Midnight Party

"Whoo hoo!"
"Who said that?"
"I don't know! But, who cares? Who fucking cares!"
What do you define as critical mass? I could hold that the critical mass of any party is the point at which the attendees no longer care who is screaming, or why. Yes, this party had certainly reached critical mass.
Nuke had been dancing with Danae for three straight hours and he couldn't walk anymore. Not her, though. She could still dance for another three hours, and probably more besides. He had surrendered and now sat in a dark corner, nursing a cold beer and lightly fingering the new bruise building up on his forehead. That's what he gets for trying to make his wife stop dancing with random strangers. He knew it was a silly thing to do, being almost midnight and all, but damn it if they weren't married!
"You still sulking there, Nuke?"
He looked up, shielding his eyes momentarily from the harsh glare of the strobe lights.
"And what if I am?" He asked, still trying to see who was speaking to him.
"Then I would have to invite you to dance with this pretty girl who's been throwing you looks all night!" At once he recognized him. "Mikhail, the orchestrator of this whole night. The man whose loft they were shredding.
"Mikhail! I thought you'd forgotten I came to this crazy party of yours!" He stood up and clasped his hand, smiling as warmly as his lips could make him.
"This party doesn't get crazy till midnight, ami! Just you wait!" For a moment, Mikhail’s face clouded over, as he no doubt had second thoughts, but that passed quickly. Nuke was sure everyone in this party must have had second thoughts before they reached critical mass. Was this Mikhail’s second, or third?
"Don't think about it right now, ami." Mikhail said, slipping back into his good natured expression of pleasure. "Right now, Helga wants a dance, and what Helga want, Helga gets!"
Nuke stood up and immediately stumbled, his knees loudly and painfully berating him for his foolishness. "Mikhail, I can't."
"Don't be ridiculous. Helga was just left her boyfriend to come to this party, specifically to see you. You're not going to refuse a pretty young girl her wish, are you?"
Nuke stood straight, and found to his surprise that he was able to stand. He felt renewed, invigorated. He felt...alive.
"Where is this Helga?" He asked Mikhail, his eyes glinting roguishly. "I will show her the time of her life!"
"That's what I like to hear!" Mikhail said and clapped him on the back. "She is sitting at the bar over there." he pointed. "No, that's my sister, don't even think about it!" He laughed. "No, she's the one on craning her neck to get a good look at you, you handsome piece of man-flesh!" He laughed again, and started leading Nuke towards the bar.
"Hey, Helga, this is my friend who you asked me to introduce you to. Nuke, this is Helga. She used to go out with Robby. You know, Robby from the Beeper Company? Yeah, she left him to come here. If you'll excuse me, I have a party to conduct. Hey, everyone! Two hours till midnight! Two hours to go!" A loud cheer greeted this and Mikhail went off into the crowd.
Nuke stood awkwardly, looking at Helga. She was pretty, that was for sure, but else was there? "So, uh, how's Robby doing?"
"He's doing like he always does, like a fucking cow. That's how." She had a heavy Russian accent with a voice that could go on stage, but told you to go fuck yourself if you asked it to. She lifted a cigarette in her left hand and drew in deeply, blowing the smoke in his general direction. "So, what the fuck do you do?"
Nuke stammered something about graphic design at some forgettable startup in San Jose before asking awkwardly if she would like a drink.
"A drink? Which drink? The drink of midnight? Do I get a taste a little early?" She chortled for a moment, her head thrown back and the cigarette to the side of her face. "Vodka martini. Shaken, not stirred." This brought out another round of laughter from her and Nuke turned away, taking calling a waiter as an excuse. Honestly, she disturbed him greatly. She just didn't seem completely...sane.
"So, Helga, what do you do?" He asked her, setting the vodka down in front of her. He sipped his Pepsi gently.
"I don't work. Robby took care of anything and everything I wanted. After all, he didn't bring me over here to work, did he?"
"No, I suppose not." She took a sip. He took a sip. The silence stretched on.
"Do you want to sleep with me or not?" She asked. He nearly coughed up his soda.
"What?"
"Don't be so proper. Man. Do you want to or not."
"But, your boyfriend, my wife..."
"It is almost midnight. What does it matter? What does any of this matter?"
"I promised her we would be together at that time."
She looked at him for a minute, trying to gauge if he were serious. "It is almost midnight."
"That doesn't matter to me. I made a promise to her, and I won't break it for the world." She looked at him for a while longer, and when she could tell he meant it, all the predator aura left her and she deflated.
"I guess I'll drink alone, huh?" She asked. The Russian accent was weirdly subdued, and Nuke realized he found her more attractive without it.
"You don't have to." He said, sidling up to her. "My wife is on the dance floor, and I'm sure she wouldn't mind if I spent a few hours chatting innocently with a beautiful girl." She smiled at him. He decided to push the offensive. "So, is your name really Helga?"
"Yes, I was born Olega but when I started dating Robby, he convinced me to change it to Helga."
"Why?"
"So that my ex-boyfriend wouldn't find me."
He was taken aback for a moment. Was she on the run? "What did he do?"
"Oh, nothing much. I stole about one hundred and fifty thousand dollars from him, before eloping with Robby." she glanced up at his eyes. He could tell what she was doing. She wanted to see if he condemned her. If he hated her. She was checking if he still wanted to be around her. He did. She was fascinating.
"Did you know that that's where the Beeper money comes from?" she asked.
"No, I didn't know that. Robby said he inherited it from an uncle...or aunt. I forget which."
"No, I stole the money from Rasputin while we still about to be wedded. Robby convinced me to take it, and in exchange, we would move to America and start up our own business. Funny how things never really work out, no? Robby goes to all the parties, meets all the famous people, sleeps with all the whores and in exchange I sit at home, afraid to leave the apartment, afraid to be recognized." She took a deep breath, put out her cigarette and knocked back the rest of the vodka.
"So, you decided to come to the Midnight Party?" Nuke asked. Her eyes widened a little and she looked down into her empty glass.
"Yes, I did. I'm tired of being his little house wife. I want to be free. And where else can I be free, but here?"
Nuke didn't answer. To be honest, he didn't know how to answer. He didn't know what he was doing here, himself.
"Why are you here, Mr. Nuke...?"
"Rogov. I don't really know why I'm here."
"Oh, you're Russian!"
"Da. But I was raised here so I don't speak the language. Nuke is short for Nikolai."
"You come to the Midnight Party and you don't know why?"
"Yes. My wife knows why she's here, but I don't. I decided I would find out during the course of the night. Who knows, it might be some deeply philosophical reason."
She stared at him for a moment, and he could see the tears welling up in her eyes.
"What's wrong?"
"You are. That is the saddest thing I've ever heard in my life."
He smiled. "I know what you mean. My wife tried to convince me not to come, but honestly, I don't really care anymore."
"How can you not care?" she asked him. "How can you possibly not care? If you don't care, how can you possibly call yourself alive?"
"Maybe that's why I'm here. Maybe I don't call myself alive anymore."
"All men care, otherwise they are not men." she said this silently, as though not intending him to hear it.
Somehow, that phrase struck him. He could see it. Deep in his heart, he could see it. He could see himself, clearer and crisper than he had ever seen anything in his life. What was more, he could see Helga as well.
"Helga, are you trying to punish Robby?" He asked her and he realized how clear his voice sounded. He also realized how clear his mind felt. He had never felt this enlightened before in his life.
"No...Maybe."He could see she was trying as hard as possible not to see. She was intentionally blind.
"You are. You are here to wage revenge on your husband with your life. You should go home. It is almost midnight; think about how close you came. Go home, and forget about Rasputin. Go home, and go out. You said so yourself. Go out and live. Life is too beautiful to let it die on such a pithy thing like revenge." Nuke leaned in to her and kissed her deeply,
"Just, go home, Helga."
She stood up, her face clear of the wrinkles that had made her look old. She was smiling. She was happy, and purpose lifted her face. Tears ran freely down her face but she didn't bother to wipe them. She probably didn't even feel them.
"Thank you, Nikolai. I hope you find what it is that you seek here." she said.
"You're welcome Olega."
She picked up her bag and walked to the elevator, a spring in her step.

Danae came and sat next to him at the bar. "Who was that young lady?" She asked.
"Just a girl who almost made the biggest mistake of her life." She smiled at him and kissed him gently on the cheek.
"Did you finally find a reason to stay?"
"Yes."
"Good."
"Alright, people!" Mikhail was screaming from a dais in the center of the room. "It's almost time. Fifteen seconds to go. Let's count it down!"
"TWELVE!"
"Do you know that I love you?" Nuke asked her, gently placing his hands on the side of her face.
"NINE!"
"Yes, sweetheart. I know it."
"SIX!"
"FIVE!"
"FOUR!"
"THREE!"
"TWO!"
Their eyes locked, and in that moment, his heart locked down, he couldn't breathe. All that mattered, all that was important in all the world, were her blue, blue eyes.
"ONE!"
The explosives ripped the penthouse apartment apart. People from miles around could see the flash of the explosion as the roof of the Hilton lifted off. Even before the lights engulfed him, even after the lights blinded him, Nuke could still see the blue eyes. They eyes that meant everything. Her blue, blue...

(Inspired by Cloverfield, GTA IV and Robot Chicken)

The Crossed

The Desert stretched across the horizon as far as the eyes could see, but C.S. was not daunted. He had made it this far, he would cross The Desert. The Desert would not destroy him as he had seen it do to millions of men; men who months before, at the start of the race, had sworn to make it to the other side. Foolish men. Well, they had all met their various ends.

He chuckled slightly, recalling the man who had cut his own arm to drink the blood. When he died, they had all feasted on warm life. Was that actually funny? Wasn't that sad? He didn't care anymore. He just wanted to escape The Desert.

What would possess a man to attempt a pedestrian circumnavigation of The Desert, many would ask. The usual response is 'for love.' Hah. Those who try it with that as their ambition are weeded off in days. No. Real men cross for power. For strength. For pride. Pride drove him, and pride would see him through.

Many called him a fool for attempting it, just because someone slung mud on his dress, but then, they didn't understand. And he wished they didn't have to understand. His story was a strange one, many would doubt that this sort of experience would drive a man to cross The Desert, but that sort of experience has made men do much more that cross a desert.

 

 

C.S. sat on the bench in front of the bar and drank down the sweating bottle of beer. With the encroaching desert, one could scarce afford a luxury like this. His head leaned back as the fan lazily cooled him off. Made of raffia palms, the fan blade had an amazing effect on him. His entire body seemed to relax and take things easy. He felt someone join him on the seat and didn't bother to look up. He could smell the khai-khai that the person had taken, and knew only one man in the entire town would take such a fowl drink.

"So you finally came. I thought your houseboy didn't deliver the message." C.S. said lazily, raising an eyelid and quickly shutting it, realized it took too much energy.

"I got your message. And I can not say I'm surprised to see you here taking it easy while your wife struggles on that farm of yours." Kenty Uzoagba said, while massaging his stomach with one hand and making the raffia-fan go faster with the other. The perfect picture of a man at his ease.

"I have told her that thing is a lost cause. She chooses to struggle on it, not me. I'd much rather spend my life here." They both laughed, knowing how true that was.

"Anyway, what is so important that you had to drag me away from my concubine?" That was what Kenty called his wife of some thirty odd years. He had been married when he was still a child.

"I am going to buy a goat farm." C.S. said. "I will raise goats and sell their hides. I want you to join me in the business."

Kenty laughed and laughed and when he wiped the tear from his eye, he laughed until another tear leaked out.

"You! Raise goats! You must be joking. You have to be a millionaire to raise goats here! Where will you get the money for water and food? We can barely afford the ones we eat as it is! The Desert will kill your goats! Raise goats indeed. The last time goats were raised was before the Plague. If you can leave this oasis, survive the Plague, collect enough water and food to feed both your farm and yourself, then go ahead,"

"Listen to me, I will—" C.S. cut off abruptly as a white limousine rolled up to the bar entrance. A white-clad man stepped out. He proceeded to the door, with attendants sweeping the floor ahead of him. As the man approached them, an attendant carelessly swept the mud, slime, urine, faeces and water on C.S. and Kenty.

"What the bloody hell is the matter with you?" C.S. screamed. "What the hell have you done? Kenty, why are you just standing there? Let's show these men something! I will not stand idly by while—" Kenty's hand reached up and slapped his face, knocking off a few teeth and splattering his shirt with blood. He looked up in surprise at his friend but Kenty was already folding himself in the customary manner, reserved only for…for…

C.S. found himself on the floor next to Kenty, begging forgiveness for his rash tongue and his imbecility. He asked that he forgive him for being too dense to fully comprehend the greatness that faced him. He kept his head in the saw dust and muttered undying devotion until the Man in White passed and went into the bar. As the white shoe passed him, he struggled with some attendants to kiss the footprint left behind.

Underneath the face he wore now, his earlier anger still simmered no matter what, he could not allow such treatment to go by unanswered.

He looked across to Kenty, and stared in shock. Kenty had not bothered to wipe off the filth on his face. He wore it proudly, but underneath it was a boiling range and murderous intent that C.S. could not mistake. The man was angry enough to kill.

Kenty got up and left, walking straight and proud, not bothering to swat at the flies that perched on him.

C.S. remembered the flies and slapped himself several times before he remembered to run home and take a bath.

 

 

C.S. shook himself from his reverie. Carelessly loosing yourself like that in The Desert could get you more that killed. He got up and walked a few more miles, fantasising about the treatment he would get when he left the desert. Things would be easy then.

Was that really the reason why he had started on this ungodly journey? He had always believed it was for a good cause. Anyway, continuing the story…

 

 

C.S. got home and soaked himself in a tub of water he couldn't afford. He knew he and his wife would starve a few days for the luxury he took. As he stepped out, he could hear her screaming. She had probably realized what he did. He most certainly would not sleep that night.

"Before you ask," he said, coming out of the wash area, "One of the Crossed splashed it on my clothes. I am not really to blame. If you want to blame someone, blame him."

He saw her expression change instantly. It was now something close to devotion.

"He splashed on you?" she asked. "Did you thank him for noticing you worthy to be splashed by his holy mud?"

"Yes." He said, and wished he had throttled the man. This was low in his mind, because he couldn't bring himself to actually think of killing One of the Crossed.

"He splashed on you…" her hand strayed to the towel wrapped round his waist.

"He noticed you..." the towel came off easily and he didn't stop it.

"He noticed you…"

 

A city! Yes, it was indeed a city. A city in this Godforsaken desert. Where there was a city, there was water. Even if only a drop, it was probably still there. C.S. bent down on hand and knees searching for a wet patch in the soil. Even the barest moisture would help him for at least a week.

 

 

C.S. filed the complaint the next morning. On the document, his and Kenty's names were most prominent. He was tired of the oppression and hoped he had started on the road to fixing.

He met Kenty for their usual drink, and waited around the Council Room for the list of complaints to be read.

"The clerk called the names and their problems with the grace and boredom of a man who had done it a million times. Finally, the man got to C.S. and Kenty's problem.

"C.S. and Kenty Uzoagba are calling…" the man faltered for the first time. "They are calling…calling…One of the Crossed to be judged by the Council."

People screamed, some shouted, others fainted dead away. C.S. and Kenty maintained their ground and pleaded their case against the Council.

After the hearing, the Council decreed their answer:

"These two normal men who have never even ventured into the Desert try to challenge one of the deities who have crossed it. We decree that these ungrateful mongrels be strapped by all able-bodied men of the town at least twice each. Their families however, shall be hanged for loving such animals. The very idea of these…these…men! They shall be allowed to walk free after the caning, but with a mark on their face so that any who meet them will know what they did and will not speak to them!"

C.S. felt the arms enclose around him and didn't even bother to stop them. He hardly felt the blows. Only one thought resonated through his head. She will die. She will die. She will die.

Kenty felt the blow and his face registered everyone. Is he still sane? C.S. asked himself.

 

Two weeks later, C.S. still sat at the foot of the gibbets. He looked up and stared at her free-swinging body. So, this was it. She was gone. Just like that. He was unable to feel anything.

Suddenly, he saw Kenty coming and went to join him. At least, it was better than sitting in the sun all day, watching a corpse.

C.S. watched Kenty moving. He was strange now. He moved lethargically, being careful of his steps. His eyes had a glazed look that made C.S. uneasy.

"Where are you going?" C.S. ventured.

"To the house of the Crossed." Kenty said, without emotion.

"Why?"

"Because I am tired."

"Tired of what?"

"Of the oppression. I wish to show that just because they crossed the Desert does not make them gods."

"Good luck."

He turned and went towards the Council's building. He knew what he had been about the do from the minute that slime had defaced him. When he got there, he could see the line of men waiting to enter their names to the list of those who wanted to try to cross the Desert. He joined the line and immediately was pushed to the front line. No one wanted to stand near the Marked Man. The palm tree on his cheek marked him an outcast.

He faced the clerk and said his name clearly, making no move to hide the scar on his face.

The man wrote the name down, copying it out on the badge and looked up to hand him the badge.

The man blinked. Again. And again. C.S. never heard the voice of the man, nor saw his teeth. He never saw any of those people again.

As soon as he attached the badge, he could hear the faint chiming of bells to the north. Murder. Murder in this town. He smiled. He already knew what had happened. He had suspected it from the moment he had first seen Kenty's eyes. He went to the proclamation centre. He could see Kenty swinging freely on the gibbet. He looked into Kenty's glazed eyes. As expected. They hadn't even given him a trial. They hadn't even proclaimed him a felon to be executed. He was just simply dead.

The foremost member of the Crossed stepped out and made a proclamation.

"This man who swings here has murdered one of us. I wish everyone to spit on him, to show our disgust on this matter. But that is for later. Now, I wish luck to those men who wish to join our ranks. May the dead Crossed watch over your journey." That was it. But then again, had he really expected them to treat each other better than they treat everyone else?

 

 

C.S. sat down on the hard floor and wept. There were no tears in his weeping, but it was still weeping. There was no water. Not even a splash. Nothing.

He looked up into the burning sun and stood. He had to keep moving.

 

The day that the Crossers left was always one of mixed feelings. Some people were glad about it while others wept openly. Some saw it as an opportunity to alleviate their pain. Others saw it as nothing but loosing their loved ones. There was no one there for him. He smiled ruefully and rubbed the scar on his face. When it was started, there was no end.

He looked into the desert and had to gasp. For a minute, he thought he saw an image of a palm tree on the far side of the Desert. That was supposed to signal that he would see the other side of the Desert.

"I just saw a palm." He whispered.

"I doubt it. There is no way a marked man can see the other side of the desert."

C.S. looked up to the first voice he had heard directed at him in weeks. It was from a skinny fellow, who seemed ready to kill for the benefits of becoming One of the Crossed.

"Can't you see the mark? Why are you speaking to me?" he savoured the voice.

"By the time this race is over, one of us will be dead. I don't see why not to speak to you. Besides, you are somewhat of a role model for my son. He wants to be able to stand up to the Crossed like you did. I don't care what everyone says, you'll be my hero."

"If I am such a role model, why don't you think I can finish this race?"

"Because you do not run for love. You run for pride, not love. If you had someone you loved on the other side of the desert, you would make it. But you don't. So, you won't."

C.S. had to laugh at that. "Love. Love! That has to be the most naïve thing I have ever heard! Run for love. You believe in the power of love, I suppose?" the man nodded fervently. "Love has no power. It is an idea that those with power have created to console those without. If you run for love, you will die in this desert. If you don't find another reason, like to live, I wish you a quiet death in your sleep."

The man frowned and went off, chatting with everyone and making as much small talk as possible.

"And don't cry!" C.S. shouted after him. "Conserve your tears for when you die."

C.S. sat down and put his head on his forearms, resting the weight for the moment. For love! How ridiculous!

 

 

C.S. glanced at the sun, but he didn't have the energy anymore. He just wanted to live. That was all.

As he moved, he saw his friend, the tiny bird that would report the events of the race to the druids who would announce it to the citizens. At least, that was what he supposed the bird was for. He had given up chasing the child in the dunes when he realized that the boy was just his imagination. He could still hear the mocking laughter if he listened hard enough. The bird might be in the same league as the boy.

At least, he had only one more day in him. If the race wasn't finished by that night, he knew he would die.

 

 

The race started off without much ardour, most people seeking to conserve strength. He moved with a languid grace that he hoped would help him when the cold of the night settled in. some tried to imitate his slow walk but always tripped over themselves. Wasteful fools.

The first camp was not far from the starting point, but no one stopped there. Everyone wanted to be at the second camp by nightfall. Everyone but C.S. he stopped at the camp and rested, drank the water there and slung the rest over his shoulder, leaving the next morning. The next day, he trekked carefully, reaching the second camp by that night. He repeated his slow methods daily, constantly keeping a day's distance between himself and the other trekkers. After all, he had decided that this wasn't a race, it was a survival.

On the first fortnight, he caught up with them at the eighteenth camp. This was the most eventful stay since the race started.

They were on the final camp, with a full gourd of water for them to quench their thirst. On the wall hung a necklace of shrunken heads. Next to it was enough for each of them and then some.

The instruction printed in blood behind the necklace was clear. Only one was to be taken. One from the pile should be replaced on the wall. At the end of the race, they should decide who should enter the ranks of the Crossed.

They chose carefully and set out, with his 'friend' holding it.

They faced direction they came from, and went back.

In the previous camp, he could see dissention.

They all avoided him, no one staying close enough to seem like they knew him. He went to his 'friend' and asked the matter.

"There is no water here. We shouldn't have drunk all the water on the way up."

"So, why are they fighting?" he asked.

"They are debating how to get water. Some want to drink blood, of all things."

 

 

He could see the signpost clearly: "Oasis: 20 miles". At least there was hope. As he neared the post, it began to loose its features. When he looked up at it, it was indistinct.

"No…no…no…" he murmured to himself as he reached his hand up and brushed against the sign.

It went through.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOO!" he screamed, feeling the last dredges of his sanity draining away like his tears in this desert. Dear God, Am I going to die here?

 

 

The first signs of madness appeared less than two days after their first waterless camp. Not suprising, it appeared in his friend, Mr "I run for love."

The man approached him and asked him what blood was made of.

"I don't know," C.S. replied, knowing where it was going. "But I think it is mostly water." He didn't mind goading him on. After all, he didn't need friends on this trip.

"So, that means that if I drink my blood, I will be drinking water?"

"Probably."

The man went off, muttering to himself.

Fools. They had probably never stayed weeks without water. All children of rich men who could afford to give them water to drink while they ate.

A few days later, his friend came back and asked him a funny question: "Why did people stay so close to the desert? Wouldn't it have been better to move south?"

"No. We have located the town on an oasis. All around us, the Desert is endless. Across the desert, a terrible disease has enveloped the world. There are safe heavens around the world, but this is the only one in this desert. They all have a defence system. Here, the desert kills the disease before it can reach us. There is an artefact that was left on the other side of the desert when our ancestors crossed over that the Crossed have to find. With that, they are inducted into the order."

The man smiled faintly and withdrew a knife.

"Blood is mainly water, you said?" the knife slipped along his wrist and cut his veins. The head went down and sucked on the blood. He kept drinking until he fainted. C.S. stepped back and gulped in fear. The man would die. He looked around, and saw everyone in the room staring at the body.

"WATER!" he heard as a collective shout and ran out as men pulled each other down to drink the blood of the dying man.

 

 

C.S. saw a pool of water. At least, he thought he saw a pool of water. He ran to it and jumped in. Water. Water! He opened his mouth and swallowed a mouthful of sand. Sand! He pulled himself out of the ditch and coughed up the sand. Water my left foot! He didn't know why he still fell for that trick. There was no water in this desert. There will never be any water here.

 

C.S. walked forward, feeling the eyes following him. They had stripped the body of the necklace and handed it to his best friend. They would try to drink his blood if it wasn't for the mark on his face. He wasn't sure how much longer that would stay them.

He suddenly felt the footsteps behind him and lashed out with his knife, cutting down his assailant.

He turned and moved forward, ignoring the sounds of people pouncing on the bleeding body.

 

He sat under the stars as he watched the two last survivors struggle for each other's throat. Wasn't this entertaining? Somehow, they managed to kill each other and when he made sure they were dead, he left them and continued on his journey, the red blood draining into the sand. At least, something might grow there. At least, he didn't have to wonder about their eyes following him.

 

 

He looked up and saw the last palm. The end. He could see the end. He stumbled to his feet and staggered forward, nearing the palm.

From nowhere, he heard a shot that rang across the desert. Pain enveloped his shoulder and he screamed in agony. He could see his wife holding a gun pointed at him.

"You do not deserve to join the ranks of the Crossed." His wife said. Strangely, her voice was deep, deep like a man's. "You are not welcome in the ranks of the Crossed." She repeated.

The second bullet rang out as he begged her to let him live. "I love you!" he screamed as the final bullet smashed through his skull.

 

 

He stepped through the door in his apartment, tossing the gun into the fireplace. He was touched slightly by pity, letting the man die thinking his wife shot him, but in the end, it was all for the best. He was now a member of the crossed. He had been promised, and he had delivered.

"It's all for the best." He repeated to himself, sipping a little khai-khai. "This is the way it should be."

 

Why are you so interested?

So, what is it that you want to talk to me about? I know it has something to do with the reason why I’m here in prison. Is it my glorious and sensational murder? No? Well…I can’t imagine what else it is you’d be interested in.
Oh, personal interest? Personal? What do you care? I’m sorry, but I don’t give personal interviews. Guard! Get this worthless excuse for a journalist away from me.

Oh, you again! Didn’t I tell you to get lost? I didn’t? Oh, not in those exact words, eh? Well, get lost! No, I’m still not interested in your interview. I suppose it depends on what it is exactly that you’re offering. Money, maybe…sex, definitely. Oh, I guess it doesn’t say on my profile that I’m gay? Well, you’re cute enough.
No, I guess you’re not interested. Oh, well, then I’m not interested in any interview. How much was that again? Well, look around you. Do I look like I’m going to spend any of that money any time soon? Look up the cover stories in Time and Newsweek sometime, I’m here for life…or until they decide whether they want to try me for the death penalty. But my lawyer says that’s not very likely. Hey, you actually got me talking. I guess I can talk to you, if I have the time.
So, what do you want to know?
No, I’m not talking about that. Everyone who sees me always asks me that first. “Blake, why did you kill him? Blake, what did she do to you? Mr. Buck, why the – sorry for almost cursing, child – why did you kill those people? No, right now, I’m not going to talk about the killings. Instead, how about I talk about my childhood? The psychiatrists always wanted to talk about that, but I always put it off. I wonder, if I had talked about it, would they have given me the insanity plea?
No, you don’t want to hear about my childhood, do you? Aw, too bad. Okay, I was born in Birmingham, Alabama in 1989. I guess that makes me eighteen now, doesn’t it? Let’s see…my father was a pastor and my mother was a stay at home mom. What else? I grew up with everything I wanted, and some stuff that I didn’t even want. What the hell, I’m bored. Let’s get to the grisly stuff. That’s what you want to hear, no?
Hey, do you mind if we continue this tomorrow? I need time to collect my thoughts. Strange, I didn’t want to talk to you but now, I actually want to tell my side of the story. Weird, huh?

Hi. I’m sorry I wasn’t here yesterday. I tried to make it but there was some…trouble in the cells yesterday. Oh, you saw that in the news, yeah? Well, that’s why. Oh, the bruise? Nah, don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine. Some people took offense at my sexuality. What? No, I didn’t fight back. I’m a pacifist. What are you laughing at? I am a pacifist. I don’t fight…I kill. Well, I guess that’s not very sensible to you. But in time, you’ll understand.
Let’s jump right in, shall we? I met the first one, Samantha – isn’t that a pretty name? – at my first press conference. She sat right up front, listening with this really attentive look on her face. I think she was a journalist…yes, she was. She asked me the first personal question. See, all the other guys kept asking about how my I was worth, whether I would sell the company and other such financial matters, but she stood up and in this cute, quiet voice, she asked, “Do you think you’re still the same person now?” It was really sweet. No, that not why I killed her. I killed her because…I’ll get to that, don’t worry you’re pretty head.
Anyway, afterwards, I asked her out, we went on dates, the tabloids went crazy over us, imagine, the down south instant-billionaire dating some newspaper floozy. They all assumed she was a gold digger. Do you know, she was the first person I told I was gay? Really. I remember the night, when she was drunk and coming on to me and I just told her, “I’m afraid I don’t go that way.” Boy was she shocked. When she finally sobered up, she tried to convince herself it was a lie. After that, I don’t think it was the same with us anymore.
Where was I? Oh, yeah. The grisly murder. Why did I do it? The psychiatrists wanted to know that too. They were all like, “if you loved them so much, why in the bloody hell did you strangle them with barbed wire?” I could see the little cogs working in their brains. After all, I was clearly not crazy – as far as they know – but there was no other reason for it. Anyway, we had fun, but after a while, she started nagging me. She kept going on and on about how I should start dating someone, because she was tired of her friends and family thinking she was a gold digger. Yeah, that’s why I killed her. What are you so surprised about? I told you I was crazy. Anyway, there was more to it than that. She cried, begged me not to do it but in the end, the coroner’s report has more detail than I’m interested in going into. So, that’s Samantha. After that, I had a taste for holding people lives in my hand and I started going around, finding people and garroting them. After a couple of weeks of this, the cops caught me, and I went to jail. That’s it. Yup. No, there’s nothing else. Sure there are details like the fact that Samantha wanted to set me up with her cousin who had just come out, but like I said, details.
What more did you want? A reason? What possible reason could anyone have to kidnap and strangle random people? That’s just crazy talk. Wait, why exactly are you so interested? You admire me? Me, the most hated man in the world according to a very well written article on that beacon of intellectual conversation, Slashdot? Are you…? Did you…? Oh. My. God. You did, didn’t you? You did! Ha! Ha Ha Ha! Don’t worry, I’m not telling anyone. Don’t go! Where are you running to? You not going to escape! Ha!