The McLaughlin Anthologies

Novel 1: Tomorrow’s Janus

Lizzie Addison is a trollish shut-in: small, bitter, and disheveled. Nobody could guess by looking at her that in the simulated online Verse, she is Bill Maxley. A powerful and ruthless owner of virtual factories that employ thousands in drudgery for profit, the allure of Bill is so great that Lizzie finds herself spending more time in his visage than her own. When one too many nights of vicious debauchery catch up to Lizzie and her workers begin to strike, she must scramble to keep his virtual life viable.

Tomorrow’s Janus is a dark satire of how rampant capitalism twists technology to its own perverse ends. It explores themes such as loss of identity in the virtual space, how capitalism eagerly upholds standards of masculinity while punishing femininity (even when it pretends not to), and why the rich and powerful choose to uphold a pointless system that seemingly benefits nobody.

AN: This novel was primarily inspired by how dumb using VR for work seems. Although I’m sure once the tech is there it will become the norm. But imagine having to work in a virtual factory making virtual items? This already has been a thing in certain nations. I mean like literal sweatshops of people getting paid to play video games for Americans to unlock items for them and level them up. Now it’s coming for the corporate world so get ready.

Update: This has over 60,000 words written and should be done a fairly palatable first draft somewhat soon.

Novel 2: New Patrons Redux

After graduating from a prestigious film school, fortunate son Ashton Haverton trust fund dwindles as he attempts to fund his own passion projects without an income. How is his art supposed to compete, if he can’t work on it full time? Yet his attempts to write are addled by an addiction to partying, and soon his relationship with his longtime girlfriend Vivian, the only person he ever loved, is strained. Vivian is pressured to promote Ashton’s brand online. She endeavors to be an influencer, although she struggles to find the path to get there.

Ashton eventually gets work with an illustrious secret society, the Golden Souls, a group of talented youth working behind the mask of a supposed notorious director, Samuel Steinitz. As famous as they come, in the public eyes, there is in fact no Steinitz—only a team of ghostwriters fighting for experience.

Through his new connections, Ashton finds Vivian a course that provides surefire success in the online sphere. But what she must do to get there is both terrifying and debasing. Meanwhile Ashton moves up in the Golden Souls, where he’s exposed to darker sides of their organization that sends him into a surreal spin.

Written Fall 2019

When eminent professor Dr. Lykas sets his sights on one of the oncologist Anthony Davis’s patients for experimental trials, Anthony struggles internally if he is helping or healing.

Trial 1

Doctor Lykas considered himself as much an artist as anyone you’d find in a museum. Just like a pair of bickering twin sisters, science and art were entwined despite their mutual hatred. And his easel:

He picked up the trembling mouse and gingerly brushed the top of its head. Poor thing, covered in tumors. In his left hand, he brought the syringe in contact with its snow white coat and pushed in the contents. Its eyes clenched. Carefully, he set it back down in its cage. Running to the other side, it let out a defiant squeal that joined with a wall of mice in a miniature opera. Lykas brushed his hand on his jacket.

“So brave, that one,” he thought, smiling at the critter. He imagined its scatterplot. It was beautiful. He’d make this one himself, and spare Sarah another afternoon of crunching numbers in excel. Besides, the joy of this experiment was his to witness first hand. She could wait. 

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Elsewhere and later, a doctor in his white overcoat peered over patient files. It took a special kind of trained eye to pick out the trendline from a mere patient report. He was so good he’d write out the prescriptions weeks before testing and save himself work down the line.

“1/x,” said his whisper. The remaining lifespan. He shook his head. 

Underneath the file, one labeled “Mary Wilson” peaked out. Italicized below was Trial 1. A strange anxiety brewed deep within him. He checked his mug. Nothing. Time to refill. 

The break room was always full of nurses surrounding a Keurig this early. Someone set out an assortment of donuts, but Anthony got up early to eat at home, so he refrained. As he waited for his turn, someone tapped his shoulder. 

The blonde hospital supervisor was there. She was young for her position, and Anthony always found her attractive. 

He smiled. “Ah, Holly. You’re early today.”

She forced a smile. “Yeah… and I hope you’re doing well?”

He half rolled his eyes. “Well, you know how it is.”

She gestured to the Keurig. “Need energy?”

“Already had one. Just felt stuffy in my office.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You know, you shouldn’t drink so much of the stuff. Reminds too much of fellowship.” She laughed. He laughed. 

“Well, they say it’s good for you.” He reached for the handle and pressed the steaming, black liquid into the mug. “Although they still haven’t decided if Splenda causes cancer.” He turned. “So I always take it black.”

“Gross,” she said and made a face. Her expression returned to serious. “I hope you’re ready for Doctor Lykas.”

“Oh, was that today?” he said in a forced, uncaring tone. 

Holly narrowed her eyes. 

“Joking!” he proclaimed. “Why so grim?” He took a sip, searing his throat with a shocking bitter taste. 

“It’s an honor for him to come,” She said. She raised an eyebrow. “Would a 20th century physician be disappointed to meet Alexander Fleming?”

“Maybe, considering how much business they lost.”

Her eyes widened in disappointed surprise. “I… just hope you’re ready. I want to hear good things from this.” She turned and exited.

Not all discoveries were deserving of respect. Anthony wondered what his life would be, had he somehow bumbled his way into a miracle panacea. All of it was just mold growing on a petri dish. 

Anthony spent the rest of the morning uneasy. Even during his morning patient visits, he drifted off to dark images of mad scientists and strange experiments. The growing tension snapped within when Anthony was caught on his lunch break.

“You must be Anthony Davis, the Oncologist I’ve heard so much about!” A gregarious voice boomed. 

Anthony turned to find Lykas towering over him. He was a tall man with short, graying hair. Rising, Anthony took his hand, their height difference now more apparent. 

“Yes. Doctor Lykas?”

“The same.”

They shook hands. Lykas seemed to take note of how little force Doctor Davis cared to give him. 

Lykas glanced towards the half finished lunch. “I hope you’re not too busy,” he said, checking his watch. “I can wait another ten minutes if need be.”

Anthony’s fingers trembled, ever so slightly, threatening to ball up into a defiant fist. “No, I was just finishing,” He lied. He wouldn’t let Lykas paint him as careless so easily.

“Walk with me,” Lykas demanded.

They left together, wandering up and down drab, white hallways that twisted on forever, whose ends only splayed left and right into longer tunnels.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Doctor Davis began to drone on about the hospital. Lykas, on the other hand, found this kind of talk dreadful. Who cares? He zoned out. He needed him to ask about it. But, Davis wouldn’t so easily afford that satisfaction. He babbled, more and more, about hospital funds and patient stories, the likes of which Lykas had heard a million times before. 

No more. “You’ve read up on the process, I hope?” Lykas interrupted. 

It caught doctor Davis a little off guard. “Oh yes, this virus. Quite fascinating,” he admitted.

That’s better, Lykas thought. “It’s a modified version of the Crescerepisces benignaevita, found inside the bloodstream of the Growfish,” He explained. “A remarkable thing. Who could have known evolution had already done all the work?”

Anthony stared at him strangely. Anthony’s hand trembled, as if he’d hit Lykas if he described it further.

“They share a mutualistic relationship.” Lykas continued, a small smile forming at the corner of his lips.

Anthony winced. Lykas’s voice wavered, taking notice. He spoke louder.

“Its DNA has certain protein inhibitors that only allow it to function after scanning the host cell’s genome and finding flaws. After that, it’s a cascading snowball effect of cancer hunting viruses that pour out from each defective cell.”

“But is it safe to test on a human, doctor!?” Anthony exclaimed.

Lykas’s mouth faded into a frown. He knew physicians like Davis never understood the artistry. Lykas pitied them as much as he detested them. “All it takes is correcting the protein tails within virus as well as tags and antigens on the coat. We’ve perfected it for every test animal so far.”

“Humans aren’t a test animal,” Anthony answered. 

“They’re remarkably similar. So many processes conserved from the first eukaryote,” he said.  

Anthony wondered how Lykas could so blatantly miss the point. Or just ignore it. 

“If you don’t like it, we’ll move somewhere else.” 

A barbed statement. A lose-lose. Anthony struggled to think of an answer. 

“We start this evening,” said Lykas. “You’re welcome to join me.”

“Yes.” Anthony replied, a little hoarse. “Of course.”

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Anthony checked on Mary that afternoon. He knew her well. Not too old. She hadn’t even retired as a realtor when it got her. Three children, all in their thirties. Two grandkids, ages five and seven. She lay dying in bed, her husband beside, clutching her with strong, wrinkled hands. 

“Afternoon Mary. I hope you’re feeling alright,”

“Well… I’ve been better,” she croaked weakly. 

He looked at them both despondently. “The specialist is here. Doctor Lykas. He’ll be in this afternoon for treatment.” His voice wavered. “…if you don’t want to go through with it, I can get the right papers, and-”

Her husband shook his head. 

“I’m hopeful,” she said, then smiled weakly. “I don’t see anyone else coming around to save me. It’s gotta be this.”

What she said rang true, but the notion spun round his head until he felt dizzy. No matter how many times he asked himself, he couldn’t put a face on who was being saved. Not his patients. Not Mary. Lykas had every hospital in the US to choose from, and he came here and put him in this trap. Why? 

The treatment was set for that evening. Anthony paced up and down his office. He knew this feeling well. It was sleepless nights in libraries, starving for comfort. It was the first time he stuck a knife in a live patient. The day of the Boards, when he earned his medical license and he had thought he flunked so bad that he got stupidly drunk in a London pub.  The same feeling to kill Mary Wilson.

Lykas was trying to FaceTime. Anthony picked up. Lykas was driving, his phone lying in the cupholder, tilted up, so Anthony could see the underside of his face as his arms stretched across the screen to the wheel. Lykas was good at keeping him underneath.

“I’m almost there,” Lykas explained. He stopped and made a turn. “You’re all set? I want to know you’re not shaken.”

“I’m fine. I was just tired from an overnight,” Anthony lied. His hand holding the phone started to tremble. “I assume you’re ready then?”

“Ready to go,” Lykas said, almost too cheerfully. Anthony was about to say goodbye when Lykas said, “I don’t know if you heard, but I’m going to be presenting this data at a Harvard Med Symposium.” He parked the car and picked up his phone. “They’re a little too self-important for my tastes, but it’s a good vehicle to get your name out. You’re welcome to join in, with your contributions.” He got out of the car and started walking. 

Anthony froze. He blinked a few times.

“It’s not for everyone, I’ll admit.”

Anthony shook his head. “Don’t keep my name attached to this.”

“Suit yourself.”

Doctor Lykas arrived at his office with a sharp knock. Anthony was waiting for him and opened it immediately. Lykas stepped inside and they both stood silent for just a moment. In that time, Lykas’s eyes darted over every surface of the office with a judgemental zeal. Anthony watched it begrudgingly, his life of medical modesty assessed by an inquisitive coldness only researchers could possess. 

He had to know where the Lykas mindset came from. “Doctor, when was it you last had a patient of your own?” Anthony asked. 

Lykas was massaging one of his hairy, veined hands with the other’s thumb. “I was never really the family physician type.” He scratched his head. “It was so long ago that I ever took a patient, I hardly remember.” He shrugged absentmindedly. “Laboratories are where I belong,” he said, gesturing to Mary’s patient folder. 

It creeped Anthony out, this Victor Frankenstein act.

Anthony opened his mouth. “Perhaps if you paid more attention in ethics class,” he almost said, but stopped himself. It wouldn’t do the hospital any good. He shook his head, then blurted, “I like to know my patients. I don’t think you’d understand the joy it brings to cure one, to heal one, until you’ve done it yourself.”

Lykas hardly reacted, aside from a small twitch of the lower lip. Like a smirk that formed for a brief instant before being squashed by his sense of propriety. “Well…” he started. “Perhaps we’ll see such joy today…”

Anthony stared in disbelief. How could Lykas be so unserious? Trial 1 could save her, but may just as well kill her. To so easily brush it off. At his core, Lykas was just another one of those government suit types, after all. He hardly knew real medical practice. 

They walked together to her room. They were mostly silent, save a few quick remarks about the procedure. At Mary’s door, Holly stood outside. She had an awkward smile that betrayed an inner nervousness. Or maybe it was just excitement. 

As they approached, she stepped up and took Lykas’s hand. “Doctor Lykas, what pleasure!” she began. “Sorry I couldn’t have caught up with you earlier. You know how busy it can be in the day.”

He nodded. “I know full well. Are you here to observe?”

She checked her watch. “I’m not sure I should stick around too long. I only wanted to send you both off.” She nodded at Anthony. “Doctor Davis. Good work.”

Anthony wondered if Holly also could see the implications. She didn’t look at all bothered. Just another day of business, Anthony supposed. That’s what American hospitals were. Business. 

Doctor Lykas put a hand on the door and paused. He turned to Anthony. “Are you ready?”

Anthony nodded. “Better now than never,” he rationalized.

Lykas pushed open the door. It was dark out, but Mary looked the same. Her trendline hadn’t quite given up being above the x axis. Her husband, still there, still squeezing her hands like his life depended on it. And there were men in suits. Government types. Neither he nor the Wilsons knew them, but Lykas greeted them with a nod. 

“Mrs. Wilson, good to see you.” Anthony began the usual doctor-patient chatter. The motions. He didn’t really feel there. “I hope you’re feeling better,” he said, forced smile.  

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Lykas was stone faced. As Doctor Davis chattered in the background, he retrieved the case with the syringe. This was momentous. He had to steady himself with a long inhale. His mind drifted off as he waited his turn. A strange daydream brought a past memory to light. Elementary school classroom. Number 2 pencils with funny erasers. Coloring with markers in between arithmetic lessons. He was taking a test on fractions. He blinked twice, returning to earth. He was up now.

“You may be the first woman to be cured of cancer,” Lykas lied as he administered the syringe. She watched him the whole time. Such admirability. 

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Anthony clenched his fists. Why was he so angry? It could save so many lives, so why did he feel worse now than with any patient?  He remembered Mary’s grandkids. They visited not too long ago, interrupting his daily checkup. 

“Grandma, grandma,” the blonde girl said, running into the room. “Are we going to color together?”

She gave a sad smile. “Not today, sweetie. But soon,”

“Oh, okay.”

“Grandma, guess what?” The boy asked.

“What?” She said, happier.

“Today when I read Ms. Johnson said I was so good that she wrote home to mom and she said she’d buy me a new toy and so I wanted to tell you.”

“That’s wonderful!”

It stopped there. He couldn’t be too caught up… when Anthony had just finished undergrad, people always asked him why he wanted so badly to go to med school. While internally he lusted for money, he always answered the same: “To help people, of course!” He meant it too. He thought he did. They never taught him to reduce someone to a point on a graph. 

The next day, the two of them went over the data. Its trendline was clearly visible. Anthony’s eyes were wide. Where 1/x sunk down quickly then sputtered out asymptotically, hers fell right off the deep end. No asymptote. He was sick to his stomach. Like a backwards tangent curve. Anthony shut it off. 

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Lykas agreed. This wasn’t the sort of euphoria he longed for. But unlike the Oncologist, he had patience. “Trial number 1 always goes that way,” Lykas said, as some sort of consolation.

“It killed her, doctor.”

“Cancer killed her,”

Lykas knew Anthony Davis would be upset, but not this much. Oncologists saw more bodies that morticians. Doctor Davis should be used to it. That woman was dying anyway. 

That night, Lykas remembered the rest. Third grade. Of course he was the best student in that class. During the test, this other kid had the gall to look over his shoulder the whole time. Stealing every single answer. Lykas said nothing, but waited, waited for the teacher to notice and punish that student. She would strut up the aisle between desks, getting so close. Lykas clenched onto his pen in excitement. But as she walked off, fear filled his heart with a bitter feeling. He couldn’t take it. The test. None of it mattered anymore. 

After class he found that kid and punched him straight in the face. Not just once, but until his knuckles ached. Nobody else was going to.

A year from the present, he stood in front of blinding lights on a tremendous stage in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Lykas’s voice boomed throughout the concert hall. 

“The preliminary tests proved quite useful. With it, I was able to find a fatal flaw in the viral therapy,” he flicked to the next slide. “We discovered in Jane Doe a new protein inhibitor, Lyk-12, that’s meant as an antiviral measure when cells replicate. The initial assumption that a treatment derived from our original Orangutan therapy would work was wrong because of this unexpected factor.”

Suspense in the crowd. Lykas wondered if Anthony was watching. 

“But, I was not fazed. Where others falter, I always take the necessary steps, no matter the implications. And here, I was able to perfect my treatment.” He flicked to the next slide. 

Several graphs were shown together. Davis’s patient was there, plummeting down. The next sputtered out a bit before colliding with the x axis. The next, nearly made it to the end of the graph before it too unfortunately crashed . Every patient thereafter was still alive. Their graphs all stayed above. The audience burst into applause.

This was his payoff. 

Written Spring 2022

Summary: When Ashton’s trust fund dries up and his career as a freeloading artist is threatened, he takes drastic action to maintain his lavish lifestyle, roping his girlfriend Vivian into a soon to be crime scene.

Written Spring 2020

What is the legacy of the wartime scientist? Moritz has a found a discovery that could change humankind for the better, but it hides a deadly secret.

Haber

Moritz came into the lab with a cold on Saturday. His primary concern wasn’t if it’d infect his employees but instead if the stream of mucus pouring out of his nose could latch on to air particles and find its way into the sample. To take precautions, he snorted what must’ve been a whole bottle of saline, and covered himself head to toe, along with a vented mask, so nothing would be going in or out. The whole getup took so long to put on and take off that he didn’t eat until he went home that night. 

“Find out anything new for me?” asked his wife Cordella, as Moritz mulled over the exact proportions of tomatoes to spice for red sauce. 

He really wasn’t supposed to talk about it, but that never stopped him. “The serum is still breaking down too early in the liver,” he explained. “The little mice might as well not even have drank any.”

The cold lifted the following Sunday, which corresponded to more progress as Moritz no longer had to work through what amounted to a hazmat suit. To celebrate he ordered a metric tonne of pizza, and dozens of half filled boxes piled up in the break room. He didn’t realize its severity until the next day when he went in to fill up on coffee and was crushed by an unsteady tower of cardboard. He crawled his way out of the pile, fearfully pulling a slice of pizza off his body, reminded of how bad his acne had been in school. 

He had the head lab assistant come to his office that evening. “Nina, would you ever allow such a mess in our lab?” he asked.

She shifted awkwardly, only having replaced the old lab assistant a month ago. “Of course not.”

“Then don’t do so in the break room. I want to eat breakfast without old food falling on me.” It really wasn’t much to ask. 

Nina politely acknowledged that and left to scrub the break room floor. It was admittedly a waste of her talent, but Moritz knew full well people worked best by example, hoping the rest of the employees would keep up once they saw what their negligence did to poor Nina. 

That night, he dreamed a device he built had shrunk him down. A hopeless maze of dark, dead ends was where he found himself, forced in circles until finally he gave up looking for a path and began to follow the right wall. The occasional torch made a dim light, but little could be seen. Behind him, there emerged a deep thundering in a faraway corridor. It grew louder with each passing second, beginning as a deep rumble until it transformed into the stampeding of giant feet. Moritz started to run, the monster crashing around the corridor, a great big rat with jagged teeth and wild, rabid eyes. It beared down on him, catching up and smashing him underfoot. He was intrigued by the way its paws flew up and down with little movement from the legs. It looked so absurd he’d forgotten he was supposed to die and wake up.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

The mice were getting quite good at solving the mazes. It was a pain to always create new ones, but he preferred it to training mice from scratch, especially with how little money there was since the old lab assistant sued them. It was because the serum showed so much promise that Moritz was willing to dip into his own savings to fund the project. 

In strength training, they didn’t disappoint either. One mouse pulled along a 500 gram weight. He’d never seen something so strange. When he placed his hand on the weight so it couldn’t pull any longer, it snapped at him like a rabid dog. So much for prey instincts. 

He chatted about the developments with Cordella at afternoon tennis. “These mice are too smart,” he told her, walking to the bucket to grab another ball. “It’s like they’re aware of their own improvement. Yesterday, one tried to bite my hand off,”

“You might consider cutting them off our serum,” she suggested, tensing up to catch his serve.

Moritz had to do a double take to make sure nobody was around. He shrugged and gently sent the ball over. “We’ll move on soon enough.”

With preliminary trials done, it was time to get rid of the old rodent generation. The mice looked at him with big, beady eyes as he hooked up the CO2 canister.  When the gas poured in, they lost it, slamming into the glass walls over and over. Cracks formed before the fast acting gas anesthetized them. 

What a gruesome scene. “Dead is dead,” he thought. He ordered more cages.

He sometimes felt just like they did in their final moments, like when he smoked in his hardly ventilated office, the room filling up with a thick smog until no one could breathe and he’d be forced to question why he couldn’t walk thirty feet outside. Then, he’d remember the answer the next time the urge hit him, usually a half hour later. It’d make him sick. It’s been that way since he was 15, when he competed against his friends to see who’d smoke the most cigarettes in one day. They hadn’t taken it so seriously, but he did. And after winning six whole packs and throwing up for hours, his lungs were never the same.  It’s why he had to remove the smoke detector in his office. 

Nor was it the only room he renovated this way. During staff meetings, he’d smoke through the monotony of explaining basic scientific methods to people who only just finished their PhD. Nina found it so revolting, she started holding her own meetings without telling him. The first time he encountered this, he was walking through the hall when he spied through her window ten employees crammed into an office meant for one. He burst out laughing. It was so loud, Nina had to come outside and calm him down.

“If you had a problem with the old room,” he said in between laughter, “you might’ve said something.”

She looked at him like he was crazy. “Isn’t it obvious? It smells like the Malbaro Man died in there.”

Taking her word for it, Moritz had the entire meeting room refurbished and presented it to the staff amidst applause. He felt proud until he realized this excited them more than any experiment they’d done. With the old meeting room back in action, they went over the mice results as well as future plans. Included were pictures of the cracked cages. “I’m worried the serum is overstimulating the limbic system,” he explained.

Nina seemed confused. “My mice were very behaved the whole time.”

Moritz shrugged. “Maybe I’m just correlating things.”

One morning, Cordella was reading the news online when he came downstairs. Her coffee wasn’t giving off steam, her plate still full of glistening eggs and bacon. Deep brown eyes darted back and forth under the reflection of the computer screen, while her fingers tapped in high tempo patterns. 

“Do you see what the Prime Minister is saying?” she said, spitting all over her eggs. “Fucking idiot. He won’t stop until we’re at war.”

Moritz shoved toast in his mouth as he rushed into his lab coat. “Is that bad? The east has been begging to be taught a lesson.”

She glared at him. “You can’t be serious.”

If there was a war, surely they’d give him more funding. The serum had the potential to make their population like none other, and Moritz only needed to keep pushing forward with positive results to show them. That day, they brought the pig into the lab. Moritz went to its enclosure and tickled it under the chin, making funny faces at it. It grunted and shook him off, then went to lie on its side. He watched in satisfaction as the big belly moved up and down. 

He always fed the pig himself. The way its mouth shoveled up its slop made it look like it had a great big smile, which he liked. Meanwhile, Nina would set up a tube to deliver serum mixed with maple syrup. The glutton loved it so much that whenever it saw her, it would abandon whatever it was doing and leap over, happy to have the awkward device shoved down its throat. 

They’d give it puzzles to solve. Usually it consisted of finding creative ways to get into a sealed container of honey candy, such as today, where it repeated back a series of button presses. He loved watching it gobble down the treat. One day, he played along in secret as Nina gave the pig it’s sequences, doodling the right order of buttons on a notepad. He dropped the pencil in shock. He’d only managed to get 17 where the pig repeated 20. Moritz trembled as he showed his notepad to Nina. 

She smiled and shook him by the lab coat. “You idiot! This means it’s working!” 

“Maybe it’s time to move on from animal testing,” he said. Nina’s starlit eyes shone with the reverence for data only an up and coming scientist could know. He stared speechless as her eyes twisted, darkened, just like endless tunnels where the giant rat trampled him underfoot. Her cornea just like glass behind which filled a thick smog that might choke him out.

Moritz drowned in far too much beer that night and stayed up watching TV, awestruck by the prime minister’s guile in choosing war.

“The only way to secure our nation’s place in the world,” the prime minister said, “Is if we strike first.” 

“Strike first,” he mumbled. He hefted his stein, spilling beer down his arm. “And to a swift victory.”

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Drunkenness always was paradoxical to Moritz. It took a style of promethean naivety to reject his mind, his greatest gift, in exchange for a pleasant stupor. Yet it was in drunken sleep that he didn’t dream, and that was worth so much more. Upon awakening, he had no visions of great beasts or twisting tunnels, but instead those of bluebirds perched on the windowsill and the smell Cordella left on the bedspread.

He emerged downstairs to find her hunched over his project report, marking it up and down with a black pen. In between edits, she’d chew on the tip, lost in the promise of the serum.  Moritz sat down with the coffee she made and began to smoke out the window. “Find out anything new for me?” He asked.

“This aggression… is troubling,” she said.

Moritz inhaled too deeply on the cigarette and coughed up smoke. “I knew there was something there.”

She looked at him seriously. “If we want a product for humans, this needs solving, and fast.”

Moritz shrugged. “Easier said than done.”

She looked at him queerly. “Are you saying you can’t do it?” Cordella tapped the pen on his hand. “I’m coming into the lab today.”

The times Cordella asserted herself into projects meant they were a big deal to her. With all the help she’d given him at home, Moritz shouldn’t have been shocked, yet her words had him spitting coffee back into the mug. 

He pointed at it and let his tongue slide out his mouth. “Too hot.”

Moritz rode in the passenger seat with his arms crossed and his eyes closed. The only sound between them was the radio, the news story a triumphant call to war. Cordella quickly turned it off, and when they reached the lab, left the car without bothering to wake him. Moritz soon trailed after, where seeing what became of the vivarium had him dropping his clipboard on the floor. The pig was gone, in its wake a mess of broken glass and scattered papers, with the shattered window in the upper right corner the only evidence of its fate. His first thought was what an intelligent pig would even do in the human world. 

“You know-” said Cordella. Moritz jumped. “-in Frankenstein, after the monster escapes it goes after its creator.”

Moritz smirked. “Then you should also know the monster’s ultimate goal is to kill Victor’s wife.”

“You’re real charming, know that?” Cordella looked about the room and clapped. “Now, who’s going to clean this up?”

Moritz balled up his fists. “Nina!”

Moritz took a step back and let Cordella do her thing. Although demeaning, he craved the progress. What mattered was getting a product. Cordella led her own experiments, while Moritz quietly daydreamed about murderous swine. It took a few months, but when they submitted the new project report, one which dealt with the problem of aggressive neurotransmitters, the response letter had Moritz’s heart bounding. At the bottom were the words Approved for Human Experimentation.

“When this is all over, we ought to host a party!” he told Cordella. “I see a Nobel prize in the future.”

She smiled smugly. “Are you still chasing after that thing?”

“We both deserve one,” he stammered. “I’ll put your name in the write up.”

“Under yours?” Cordella shook her head. “Prizes, prizes. Science is humanitarian. It was penicillin that saved billions. It was fertilizer that let us feed the world.”

Moritz laughed. “It was nuclear fission that leveled Japan.”

She frowned. 

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

That month, the serum passed it’s first human trials. Moritz brought his lab aids to his house for a party. He popped a bottle of sparkling champagne amidst laughter and cheers, sending yellow foam spilling onto the floor. They poured it out into crystal glasses and raised them high.

“Finally, the next step for humanity,” Nina cheered.

“And to the prosperous generations it will create!” he echoed back.

Little did he know. A month later he sat at his desk staring at the report. “They’re cutting our funding?!” He pulled at what was left of his wiry hair and slammed his pencil into his desk a few times.

“Doctor, they’ll give us something,” said Nina. “Wars need scientists.”

“Don’t tell me that, I know that!” He ground the pencil tip in his teeth. He threw his hands in the air. “We have what they need. They have to get that! They’ve seen our reports!” He shoved his face into his hands and peered out the cracks between his fingers. “If I self fund this, we can keep the lights on for another week at most.” He clicked open a pen and doodled the numbers on a notepad. “Unless I make some layoffs, in which case we could maybe stretch it out two months.”

“It’ll take 6 months to get something even close to a commercial product,” Nina interrupted. “We might have to cut our losses.”

He shook his head. “No. No, no, no. I’ll show them why they need us.” He lit a cigarette and pointed at the door. “Now, leave me be.”

Moritz spent the entire day emailing every government and military official he could find. Arguments, results, statistics, everything to make them bring back the funding. His fingers ached, and as the office filled with the soupy haze of unvented smoke, three separate employees assumed he kicked the bucket and came to check on him. Moritz sent them home.

Later in his house, he walked up and down the staircases, first to the basement, then upstairs, then the attic, then back down. Now he could think clearly. If anything, this was all some oversight of a failed bureaucracy that hadn’t read his published papers beyond the price tag, because anyone with half a brain would understand why their soldiers should take the serum. The strength improvements alone would make hercules blush. 

After dinner, he holed up in his office, staring at his father’s old uniform and revolver tucked in the drawer. If things went his way, he’d no doubt join the army. Not only was it what’s demanded of an upstanding citizen, but he trusted none other than himself to oversee how the serum is handled.

In bed, Cordella kept asking what his plans were. “So, are we gonna finish the project?” she said, eyes closed and mouth hardly moving.

Moritz stared at her sleepy face. “I’ll get the funding back. Don’t worry.”

“The serum will help so many people…”

They drifted to sleep together. In his dream, he was at an aquarium when he was dwarfed by a familiar face behind the glass. His childhood goldfish, Haber, opened and closed its mouth. Somehow, it was three times his size. Moritz marveled at it, wondering where Haber had been all this time. He’d last seen him the day before his parents flushed it down the toilet, after which they’d stealthily replaced him and lied that Haber was in fact, still there. Moritz went along with it not to embarass them, but secretly wondered how a goldfish could survive if flushed into a vast ocean. 

The aquarium director stepped into the room. “Your serum is working wonders. This fish is large enough to feed a village!”

“I had no idea that kind of application existed!” he yelled. He spun around in childish glee, laughing until he was dizzy. 

The next week, General Berquaine himself came to the lab. He pulled up with three black cars of escorts, jumping out with men in black suits, sunglasses, and those earpieces you see in movies. The demonstration made onlookers on the nearby road slow down and wonder if the government finally shut down the mad scientist. 

Moritz greeted them like a loyal dog, while the other lab staff hid in their offices and peeked out through the shutters. He shook the hand of every man, ending with Berquaine, whose uniform was weighed down by a whole kilogram of symbolic medals. The general had a big, green hat that cast a shadow over his eyes, which together with his short, gray beard made it impossible to get a look at his face. 

He brought the entourage back to his office to speak. Berquaine waved all but two of his cronies away, who stepped in alongside Moritz. Taking his seat, Moritz wrung his hands together in anticipation. 

The general lifted his hat, revealing soft, blue eyes. He looked around and wrinkled his nose. “What were they paying you before? That they didn’t even put a smoke detector in your office is…” Bequaine chuckled. “…well, absurd.” The general took a seat across the desk.

Moritz pulled out his lighter and lit a cigarette. “Indeed.” He took a big drag and let the smoke slowly leave. “I trust the military treats us a bit more kindly.”

The general let the smoke fizzle before answering. “Naturally. We should get along, right? It’s cause of science we’re not throwing rocks at each other,” He looked around the office at the portraits of scientists Moritz always hung up. He pointed at one. “You know, my great grandfather actually knew Dr. Oppenheimer.”

Moritz was surprised. “Oh! Is that so?”

He nodded. “Well, I don’t want to bore you, I just think it’s interesting. A soldier once again extending a hand to a scientist.”

Moritz ashed his cigarette. “Of course you find it interesting. Because it is.”

The general gave a wry smile, and twirled his fingers at one of the men in sunglasses,  who robotically opened and set down a briefcase in front of them. Inside were the stacks of project files. 

“And to think the big brass missed this,” the general said, pulling out the title page, “Cognitive and Physical Enhancement Processes Through Protein Alteration at the Genetic Level” by Moritz Weber. His creation was there, in the general’s hands. Moritz squeezed his hands with feverish excitement.

The general paged through the files. “Luckily, I didn’t. This has got some very important people interested in your lab.” The general looked up. “You know what this means?”

Moritz dropped his cigarette in the ash tray and jutted forward. “We’re in business!”

The general laughed. “I like your enthusiasm.” He pulled a page out from about the middle of the stack. “But, before I can greenlight you, tell me more about this.” Squinting his eyes to read, he said, “It says in this report that you had an accident last year? Involving an employee?”

Moritz’s eyebrows raised. He slowly nodded. “My old research assistant. He mishandled the serum in it’s unrefined state and because of that… was forced to leave.”

The general coughed and nodded. To clear things up, they discussed every little detail of the serum. The theory, the beginnings of his research, the cracked glass, the pig, even the pizza boxes. Moritz elaborated on not just the old assistant and his accident, but on Nina, and Cordella too. Every facet, the general’s plans for the stuff, Moritz’s own input, went into the meeting. Hours of negotiation and six cigarettes later, they had a tentative agreement.

“One condition,” Moritz said. “I want a commission. I want to be in charge of my work.”

The general nodded. “That can happen. I think you’re a great patriot.” He stood up and shook Moritz’s hand once more. “We’ll get this done. Have a good day, doctor.”

He collected the documents and left with the black suited men, Moritz waving them out all along the way. Nina came from behind to watch them leave. 

“What’d they say?” she asked.

“I’ll fill you in when it’s declassified.” 

Moritz soon moved to a new lab, far away from home. The generals thought it would be better for him to be in a military facility where he could work with the best equipment and no public eye. Even better, he got a shiny Lieutenant Colonel badge and uniform, and a substantial raise. This meant the old lab closing down, along with its staff.

“Nina, you’ll be a great scientist someday,” he told her as they packed up. “Anytime you need, just ask and I’ll write you the best recommendation possible,” he said, handing her a business card. She didn’t look nearly as happy.

Back home, he said his goodbyes to Cordella. She was in a strange mood, he could see. 

“But you’re not a soldier,” she said. “We’re scientists. We don’t go to war.”

He leaned in to kiss her, when she grabbed him and said, “Don’t let this stupid war cloud your judgement. You’re smarter than that”

“Don’t worry so much. It’ll be over by next year,” he said. “We’ll crush them, wait and see.”

She frowned. “War isn’t what my serum’s for.”

Moritz dug his nails into his palm. Your serum? “Goodbye, Cordella,” He said. “I apologize in advance.” With all his stuff packed up in the car, he shut the doors and wheeled away from their home. 

One year later, Moritz had a finished product. As per his request, the generals let him oversee the release. While his regiment drove up with great big tankers, he sat there thinking what it would be like to be a war hero. Stationed a few miles south was the bulk of the enemy force. Moritz hardly cared what they were doing there. He’d rather see his nation rightfully victorious then ask questions like ‘is war moral?’. With a big fur coat and a fat cigar in his mouth, he hopped out into the chilly winter weather and walked up and down. All along, men were twisting big tubes unto the tankards that hooked up to underground pipes. 

He thought back to the accident. When the old lab assistant hurt himself, he’d been handling an unrefined version of the serum. Immediately upon contact, his skin turned crackly and blistered up. He managed to get away fast, so that only his arm turned to grotesque bubble wrap. The next effect was psychoactive, the normally brilliant man driven into a blind rage. He knocked down one of Moritz’s employees, pinning him to the floor in a violent struggle of blindly swinging fists. Luckily, a security guard was there to stop the commotion. In the hospital, he cried for hours from the pain in his arm, until anesthetized by morphine. Moritz had been more careful since, but he secretly wondered what a full body exposure could do. 

Today, they found out. The gas proved incredibly effective. Seeping out of the ground in a haunting, blue cloud, any enemy who touched it was rapidly changed. They’d fall over, by the hundreds, clutching their head in dreadful screaming as every nerve in their body fired out of control, the only understandable signal being pain. As it spread across the enemy camp, their soldiers, men and women, were reduced to an unrecognizable collection of raving, bubbly husks. These monsters had no will left but to turn on each other, ripping off now fragile limbs and tearing into body cavities, oozing a sorrowful blood unto the ground, eager to escape from bodies it no longer could recognize. By the time there were no more who could still walk, the only remaining sight was a heap of wailing ghouls, hoping for death. Moritz watched the whole thing curiously from afar. 

He bit down on his cigar and shrugged. “Eh. Dead is dead.”

News of their victory soon got out, with Moritz’s face printed up and down. The serum was the talk of the entire nation. Moritz felt so proud. He was so happy, he didn’t even cry when Cordella shot herself with his father’s old revolver.

Written Spring 2020

World Featherweight champion Booker Brown struggles to keep his cool when he’s setup to lose in a show match against the women’s world champion, Carmella Lopez. He’s a little guy and she’s a huge gal! “How is this fair?” he wonders. He either has to overcome his masculine narcissism or drown in self-pity and make a giant fool of himself.

So Here’s The Kick

The TV switched back to the announcer. “You’ve come to see her again. Making waves in the fighting world: young Carmela Lopez. At only 22 years old, she’s managed to fight her way to 3 championship titles. But, how long can she stay on top? Onsite reporter Natalie Fisher is there, in the Modana Stadium. Natalie.”

The footage cut to a roaring crowd and a blonde reporter struggling to shout over them. “Yes David, lots of excitement tonight as Lopez faces off against challenger Freeman to defend her title. Fierce rivals, the two have been waiting for this moment ever since Lopez knocked out Freeman in the  2017 Women’s World Championship match. But tonight will things go differently? Will Freeman get her revenge?”

It switched to a microphone in Kayla Freeman’s face, a well-toned black woman. “It’s not Lopez’s fighting style that worries me, it’s her attitude,” Kayla explained. She started laughing. “What am I supposed to do if that hot-head throws a temper-tantrum after I put her down? I like to fight, not argue.” Kayla pushed the microphone aside and walked away.

I pulled out my gum and stuck it under the desk.

“Overly tough talk?” said the reporter. “Lopez had this to say in response.”

It transitioned to Carmela taking the microphone from the reporters hand. “I respect Kayla, I do. But she doesn’t get me. I’m not as much of a fighter as I am a role model.” She pointed at the screen. “For every girl out there that dare dream big. You can do it. You’re strong-”

The TV cut off and Walker, fat, old, and very bald, wheeled around in his chair. 

I laughed and shook my head. “Kayla’s got a big mouth. There’s no way she wins.”

“I want you to fight Carmela,” he said. He had the voice of a gravel compactor.

I blinked in confusion. “Boss, this is a men’s division.”

“No shit. It’s for her image. We want you to fight her, end of the month.”

“You want me to beat up a girl?”

“Beating things up’s your job, ain’t it?”

“But a girl?” I laughed nervously. “Boss, I don’t beat up girls.”

“Well, then I guess you’ll just lose the fight.”

I narrowed my eyes. “What fight?”

“The damn fight!” he started, slapping the table, “That you’re gonna have on the 30th versus Carmela. And you better put on a good show, or you’re dropped.” He pointed at the table. “You got that?!”

Another laugh. “But, I-”

He wheeled back around and began counting a stack of money. “See you on the 30th.”

I shot up from the chair, and snatched my backpack. Walker didn’t react. I turned and  kicked the door open, plodding out.

“Uh-huh,” answered his voice. 

What a shit. I wouldn’t do this. My stomps echoed throughout the underground hallway, prompting a look around. Empty. I shook my head and chuckled, using the solace to collect myself. By the stars refracting through the few portholes that lined the upper wall, I knew the night was wearing thin. I was ready to get home and grab a beer or two before bed. I looked back at the light emanating from Walker’s door and shook my head again, a last measure, and taking a sharp turn into the locker room.

Only Ricardo remained, naked in the shower. He whistled, pouring body wash down his chest hair and olive skin. I passed him and stopped at my locker, looking down as I turned the masterlock at the water creeping down the yellow tiling, into my shoes. 

“Hey, get over here,” I said, nudging my head at my locker. I opened it and changed back into my streetwear. Tank-top for button down, trunks for black pants, sneakers for black shoes. I stared at the mirror fixing my tie, eyes locked with the chin hairs that grew the fastest. Ricardo’s reflection came up from behind, wearing a towel at his waist while drying his hair with another. 

“I saw you getting chewed out,” he said.

I exhaled a big sigh. “He wants Carmela to whup my ass on TV.”

Ricardo laughed. First a little, then louder. “What, you serious?” The laugh grew until a falsetto creeped up into his laugh and he sounded like a giggling girl . “You gonna fight her?”

“Yeah, and don’t remind me. Got half a mind to quit.” I spat on the floor.

Ricardo’s wailing echoed through the locker room. He stepped up and slapped me on the back. “Oh man.” He collected himself, looking at me and nodded. “But you know, it’s not too bad. I think a lot of men would beg to get put down by Carmela.”

I jerked around, dropping the tie knot. “Shut that dumbass mouth, it ain’t funny.”

His hyena laugh returned. Ricardo laughed so hard he couldn’t look straight, then buckled down like he’d just been hit in the face. I let it run its course.

“You done?” I said.

“Depends.” A shit faced grin took him, and he stuck out his tongue. “Are you gonna keep talking about this?”

“They only picked me cause they think she’s got a real shot.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Don’t you get it? I’m a featherweight and she’s the biggest bitch I’ve ever seen.”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck, you’re stupid!”

“They want you to lose, so what?”

I shrugged. “Oh you know. My career. My passion. Both trashed. I’d historically be that guy who lost to Carmela.”

“So win?”

“That’d be the same thing pretty much.”

Ricardo took the towel off his head, his frizzy hair standing up in bent wires. “You know, I really don’t think it’s that bad. Let’s say you lose. Let’s say you put up a good fight, and,” he shrugged, “You lose. The audience don’t care.” He put up his index finger. “Like, imagine Serena Williams played Nadal. Everyone except the old white creeps would love to see Williams take a set off Nadal, assuming they played.” Ricardo winked. “Doesn’t make people see Nadal as less of a player.”

“And what about to the old, white creeps?” I asked.

“Sport’s about the fans, dude. About the spectacle.”

“Who do you think pays Nadal? 

Ricardo started to dry off his hands. “So you’re scared of the guys that throw a temper tantrum every time Williams drops her racket too loud?” He watched the green towel fibers scrape across his knuckles, then snorted. “I think I get it.” He lifted his eyebrows. “Oh wait, no I don’t.”

I chuckled. “Yeah, well, it’s not like you ever think ahead.”

“Just optimism.”

I shook my head and looked back at the floor. “I gotta think this one out, man.”

“You worry too much. You’ll be fine.” He nodded encouragingly. “Keep your head clear.” He stepped back and pointed at me. “Cause our tag match is tomorrow.” He walked out backwards, leaving just me in here. Under the flickering incandescent light bulbs from the 70s, I fiddled with my tie, fingers spilling over themselves as the knot formed, not pretty but utilitarian. Yanking down on the fat end, the tie pulled tight till I could scarcely breathe and my neck was exploding out the top of my collar. 

I hit the road minutes later, thrusting down onto the gas more and more as I pulled unto the highway, until the only thing for miles was my Volvo. My apartment towered in the distance, growing larger as the yellow lines rushed by, just like the lights in other windows as I rode the elevator to the top, wondering how many sponsors I could lose before the rent was out of my grasp. The 77th floor had few people living here. It could only fit 8 neighbors, and that meant I knew the business of this floor. 

Fingers pressed 1234 into a keypad, and my door was open, an empty living room adjacent to a kitchen one step up, presenting before a wide window that menaced over the city. First, the fridge. I took out a Sam Adams before ripping off my dress clothes to fall onto the mattress I leave in the middle of the floor for this exact moment, when there was nothing that could be done to get me upstairs or anywhere. 

I checked my phone and deleted this conversation: 

Walker: “Ur getting paid either way. Just put up a good fight.”

I googled Carmela Lopez.

“Lopez Triumphs over Freeman!” was the first article. 

Yeah, yeah… then it caught my eye. Two words at the bottom of the preview, before the link trailed off into “…”. I clicked it to read closer.

“Lopez’s next match will be a TV special against Featherweight champion Booker Brown in the first ever ‘Sexes Showdown’! Will the popular superstar be able to take down Brown? Top analysts pitch in here:”

I shook my head in confusion. How was this already out? Unless… I threw my phone across the floor. They knew about it before me! Walker set me up! I groaned, then chugged the beer. At least now I might sleep. I turned over on my side and pulled up the sheet and dreamt about punching the wall. 

I awoke panicking, hastily throwing on my tank top and shorts, then out the door and speeding back down the highway. My phone rang in my pocket. After it went to voicemail, it rang again. I dug it out. “Hello?”

“Booker!” the voice yelled, “It’s Max. We heard about your big fight.”

I cursed under my breath. “Which one?”

“Versus Carmela? I think this’d be a great opportunity for some promotion. It could be your most watched fight yet.”

I laughed in disbelief. “I’m not doing branding for this joke of a fight.”

He laughed back, so loud I winced. “You kidding? This is huge! We want a shoot before the fight of you and Carmela, Rolex center frame, of course. After that, you can wear whatever!”

I bit my tongue in frustration. Curse that pasty, old bastard making a publicity stunt of this. “Can I make a suggestion?” I said.

“Anything for our best wrist model.”

“Shut Up about this and I’ll do it. Now, I gotta go.”

W-w-wait Booker, we’ve gotta smooth out the logistics-”

Click! 

I sighed and sank back into my seat until I got to the huge stadium. I parked right out front. The only ones there when I ran in were the Sampson brothers, Ricardo, and the senile backup ref. I hopped up the steps and grabbed the outside rope, staring into the ring with Ricardo. Gripping hard, my hands glowed red the next time I pulled them away.

“You okay, man?” Ricardo said.

“Yeah, yeah,” 

He put his hand on my back and pointed at the Sampsons who stood at the opposite side of the ring. “These fools got nothing on you. I might just sit this one out.”

I gave one of those laughs that’s just exhaled out the nose.

“You still worried about Carmela? What’s she gonna do to you, kick you in the balls? Just wear a cup and you’ll win.”

“She’d get DQ’d. No reason to slow myself down like that.”

Ricardo began picking at his fingernails. “Yeah, well I’d still do it. It’s the first thing women go for once they’re out of options.”

“You got a lot of experience there?”

Ricardo narrowed his eyes. “Arguing makes you sound like someone who’s never been kicked in the balls.”

“It’s a gentleman’s rule. Nobody goes there.”

“I ain’t met many gentle-woman.”

“Fifteen minutes,” said the ref through the loudspeaker. Nausea emerged from my pelvis and crawled into my stomach. 

I blinked several times in a row. “I gotta hit the bathroom, man. I’ll be right back.”

“Alright. Don’t trip now.”

I hopped off the ring and sped up the stone staircases which led to the higher reaches of the stadium. Only janitors and busboys milled about, setting up for whatever was tonight. Once I was high enough, I left through a stone walkway into the outer stadium, then found my destination. 

Up in these box suites, typically rented out, bars served any kind of liquor you could imagine. But in the dead matches of the early morning, could he just walk in. 

“Shot of whiskey?” I said and slapped down a ten. 

As the bitter liquid had barely touched my tongue, she emerged from the women’s restroom. Her eyes went wide, as did mine, and I coughed up whiskey on the ground. 

“Well, well, well,” She said. “If it isn’t the champ?”

I closed my eyes as I did the shot, then turned back to her. “What are you doing here?”

“What’s it look like?” she said, drinking out a glass of yellow liquid. “You know the drill.”

She stepped up closer. I didn’t like how we could see eachother eye level. 

“I, uh- heard you beat up that Freeman girl,” I said.

She shrugged. “Not really a big deal. You know the news called her my rival? Ha!” Yellow vapor spat out her teeth. She stared at me. “I guess you’re closer to the mark.”

I laughed casually. “For the time being.”

“Right.” She chewed on her thumbnail while still staring. “Just promise me you’re not another freebie.”

“Freebie?”

“You better take this seriously. I’m going to fuck you up if you don’t try.”

My bit my tongue. “What do you mean try? Of course I’m gonna try.”

“Yeah, with all your friends and boss telling you it doesn’t matter? Win or lose, they say, it’s just Carmela Lopez!” She slammed her glass down and spoke in a low, deliberate tone. “I’m gonna win. And if you don’t try, you’ll get injured. It’s that simple.”

“You break a rule and it’s your reputation in danger.”

“Like I’d need to, to break you.”

“Five minutes!” came the refs voice.

Carmela swallowed the last of her drink. “If you didn’t see that coming, you’ve clearly never given me any respect.”

I blinked in confusion. “‘I’ve seen your fights.”

“But you don’t pay attention,” she laughed low. “Listen. My first fight, ever, was with these boys who’d come to the park, always stirring up trouble. I’d always see them causing problems, but they never paid us girls any mind. That was until there wasn’t the usual group of scrawny nerds to bully, they thought they’d kick sand in my face.” Her hand clenched the glass harder and harder, until the entire bar was trembling. “They THOUGHT they’d cross me!” She laughed. “But if I saw them now, I’d thank them. Why? That was the first time I felt power.” She smashed the bar table. Her eyes pulled up into her sockets and she purred, while her nails raked across the glass. “The fighting, the victory!”

I imagined Carmela, a whirlwind of rage, breaking the spines of teenagers thrice her size. “You beat them up?” I croaked. 

“We all left the park a pulpy mess that day. But the power, Booker. That never went away. I was a problem as a kid. Every adult told me I couldn’t be furious. Now, they can’t tell me shit. Now, I channel it in my work.”

The primal pull to go was growing in my head. “I gotta get to my fight.” Fight or flight.

“You’re pretty lucky,” she continued. “I don’t tell people that often. Mostly because it’d hurt the girls who look up to me to find out my motivations are that one dimensional.” Her teeth ground so hard. “That I live for the power. Such a pure emotion.” I thought they’d flake apart. “But if you think this is a joke, I’ve got nothing to worry about. You’re not gonna remember my story once your brain is knocked so hard it doesn’t even know your own name.”

“One minute!” said the ref.

I dropped my shot glass and ran past her, back down to the arena. My hands and feet were shaking when I got to Ricardo.

“Where were you? You missed warmup!” he said.

I strapped on my gloves. “I warmed up solo. I’m good.”

Ricardo glared at me as I took off my shirt and jumped around, trying to raise my heart rate. 

“First contendant, enter the ring!” shouted the ref.

Ricardo opened his mouth to speak, but I was already running for the ropes and hopping in. Sampson number 1 bound his hair back into a ponytail and followed suit. The ref stepped up between us. 

“Ya’ll ready?” he said, eager to get this show on the road. We both nodded. The ref brought his hands down. “Fight!”

I stepped up carefully, circling Sampson. My bodyweight was in a middle stance, so I could go high or low at a moment’s notice. He was more defensive, taking his time. In qualifying divisions that just meant cowardice. The first strike was mine. A quick jab which Sampson scarcely ducked. He shifted his weight and tossed a return hook at my gut. I stepped back, picking up my footwork. He wouldn’t see this coming. 

Again I threw the same jab, but this time I followed with a low kick to his shin. I was fast, my foot crushing through bone and tissue. Before he could proces, my fist smacked his jaw with a forward hook. Sampson grimaced. I never gave quarter when I fought. One, two, three more punches to the gut he took, stumbling like a drunkard. The few potshots he threw back were just hail Marys. 

His next hook caught me off guard, forcing me back. For a second, as I was turned, I saw her silhouette standing in the box-bar. That huge girl looked peaceful as a shadow, unmoving and unthreatening. In my distraction, Sampson crushed me in the nose. As he chambered a kick, I only thought about Carmela grinding teeth. When it smashed me across the shoulder, I saw her at eight years old throwing bullies over her shoulder. The next punch to my cheek took my vision. 

——————————————————————————————————————————-

The pasty old man rocked back and forth in the chair, cackling maniacally. He wheezed after every exhale, this foe-asian old white man, appropriating eastern culture to sell his karate lessons. In his Karategi, he smacked the rocking chair as sake sprayed out his nose and dribbled down his droopy jowls. Cigarette ash filled his teeth. The horrible old-timer sifting sake through decades of cigarette filters embedded in mouth tissue. His laugh grew higher and harder, his lungs struggling to keep up,  and the sake pooling in his lower jaw until it overflowed and roared down his face. 

“Booker…” he croaked, crooked, yellow teeth making a sly smile. “Booker!”

——————————————————————————————————————————-

“Booker! Tag me in!” Ricardo shouted. “BOOKER!” But it was done. I was flat on my back, KO’d in the first round. 

I wasn’t upset since I saw the irony. That although Carmela said getting smashed in the head would erase the past, it was Sampson striking my face that unlocked a memory of my youth. I’d all but blocked out the days spent in that hack dojo, the ‘sensei’, one of those living Hollywood cliches, who claimed to know ‘forbidden techniques’ he could never show us. In college, once I picked up the practice of butting heads in bars, I realized the hypocrisy of that place. That it was time I learned a real fighting art.

Ricardo and I didn’t have much to say on the way out. The only thing he gave me was a quick, “Seeya, Booker” as he got in a taxi and left. I got in my car and drove home to lick my wounds, the aches in body fresh and firey. The pain was invigorating. This was just the beating I needed to get back online. Better Sampson’s victory than hers. 

That loss was the first symptom of a huge disease if I couldn’t beat Carmela in the ring. Winning was my ultimatum. My effort’s what she wanted anyway. It was a good compromise. But in the days leading up to the event, my hours spent pouring over old videos of her fights revealed one thing: she wasn’t just good, she was a virtuoso. Every fighting style, from boxing to Jiu Jitsu she’d routinely bust out in one form or another, with perfect form. I’d never seen anything so artful. 

No, it didn’t matter. She’d not match me unless she could match my style. My Muay Thai was the only art I ever used, but that’s because I was damn good at it. Better than her, for sure. I pushed my body to its peak in the prep days. 8 mile runs every morning, power lifting at night, and hours and hours practicing, punching the bag, kicking dummies, sparring. Sometimes I forgot to eat. Carmela wasn’t doing this. Carmela couldn’t even fathom this level of practice. She relied on that rage too much. It’d be her downfall. Fighting’s about balance and grit. 

I hardly slept the day before the fight. When I did, I woke up grinning. The feeling of 1000 pounds off your shoulders. I kept that beaming smile all the way to the stadium, parking in the fighter’s lot and entering in the back to avoid the huge crowds. I warmed up good this time. In the underbelly, while I jumped rope, Max arrived with his entourage.

“Booker, check this out!” He said, producing the shiniest, jewel encrusted thing I’d ever seen. It hurt to look at. Max put it around my wrist. “You’ll use this in your shoot. Right now, let’s go!”

The gang of watch hawkers pushed me upstairs with them. I emerged to a roaring crowd, the stadium filled to the brim with every kind of fan. Sexes Showdown! posters blanketed the walls. The Jumbotron had me, then Carmela, rotating over and over. My picture smiled, while Carmela’s looked fearsome. When they saw me, the jumbotron zoomed in on me walking and the roar grew into a cacophony of fanatics. 

Max brought us to Carmela herself, who stood below the other side of the fighting cage. When he proposed the photo, she spat at him. “Win first,” she said.

Like I needed any more reason.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!” roared the loudspeaker, “WELCOME TO THE FIRST EVER SEXES SHOWDOWN”

The crowd howled its approval. 

“CHAMPIONS, TAKE YOUR PLACES OUTSIDE THE RING!”

I jumped up, clawing at the cage like a felon before he’s freed. The stadium went dark and a spotlight fell on me. 

“YOUR FIRST CONTENDER, FROM BROOKLYN, NEW YORK, THE BANTEMWEIGHT CHAMP, THE STRIKING HORNET, BOOOKER BROOOOWN!”

The crowd whooped and screamed back.

“YOUR SECOND CONTENDER, ALL THE WAY FROM PHOENIX, ARIZONA, THE GODDESS FIGHTING, THE LOVELY LADY OF DEATH, CAR-ME-LA LOPEEEEEZ!”

The roar that took the fans was deafening. I grimaced and covered my ears with my arms, while my hands still gripped the fence.

“FIGHTERS, TAKE YOUR PLACES IN THE RING!”

I stepped through, then walked towards the middle as it was locked behind me. Carmela was already waiting. The ref stepped between us. 

“You both know the rules. I don’t want to see nothin’ underhanded, but I shouldn’t have to tell you that. Other than that, let’s have ourselves a good fight.” He looked at Carmela. “You ready?” She nodded and smacked her gloves together. He turned to me. “Ready, Booker?” 

“Yeah.”

He stepped closer to me and whispered. “Walker says don’t go too hard.” He winked. “Alright then.” He brought his hands down. “Fight!”

I nearly knocked the ref down with how quick I stepped up. My foot lifted off the ground and snapped at her leg like fireworks. Carmela lifted her own leg as a shield. Stalling. More kicks followed, one, two, three, blocked each time. She couldn’t keep it up. I changed up my style, differing the target from her legs, to her arms, her shoulders, anywhere. Her grimace showed she couldn’t stand the battery. I threw in punches, too. Her defense was faltering. 

I saw a way in. Carmela’s sidestepping was a millisecond slow, but that’s all I needed to crack her in the face. Her expression morphed and disfigured. Damn, it was satisfying! I followed with an uppercut, when –

I didn’t see her throw the punch that slammed into my jaw. I was caught off balance. She weaved through my hasty defenses, slamming her palm down on my legs. She knew those were the key. I had to save my legs. But as I brought my defense lower, she put me in a hold. I backed up rapidly, slamming backfirst into the cold cage. If she brought me down, it’d be near impossible to escape. 

Naive! She might weigh more, but I had the strength. That was biology! I pushed back as hard as I could, until Carmela was forced off. I followed up with a kick as she took steps back, smashing my foot into her leg and shoulder. She smacked me in the face. I hit her square in the chest, then she kicked me there harder, sending me stumbling back. As I braced for her next strike, the bell sounded.

“END OF ROUND 1!” screamed the announcer. 

The sound of the roaring fans returned amidst my heavy breathing. I paced around the corner of the cage, wondering why this was taking so long. Carmela would go down in the next round, I decided. I was done holding back.

“ROUND TWO, FIGHT!”

Again, we met in the middle. This time, I’d be the one to punish her. Carmela popped a quick jab which I dodged easily enough. She popped another, then followed a swift punch. I dodged to the side, where she had no defenses. She took the bait. Everything was perfect about the punch I threw back. The angle, the power, her juicy, open face. It’s over.

She blocked the punch and grabbed my arm. It wasn’t possible, how did she move so fast? Her fist came flying into my own face, knocking me silly. My arms quickly blocked off that target, but the barrage that followed crushed me up and down my body. I snapped a roundhouse back, forcing her off me.

I was gasping for air. If I messed up like that again, Carmela might win. Going slow was wrong. I had to end this now. No more show. Once more, I threw an arsenal of kicks up and down. She blocked some, but many cracked along her undulating body. The last flew at her face, a finishing blow. As it connected, her hands grabbed on and lessened the impact. She snapped my leg two ways at once, and I cried out. 

I took a hit to the cheek, then the chest. The same leg, then my arm. She was flying around me. The next punch must’ve ruptured my hippocampus. 

So. She really wants that memory gone, huh?

But instead I saw him again.

——————————————————————————————————————————-

“Booker…” he crooned through yellow teeth and a ghostly-pale face. “Booker!” He lit a cigarette and giggled to himself. 

“Are you drunk again?”

“Are you drunk-?

“-Sensei.”

He cackled and wheezed, smacking the rocking chair. “A little sake never fails to raise the spirits, boy.” He held up the bottle and sloshed it around. “Taste and see.”

I did as he said. It was drier than any wine I’d ever had, and I spat it out.

He howled his approval, his hand flying up and down, slamming the chair. The geezer shot up. “For that,” he said, “You’re ready to learn my first forbidden technique.”

I looked on in wonder. “I am?”

“Yes… my Kyusho Jitsu. The art of hidden pressure points.” The old man took a deep breath and steadied himself. “This first move will let you beat any woman in a fight. You must swear to tell no one!”

I nodded. “I swear.”

“Good. To beat any woman in a fight, you just need to-” A crooked smile formed. Cracked, puke colored teeth lined his mouth. In between were flakes of cigarettes, like one might see lettuce after eating a salad. “-Kick her in the clitoris.”

My face fell slowly, until it settled on a deep frown. “What?”

“You heard me. It’s their reset button. One kick, no matter how angry she is, she’ll only be able to think about housework. Perfect for the nagging wife.”

My frown formed a snarl. “That’s not fighting! What kind of coward would-”

He roared from laughter, stretching back and holding his belly as he howled and weezed. He poured the sake down his face, drenching his clothes and floor. His laughter became gargles and gags as he could hardly breathe, and a noxious cloud of cigarette vapor, rice wine, and old man congealed and permeated the air until I was gagging. I walked out, the forbidden knowledge weighing down my mind.

——————————————————————————————————————————-

“7!” said the loudspeaker. “8! 9!”

I shot up. Now I understand. I found my answer. 

“Ah, he wants some more!” taunted Carmela. 

Stupid bitch. If I couldn’t win in name, at least I could in spirit. I was deadly accurate with my feet. I feigned my kick high, but as she stood poised to block, I shot it low and found my mark. Billions of neurons, never activated together, now erupted all at once. The signal propagated along express superhighways, slamming over and over into the center of her brain. When it broke through, her expression snapped from fierce to bizarre. And her eyeballs. They spiraled up and down like googly eyes, until her body lost all rigidity and crumpled to the ground. 

The stadium went silent. I stared at her, amazed. She looked so peaceful like that, like a sleeping bear. I turned around and lifted my hands in victory.

“BOOO!” The crowd screamed back. My fanfare was beer bottles smashing into the chain wiring as the ref stared in disbelief. Bags of popcorn, soda cans, and beer flew together, slipping through the cage, showering me in syrup and booze. My smile faded. 

Then the crowd stopped. I blinked in confusion. Behind me, that silhouette climbed back to her feet. Before I could move, my face was crushed into the wiring. She turned me around and smashed my face. Again. Then again. 

Why aren’t they calling this off? 

Her fist spilt my blood onto the ground. The next brought several teeth with it.

I got DQ’d. It’s over. She won. 

She picked me up and slammed me to the floor, her palm flying into my nose and snapping my septum in two.

Why me?

She knelt on my chest, punching over and over. Each hit was silent. I could only hear the crowd’s thunderous applause.

Why me?

Written Spring 2021

Lee Buford is a self-recognized idiot and screw up from middle of nowhere America. In between getting stoned, he fantasizes going to college after high school and escaping it all. Did he mention being a screw-up? Well, he is decent at one thing—basketball. If only the school all star, Roper, would move over and give him a pedestal to shine. If only he could get rid of Roper…

Lee’s Golden Apple

SATURDAY

This evening a mom and her three runt brats came into Wendy’s screaming, while Lee was trying his best to zone out behind the register and ignore his work. Dissociated, he messed up a few times trying to ring them up, prompting a barrage of cusses from this ugly, ugly woman. The people in this town have no decency, that’s for certain. Her yelling got worse when they forgot one, yes ONE, order of french fries. Rather than have him fill it like a regular human, she reached her fat arm over the desk and grabbed Lee by the tie, muttering, “I’m gonna have you fired, boy.” He ground his teeth, aching to clock her across her melty jowls. 

Lee had no doubt he was the poorest guy in the worst town. At least the homeless in the city got to have freedom and what not. But he was still bound by slivers of ritualism, still going to school when the only things he enjoyed were smoking dope and basketball. He could do that, and nothing else, as a homeless person. Kind of an enchanting life. Not that his ambitions were so low, but there was nothing else going for him right now.

Yet, he did dream. 

Lee knew of the existence of the city salarymen that did jack shit compared to this backbreaking at the Wendy’s. He could do it, no doubt, given the chance. To even become one of them he’d need money, but in between these seven dollars an hour checks and his terrible grades, there was no hope. Plus, 90% of his money went to his ex, drug dealer, and primary chaotic motivator, Eris. She always came to suck the last of his money.

With only the dim lights along the Wendy’s, it was black out when he got off work. He massaged his aching hands. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere,” Lee mumbled, teary eyed. 

Across the lot, her silhouette stood with a glowing cigarette, spewing spirals of smoke into the lamplight. “That’s dumb. Are you staying to eat?”

Lee frowned. “You know it’s closed. Eight hours of my day… But I’m talking here. In Redburgh.”

Eris chuckled. “You’re always telling me otherwise.” She stepped out of the shadows and stood before him, a whole head shorter. “Guess you finally changed your mind.”

“Not my choice.” Lee sighed. “It’s late. You got my dope, or what?”

“We need to talk about the kids.”

Lee stepped back and felt like dissolving into the Wendy’s wall, lowering himself and looking over the empty parking. Nothing there but streetlights and bug hordes. He’d never even met Eris’s girls. He shouldn’t be any different than a sperm donor, yet she always nagged him for the money. “Nah, not now. I need my dope. You know my ma’s got that medical thing… she can’t wait.”

Eris scowled, but nonetheless pulled a dimebag from her backpack. “Fifteen.”

Lee coughed. “Jesus christ! You must fucking hate me.”

“You can blame supply for that.”

“But it’s for me,” he said with a fake smile.

“Pull your head out of your ass. You pay almost nothing in child support.”

Lee looked off to the side. “Maybe if you actually took your pills… nevermind.”

“Jesus Christ, Lee. Do you ever shut up when it’s good for you?”

“No. Otherwise I would’ve stopped talking to you the second we met.”

Eris put the weed away. “Then I guess I should go.”

Lee smirked. “And give up on my cash? You don’t want that.”

He could see Eris’s teeth grinding, because it was true. “Then pay for it, and shut the hell up. Maybe it’s good for you to stay here, so you can finally act like a dad.”

Lee sighed louder, looking away from her. “Chained to Redburgh,” he mumbled. “Eris… I need a favor from you. You know guys who would do bad things, right?”

“What’s this about?”

“I gotta talk to them.”

“About what?”

“About what,”  Lee mimicked. “It’s got nothing to do with you.”

“If you’re trying to screw me, Lee, I swear to God!”

“-It’s not about dope! I need a guy who’ll do bad things. I’ve got some cash.”

“How much we talking?”

“Of the $500 I’ve got in the bank, I’d spend $250 on this job.”

Her voice wavered. “Is paying them why you can’t spend fifteen dollars?”

“Well… no. But I-”

“-So if you want the dope, maybe I can do something.”

Lee ripped what must’ve been thirty dollars of crumpled bills out of his work pants and smacked them onto Eris’s tiny palm. “Fine, you cheap bitch!” he shouted, turning red.

“Fuck you!”

“Just forget I said anything.”

“555-191-4928.”

Lee cocked his head at her. “What?”

Eris had a shit-eating grin. “Call it. See what happens.”

“555-191-4928,” Lee mumbled to himself. 

“And don’t do it from your house. Use a payphone.”

Lee nodded. “555-191-4928.” He saluted her. “Owe you one.”

“You owe me more than that.”

He biked home in the deep dark. Half the streetlights didn’t work and more than half the streets had no lamp posts at all, broken or not. Lee had no reservations, because this was Redburgh, and along the rolling empty roads the only company was crickets and deer. It was tough, pushing through the soupy air, a spiderweb of the town clinging to him and holding his bike to the earth. “555-151-4928,” he whispered to the moon and felt the beginnings of rain. “Or was it 191? That’s right.” He looked at the ground and cursed the name. “Roper Hardlow.”

LAST FRIDAY

Lee’s fingers just barely missed the pass, and the basketball tumbled and rolled away. Shit! He stumbled after, stretching out to smack it even further away. Before he went careening any further, Roper had already turned the ball back around. Lee watched as he spun around the defense and, not even looking, popped it in the net. Motherfucker. 

After practice, the coach broke the news. “You boys got a real treat next week. There’s a college scout, from the city, on his way here.” The team exchanged glances. That anyone from the city could even find them on a map was a real treat. They wordlessly agreed that it was Roper they were coming for. But what if Lee could kick ass for this guy? He could be the one going to college. 

“College,” he thought, as he smoked in the garage. He’d seen Animal House before. To think, four years of that and then he gets a job in the city pushing buttons in a suit except it pays him one hundred times what he gets pushing buttons on the cash register. As he chewed on the blunt in his lips, he got a whiff of the french fry oil absorbed into his sleeves and imagined finally washing his clothes. He began to scheme.

SATURDAY

He was drenched in rain when he opened the door and startled ma awake. She’d dozed off in front of the TV. “How was work?” she croaked.

“Shit,’” said Lee, opening the fridge and pulling out a coke. 

“Bring anything?”

Lee shook his head. “Nah. Franklin dumped the leftovers.”

“Again? Is he trying to starve us?”

Lee jerked towards her. “Oh, for God’s sake, ma, you don’t want that shit. The fries were a week expired and the burgers… you don’t wanna know.”

“I wanna eat something hot is what.”

“Stove ain’t broken.” Not that his ma had ever even turned it on, but putting peas in a pot was in her ballpark. 

555-191-4928. He scratched it into his wall, his very own wall of hieroglyphics. To the left he’d carved out a scene of him on the court with the Heat. Down below, the logo of the 82nd airborne division, a reminder.  With the light out, he stared at the ceiling and imagined Roper’s legs twisted into pretzels, rolled up hairy knots of fractured bone, useless now and forever. Despite the anger, he began to cry. Goddamn Roper Hardlow. If Lee could get his hands on him… no. He’d let them do it. Whatever plans they kept were far more devious. 

SUNDAY

He biked five miles to the mall in the morning, savoring the fresh, cool air. He smiled at the weather’s turn, thinking how strange it was that something so sickening could be this fun. After several cars squeezed past with little regard, he stood up on the pedals and got moving. In the abandoned lot of American mallfuckery, he tied up his bike and began to wander the ghost town corridors of boarded up shops. When they first built this place, he’d kick it here looking to score, but after Eris, his interests went from girls to drugs. There wasn’t anymore appeal to the droning sunny music and strange looping pathways. 

Now he only came here for something specific, like when he thought he might set down the spatula and make the big bucks waiting tables at Olive Garden – that was until they did a surprise marajuana test (Lee was pretty sure he had anxiety and had been self medicating for a few years – there wasn’t any way he was getting that job).  This time around it was the payphone. Lee found the thing in the dank corridor to the bathroom and shoved three quarters in, almost licking the receiver in excitement. 

He punched in the number and let it ring. After waiting a minute, it went to voicemail, a robot lady reading back the number. He shook his head and dialed again. It rang and then… voice mail. Fuck! He didn’t have the spare change to waste on this bullshit. Surely the number was right? He wrote it just as Eris said, “555-191-4928”. He punched it in one more time, his anxious fingers vibrating as they slipped over the buttons. By the time it reached the last ring, he picked up the metal phone and slammed it against the phone box, then one more time. 

“Hello?” came a weak voice at the other end. 

They made him waste all his quarters. “You think it’s funny ignoring me this long?!”

“Hello, hello, Mister,” said the voice, high pitched and girlish. 

It sounded like a kids voice. Was this some fucking joke? “Uh… hi.”

He heard shuffling, then a deeper voice took over. “Who is this?”

“Uh, who are you?”

“Someone who doesn’t hand out his name to strangers.”

“Okay. My name’s Lee Buford. I was given this number by Eris Appel.”

“Oh yeah? You that kid who wants a job done, right?”

Lee squeezed the receiver with glee. “Yeah.” He leaned in and began to whisper, wary of the occasional shopper. “I need you to take someone out.”

“A hit job? That’s pretty big.”

“No, no. I just need you to break his legs before Wednesday. His name’s Roper Hardlow. He’s about six foot seven, athletic, blonde hair. Address is 175 Waimy Drive. Every afternoon at 5:30 he walks up Salisbury street to get home. It’s always empty, abandoned. When you see that tall fuck go buy, I want you to give him the old hit and run. You couldn’t miss him.”

“Ah,” said the deep voice. “What’d this guy do to you? Fuck your girl?”

“I wish. He’s trying to ruin my whole life.”

“I’m gonna need more details.”

“It’s none of your damn business.”

“It is!” the voice barked. “If you want to order something bad, you gotta tell the whole story. Now cough it up.”

Lee leaned closer, nearly kissing the receiver. “Okay. My one way out of this town is if I can impress a basketball scout this Wednesday. Only problem is, Roper’s so good that no one looks good next to him. It’s not just for me, it’s for the whole team.” There was a pause on the other end, followed by what sounded like suppressed laughter. “Excuse me?” said Lee.

“Sorry, my dog was chewing on my sock. This is gonna cost a lot. I’d say $1000.”

$1000?! Lee’s heart stopped. “Wait, what? Is there any way you’d do it for $250?”

“Hmm… it’s a big risk. But I guess we’d take $750.”

“Uh, $300.”

“If you’ve got more to spend, why are you trying to lowball me?”

“Please, I don’t have enough.”

“How does $600 sound?”

“$400,” Lee countered.

“I’ll go as low as $500, but that’s it. You’re lucky Eris put in a good word for you.”

“$450!” 

“$500, and that’s final. If you don’t got that, you can find someone else.”

But that was everything! Yet where else would he get this chance? Lee just knew if he took Roper out, he could get into college. “Okay, okay. $500. But I want to see good results.”

“We’re already giving you half off, kid. Okay. Just wait until Wednesday. Once you see Roper what we’ve done to Roper, you’re gonna wish we never got involved. Wire the cash to Ivan Kvanchek if you’re serious. Don’t worry, it’s a dummy account.”

Lee hastily scribbled down the back information,  then the receiver went silent.  Shaking, Lee set the phone down. What had he done? It was terrifying, yet he was excited. Roper, just wait. Lee’d see to it Roper’s little college dream was coming to an end. But his dream was just beginning. 

MONDAY 

After practice, Lee was walking home past the green, cracked courts at the park. The sound of repeated chain net swishing caught his ears. He turned to see Roper, with messy blonde hair and a sports headband, carelessly shooting the ball. Lee hadn’t yet wired the money. His heart gave him a new plan. If he could prove to himself he was better than Roper, right here, just the two of them, he wouldn’t need to break the fucker’s legs. Sure, Roper beat him in the past, but there was a new energy within him this week. There was a good chance Lee’d win.

Lee walked up, grabbed a ball off the ground, and bounced it. Roper turned and squinted, then chuckled. “What’s good?”

“Not much. You?” Lee said.

Roper turned back and shot the ball, draining a three pointer. “Nothing really.” Roper went to get the ball. “You were doing pretty good at practice today. Keep it up and we could make states.”

Lee shot his ball and made a three off the backboard. “I think we’re a shoe in with you on the team.”

Roper rolled his eyes. “Yeah, maybe. I just don’t want to always do all the work.” Lee bounced his basketball at Roper, who swatted it away, startled. “What now?”

“Let’s one-on-one.”

Roper checked his watch and sighed. “Sure. Although I don’t see how practice didn’t give you your fill.”

They checked up at the three-point line. An inch taller, Lee leaned up to shoot over Roper, but the wiry fuck was quick to block his view. Lee instead threw the ball down and tried to drive it to a layup, but Roper was quick, knocking it from his hands. The bastard ran the ball out, then brought it back in for a clean off the backboard two pointer. 

“Myself, I don’t like to practice too much. I’m only out here cause my pa’s away on a trip,” said Roper as they checked up again. Lee shot the three this time, but with Roper in his face, it popped off the rim.

“What do you mean?” Lee said. “Practice is how you get better.”

Roper sighed as he fetched the ball. “Basketball’s just never been something I could pour my heart into.” He dribbled it a few times. “I like working with my hands. It’s why I’m gonna apprentice with my dad. Be a carpenter.”

Lee almost hit him for that. “But the college scout!”

Roper shook his head with a disgusted face. “I’m not spending four years learning useless trash. I wanna make money now.”

“You could go pro!”

“What, and have to play this and nothing else for the rest of my life? No sir.” Roper shot the ball and sank a three. “I just wasn’t made for this.”

Lee had never heard something so ignorant. It messed with his head as they continued their game. By the end, Roper was winning by eleven points. Lee retrieved the ball and lobbed it over the fence, into the woods. “There. Since you don’t like it, I got rid of it. Why don’t you just not show up on Wednesday? Give the rest of us a chance with the scout?”

Roper gave a weak smile. “If I could give you some of my talent, I would. But come on, Lee. There’s more to life than college.”

Not for Lee. It was about time he wired some money. At the bank, he scribbled down the account info. It was still in his dad’s name, spending the leftovers of his military pension left behind when Afghans put a bullet in his dome. Even if he had the smarts, he could never join up with Uncle Sam after what they did. No, college was the only option. He was gonna be one of the rich suits. He almost felt sorry for Roper, but it was a necessary sacrifice. 

He just hoped Ivan Kvanchek was good for it. At home, he played in the driveway with that tired ball his dad got him seven years ago, before his deployment. Lee had used it so much that the grooves were worn off, and the air drained until it was oblong and soft, like a golden apple. His dad always told him real men take matters into their own hands when things aren’t going their way. In the TV room of their four room flat, his mom coughed and sputtered, dying in front of the shows she watched all day. He was gonna get them out of here. This Wednesday, things were gonna change. 

WEDNESDAY 

It was now or never. After practicing all night, Lee’s stomach had been done up in knots all the way to the game. But when he walked in the gym, instead of hearing how the star player was injured and couldn’t play, Roper was nonchalantly shooting hoops. Lee went blank, then felt a snap. It physically hurt, and he could swear steam was beginning to form on his reddened skin. There was a momentous effort from his rational side to hold the burgeoning stampede of violence back from grabbing Roper and tearing his arms off. He had to wince and grind his teeth, but he managed to walk on by, to a basketball and start warming up. He made a few shots, then kicked the pole with a withheld scream. 

He wasn’t supposed to be here, that was the deal he made with Ivan! That fucker scammed him! $500, all his money! Lee started to cry. All his money… and with Roper here, he’d never see any more. He faced away from the players so they wouldn’t see the tears stream down, only craning his neck to stare at Roper. The lackadaisical superstar wasn’t even practicing now; he was sitting there, staring out the window at a squirrel. Maybe Lee could take him out now? Was there a way to make it look like an accident. Maybe hurl the basketball a bit too hard, knock him silly?

Lee arched his arm to do it, but wavered. What was he doing? He had to keep it together. It wasn’t hopeless, yet. Maybe, just maybe, he could beat Roper the old fashioned way. Lee spun on his heels and instead lobbed the ball to the other end of the court, bouncing violently off the backboard, as crowds of students wandered into the bleachers. 

“Lee, what are you doing?” Coach scolded. “Stop messing around and huddle up.” The team gathered in the huddle. “That talent scout’s in that crowd,” said Coach. “Now, I don’t want y’all to be nervous, but give your all. If we impress them enough, I truly think we could grab more than a few of you a spot on a college team.” The team looked about their huddle, exchanging half nods and anxious glances. Coach turned to Roper. “Sound us off, Captain.”

“This is Redburgh! What are our names?!” Roper shouted. 

“We are the boys of West St. James!” they chorused back. 

Roper  gave Lee a slap on the back, startling him.  “Good luck, man,”

That went both ways, because if Lee failed here, it’d be ugly for them both. In the game itself, he didn’t really feel all there. Lee started off in the jump ball and immediately smacked it to their team. Their point guard swerved around Lee’s flailing arm, but behind him there was Roper, casually taking the ball right from the opponent and dribbling it back up. He zipped around their defense and made the layup, laughing freely. “Keep your head in the game, Lee.”

The game, Roper’s taunting. It was too much. When the opponent’s twerp point guard tried to make a shot, Lee ripped the ball from his hands, throwing him to the ground. A whistle immediately followed. The other team made both foul shots, and Lee soon found himself on the bench. His vision was hazy. Why was Roper HERE?! He watched Roper as he made shot after shot, playing like he deserved to be in the NBA. But Lee could play like that too, if he didn’t have to be so unlucky as to live in the fucker’s shadow. That bastard who didn’t even want it! He began to sweat and audibly wheeze. The coach put his hands on his shoulder, saying “You all good?” but to Lee it sounded like he was speaking through a tin can. If he could just get his hands on Roper…

Lee’s time in the spotlight peaked when he got to shoot a free throw in the fourth quarter. Trembling, he threw it and airballed. A punch of nausea to the stomach followed. He spat on the court, then hurled the next shot into the backboard with one arm. The crowd went silent as the plastic undulated. To his dismay, it didn’t shatter.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           THURSDAY

Lee pounded the door of Eris’s apartment. “You fucking bitch! Whore! Cunt! Monster! Open this fucking thing!” The door opened to a big guy almost Lee’s height. Lee looked him up and down. “Who the hell are you?”

“We got a problem?”

Lee recognized the deep voice. “Ivan? Give me my money!”

“What money?”

“I wired you $500! And you didn’t do shit!”

Under Ivan’s shoulder, he spied Eris in the other room. He tried to push through, but Ivan’s size made Lee easy to shove back. “GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!” Ivan said. 

Lee scrambled back. “I swear to God, man, give me my money back or I’ll make you regret it.”

“Eris, call the police,” said Ivan. “Your psycho ex wants to hurt us.”

Lee stood up to look over Ivan. “Eris! Eris!” He started to bawl. “Eris, I need that money. I can’t afford food, man. Eris, please.”

“Hah!” he heard her say. “You couldn’t even recognize your own daughter’s voice on the phone. Cause you never even cared. She’s two now, you know.”

“Eris, please. I need that money, Eris.”

“You mean the child support you owe me?”

Ivan slammed the door, then returned brandishing a gun. “Are you gonna keep giving us trouble?”

Lee backed away, bumping into a hallway corner. This bitch, ruining him! He never wanted kids! They were just dumb teenagers when he fucked her, and now he had nothing. He’d kill Eris! Kill her the next time they crossed paths! “I’ll get you for this, bitch!

Back at the door, Ivan fired his gun at the wall. “I said get away!” He barked. 

Lee scrambled up and out, fleeing the apartment building. Outside, he stared at it, full of hatred. Oh, he’d get Eris. Once he found her separated from that gangster, he’d get her. At home, Lee pulled out a kitchen knife and began to trace slices into his wall. He turned the blade on his own finger and stabbed into it, drawing blood. With it, he drew new hieroglyphs. The first was Eris, that temptress, that whore. The next was Ivan, the lumbering brute. Finally, he drew Roper, someone who existed for no reason than to hurt others. All three, marked for death. Across the hall, he could hear his mom wheezing as she stuffed her face with combos, obese and paralyzed. 

He closed his eyes and saw her together with dad. Back then she was still skinny enough to work. His dad handed him the basketball and together they dribbled, laughing. After, his dad knelt and set his military cap on Lee’s head. 

“Where are you going?” Lee had asked. 

“To protect our freedom.”

“But why’s it gotta be my dad?” Lee said, feeling pangs of sadness coming on. 

“Real men take matters into their own hands,” his dad stood up and looked off towards the horizon. “When you’re older, you’ll understand.”

When I’m older… my own hands. Dad was right. Lee’s only mistake was hiring someone else for this job. 

FRIDAY

That morning, he considered his options. Going for Eris was lethal with Ivan around. No, he’d have to start smaller. Roper was the little fish here, but he’d have to get him sooner or later. Lee told that fuck. He told him not to come to the game. Roper had done it to only spite him, to take his spot. He stole Lee’s entire life. Like murdering him. Roper deserved this. Lee would take Roper’s passion, the same way Roper had taken his. He knew exactly how.

Lee hunched in a bush on Salisbury street, holding a baseball bat. Roper came walking straight through, no care in the world. Wearing a hockey mask, Lee jumped out behind him. Before Roper could even turn around, Lee slammed the bat to the back of that bastard’s head. There was a  Clack! as Roper toppled. Lee leapt after him. Raising it high, he brought the bat down on both of his legs. Roper screamed. One after another. 

Roper began to howl. He moved to his hands. “Like working with your hands, huh!?” Lee thought. Roper screeched and tried to crawl away, so Lee smashed his elbows too. He returned to the hands and hit them more, over and over, amidst cracking and Roper’s caterwauling. “You’re never gonna use them again!”The fucker soon went quiet, but Lee didn’t stop there. Not until there was nothing solid left for the bat to hit.

Written Fall 2019

Stephanie Werner is a young writer hunting for prestige after college. But with little accomplishments and an undeservedly fat ego, it’s going to take her some maturing before she’s ready to publish anything worthwile.

My Last Name Is Werner

By Liam McLaughlin

My sharp fingernails were the slow, successive beeps of sonar as they drummed on the table. I couldn’t understand Kevin’s muffled gargles. When he spoke, his words formed bubbles from his mouth that floated up until they popped on the ceiling, lost to everyone but Neptune. He didn’t like that. It made him louder, angrier with every captured phrase, but never did he fix it, and swim us to shore. He didn’t want to be the first to broker the impolite words, “Are you even listening?” But maybe he should’ve. I was drowning.

“More coffee?” 

I was ripped awake from my deep sea slumber. The waiter smiled over me, holding out the steaming pot. I nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

As he poured, my eyes drifted towards Kevin. 

“What were you thinking about?” he said, slow but deliberate. 

“The ocean,” I admitted. “Living at sea.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Oh? Why’s that?”

I laughed a little. “I guess there’s something so peaceful in it.” 

The game was tiring. I hardly cared anymore, yet I always came back to play, like a willess husk. He was cute though, for whatever that’s worth. Not the type of guy who’d usually go out for me. I drank from the black cup, bitter taste coming down my throat. I loved how coffee made me feel. I loved the taste. The worst thing was coming down, the fleeting feeling lost like a snowflake on a tongue. 

He started fidgeting with the spoon in his hand. “Yeah, so I worked at the tech firm for a few years. Just wasn’t cutting it. I switched to a job at the Comcast building since I’d rather focus on my band,” He rambled. 

“Oh,” I said. On the first date, he went on and on about his favorite things. TV, movies, books. Nothing impressive. This is the first he mentioned personal life. “What kind of band?”

He wore a narcissistic grin, like he’d just won me back. 

“We’re a tribute band to The Specials. It’s like a little Ska, Reggae mix sort of thing.” He did kung-fu-like moves with his hands as he added that. He leaned back triumphantly. “Imagine if Bob Marley got together with the Ramones, and you’ve got us.”

I started brushing something out of my eye. “Those are some big names,” I replied, my face contorted with a gaping mouth and one eye wincing shut as I pulled out eye boogers. 

He nodded. “Yeah. Got big shoes to fill.” He looked at me.

I felt fluttery in his gaze. Giving a sharp giggle, I said, “Well don’t we all.”

And that was it. The feeling left as I regained my senses. 

The waiter returned. “Can I get you the check?”

“Oh yeah, thanks” Kevin nodded. His eyes bore back to me. “You want to stop at my place? We can watch a movie,”

I smiled. “No.”

He looked confused.

“I’m on my period.”

When the waiter returned, Kevin asked to split the check. Right then, he’d never looked uglier to me.

I walked home through the blistering cold. The city was quiet with everyone huddled indoors to escape the snap freeze. I wasn’t one of the levelheaded ones. That Kevin of all people dragged me out here… I stared into my phone longingly, wondering if he’d text me back. If any of them ever would. I’m on my period. God what a stupid thing to say. What if he was being genuine? I would’ve gone in that case.

I shook my head. Not true. I had stuff to do today. The date was never going to his place. He was rude to even ask, and assume I had nothing to do. People with boring jobs always acted like that. Sellouts. Worthless fucking depressed sellouts. 

I reached my building, climbing up stairs and squeezing into my studio apartment. It was one big room, although it might be more accurate to say two mashed into one. I carefully stepped over months of books, papers, bills, and dirty clothes, then collapsed on my bed. I’d had too much coffee to sleep, so I just lay there in the agonizing discomfort of half a brain wired on and the other half trying to turn off. 

I had something to do today. Something to do now. Out of the corner of my eye it stared at me, covered in stacks of failed manuscripts. I’d been trying for so long to stick the landing. The deadline was tomorrow morning and I was out of time, yet here I was, lying sedentary. The publisher was killing me. I told them over and over how I needed more time, how it could be something great if I just had more time. I’d once managed to get the company president on the phone, a big english professor who did this on the side.

  His voice had come through muffled by bad cell service. “Stephanie Werner, was it? I did read one of your short stories before. You’ve got talent my friend!”

I was fearing for the day he read this. “I’m just nervous I don’t have the time. It’s supposed to be my debut.”

“You’re scared of critics? Don’t be. This novel has to be good. Why don’t you tell me what you’ve got so far?”

“It’s an allegorical Bildungsroman of the female writer. The plot isn’t really straightforward, so I don’t know if you have the time for me to lay it all out to you.”

“No, that sounds fine! I like it, actually. Like a feminist take on a classic novel. ‘A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Woman’. Can I call you Stephanie Dedalus?”

Ha. Ha. 

The publisher continued. “It sure sounds like you’re writing for critics, so don’t be sad if a tabloid who doesn’t get it tries to drag your name through the mud. It happens all the time. I’ve spent hours reading the negative reviews on my otherwise praised novels. Nothing good ever comes out of it.”

I sighed into the phone. “But what if it isn’t an otherwise praised novel?”

“Well, that’s what editors are for. But otherwise, try again!” 

Without a publisher, sure. Maybe my parents might buy it. I managed to sit in front of the computer, staring at the blinking cursor. The ending was supposed to be around 10,000 words in total. So far I had 3. There were more before I trashed it all in a fit. 

Anytime I started, it felt like that spongebob episode where he tried to write an essay but only managed to put a fancy The on the page. Nothing but style and guff. I had less than twenty four hours to do this, and it couldn’t happen. I knew by this point that there was no forcing writing. I had to have inspiration strike me. It happened at random intervals and left in a flash. I could only get down so much before it was gone. 

There was another solution. If the universe wasn’t going to deliver, I’d force my hand. I reached into the side drawer and took out two orange tablets.

I marveled the them, picking them up with my fingernails and spinning them in circles. I smashed them with my first and ordered them into a neat line. I snorted it all with a straw.

It went up my nose like fire ants. I breathed out hard and sat forward, blinking in shock. Deep inside, an engine was revving up. It pushed through my cheeks with boundless force, a headrush stronger than encephalitis. Whatever was about to happen would be a masterstroke. An example of fate. 

I couldn’t stop staring at the cursor. In blinked on, and off, slower, on… and off…, slower, o…n…, a   n   d      o    f      f. 

Time stood still. 

In that moment, a conductor took the stand in my brain and began to control her orchestra with masterful craftsmanship. 

The page was bigger in my eyes. The cursor began to move as my hands splayed out over the keyboard. I was a circuit and words were current, blasting away, onto this page. My fingers burned as they squeezed through, my hands a blur. The conductor knew everything. She pointed to the bass drum of my heart, speeding up. It was all there. The story was already written. I was an observer.

I couldn’t believe how good it was. I’d never written anything so good. It felt amazing. I’d probably fall over and have sex with the conductor if she ever came here in person. Someone that amazing deserved everything. I took more orange pills. Come downs can’t happen.

We blasted off. The classical conductor was gone, replaced by blunt commands. Write this. Now this. You want to be rich?! Keep going! It’s amazing. It’s the best fucking piece every written. Fuck the publisher, fuck James Joyce! Old, decrepit pervert. He couldn’t define me. 

15,000 words and I stopped. I walked around town, ate toast from the supermarket, danced in circles, punched the wall more than once. I went to the gym and ran on the treadmill until I was near ready to faint, texted Kevin and called him an asshole and told him I hated Ska and to stop ripping off The Specials. I went to the coffee shop where I worked and ordered 3 big cups of coffee. The manager looked at me strangely, so I matched his gaze with an angry expression. 

I ran circles in the park. I got lost in the city, then found my way home. I went to another date with me and me at a restaurant I didn’t know. Time got wavy as it undilated and things started to become normal. 

Walking home, I began to come donw like a hag grabbed my conductor from behind with a garrotte and choked her to death. It made me nervous. I realized the magnitude of my mistake. What the fuck did I do today? I shook my head. I went home and cried in bed for over and hour. I sank once more into a deep, cold sea. I could only be safe in the deepest, darkest crevice. 

I woke up the next day with tears still in my eyes. The hair fell into my face as I struggled up. I’d bled through my pants in the confusion. What a come down. I nervously laughed. At least I got one thing from all this. My novel was done. 

I started reading with a coy smile that soon faded. This was so bad. I don’t even know who wrote this. But it was the end of the line. I went through and big chunks to shorten the damn thing. 

Well, that’s what editors are for. 

I emailed it to the publishing office with little second thought. It went:

Hi, 

Stephanie Werner here. Here’s my novel:

Thanks,

Stephanie Werner

———————————————————————————————————————

1 Attachment

(This is where my novel is attached in all her glory)

I took a train to my parent’s for thanksgiving. We didn’t talk much and It’d been since christmas that I’d last seen them.

I got to their house late, walking into the door right as dinner started. There were only the four of us there. The should’ve been my grandparents. It was too quiet. 

“Stephanie, sweetiepie!” My Mom screamed, choking me with her hug.

“Hi, Mom. Good to see you,” I grunted between labored breaths. 

She let go and walked to the table. “You got here right on time. Dad made the most lovely turkey.”

It’d been a while since I ate meat. The idea made me a little woozy. I didn’t like it how it made me feel sluggish. When my Dad set out the food, only my Mom and brother filled their plates.

“I was wondering when you’d get here,” Dad started.

“Train schedules can be unpredictable…” I answered. 

“Hmm,” he nodded. “How’s living in the city? You partying every night?” He laughed. 

“It’s fine. Not really as exciting as you think.”

He took my plate and served for me. I started to pick at it.

“I hope you’re still not working at that coffee shop.”

I went white and stared down at my plate. “Well…”

“Harold, do we really need this?” My Mom asked.

He put out his hand. “I’m just concerned for my daughter! She’d said she was going back to school, but that was two years ago!”

“I changed my mind.”

“Don’t tell me you’re not planning to finish college?”

“I mean… someday, I think. I just don’t like it there,”

“So never. Okay then.” 

I clenched my teeth, my fork pushing down through the turkey.

“Oh, you should try the stuffing, Stephanie,” said Mom. “It’s delicious!”

Everyone was quiet for a while. I absentmindedly stared down, eating a little to take my mind away. My brother already finished. 

“So Richie, how’re things at Duke?” my dad asked.

He nodded. “Good, good.”

“Heard you’re president of your fraternity now? What was it again… Iota Kappa?”

“Yeah, IK.”

He lifted his fork and pointed. “And you’ve got that internship this summer.”

“Cut it out!” I screamed.

Rich looked back and forth nervously. “Well, Stephanie’s got her writing. She’s probably gonna be a famous author someday.”

My father pursed his lips and nodded this way and that. “Sure, sure. I just think it’s a little risky.” He rose from the table. “I’ve worked my ass off for years at Brown and Goldwater to provide for this family. And this is despite how I loved to draw. Because I knew growing up was about buckling down!”

“It’s not immature.” I glared at him. “How dare you imply that.”

He looked defensive. “I’m only saying it’s maybe not the most financial choice. Sure, I would’ve loved to have stuck to drawing.”

“You suck at drawing.”

He looked at me cutely. “And you’re that much better a writer?” He said.

“Yes. I am.”

“Okay.” He put up his hands. “Whatever. You’re great, I get it. You’re like a Stephanie King.”

“Don’t compare me to him. He’s not a literary author. He pumped out so much shit on top of the stuff that worked.”

My father crossed his arms. “Oh yeah? Then where’s your hundred million.”

“It’s more actually,” my brother chimed in.

“I just turned in my first novel to a publisher, so we’ll see.”

My dad snickered. “And you think that’s better than the likes of Shawshank Redemption? The greatest movie of all time?”

“Did you even read the book? King writes like a wannabe Ken Kesey. On top of needing to be coked up to even get anything… down.” I lost my train of thought and went silent. 

He nodded, knowing he won. “Why don’t you get some success first before you bash one of the greatest writers of our generation? Now, have some dinner. You’re so bony, I can tell you don’t eat anymore.”

I put my head in my arms and banged it down several times. I got up and left.

I cried for a while in my old room. Rich knocked on my door.

“Are you alright?” He asked.

I sniffed up all the tears flowing out of my nose. “Not really. But thanks.”

He opened the door and sat next to me. “You know, dad’s wrong. You’re the best artist I know.”

I looked up at him through blurry eyes. “Okay.” I bowed my head. “Thanks Rich!”

He smiled awkwardly. “Come on.”

I pointed my head up towards the ceiling. “And it’s not like I can’t offer something profound. I always do. People just don’t listen.”