was cursed. The hand would always find its way back to us.”

“That’s a hell of a story, if you don’t mind my saying so,” said Cross.

“I would very much like to see Herbert again, Mr. Cross. When you see him, can you tell him that his wife is waiting for him at home?”

Cross looked down at the carpet and murmured his reply: “Sure thing, Mrs. Zane. I’m sure you’ll see him very soon.”

IX.  The Other Mrs. Zane

Back at his office, Cross had Mindy dial the other Mrs. Zane. There was no answer. Cross sat at his desk and cleaned his gun. After a minutes, the phone rang. Mindy stepped into the office. Her face was pale.

“Harvey,” she whispered, “It’s Johnny.”

Harvey sprang across the desk and picked up the telephone.

“Johnny!” shouted Cross, “where are you, man?”

There was a silent hiss on the other end of the phone. Cross called out again. He called a third time.

“Harvey?” The voice quietly hissed in the receiver, “Harvey? Are you there?”

“I’m here, Johnny. Can you tell me where you’re calling from?”

“It’s too late, Harvey. You need to listen—“

“I know about the hand and about Zane,” said Harvey, “Christ, pal. You got yourself in the thick of it this time.”

“Yes… Harvey….the hand. You need to get rid of it…”

“I don’t have it, Johnny.”

“…under your nose… But… you have to… return it…”

“Johnny, where are you?”

“The hand… it opens doors…”

“Johnny, they think you killed Zane.”

“I…we fought… over the hand… we opened a door… I came here… to the endless hallways.”

“You’re not making any sense!”

“…I don’t know where Zane went…”

“He took a dive off a building in Chinatown.”

“Yes… he went through another… door…”

“Johnny, I don’t understand any of this.”

“No time… don’t look further… can’t destroy it… have to return it…”

The line went dead.

X. Under Your Nose

Harvey searched his office. Johnny wasn’t making much sense, but he did say the Hand was “under your nose,” which was a shorthand the two had developed. Years of detective work had led Cross and Callahan to understand that most thieves tended to hide their valuables somewhere close to their home, presumably out of paranoia that they would, in turn be stolen from. Cross had never considered Johnny a thief. He was a many of many mistakes, but that was a line Johnny wouldn’t have crossed unless he thought it was necessary.

He searched his desk, the liquor cabinet, the small leather sofa. He couldn’t find anything. He paced back and forth, pondering what Johnny might have meant. The floorboards creaked below him. Cross looked down.

He muttered: “Under my nose.”

Cross traced the floorboards, pushing on them gently to see where they came loose. Near the corner, he felt as a small section of the floorboards gave under his weight. He pried them up. In a small space beneath the wooden planks was an object wrapped in a handkerchief. Cross retrieved the bundle, and sat down on the floor. He unfolded the handkerchief and looked at the hand. It was a grotesque ornament, leathery and desiccated, coated with a thick waxy sheen.

“So you’re the cause of all of this trouble,” whispered Cross. “They say you’re cursed. Let’s see what kind of trouble you bring me.”

A shot rang out in the outer office. Mindy screamed.

XI. For a Dead Man’s Hand

Cross leapt to his feet. He dumped the hand into the drawer of his desk, picked up his gun, and slid against the wall. A shadow appeared in the frosted glass window.  The door-knob rattled, and the door cautiously cracked open. As the assailant poked his arm into the room, Cross reached out, grabbed the man and twisted his arm, forcing him to drop his weapon. He pushed his gun into the man’s neck. He spun the man around. He had a long face, a thin mustache, and a large bulbous nose. He didn’t look at Cross; his eyes never wavered from the barrel of Cross’ gun.

“The only reason you’re still alive is because I’m hoping to God you’ve got some of the answers I’m looking for,” said Cross through gritted teeth. Behind him, he heard the audible click of a gun being cocked.

“I’m really sorry it had to come to this, Harvey,” said a soft, familiar voice.

“If it isn’t the ‘other’ Mrs, Zane,” he said, not daring to turn his head.

“You know, your partner was a lot easier to convince.”

“What’s your real name, sister?”

“Does it matter?”

“I like to know who’s shooting at me.”

“DeNicolo,” said the woman, dropping all pretenses and picking up an Italian accent, “My name is Francesca DeNicolo.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Miss DeNicolo.  Now I’m going to call a doctor the girl in the other room, or your man here gets it.”

DeNicolo shrugged, stared at Cross for a moment and pulled the trigger on her gun. The man in Cross’ arms jerked violently, causing Cross to pull his trigger. Cross gasped and stumbled back, covered in gore.

“Expendable,” said DeNicolo, “Just like you and your woman. You know what I want, Mr. Cross.”

“The hand,” said Cross, dropping his gun to the floor. “All this… for a dead man’s hand?”

“The object has a great deal of power, Mr. Cross. They say the hand of glory can open any door. That carries quite an appeal to someone in my line of work.”

“DeNicolo…DeNicolo…” Cross nodded. “I know you. You’re the one they call the ‘Black Cat.’ You did the Frankfurt heist a couple years back.”

“My reputation precedes me.”

“You are one crazy broad. Why the charade?”

“I’m a ‘broad’ who get what she desires. The hand is one such thing. My anonymity is another.”

“You let me get Mindy to a doctor, and you can have your damned hand.”

“You have it? Oh, Harvey, you continue to amaze me. You’re more difficult to manipulate than that ape you call your partner, but you certain produce better results. I never expected him to run. Where did you find him?”

“He’s gone. Don’t worry about him. The thing you’re looking for is in my desk. Take it and get out of here.”

DeNicolo looked at Cross cautiously as she circled the room. She kept her gun trained on him as she slid open the desk drawer. She looked down and then up at him.

“It’s not here, Harvey.”

“What are you talking about? I just put it there.”

DeNicolo yanked the drawer from the rollers, letting the contents spill across the floor.

“It’s not here, Harvey! Where is it? In this room? Do you even have it? Are you just buying time to save your girlfriend there? I’ll shoot you both right now—!”

A shot rang through the office. Francesca DeNicolo stared wide-eyed at Harvey. Her mouth dropped open. Blood trickled from her lips as a dark stain began to spread across her green silk dress. The gun fell from her hand, and then after a moment, the woman fell forward and collapsed on the floor.

Cross turned. The massive figure of Louis stood in the doorway, an automatic pistol clutched in his giant hands.

“Client doesn’t like the sort of trouble a woman like that brings,” said the big man.

“I’m not any sort of trouble, Louie,” said Cross.

“Don’t suppose you are, sir. Were you telling the truth then? Hand’s gone?”

“On my mother’s grave, Louie. Johnny had the hand. He gave it to me. I put it right there in that desk. And now it’s gone.”

“That’s how it works, innit? Your partner never owned it. It’ll find its way back to its rightful owner. S’why my client was seeking to buy the hand from Zane. Now I suppose we’ll have to start all over again. Mr. Bressier’s not going to like that.”

Without another word between them, Louis holstered his gun and walked out of Cross’ office as silently as he had entered.

Cross stepped into the main room and found Mindy. The blonde girl had passed out from the shock, but Cross smiled when he saw the wound was only a graze.

She’d need a new blouse and maybe a couple of stitches and belt of whiskey, but she’d live to type another day.

XII. Passed in the Night

Two days later, alone in his office, Cross opened up the morning newspaper and performed his usual routine. He scanned the headlines and then flipped to the obituaries. He was slightly saddened but not surprised to read that Priscilla Bloomington Zane had passed in the night from her illness. The Zane estate would pass on to Priscilla’s only living relative: her daughter Isabella, age twelve.

So, I’m looking to revamp the blog and hopefully dust it off and get some more current content on here. The truth is I’ve been very busy with Wormwood: Revelation and various other creative projects, and this blog is really sort of a portfolio for fiction at this point.

However, I can announce that my newest short story, “Monkeyshines79,” has been published in the latest issue of the online PDF ‘zine, Grok. This is a geek culture magazine that focuses on essays and fiction for the nerdier among us. The theme of issue #6 was “avatar.” I conceived and pitched a short story to the editors, which they accepted. I then went about writing the short story. I do like the short story, but it’s  unusual for me because it’s one of the first ever prose pieces that I pitched first, THEN wrote. It’s a Twilight Zone type of a story, so it’s all about the twist, and it was an interesting writing experiment to come up with the twist and then have to write everything correctly in order to play the twist and make it work.

Grok #6 is online now and it’s free. Please be sure to check it out!

I actually wrote very regularly and was more disciplined and productive in a sustained manner than I usually am.

My NaNo Stats:

Pretty cool, huh? I’m currently at 51,600 words, and I just need to write a couple more scenes, and then I’ll be spending the next few months revising and polishing the work. And then….? We shall see…

Sometimes a little violence is a good thing.

Script by David Accampo

 FADE IN:

            INT BATHROOM - MORNING

            DAN, a single professional dad in his mid-30's frantically
            brushes his teeth. As he leans down to spit, a LOUD EXPLOSION
            sounds from the other room. Dan leans out of the bathroom
            door.

            INT HALLWAY - CONTINUOUS

            Dan's head emerges as he shouts down the hall.

                                DAN
                      Eyes!

            INT LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS

            CHARLIE, Dan's 6-year-old son, sits cross-legged two feet
            from a big screen TV where a violent action movie plays. As
            Dan shouts, Charlie's hands dart to his eyes and cover them.
            After a few seconds, he drops them again.

            INT BATHROOM - CONTINUOUS

            Dan's head zips back into the bathroom. He spits again and
            rinses. From the living room, a man screams.

                                DAN
                          (shouting)
                      Eyes!

                                                                 CUT TO:

            INT LIVING ROOM - MOMENTS LATER

            Charlie sits, watching the violent movie as Dan rushes back
            and forth, putting on a shirt, then tying his tie. 

            The action hero on the TV screen starts to speak. Dan
            interrupts.

                                DAN
                      Ears!

            Charlie obediently covers his ears.

            After a few moments, the screen goes blank. Dan, behind
            Charlie, holds the remote in one hand and a lunchbox in the
            other.

                                DAN (CONT'D)
                      Alright, pal...let's go, go, go! I made
                      peanut butter!

                                CHARLIE
                      And jelly?

            Dan points to the jelly stain on his tie.

                                DAN
                      And jelly. Let's go!

            Charlie obediently takes the lunchbox and heads for the door.

                                                                 CUT TO:

            EXT CARPORT - MORNING

            Dan finishes buckling Charlie into the carseat, then hops
            into the driver's seat. The lunch box sits on the roof of the
            car as Dan starts the engine. He backs out and drives down
            the driveway, lunchbox still on the roof.

                                                                 CUT TO:

            INT CAR - MORNING

            Dan and Charlie rock out to loud punk rock in the car. As Dan
            sings loudly and out of tune, Charlie stops.

                                CHARLIE
                      Dad!

                                DAN
                          (looking in rearview mirror)
                      What is it, pal?

                                CHARLIE
                          (agitated)
                      I gotta go!

                                DAN
                      Now?

                                CHARLIE
                      Yeah!

                                DAN
                      Can't it wait until we get to school?

                                CHARLIE
                      No!

                                DAN
                      Are you sure?

                                CHARLIE
                          (yelping)
                      I'm sure!

                                DAN
                      OK, OK!

            Dan turns looking down the street. 

                                DAN (CONT'D)
                          (to himself)
                      Man, I don't know. Not much...I guess...

                                                                 CUT TO:

            EXT STREET - MOMENTS LATER

            Dan pulls the car over in front of a dive bar with a shabby
            wooden door.

            There's fumbling as Dan opens his door, reaches around to
            Charlie. After a moment they both emerge. Charlie skips
            urgently around the car as Dan leads him to the door.

                                                                 CUT TO:

            INT BAR - MOMENTS LATER

            Dan and Charlie enter the dim, decrepit bar. A scary looking
            TOUGH GUY is leaning into the bar in front of the
            BARTENDER, a big man wearing an eyepatch and an apron. He has
            a whiskey bottle in hand. 

                                BARTENDER
                      Hey, no kids in here!

                                DAN
                      Look, man, my kid's gotta go!

                                BARTENDER
                      Find somewheres else!

                                CHARLIE
                      Dad!

                                DAN
                      Come on, bro!

                                CHARLIE
                      Daaaaad!

                                DAN
                      Hang on, pal--

                                CHARLIE
                      But it's happen-ning!

                                DAN
                      Yeah, just -- what? No-- wait--

                                BARTENDER
                      You can't go in there!

            Dan rushes Charlie past the Tough Guy.

                                DAN
                      Look, just...we're using the bathroom,
                      alright? He'll just go in. Right?
                      Charlie? Just go. Go!

            Dan frantically waves Charlie away, who rushes off to the
            men's room on the other side of the bar.

            Dan stands straight and turns back to the bartender.

                                DAN (CONT'D)
                      I'm sorry, man. Emergency. You got any
                      kids? I mean, you know how it is.

            The bartender and the Tough Guy just stare at Dan. The tough
            guy wiggles an unlit cigarette between his teeth.

                                DAN (CONT'D)
                      Look, let me buy something, alright? I
                      mean, not alcohol, but--

                                TOUGH GUY
                      Ernie's pouring whiskey, amigo.

                                DAN
                      Oh yeah, thanks, no..I'm just on my way--

            The bartender flips over a glass and pours the whiskey into a
            glass. He slides it across the counter. Dan eyes the glass.

                                TOUGH GUY
                      Might as well drink up.

                                DAN
                      Excuse me?

            Tough Guy wiggles his cigarette menacingly. He pulls a knife
            from his back pocket and taps it against the counter.

                                TOUGH GUY
                      Let's just say your timing ain't so
                      great, "dad.' 

                                DAN
                      Whoa...hey, listen guys, let me just get
                      my kid and get out of whatever...

            Tough Guy is slowly, menacingly, approaching.

                                DAN (CONT'D)
                      ...I mean, you guys did say "no kids,"
                      and here I am all wrapped up in my world,
                      and...hey...alright...come on...
            A sudden GUNSHOT; the bartender's whiskey bottle shatters in
            his hand, spraying glass and whiskey.

            Behind Dan, Charlie is aiming a revolver. He squeezes his
            eyes shut and fires again. The unlit cigarette disappears
            from Tough Guy's mouth.

                                TOUGH GUY
                      Jesus...

                                CHARLIE
                      Freeze, asshole.

                                DAN
                      Charlie! You can't say THAT!

                                CHARLIE
                      Sor-RY!

                                DAN
                      I promised your mom!

                                CHARLIE
                      I know. Sorry, dad.

            Charlie turns, waving the gun. Dan flinches and jumps back.

                                DAN
                      Charlie!

                                CHARLIE
                      Oh! Sorry!

            Dan breathes deep.

                                DAN
                      And where did you...where...what...?

            As Dan tries to summon the thoughts, he looks up and sees a
            body slumped in the men's room.

                                DAN (CONT'D)
                      ...holy shit...

                                CHARLIE
                      Dad!

                                DAN
                      yeah, yeah...sorry. We'll both wash our
                      mouths out with soap. Now...now, put that
                      thing down. Come on, let's go... 

            Dan grabs his son's hand and they walk out the door as Dan
            lectures Charlie.

                                DAN (CONT'D)
                      ...and what did I say about picking up
                      stuff up in restrooms? I mean, jesus --
                      er, sorry -- I mean, dude, come on...talk
                      about not knowing where something's been.
                      Listen, I don't want to hear your mom's
                      "bacteria" speech again, you catch me...

                                                          FADE TO BLACK.

Billy stumbles across a strange man in a field and gets a lesson on the difference between good guys and bad guys.

Script by David Accampo

  FADE IN:

            EXT FIELD - DAY

            A wide, yellow field under blue skies. BILLY, a young boy,
            traipses through the tall weeks, talking to himself.

                                BILLY
                      ...but Mr. Sinister didn't count on this
                      secret passageway out of the Savage Land,
                      did he, Ka-zar? Now, once the X-men make
                      it to our hidden outpost, we'll fire up
                      Cerebro and find out what happened to
                      Cyclops...

            Billy comes to an outcropping of large rocks in the field.

            EXT FORT - CONTINUOUS

            Billy's FORT is a sheet of plywood covering two of the rocks.
            He hunkers down at the edge of it.

                                BILLY
                      Ah, here we are, safe and sound.

            INT FORT - CONTINUOUS

            Billy crawls into the shadowy space. COMICS and TOYS litter
            the space. 

                                BILLY
                      OK, Professor, we're back!

            An empty whiskey bottle rolls out of the shadows and smack
            against Billy's feet. At the other edge of the plywood, we
            see a man's FEET stumble into view. Billy stands up.

            EXT FORT - CONTINUOUS

            Billy sees a MAN in a torn suit. He's dirty and bloodied.

                                MAN
                      Hey, kid. Sorry. Bottle got away from me.

            Billy doesn't move. The man reaches into his suit coat. He
            pulls out a PACK OF SMOKES, raises it to his lips and pulls
            out a CIGARETTE with his teeth.

                                MAN (CONT'D)
                      Don't suppose you got a light?

            Billy shakes his head.

                                MAN (CONT'D)
                      Eh. Filthy habit, anyway.

            He spits out the unlit cigarette.

                                MAN (CONT'D)
                      Trying to cut down. So. What you playing?

                                BILLY
                      X-men.

                                MAN
                      Oh yeah? Who you fighting?

                                BILLY
                      Mr. Sinister.

                                MAN
                      Never heard of him. Sounds pretty bad,
                      though.

            Billy nods.

                                MAN (CONT'D)
                      I used to...oh whoa...

            The man staggers and collapses to his knees. He smiles at
            Billy and leans back against a rock.

                                MAN (CONT'D)
                      You don't mind if I sit, do you?

            He looks out at the field.

                                MAN (CONT'D)
                      I used to play super-heroes, too. Kinda
                      like that. Bad guys. Good guys.
                      Who...who's winning?

                                BILLY
                          (shrugging)
                      Good guys.

                                MAN
                          (laughing)
                      Yeah. That's good. That's the way it
                      should be.

                                BILLY
                      Mr. Sinister's pretty powerful, though.

                                MAN
                      The bad guys always seem cooler, don't
                      they? Better powers. Better clothes. But
                      that's the thing, ain't it? They're bad
                      guys. And sooner or later, they go down.
                      And why is that?

                                BILLY
                      Cuz they're bad?

                                MAN
                      Ah, that's what they want you to think.
                      Nah. Nah. The bad guys always lose
                      because they forget something.
                      It's...whatever...I don't know. You think

                      you're better. You think you you've got
                      all the angles covered. But eventually
                      the good guys find the one thing you
                      missed. 

                                BILLY
                      Like what?

                                MAN
                      Oh. It could be a million little details.
                      What's your name, kid?

                                BILLY
                      Billy.

                                MAN
                      Billy. Well, Billy, where do you live?

            Billy points to the edge of the field. The man reaches into
            his pocket and pulls out a GUN. 

                                MAN (CONT'D)
                      You maybe ought to head on home, Billy.
                      There are some guys coming. And believe
                      me you don't want to be here when they
                      get here.

                                BILLY
                      Who's coming?

                                MAN
                      The good guys, Billy. The good guys.

            Billy runs off across the field. The man leans back and close
            his eyes.

                                MAN (CONT'D)
                      Goddamn, I really could have used that
                      cigarette.

                                                          FADE TO BLACK.

Would you sell your soul to win the lottery?

Script by David Accampo

FADE IN:

            INT. BARE ROOM - NIGHT

            CLOSE-UP - PORTABLE RADIO

            a small PORTABLE RADIO sits in a dimly lit room. An eclectic
            jazz mix trails off as a late-night DJ comes on the radio.

                                RADIO
                      ...and that last track was "Regret" by
                      De'Antraye and AJ, from their new release
                      on Punkhop records...

            An almost empty WHISKEY BOTTLE slams down next to the radio.

                                RADIO (CONT'D)
                      ...I'm really digging that groove so
                      we're gonna just play it as it lays and
                      keep spinning with the next track,
                      "Misery Loves..." as we tick-tock into
                      the midnight hour...

            There is motion next to the radio, and then a HAND holding  a
            piece of CHALK darts into frame, scribbling something on the
            bare floor next to the radio.

            EXTREME CLOSE-UP - QUINN'S FACE

            QUINN, a 40-something man in a loose tie and sweaty, rumpled
            dress shirt furious scribbles with the chalk, his face
            twisted with desperation.

            EXTREME CLOSE-UP - LOTTERY TICKET

            Next to the radio, half under the whiskey bottle, is an
            orange LOTTERY TICKET. The numbers are circled in red.

                                RADIO (CONT'D)
                      ...but before we start that next track,
                      this is just a reminder that the 66
                      million dollar jackpot is still up for
                      grabs. That lucky lotto winner still
                      hasn't come forward. So if you're out
                      there tonight, I hope you're
                      listening...those magic numbers are 28,
                      42, 17, 56, 05...and the bonus is 13.

            CLOSE-UP - HANDS DRAWING WITH CHALK

            Back to the hands, we see that Quinn is drawing a series of
            OCCULT SYMBOLS with chalk on the floor.

            The shot WIDENS as we BOOM UP to reveal Quinn sitting in the
            middle of a circle of chalk symbols with only the radio and
            whiskey bottle. FOUR CANDLES punctuate the ring of symbols at
            North, South, East and West. 

            Quinn finishes the last symbol and leans back.

            MEDIUM SHOT - QUINN

            Quinn reaches into his shirt pocket and retrieves a PACK OF
            CIGARETTES. He pull out, fishes a LIGHTER from his pocket,
            and lights up.

            He pauses for a moment.

            INT. DARK HALLWAY - CONTINUOUS

            QUINN'S POV

            Looking down the dark hall outside of the circle of candles,
            we hear FOOTSTEPS as dress shoes clack on the hard surface.

            The footsteps stop.

                                QUINN
                      I know you're there.

            INT. BARE ROOM -CONTINUOUS

            A well-dressed MAN in a BLACK SUIT steps silently into the
            light. He's still heavily cloaked in shadows.

                                MAN
                      Hello, Quinn.

                                QUINN
                      You can't hurt me in here.

            The man steps closer, standing a foot away from the circle.

                                MAN
                      You are correct. You've done your
                      homework, Quinn. Someone's been reading
                      from the Key of Solomon, I see.

            Quinn picks up the lottery ticket and clutches it to his
            chest.

                                QUINN
                      You can't take this away from me.

                                MAN
                          (hands outspread)
                      I am bound by the rules of our
                      engagement, Quinn. I gave you a winning
                      lottery ticket. You gave me your soul.

                                QUINN
                      But I'm still alive. It's still mine.

            The man steps forward again and kneels before the circle.

                                MAN
                      Tell me, Quinn. Why haven't you picked up
                      your winnings? 66 million dollars. That's
                      what this is all about, right? That's why
                      you called me?

                                QUINN
                      You know why. 

                                MAN
                      Think of all the things you could buy. A
                      home. A car.
                          (winking)
                      Perhaps even a woman.

                                QUINN
                      This is day five. That was the deal. Six
                      days and you forfeit your claim to my
                      soul. 

                                MAN
                      Yes, that was a sporting chance, wasn't
                      it?

                                QUINN
                      I beat you! You said my greed would
                      overcome me, but...

                                RADIO
                      ...what a great track that was. And here
                      we are, cats and kitties. In the Witching
                      Hour. That also means this is the very
                      last day for that lucky lotto winner to
                      stake his claim. For the record, the
                      jackpot goes to the ticket that reads 28,
                      42, 17, 56, 05...with the bonus number
                      13.

                                QUINN
                          (laughing)
                      ...It's midnight. I did it. 

                                MAN
                          (sighing)
                      You've proven yourself a man of great
                      discipline.

                                QUINN
                      So, you admit it? I won?

                                MAN
                      You've won our little wager.

            The man stands, and begins to turn away. Almost as an after
            thought, he turns back to Quinn.

                                MAN (CONT'D)
                      Say, Quinn...did you ever wonder why I
                      made you wait six days?

                                QUINN
                      Greed...you told me...it was...

                                MAN
                      This winning number. It's been broadcast
                      now. All over the city. For six days.
                          (beat)
                      This isn't just a lucky number, Quinn.
                      It's a magic number. And it's MY number.
                      You read a book, Quinn. Dabbled a little
                      in the old ways. So, I assume you
                      understand the power of numbers. Numbers
                      are symbols that speak the names that are
                      broadcast into the hearts and minds of
                      millions every night.

                                QUINN
                      What? No...

                                MAN
                      Haven't you felt it? The electricity in
                      the air? The encroaching darkness?
                      Haven't people seemed a little more
                      desperate lately? Maybe...maybe you
                      weren't really paying attention. Maybe
                      you were pre-occupied.

                                QUINN
                      No, no, no...I beat you...I beat the
                      devil...

                                MAN
                          (laughing)
                      Oh, Quinn. I assure you, you are quite
                      safe from me.
                          (beat)
                      The other six million souls in this city,
                      on the other hand...
                          (fierce)
                      They're mine now.

                                QUINN
                      No...no...no...

                                MAN
                      It's about to get "hot as hell" in the
                      city, as they say.
                          (beat)
                      And hey...I couldn't have done it without
                      you. This was your deal, Quinn. You gave
                      me six million souls.
                          (beat)
                      What...eh, what sort of balance do you
                      think that puts on your eternal soul?
                          (waving his hand)
                      In the grand scheme of things?

                                QUINN
                          (sobbing)
                      I'm safe... from... you...

                                MAN
                      I think you're mine anyway.

            The man raises his hand. He's holding a REVOLVER.

                                QUINN
                          (sobbing)
                      ...you can't shoot me...

                                MAN
                      Oh, this isn't for me.

            The man sets the revolver on the floor. He kicks it across
            and into the circle.

                                MAN (CONT'D)
                      That's for when you're ready to join us,
                      Quinn.

            The man smiles a final time, then turns and walks back into
            the shadow. Quinn picks up the gun and cradles it. He sobs,
            but in between we can hear the MUSIC from the radio. 

            Suddenly the music STOPS. A moment later, the EMERGENCY TONE
            comes on the radio.

            CLOSE-UP - PORTABLE RADIO

            We hear a GUNSHOT, and Quinn's body slumps forward, partially
            obscuring the radio. The gun clanks as it hits the ground.

            The emergency tone suddenly stops, and the DJ comes back on
            the air:

                                RADIO
                      Sorry about that one, my late-night
                      legion. We just had a little technical
                      difficulty there for a moment, but
                      everything's all right now. Let's get
                      back into the groove with another tune.
                      This one's called "Little Miss
                      Direction," and I think you'll dig it.

            The new song starts, and a quick burst of WIND blows out all
            the candles as we... 

                                                          FADE TO BLACK.

By David Accampo

Today my name is Leopold Atari. My father, a bronze ambassador from Nigeria, carries the same wide cheek bones and square set jaw. My eyes will be my mother’s. She is Bao Jiaosheng, a Chinese diplomat who met my father at a political conference in Geneva. Her smooth, lighter complexion turns my skin into creamy coffee. They are strong, cultured parents. We drink tea in the balmy Paris afternoons and discuss political affairs. My father laughs and tousles my hair, the silky black mane I received from my mother.

Freeze that moment on the balcony of our apartment, caught in the dappled sunlight and the mild breeze. Ambassador Atari’s head is thrown back, wide mouth agape. Bao Jiaosheng remains calm as she lifts a porcelain cup of steaming plum tea to her lips. But there is laughter in her almond eyes as she crinkles her tiny nose at me.

This is the photograph of Leopold Atari’s life.

Staring at the string of protein sequences scrolling down the screen, I can almost see Leopold’s life unfold in the strange array of glowing letters. I can hear my father’s rich laughter, rising in his throat like a hunting lion.

Leopold, my African prince.

Leopold is happy.

Leopold is a winner, not like poor Skip Trace.

What a disappointment he turned out to be. Despite the wonderfully bushy single line of eyebrow and the aquiline nose. Skip’s eyes were beady and sunken. I lean forward on the edge of the examination bed and look at the face in staring back at me in the small circular mirror on the wall.

Coward, I say to Skip’s reflection. Loser.

How could I not have noticed that when I selected Skip’s traits? I look terrible with squinty little dots for eyes. And Skip’s alabaster skin sounded better than it looked — fluorescent lights are not complimentary.

I push my fingers up against the soft skin of my face, stretch the flesh tight across Skip’s sullen cheekbones.

“I am a Nubian god,” I tell Dr. Max while he pulls up the appropriate code sequences, “I am a bronzed warrior with the ageless fluidity of a Chinese courtesan.”

“Male or female?” asks Dr. Max as he checks off a series of codes, his perfectly tanned hands skimming across the screen. “Both?”

I flash him a sinister glare, but I’m afraid it’s lost under Skip’s squinting gaze. Oh, to be rid of these beady little things! Dr. Max simply must remember the hermaphrodite fiasco. The underwear never fit quite right, and nothing looked good in a mini-dress. The anatomy didn’t work out as well as I had hoped.

Maybe if everything had been positioned just a bit different, and I could have tucked myself into myself…but I suppose I never would have left the house that way. I stifle a giggle as Dr. Max programs the nannites with Leopold’s genetic sequence.

I lie back on the bed and relax, one last deep breath through Skip’s wonderfully angular nose. “Make me Leopold Atari,” I say, “I’ve got a party to attend.”

There is a sharp sting as the syringe breaks the skin, a chill as the cold solution enters my bloodstream and begins to change me.

Make me as I never was.

I close my eyes and focus on the picture of Leopold’s father and mother shadow-flecked in the afternoon sun. What was the joke? I wonder as my skin flushes and the tiny robots inside me begin to work. A savvy political skewering of one of my father’s rivals? How urbane, my mother seems to intonate with a soft flutter of long black lashes. The slight arch of a delicate eyebrow. The tiny machines turn off my nerve endings as skin stretches to accommodate the new bone structure. I drift off a bit, dreaming of Paris and tea and my father’s rich laughter and a joke I will never know…

+ + + + +

Leopold makes his debut at The Club. Midnight. Not too early, not too late. I slide into the club like a panther, almond eyes slipping around the room, checking out the competition.

Heavy drum and bass throbs, hammering my chiseled physique. But these are the beats of my ancestors, early African drums filtered and synthesized, just like me. Leopold Atari: African prince, Nubian god, sleek cocoa-skinned panther. I am equally at home in this club or chatting with politicos on the terrace of some grand hotel. I chuckle at my own imagined joke, a throaty growl like my imagined father, and I slowly cruise across the dance floor, eyes peeled for familiar faces that I will never recognize.

I hit the bar, head moving imperceptibly to the drums in my head and heart and signal to the bartender, a Low man sporting a soft chin and acne-scarred cheeks. He smiles at me, and I noticed he has perfect teeth; orthodontics, no doubt, or some other form of barbarism. He’ll get behind the bar, but he’s not fooling anyone.

“Nice smile,” I say. He blushes and looks down; I see the faint white scar at his hairline. A face lift? Won’t they ever learn? He probably had some exquisite jowls that would have at least been a conversation starter.

The Low Towners never get it; they imagine the body can be carved and shaped to fit some ideal standard of perfect beauty. But beauty isn’t perfect; there’s no blueprint for the ultimate form. Beauty is in the change, the evolution, the reworking of genetic codes to bring out the eyes, the lips, the shell of the ears. Beauty is about the new. The unfamiliar. I wish I could tell them, don’t get those implants, baby, or your breasts will look like that for years. And who wants that?

I am drinking vodka doused in something thick and pink with a slightly chemical aftertaste. I don’t know what it is, but I like the way the bright pink stands out against my dark skin under the dull glow of the dance floor lights. I sip the pink and scan the floor, a strobe flash of writhing bodies, perfect skeletons animated by perfect muscles. White teeth glow. Tanned skin shines. And then I see Franklin Dynamo, still wearing that colossal grotesque that was so popular last year. Is he following the trend or trying to start it again. I stifle a laugh that brings the pink back up into my throat.

You’re not fooling anyone, darling. No one has the nerve to tell you that your twisted skeletal frame is so outstyled.

His brick-like hands sweep past his thighs as his bulging arms flirt against the driving drum and bass. Anatomically proportioned bodies sweep away, keeping their distance. I had a body like Franklin’s once; I remember cruising down the Avenue, my enormous square forehead jutting out like a road sign. It was fun for a time, our foray into the grotesquerie of body attributes that had long since fallen away. I found an old digital video archive about sideshow freaks—such wonderful diversity! The bearded lady, the lobster boy, the pinheads. Such strange and marvelous bodies, twisted by nature without the luxury of body-type engineering. I longed to be a bearded woman, a pinheaded boy…I would get their attention, turn their heads…

You’ll never believe what I have become.

You’ve never seen a thing like me before.

I finally chose the body of a giant man-child, his dumb expression of wonderment was my coat of armor. I was Reinhold Denmark, Boy Giant, and for a few brief moments I was free.

And then everyone wanted to be a freak, and it just became overbearing. Yes, yes, you’re a wolf-faced albino with webbed fingers and a fin on your head. We get it. It’s so tired, baby. Be true to yourself. I now had long blonde hair and a thin, lanky body with perfect upturned breasts, and an incredible pear-shaped ass. Wanda Lithesome was born out of that grotesquerie, and she was a star.

Until that got old, too.

It becomes tiresome at times, to keep yourself fresh and new for the world. But what’s the other option? Settle down in some nice shape for the rest of your life? Just like your parents did? I wouldn’t be caught dead in the same body for more than a year. I mean you are you kidding? You’d be laughed out of The Club.

Then you’d really be alone.

Just like Franklin.

Franklin brushes by me on the way to the bar, thick wrists swaying as he ambles up to the counter. The thick muscles of his jaw stretch and contract as he speaks, that huge underbite slamming open and shut like some sort of animal trap. As he orders his drink from the bartender I begin to wonder if the body form hasn’t finally begun to warp his mind.

You hear about those things, about perceptions finally changing and other citizens leaving the club scene to live outside the City limits in small shacks made from dried mud and straw. At least that’s what I hear. We call it shifting into Low gear; it’s a simple form of regression that takes over when you can’t hack the scene anymore. It’s sad really.

I picture Franklin in the forest, huddled in the brush, snatching small birds from the air with his long fingers and tossing them into his gaping maw, blood and feathers on stuck to the tiny pearl teeth jutting from his enormous lower jaw.

The bartender slides him a tall drink that glows green, and Franklin smiles, his leathery white skin creasing at horrid angles. He rakes his fingers through the tuft of orange hair on top of his head, and the move looks suddenly familiar.

Oh my god.

I think I slept with Franklin.

Once. Before. We met at the club. I was Rita Torpedo, she of the dimpled cheeks and forty-four DD breasts. Like cannons, they were. Keeping the dance floor at bay. Torpedoes away! They even made a song about me. I had to fade away quickly after that. Rita became a character all her own. She began to slip away from me, I was shedding her like a skin. She was no longer mine.

Rita Torpedo was public domain.

And Franklin was…what was he–? A tanned blonde with razor teeth and baby smooth skin…Danny Diamond, I think he called himself. I remember that smooth stroke of the hair, hey baby, where you sleeping tonight?

That sparkling row of teeth!

No, it couldn’t be him. Couldn’t be.

Understand, I don’t like to kiss and tell. I’m a one person person, if you know what I mean. It may only be for a night or three, but when I’m yours, I am all yours…forty-four DDs and all—if those happen to come with the trait-package, that is.

Sign up now for the delicious deluxe package: Standing tall at six feet, 7 inches, the bronze warrior, Leopold Atari, will be the king of your jungle, baby. Rowrrr. I am man, hear me purr like a happy cat.

Time to move on the dance floor. Under the strobes, my sleek body begins to sway. I am a panther, a lion, a tawny jungle cat. Politician by day, animal by night. I am Leopold Atari. I invent a new dance for myself. If anyone asks, it is the dance of my native tribesmen in Nigeria. Or was it Nairobi? I wonder if they have tribes in Nairobi. It sounds more tribal. Yes. Nairobi.

I am Leopold Atari, my father is the ambassador. I was raised in a strict private school, but I used to sneak past the security and head down town to the red light districts.

Yes, I’m sure they have those. In Nairobi. Doesn’t everyone? Don’t ruin my story, honey. It’s as real as I say it is.

Anyway, young Leopold hangs out in these speakeasies in Bwanatown, a large city in Nairobi, and he listens to jazz and smokes very fine weed and drinks whiskey. He loses his virginity there, to a large woman named Marie St. Claire, who moved from the Caribbean to Africa to rediscover her roots. She began singing at one of these speakeasies. Her room is draped in red because it’s the color of love. She smells like patchouli and her pendulous breast swing hypnotically as she rides me to climax after climax. Her pubic hair is thick and kinky, forming a perfect arrow point that ends at her navel. We smoke another joint, and head back to the speakeasy, a ramshackle house made from cheap wood and corrugated iron. It leaks when it rains, and it leans sharply on one side.

Oh yeah, and there are speakeasies in Nairobi because this was when alcohol and drugs were illegal. Before Armand Disco led the revolution and made all the narcotics legal, and invented the weather modulation machines that allowed the arid plains to become rich and fertile.

Don’t ruin my story. What do you know of Nairobi? Exactly, just like this little blonde thing. I’m making eye contact now, my hips moving in circles, in time to the music…our eyes meet, and we match rhythm, moving slowly closer and closer…

Later in the bathroom, she unzips my fly, strokes my erection, and studies my skin.

“This is nice. This is nice.”

“Mmmm,” I say.

“Did you write this sequence yourself?”

“Little of this, little of that,” I say. Her small hands move softly up and down. Leopold approves. I’m about to roar like a jungle cat. I growl and bare my fangs.

“Oooh. You like that, huh?”

“What’s your name, baby?”

“Marguerita Ghostly,” she says, and then stops talking as she takes me into her mouth, softly, softly, her tongue flitting like a phantom. Marguerita. My little ghost.

My breath catches.

And I open my eyes. She is gone. Just another night at the club.

+ + + + +

I go home alone. Club music blares from the speakers; I forgot I had downlinked from the Club music database. I tell the stereo to shut the hell up and hit the bed, still drunk on pink vodka. The room spins. Chemicals burn my throat.

Maybe Leopold is not a drinker. Maybe he’s an alcoholic. The doctors aren’t supposed to do that, but mistakes happen. You hear these things. The girl who fell in love with a Low man. Her parents took her to a back alley doctor. I hear it was a rusty syringe full of outdated nannites running on an old Operating System that can’t read the fine sequence adjustments of modern Rewrite software. They fucked up her head, filled up with feelings and emotions she never knew—just to drown out the love.

They say she killed her parents by loading their drinks with an illegal nannite virus at a cocktail party. They unraveled in front of everyone. Just turned into goo. That’s what they say in the bathrooms, at the cafes, behind closed doors when you meet a partner and you need something to say.

What’s you sequence? Who’s your doctor? Did you hear about the girl with the fucked up brain patterns…?

I heard it was a boy. A lovely boy with a shock of black hair that stood up like a wire brush.

Could be. Could be. Could have been both.

These are the stories we tell.

Like the one about the detective who came to the clubs searching for clues to a murder. A Low girl killed by a Citizen. Some say he was the same Low man who loved the Girl With The Fucked-Up Brain Genes. I don’t know. Seems like a stretch to me.

Like, I said, these are stories…the things we tell each other after orgasm, before we can leave and go home again. Return to nothing.

I sit up and instantly need to vomit. I rush to the toilet and spew pink liquid into the bowl. Leopold. Maybe he’s allergic to alcohol.

Maybe I need to get rid of Leopold.

“Goodnight Leopold,” I say, and the lights fade to black. The volume on the stereo fades up some gentle, almost imperceptible jazz music. I lay back on my bed, head still wobbling slightly from the nausea and the lack of noise. I close my eyes and listen to faint whisper of the music. I can’t sleep in silence. I like to pretend that someone else is here. Maybe in the living room. Maybe it’s my mother and father, paying a brief visit on their way to the mountains for a weekend in the family cabin. My father smiles, tilts his head to listen to the sound from my room. I lay still, pretending to sleep. He glances down at my mother, who is watching a talk show hosted by a chimpanzee with a voice simulator. My mother enjoys the animal hosted shows—she thinks they are good for the animals’ esteem issues. She rests her small head across my father’s broad chest, a wave of sleek black hair fanned about her. She looks up at his dark features in the blue light of the video screens. She smiles slightly, her emotions as indiscernible as ever, and turns back to the show. My father closes his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose.

Eventually, I fall asleep for real.

+ + + + +

Dr. Max prepares the syringe. He taps it, an invisible swirl of tiny robots buzz around inside. The display monitor scrolls a seemingly endless series of codes, adenine, guanine, cytosine…letters and numbers that describe me and who I am, and who I will be.

“What do you want to be today?” asks Dr. Max.

“I want to be happy.”

“What will make you happy?”

“I’m hoping you can tell me, doctor.”

He rubs his squared jaw and thinks for a moment.

“Well,” says Dr. Max, fingers rifling across the keyboard and pulling up reference files. They flash onto the monitor in short bursts of pale light. “We can add some smile lines. Dimples, maybe. Widen the cheek bones. Maybe a slight overbite that allows the teeth to extrude a bit. Those are very nice teeth.”

“Thank you. You made them.”

“God made them. I just gave them to you.”

“I don’t believe in God.”

“Maybe that’s why you’re not happy.”

“Oh, theology. Please. This is tiresome, Dr. Max.”

“What would make you happy?”

“Change my mind.”

Dr. Max leans back in his chair and shifts his legs. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Haven’t you ever wondered…haven’t you ever wondered what it would be like to see the world through someone else’s eyes?”

“As a matter of fact, I haven’t, Leopold.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Okay. Jonathan.”

“I don’t know a Jonathan.”

Dr. Max smiles. He chuckles to himself. “Okay,” he says, “Okay. Who are you today?”

I close my eyes, and I see….I see a man with no face at all. Smooth and perfect, a rolling contour of flesh.

“I want you to take away my face.”

“I don’t think I can do that,” says Dr. Max staring into his display screen.

“I don’t want to be anyone today.”

Dr. Max grabs my wrist. I haven’t been touched since my little ghost put me in her mouth and sucked me into her. He swings around in his chair, leaning in close to my face. “Listen,” he says, and I can smell synthetic onion spice on his breath. “I can make you anybody you want to be. You have every opportunity in the world. Who are you going to be? Who are you?”

I pull my wrist away, shocked at the Leopold’s strength. I push Dr. Max away, his chair sliding back and catching on the thick black mat by his computer. The chair falls over, and Max tumbles to the ground, hitting his head against the sequencing station.

“Hey, hey–!” shouts Dr. Max, rubbing his sandy blonde hair, just beginning to streak with a patriarchal gray.

But I’m already gone.

+ + + + +

I ride the tube for hours after that. I lean from my plush seat and look down through the clear shaft as we bullet over Low Town. The city is dark and low, like a sunken black cancer hiding from the light of the Spires. I can’t see them from up here, but I imagine the Low men huddling for warmth around trash can fires in trash strewn alleyways.

I’ve never been to Low Town, but I’ve heard stories.

You know how stories are.

I imagine them, their dirty, frozen faces, and I wonder how they can possibly come to terms with just one form. In Low Town, you are who you are from the moment you are born. Maybe it’s easier, maybe it’s better just to know.

I look down at my dark hands, the thick muscles pushing wormlike veins to the surface of my skin. Leopold is falling away from me, slipping away…

He’s just a mask.

I try to hold onto the picture of his father, head thrown back, laughing…but the picture is fading, fading slowly in the afternoon sun…I can barely see his face anymore. His skin is all but ashen now. The laughter has long since died away.

Eventually, the tube circles me back to The Spires, back to The Avenue. I exit the tube and wander the street, afraid to be noticed. Everyone saw Leopold last night. The Club was spilling over. Leopold exists; he’s somebody. At least to them. I’m trying to hide in his body and it feels large and awkward and difficult to position. This is not who I am. I hunch over and pull my coat around me.

I want to melt away.

Leopold’s legs give way underneath me and I tumble to the sidewalk.

He’s gone.

This is not my body anymore.

Cross the name from the list.

Leopold is dead.

I look at the dead hands in front of me. A gentle rain begins to fall, a preprogrammed mist designed to clean the streets. That means it’s Thursday, and I’m caught with out my umbrella. The rain hangs in the air, catching the light of the holographic signs displays, creating halos of fluorescent green, blue, and purple. Lights flicker on down the Avenue, and I watch as Citizens duck into storefronts, escaping the gentle mist. Leopold’s face is wet, rain water sliding down the firm contours of his cheeks, but I can hardly feel it.

Citizens scurry, making careful circles around my slumped body as if I am some Low Town man who made it up to the Spires.

I want to turn to dust and be carried away on the rain. Down into the gutters and the sewage ducts. Pumped down into Low Town.

A large black boot lands by my head. I strain and to look up, my vision clouded be the rain filling in the sockets of my eyes. A large shape stands over me. It bends, blocking out the sky, and I see the hideous features of Franklin Dynamo, his tiny pearl teeth jutting from the lower jaw, chewing on the upper lip. His long fingers clutch at my coat, and he pulls me up into a sitting position. He looks into my eyes and hauls me to my feet.

I can’t even keep my eyes open any longer.

Leopold.

Leopold.

Where have you gone?

Why have you forsaken me?

And everything fades to black.

+ + + + +

I wake up in a lovely forest, a gentle breeze tickling my forehead and nose. Birds twitter and chirp in the distance and bright sunlight cascades across my body, absorbing into my dark skin and warming my weary muscles.

And a thought crosses my mind. Who are you? But it drifts gently away, unanswered.

Forgotten.

I relax and stare up at the little puffs of white cloud, creeping slowly across the blue sky.

But then the ceiling flickers; I realize I’m in someone else’s loft, under a holographic nature display. The birds stop singing, and there is the mechanical hum of a door sliding back.

Franklin Dynamo steps into the field. I think of bloody feathers, but I don’t know why.

“Ah, you’re awake,” he says. “I was worried.”

And the first thing I think is: I can’t let anyone know he took me home.

I sit up, looking down at my body. Leopold. You bastard.

“I know you,” I say. “Franklin Dynamo. I’ve seen you around.”

Franklin laughs, a gruff little snort. His sunken eyes twinkle as he sets them on me.

“How are you feeling?” He asks. “Do you need a doctor?”

“I think these genes are dirty.” I wring my hands at him, these great brown paws.

“I know the feeling.”

I look at him, raise a single dark brow like my nonexistent Asian mother would have.

“That’s an…interesting form.”

“A little out of date, don’t you think?” He knows he’s being taunted. What is he after?

“I wasn’t going to say it, but…”

He raises his head and laughs, a long, rumbling laugh that makes me think of a lion hunter from Nairobi that I will never know.

“I’ve been watching you.”

I stand up, stretching out my tall frame, flexing my rippling muscles. I can feel his eyes on me.

“Oh, have you?” I don’t mean to flirt. It’s automatic. I don’t even usually do the same-sex thing. It’s a parts thing.

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

“Just from The Club. The last few months. You haven’t changed.”

He pauses to look at his gargantuan white hands, the long fingers curling slowly like spider legs. He has six fingers on each hand. I didn’t notice that before. He looks up again, runs his eyes down my frame. “You have,” he says.

This is it, I think. He remembers Rita. He is Danny Diamond, and he’s going to remember it all…our night together.

“Do you remember me, Jonathan?” He says, cocking his head and whistling at the sky. The room hums and the forest flickers and dissolves. Soft lights flow from the screen in gentle waves as the room comes back into focus.

“Johnathan,” he repeats.

“Where did you hear that name?” I ask, sitting up.

“You told me,” he says. His eyes do not waver. He sits calmly, watching me.

Waiting.

And I can’t believe I forgot this.

This was before Leopold. Before Skip. Before Rita and Reinhold and Wanda and Courtney Delacroix.

This was lifetimes ago.

And Franklin was little red headed number named Melissa Dahl.

She loved me. What a dirty word love is. It’s the bandage over the cancer of dependency and need, of every little jealousy and betrayal. It’ just a cover up, a little foundation to smooth the skin and bring out the cheekbones. But it’s a killer, don’t ever let it fool you.

We did away with love so long ago, it’s just a fable told at the Club when the music lulls and the conversation runs out. Killing love was the best thing we ever did. Better than curing cancer, even. And not nearly as expensive. We just ignored the fucker and it went away.

What is love, anyway?

You show me the genetic sequence for love, and I’ll show you a crackpot who’s been using his own nano-tech for too long.

But there was Melissa. Sweet, fawning Melissa.

She called me Roger. Roger Orbit. Until the night I told her otherwise.

Roger was tall and lean and perfectly tanned. He had a chiseled body and piercing blue eyes. Classic good looks, nothing too fancy or exotic, just a solid frat boy cocktail. His body went well with all my clothes. A hit at The Club. Of course. It was easy to be Roger. I may have kept on being Roger if it wasn’t for Melissa.

Melissa, Melissa…let me paint the picture:

A night at the club, bebop jazz was back in style that week, so the lighting was dim, a single spotlight on the stage where a Low Towner was blowing the horn. For authenticity, you know. Those Low men know how to play the blues. The only other light was from the flicker holographic candles set atop each of the small circular tables that littered the dance floor. Occasionally, someone would walk in with disco attire and an Asian body type, stopping short when they found themselves in a dimly lit lounge. Someone who recognized them would greet them and politely whisper. The rest of us would sneer and turn back to the stage.

Asian Disco was last month.

Melissa was a kinky redhead with dark skin and green eyes. It was an interesting mix, timeless, a little of this, a little of that. But it wasn’t so much the body or the face or the hair. It was the smile. I wanted that smile. I wanted to unlock that code…was it the faint smile lines, the dimples, the perfectly white teeth? That smile dazzled me. It wasn’t any of those things, was it? I tried them all later. Nothing worked.

Melissa was happy.

I sat down at out table. I watched her quietly as she listened to the music. Occasionally, she would turn, nod ever so slightly, and then smile. I almost couldn’t stand it. I had to know.

“What’s your code, baby?” It wasn’t the best line in the world, but I had to start somewhere. Roger Orbit was just that type of guy.

She blushed, warm red spots on her soft cheeks. The smile remained but her eyes dropped. “All natural,” she said.

“Factory specs?” I said.

Her lips parted in a tiny laugh. She said something, but it was lost in the sudden applause as the trumpeter finished his improvisational solo.

I couldn’t take my eyes off her, but I didn’t know what else to say. Say something, Roger. Say something.

“I’ve got to get a DNA sample.” The words slipped from me amidst the murmur of conversation around us. I tried to stop it, but Roger has already spoken. I was mortified.

Melissa laughed and ran her fingers down her long neck.

Later, in bed, I curled up against her, tracing my square fingers along the delicate curve of her spine. Her skin was soft, silky smooth. She tensed at my touch. I loved the way she moved, so comfortable in her own skin.

“Ticklish,” she murmured sleepily from beneath the tousled red flame of her hair.

Our hands met, sitting together. I looked at Roger’s hands. Something didn’t feel quite right. That was the first time I really noticed the distance. For several seconds I couldn’t move my hand. My fingers lay dead against her palm, clasping her as if rigor mortis had set in. I couldn’t feel her touch.

She opened her eyes. “Roger? You’re trembling.”

I blinked and looked at her. The sensation returned. I returned.

“Is something wrong, Roger?”

“Jonathan,” I said suddenly. I blurted it really. I couldn’t stop myself. “My name is Jonathan.”

She leaned back on her hands, the sheet sliding away from her to expose her pale chest and firm breasts, the pink nipples upturned in the carefully modulated moonlight.

“Jonathan,” she purred, her green eyes setting on mine. I couldn’t look away. “You’ll have to tell me what happened to Roger. I’m beginning to feel like I’ve been ditched.”

I laughed, but it was nervous and quick, too quick. She caught me, reached over, stroked my cheek. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Jonathan. I’m Melissa. And while Roger was pretty…satisfying, I think I might need you to…finish the job, Jonathan. If you know what I mean.”

I grinned and pulled the remaining corner of the sheet away from her. “You never get a second chance to make a first impression,” I said.

Oh god. I hope I have better lines than that now. That was just horrid. It must have been Roger. What a tramp he was.

Staring at Franklin Dynamo now, I can see only the faintest trace of Melissa. Even the smile is gone.

Melissa was the closest thing I ever had to that dreaded “L” word that we all try to avoid. But I couldn’t get enough of her. Usually, I get bored after a couple of nights.

At first I thought I was just jealous of her genetic code. I mean, that smile! That smile!

I wish I could say the relationship ended well, but you know how it is. The longer you stay with someone the messier it gets. That’s why we opt for furtive gropings in the dark corners of the dance floor. Much healthier. And more fun.

But we were spending so much time together. I began to get restless. I wanted to wipe that smile off her face, replace it with something else. She looked good with Roger, they complemented each other like all attractive couples, but now that I was a hairless albino named Xerxes Prime, Melissa Dahl just didn’t quite fit. Like leopard-spotted, crushed velvet bell-bottoms with a plastic tartan rain slicker. You just can’t pull that off. I kept suggesting different gene traits, you know, just to try something different. It’s still you, I would say. But variety is the spice of life. Who would wear the same pair of shoes every day of their life? Especially if they don’t match your frame size and skin color.

Baby, I’ve changed body types just to wear a killer set of neon blue stiletto heels.

Wrong complexion and the neon just wipes you out.

Now…here she is. Franklin Dynamo. A horribly twisted monster who has been out of fashion for nearly a year. I’m longing for that smile, that grade-A, one hundred percent, all-natural smile—that Melissa smile—but all I get is the twinkling pearls of teeth flashing out from that massive lower jaw. Slamming open and shut and he speaks.

And all I can do is lie.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I drop my gaze to the floor, study the dim white shimmer of the plastic tile while I listen to Franklin exhale slowly.

“Perhaps…” starts the low, growling voice, “perhaps…you had better go now.”

I look up, across the small room, into the creature’s eyes. They are moist. They shine in the soft yellow mood lighting that began when Franklin’s room sensed the change in our respiration, heart rate, and voice tone. For a moment, for a moment, I recall the night I left Melissa Dahl behind. By then I was Velvet Godsend, a latin seductress with a cascade of dark curls and a full, pear-shaped ass. Melissa had become Brentwood Harbinger, a thin blonde man with piercing blue eyes and a wide, angular face. Brentwood tried to smile, but it was never the same. It wasn’t the dimples, it wasn’t the smile lines, the straight row of square teeth.

It wasn’t anything, but it was everything.

Melissa had become Brentwood and forgotten how to smile.

It was easy to leave Brentwood. I disappeared across the dance floor, lost behind the writhing bodies of the retro pop dance scene…black light, strobe light, spotlight…gone.

I traded in the ass and the curls the next day and didn’t look back.

I am watching Franklin Dynamo, looking for some trace of that smile, but when the corners of Franklin mouth turn up, his skin creases and folds in sharp, asymmetric angles.

I can’t help thinking: I did this to you.

So, I put on my shirt and leave. No strobe, no black light, no spotlight. No music. Just slide out the door and be on your way.

“Goodbye, Jonathan,” I hear Franklin whisper as I leave. I turn back, an awkward spin on one clumsy leg (damn your lameness, Leopold Atari), but the metal door slides into place with a hiss. The elevator drops me down quickly, and as I pass the one-hundred-twelfth floor, I realize I never even saw the apartment number.

On the tube I pull my minicomputer from my pocket, place the display lens over my eye, and tap my finger to activate the virtual keyboard. I trawl webspace for new gene traits. I’ve got an image in my head; I need a new body and I need it now. I begin to assemble a new sequence. A new me. I place an order to Dr. Max and see if he can fit me in this afternoon.

+ + + + +

Dr. Max looks at me and shakes his head. My mouth is hanging open, but I don’t know if that’s Leopold or just my own astonishment.

“This body isn’t working, Dr. Max,” my voice sounds slightly shrill and it puts me out of phase with Leopold for a moment. I struggle to make my jaw work while Dr. Max stares at me.

“You see? You see? These genes are dirty.”

Dr. Max shakes his head. “Your parents have frozen your account.”

“My parents are in Geneva.” No, they aren’t.

“When was the last time you spoke with them?”

I look at Dr. Max and pretend that my mouth has stopped working again. I don’t want him to know I can’t even remember my father’s name right now. “I don’t need their permission,” I finally say.

“Actually, you do. It’s their money, Jonathan—“

“Stop calling me that! What is it with you people? You don’t know who I am! You don’t know me!”

“I think the time for games is over, son.”

There is genuine concern in Dr. Max’s clear blue eyes. Periwinkle. His eyes are periwinkle. It’s a very nice shade. Dr. Max has been the one constant in my life, as long as I can remember. Like a father.

“Maybe, maybe you can use your own DNA…write me a new code, Dr. Max. Maybe…maybe…”

He’s just shaking his head again. He reaches over, touches Leopold’s shoulder. I flinch at the contact, but Leopold doesn’t waver; he tenses.

Dr. Max says he’s sorry, says he just can’t help me anymore. These things happen sometimes, he says. I can recommend a good resequencing therapist, he adds, right before I punch him in the face.

Or, right before Leopold did. Showing his true colors at last. The bastard. For all his upbringing, for all his nobility, Leopold is just another nasty street thug.

There is blood on my dark knuckles and somewhere in my head Bao Jiaosheng bows her head in disappointment. Her black hair falls across her face as she slowly backs away from the sun-dappled terrace that has grown so faint and dim in my mind. She disappears into the shadows.

Dr. Max is unconscious, lying like a rag doll, half inside his office door. Dark red blood trickles from his nose and lips, sliding slowly down his tanned cheek. I reach down and touch the blood with my fingers. Are you in there, tiny robots? Can you make me like him? Can you make me the son of Archibald Max? That would make it all okay, wouldn’t it?

Every son hits his father, once in his life.

And suddenly, I remember this:

My father’s name is Kent. He has brown eyes and a dimple in his chin. I slapped him across the face once. When I was ten. When I was Jonathan. I don’t even remember why. I just remember the rough scratch of his salt and pepper stubble. My hand was stung with the impact. He was shocked. His brown eyes lucid and unwavering as I withdrew my hand and stared up at him. I remember bright white light and the sharp slap as his open hand smacked across my face. Who do you think you are? he said. You’re no son of mine.

I’m standing over Dr. Max with his blood on my hands.

I am not Ambassador M’butu Atari’s son.

I am not the dishonorable offspring of Bao Jiaosheng.

Archibald Max has no children.

Kent Thomas disowned his firstborn son when he was ten years old.

I have no genes to call my own. I have no body. I am nobody.

I am the bastard son of empty space. A gaping black hole.

Below me, Dr. Max begins to stir.

I am nobody, and I disappear.

+ + + + +

Low Town is dark; it crawls with shadows, hides from the glaring lights of The Spires above. The air is hot, stale; a thick haze of pollution hangs over everything, coating us all. I can hardly breathe.

This is where I belong.

I’m standing in the middle of the street, dirty black asphalt beneath my shiny silver boots. I’ve covered myself with an old blanket, but the shoes give me away. I kick them off and set them gently next to a white bearded man sleeping against a brick wall, wrapped in stained newspapers.

I’ve never been this far down before.

I’m a fallen angel.

I walk down the dimly lit street, my arms outstretched, the blanket draped across my head and shoulders. They stare at me from alleys and doorways. I can feel their eyes on me. I walk among you, I think, I have been cast from heaven. Do not worship me, for I am one of you now.

I am Saint Nobody of Nowhere.

I will lay my genetically perfect hands upon you and take away your pain.

Oh, stop with the martyr complex already, you complete ass.

The truth is, no one cares. I’m just another Citizen, slumming in Low Town.

If they only knew. If they could only see past Leopold’s perfect face. If only they could see how ugly I am on the inside. Maybe they would understand how much like them I am. I can feel it. Is this shifting into Low gear? I just want to curl up into a ball and never touch anyone again. I just want to disappear.

I guess that’s why I am here. This is oblivion. The shadow of the world.

There I go again, talking like a prophet. I’m just a poor little rich boy with no where to go. No one to be.

You know what you’re looking for, don’t you Leopold? You know what we’re after. They’ve forced us into this life, Leopold. Frozen our accounts. Taken our money. Left us alone. Disowned us. And now we’re stuck together Leopold. Stuck together like this.

“I don’t want your goddamn life anymore.”

I think I am talking out loud. Low men stare at me from the corners of their eyes, as they jostle down the street, moving into and out of storefronts and buildings.

Stay away from the madman. I look at the mottled gray sky and laugh.

A man shambles up to me, his face sallow under the burning yellow street lamps that feebly attempt fight off the darkness. His face is rough and worn. He opens his mouth, and says something to me. But I don’t hear it. I want to touch his face. Careworn, lined, dirty, pitted. This is a face that has been lived in. He has stories, this one does. His nose is bulbous and disjointed at the bridge. Was it broken as a boy? A young sailor in a drunken bar brawl? Did he steal someone’s girlfriend?

I cannot hear what he is saying, but my outstretched hand is running down his face. My fingers glide gently across the leathery skin, those lumps of flesh creased and folded. It’s lovely.

The man jerks back, his face twisting with astonishment, then rage. He pushes away, hobbles off, back into the darkness of Low Town, shouting something that makes the spittle spray from his loose, rubbery lips.

And I drift on until I find the thing I am looking for

+ + + + +

I remember one more thing:

This was After Xerxes Prime but before Velvet Godsend.

This was after Melissa Dahl but before Brentwood Harbinger and the end of it all.

This was after Melissa’s first gene alteration.

When Melissa finally agreed to try it. Something simple, I told her, just a slight alteration to the color and skin tone. Haven’t you ever wanted to be taller? You can be anyone.

Anyone? There was a certain sadness in her eyes as she spoke. I didn’t see it then, didn’t want to see it, too busy thinking what sort of pigment her irises should contain.

Anyone.

I just want to be with you, she said.

And I just grinned. How about blonde hair?

She was trying to hold on to me, trying to make herself what I wanted her to be, but all I wanted was the new.

Change yourself.

Become beautiful again.

All I did was ruin that smile.

We went to see Dr. Max together. We selected a complementary palette, skin tones, height, bone structure; we made ourselves a perfect couple. She shuddered as Dr. Max held her arm and injected the nano-tech solution into her. She grabbed my hand and looked into Xerxes Prime’s smoldering gaze.

See you on the other side, Jonathan.

I can’t wait.

We left Dr. Max’s office and returned to her apartment. The sex was great, my pale hands tracing down her caramel skin. We looked into each other’s eyes as we never had before, as my fingers studied the curve of her ribs, the way they angled more sharply now. Her breasts, high and firm as before, but slightly larger, the nipples longer and darker. We kissed and she tasted different. We both pulled back. She giggled.

It’s so different, she said. I didn’t think it would be so different.

We became Aleister Lovecraft and Coco Ramone, light and dark, dark and light. We looked good, dressed well, danced well together.

Everything was good.

For a couple of weeks, anyway.

I couldn’t tell what it was at first. I thought it was something about the flare of her nostrils, the shape of her eyes. Maybe this wasn’t the right trait-package for her. Maybe we needed to go back to Dr. Max and build another couple.

That was it. Just mix up the genes a little, get the sequence right. It’s a whole process. That’s what I was thinking, watching her carefully as she moved on the dance floor. She was beautiful, but she wasn’t finished.

She was a rough draft.

We went back to Dr. Max for a few adjustments, nothing major, just a little twist of the DNA, brought out a couple of features, lost a few others. I got a little work done myself, just to make her feel like we were doing it together.

Same as before, we left the office, took the tube back to her apartment, and had sex. But it wasn’t like that first time. It Something was wrong. She was pulling away. After we had finished, she turned away from me. Her body was closed, arms tight around her.

What’s wrong, baby? I asked, rubbing her shoulders. Her muscles tensed.

Don’t.

Why?

Not in the mood.

Is it the sequence? You don’t like it? Just give it a chance.

But she was right. I could see it too, while I was on top of her, thrusting into her (I had increased my penis size thinking she might be surprised, but she didn’t even seem to notice). I had tried to fix it, but the face was still wrong.

I closed my eyes and kept on thrusting until I came.

I leaned over and whispered in her ear. We can change the sequence, darling. We can do whatever you want. I’ll do anything you want. Is it me? Aleister?

She turned over then, shot a glare at me. Aleister? Aleister? Jonathan, it’s me. Can’t we just be, you know, us?

We’ll always be us, Coco—

Don’t.

What?

Call me that.

OK, if you want a new name, just pick one out. It’s so easy.

Can you leave, please?

What?

I want to sleep now.

I’m sorry baby, I’ll do whatever—

Just leave. Please.

So I did. I took the tube back to my apartment on Spire-27, took some sleeping pills, and didn’t go to the club for the first time in I can’t remember how long.

I had weird nightmares that night. I don’t remember what they were anymore. But I woke up feeling strange and disoriented.

I wanted to talk to Melissa. Coco. Whatever.

I called her, but she didn’t answer. Her video message service picked up the call. The recording was still Melissa. Before the alteration. She smiled and asked me to leave a message.

And I knew what was missing.

That smile.

I took the tube back to her apartment. I figured she must still be in. I needed to see her, to tell her.

The front door slid open to let me in. I called to her. I called her Melissa. She didn’t answer. I almost called her Coco, then thought better of it.

I walked through her living room, which flickered with pale blue light. The display wall was playing an old video download, something pre-digital cinema from the looks of it. The sound was down. Pale ghosts stuttered across the wall in a series of rapid-fire images. I activated the lights and shut down the media player.

Melissa was in the bedroom, lying on her bed and staring at the ceiling. She was perfectly still, her arms folded across her chest. She did not answer me as I walked into the room.

She had shaved all of Coco’s blonde hair from her head. The blonde hair was fanned about her on the pillow. A dotted black line had been drawn around her forehead. It looked like it had been made with eyeliner.

You’ve cut your beautiful hair, I said.

I want you to give me a lobotomy.

Why?

Why not? It’s not my body. It’s just a pile of gray gelatin and I don’t want it there anymore.

I like your mind.

Why? It’s my most unattractive feature.

I’m taking you to see Dr. Max. You’re shifting, aren’t you? You’re shifting.

She didn’t say anything after that.

We went to Dr. Max again, and she became Brentwood Harbinger. But the smile was gone, the face was wrong, and the look in her eyes just said, you may as well have destroyed my brain. I’m just not here anymore.

She couldn’t hack the scene.

+ + + + +

I’m shifting.

I’m shifting down and it’s nothing like the stories they tell. My body is slowly becoming a useless accessory, a mismatched ensemble of leather skin, hard bone and spongy organs.

I stumble about the streets of Low Town, catching the stares of strangers in dirty, birth-locked bodies. Gene coffins. And right now I envy them. I wring my hands to keep them moving, to prove that I am in control. This is not like the stories. My own body is slipping away from me. I’m mercury, I’m quicksilver, and I’m slipping and sliding inside this shambling flesh cage.

Leopold has withdrawn himself.

Leopold is exiting the club.

Black light, strobe light, spotlight…gone.

Leopold is a fictional character brought to life; I built him and animated him like some mad scientist from the old cinema-streams.

And now he’s leaving me.

I can’t destroy him. He’s stolen my life. He’s stealing my body.

And I just don’t care anymore.

The stories we tell, some of them are true. No one really cares. What is truth, anyway? It doesn’t exist on the dance floor, at the bar, in the restrooms. But the stories are there for a reason, and sometimes when you look, you can find the truth.

For instance: The Clinic is real.

It’s a real place, and here I am. I’ve found it.

The Clinic turns out to be a small house with a dead lawn and a collapsed picket fence. There is no abandoned warehouse, like they tell you at The Club. There are no rabid dogs chained in front, wild with hunger and rage. And I haven’t seen any sign of the overgrown cemetery strewn with the blank tombstones of failed Citizens. I think I would have noticed that.

No, there is just a dirty wooden porch with shot through with strips of peeling paint that expose old, splintered wood. A broken swing that hangs on one rusty chain. Plastic letters revealing a name on the worn front door. Simms. Dr. Simms. A simple name for a simple man. I have to lean my shoulder against the wall to knock on the door. I’m trying to stand but my knees won’t lock.

Dr. Simms answers the door himself. He’s a short, sandy-haired man with stooped shoulders and a kind smile. He ushers me in with a wave of his stubby hand. Dr. Simms peers up at me behind thick eyeglasses that magnify his bloodshot pupils in ghastly proportions. The grotesquerie trend in The Spires had nothing on this. His sandy mustache twitches as he speaks. We walk past his kitchen, down the hallway, and into a small examination room with a couch and a tiled floor, harshly lit by fluorescents. It’s a dismal little box, but relatively clean by Low standards.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” asks Simms, arching one enormous eyebrow.

I pull cash from the pocket of my neon blue shimmer jeans. They may have frozen my accounts, but I still have the few thousand I usually carry on me.

“Is this enough?”

“Yes.” He looks at me and purses his lips. “Are you sure?”

“Does it hurt?”

“No.”

“What will happen?”

Simms pulls up a small metal stool and sits down on it. “It’s different with everyone. We don’t know until you wake up. When we’re done here, my assistant will take you to a hotel. Do you understand? We will put you there and leave you. Sometimes you will remember, sometimes you won’t. That’s not my concern.”

“Did you ever have a patient named Melissa Dahl?”

“No.”

“Brentwood Harbinger?”

“I don’t ask for names. What does a name mean up there, anyway? It’s just costume jewelry to you kids. Right? Am I right?”

I don’t answer.

“Now, are you sure?”

“Yes, Doctor. Take away my mind.”

The doctor shuffles over to an old computer terminal on a metal table. He types for awhile, and then activates the nannite solution, which hums in its tank. He draws the syringe. It looks the same as Dr. Max’s. I don’t know what I was expecting. Rusty needles. An old buzzsaw. I don’t know. Something.

Dr. Simms holds my arm and swabs me with alcohol. Close to him like this, I can smell musty leather and tobacco. And something faintly sweet, like mint.

I don’t want Simms to be my last memory.

I close my eyes and try to imagine Ambassador Atari throwing his head back in rich, growling laughter. What was that joke? My mother touches her fingers to her lips. My father rustles his newspaper and glances at my mother. She giggles; it’s something I’ve never heard her do before.

I think they are laughing at me.

Fade out the Atari family and fade into the image of Melissa Dahl. Looking up at Melissa in the pale moonlight, her head back, eyes closed, mouth open. My mouth glides across the bare flesh of her belly; she raises her head, looks down at me and smiles. But it’s not Melissa’s smile, it’s Brentwood Harbinger’s smile, and it’s wrong. The corners, the edges, the shadows. The eyes.

Fade the image quickly. Fade to black. To nothing. To nobody.

But the black turns to blue with a dim light from the back of my brain, and I’m fading in again. Another image, another scene, another picture from somewhere in my mind.

Kent Thomas glares with fire in his brown eyes: you’re no son of mine. He turns his head and looks away from me.

The scene winds forward, and now we’re in my in my room. Later that night. He sits on my bed while I am watching videos and strokes my hair. Hey, sport, he says. I’m sorry about all that before. I’ve just…had a lot of stress at the office lately. I just—can we…just forgive and forget? I turn from my videos and look up at my father. Brown eyes. That crest of blonde hair that sweeps across his forehead. Those perfect teeth when he smiles. I hate him. Whatever. I turn back to my video and forget him altogether. He sits quietly for a minute, then stands and walks out the door.

The needle breaks my skin and the cold liquid fills my veins.

Wait. Wait. Go back.

Go back to the moment of my father sitting on the edge of my bed. He strokes my hair and I turn and he smiles. Not the perfect white teeth. Not the chiseled jaw. Not the brown eyes or the blonde hair. The crinkled skin at the edges of his eyes. The contoured shadow of his cheeks as they lift and tighten.

Freeze that moment: a young boy turning to look up at his father. A father looking down into his son’s eyes. A father reaching out to gently stroke his son’s hair. A father smiling.

I hold onto that image, that single still frame in time. That moment.

And eventually, everything goes dark.

By David Accampo

Leroy leaning on the black iron gate, Leroy owes me forty dollars. He’s thin as a lamppost, bent over, brown skin faded. Shit, I mean look at me. I’m black, white, everything, all mixed up, he tells me, thin arms outstretched, scant black hair curling up his forearms. Why did Leroy tell me that? When he asked me for ten dollars yesterday. Didn’t have any milk. No milk for the kids. His breath was sharp and hot, the metal tang of malt liquor. Hey, can I come in for a minute? I want to ask you something. I’ll pay you back as soon as I get my check. Disability check only comes once a month. Leroy scratches the brown weave of his hair under his baseball cap. Once a month marijuana smoke drifts across the cement courtyard. Leroy’s blue eyes waver when he talks about his newborn baby in the hospital, Her…her heart can’t beat on its own, they got her hooked all up with tubes and wires and shit. But I asked the doctor, you know, ‘cause me and Debra smoke a little pot on occasion, but that’s okay, the doctor was saying that it ain’t ‘cause of that. Can I use your phone to call the hospital? We don’t got a phone right now.

In the courtyard, Pablo paints the door to the apartment next to mine. Bright blue. The police busted it open when they arrested the last tenants, a swarm of black-and-yellow jackets buzzing through. I heard the shouts through the paper-thin walls, heard the stomping boots, heard the door frame splinter. I turned the volume on the television down and listened to the voices, sometimes loud and raw, sometimes low and firm. Pablo’s shiny skin is striped in blue. You let Leroy into your place. I wouldn’t do that, man. He and Debra got a problem with the crack, if you know what I mean. Pablo likes me because I pay my rent, even though its always late. A fading shaft of daylight plunges down the center of the courtyard, down past the iron railing of the second floor, illuminating gray concrete, an overturned tricycle. I think he’s checking your place out, I think he’s casing it. Robert, in #16, got robbed when he was out of town. I think it might have been Leroy. I mean, I heard about the baby, but I never seen it. I didn’t even know she was pregnant, did you? The Washing Woman carries a wicker basket across the court. I’ve never learned her name, but she is always doing laundry, jeans and shirts and socks draped across the railing, drying in the column of sun. The chubby white girl in a plain yellow dress smacks a soccer ball against the mud-streaked walls until her mother cracks open her door. Get in here! Now, you little shit! If you don’t get in here right now, you’re going to be SO fucking dead! The gate creaks on its hinges as Milo walks in, home from work, his coveralls smeared with paint and primer and plaster and dirt. He hums a tune, jingles his keys, and opens his mailbox. Pablo says, Hey, and Milo tips his hat to us and climbs slowly up the stairs.

Pablo shakes his head, telling me the trouble with Leroy. Leroy hasn’t paid the rent. He keeps calling the Health Department about the mildew on the walls, so Pablo can’t evict him. Leroy sold the furniture, the children’s toys. I was in there, man. It’s empty. Pablo shakes his head, and I nod mine; he stops talking, but I don’t start. I don’t know what to say. Leroy’s two younger children, Pookie and Nonnie, sit on the stoop or dig in the dirt by the gate. They are pale, faded like Leroy. They cling tightly to the poles and railings and stare at me, at people walking by. They do not speak. Arthur speaks. Arthur, with the king’s name; Arthur the shining boy. Dark-skinned like his mother, luminous eyes that light amber in the sun. He stands always in the spearhead of sunlight, his wide smile bright, like a sickle-shaped Excalibur. Arthur plays my video games, Oh man, that’s tight. The X-men’s cool. They’s all that. Pablo wipes his forehead with his arm, smearing the paint. He tells me, Be careful. Oh yeah, he adds, I’m going to fix that knob in your shower real soon. I tell him not to hurry, I’ve gotten used to using pliers.

The light fades from the center of the building. Washing Woman nods as she carries her laundry past me, calling over her shoulder in a hoarse flutter of Spanish. Her son, Bebop, the special boy with the hooded eyes and loose, thick-lipped smile, walks behind her and waves at me with one jangling wrist. He likes to do the girls’ hair, his sister’s, Nonnie’s, the chubby white girl’s, tamed into braids and pony tails and fastened with plastic beads and clips. Milo pulls his kitchen chair out onto the second floor landing. He sits his heavy body down and rests his guitar across his lap. He pushes his thick glasses up on his nose and smiles to me. He begins the strum his fingers across the guitar, playing the blues and tapping his foot. He plays every week at Blake’s, but I’ve never gone to see him.

Arthur slips out from across the court, out from blue door #9. He grins at me as he passes, catching the last of the daylight, then runs out the gate, clanging it behind him. The door opens again, Leroy slides out, watching his feet as he shuffles toward my door. Hey, can I come in for a minute? Leroy in the living room, staring at the ceiling, rubbing his lips with the palm of his hand. The baby died. I tell him I’m sorry, that I’m sorry, really, that’s just terrible, and then I pause, and add, is there anything I can do? I got to get Arthur some dinner. You know, macaroni and cheese or something. I don’t know. I can’t even think. I just need a drink. A little something to drink. He drops his long arms straight down his sides, his blue eyes meet mine and don’t look away. Leroy, who owes me forty dollars, but how can I say no?

Above me, Milo’s fingers glide. He’s really feeling those blues tonight; he’s tapping his foot and swinging his head side-to-side, side-to-side. His lips are silent, he isn’t singing, but that’s okay, I already know the words.

Marc and Annette lie on the bed, staring up at the tiny white topographical map of ceiling above the bed. A single sheet stretches between them, covering the odd angles of their naked bodies.

“I don’t know how you can say I’m being selfish,” says Annette.

“Bullshit.”

“Fuck you, you prick.”

“Cunt.”

Annette drags on her cigarette, taps the ash into the small dish between them on the bed. “Yeah, “ she says. “I’m a cunt. That’s what I am, right? Just a cunt for you to fuck. Now that’s selfish.”

“You can’t even understand. Don’t even try. I’m so…fucking sick and tired of…explaining…”

“Maybe you’re not doing a good job of it, then. Because, I don’t know…I think I get it.”

“Oh, you get it. You get it. Fuck. Yeah. You’re not the one taking the pills so you don’t get sick while you take the other pills.”

“Ha. You get the irony of that, right?”

“Don’t condescend to me.”

She lifts up, the sheet falling away from her breasts. Marc watches the pale breast, the thick red nipple as it hangs. He wants to bite it.

“Shut up…stop whining like a little…think about it. Think about it. Think about what I have to do.”

“I’ll be there,” she says. He doesn’t want her to talk anymore. He’s rubbing his temples. He wants to take a shower and forget he ever brought it up.

“For what? The nine months? You’ll help me get fat and do those stupid breathing exercises and say ‘you can’t do it honey, push!’ and then when I’ve got a two year old child and I have to say, this is why you don’t have a daddy—“

“What do you want from me? Isn’t it…isn’t it better to have something…to leave something…? Don’t you want that for us? You say you love me, right? Well. I want there to be something of us…I won’t have anything. I have nothing else to give.”

“Shut the fuck up. Don’t even make it seem like something noble, you fucking nimrod.”

“I’m not even supposed to be alive.”

“Whatever.” He’s told her about the plane crash many times. She’s seen the burns, the scars on his arms and legs. The two-year old who lived as a plane crashed into a cornfield in Buttfuck, Kansas. His mom had shown her the news clippings.

“I hate you. I goddamn hate you.”

“I guess that’s why you broke up with me, then. Except, here we are fucking, and then you ask me that.”

“I can’t make you understand.”

“Try a little fucking harder then.”

Marc sighs. She leans back, and he’s still staring at the nipple, the flesh of the breast the way it slides against her ribcage. He feels himself growing harder and shifts his legs under the remainder of the sheet.

“My parents will help, you know.”

She laughs and rolls back. “Christ on a stick. Yeah…oh, that’s good. Your parents hate me. They fucking HATE me, Marc. And what do you think they’ll say when I go to them with little Marc Jr. asking for a hand-out?”

She turns away, pushing forward with her arms. Going to get up. He wants to turn it back. Undo this. The room is washed out, pale in the sun. He reaches out grabs her upper arm. She yelps. “Get the fuck off of me!” she turns to slap at his arm with her other hand. He can’t help it; he likes the way her breasts move. He tries to focus on that while the blood rushes up into his head. He feels the pinprick pressure at the back of the skull, now it’s blossoming outward. He freezes, hand still tight on her arm.

“Fuck.”

“Marc? What? Are you OK?”

“Yeah…” his voice trails off. They sit there in the quiet. Neither speaking. He can hear her breathing. She doesn’t move, but he can feel the pulse of her heat, beating rapidly, pumping blood through her veins.

“Marc?” she says again. He doesn’t answer. Instead, he breathes in deep and smells something sharp and musty. Neither of them had noticed that the ashtray had tipped over into the cotton sheets. Smoke is rising from the bed.

“Oh Jesus, oh shit,” says Annette, suddenly rising up and back, away from Marc’s grip. “Fuck,” she says, “Fuck.” She’s trying to pat it out with a shirt now, his shirt, stopping the slow brown creep of the singing flame. “God fucking damn it,” she says, leaning back. “I just washed these, too.”

The fog in his head begins to clear. Color bleeds back in to the room little by little as he watches her, leaning back on her knees, afternoon sunlight filtering through the blinds across her pale breasts and big nipples. She’s panting a little, her ribcage rising and falling, and he wants to capture that moment and paint it and live in it for as long as he can.