[Thinking]: JAPAN & SKIRTS: What, Why, and "Cold Isn't It?"

On the short length of skirts even in winter months here in Japan.

Every year, on the train platforms early in the morning or late at night, I am befuddled and bemused befreakedout to see girls, women, and ladies wearing skirts and *thin* tights in temperatures below freezing. And I'm not just talking about a few, I mean at times a majority of people I see. And with the stigma against weighing more than most breeds of large dog still in effect, these ladies have little-to-no flesh on their legs to retain warmth. And every year, I--bundled in two sweaters and jeans--ask myself the same question... WHY?!

Do they do it for fashion? Is it expected of them? Is looking "just pretty good, decent" worth freezing? The answer is yes to all of them. You'd think they want to keep a few of the important things up there warmer. Or that they'd at least have on long jackets. But no! Women over here are apparently immune to 'temperature'. Oh the irony when they wear the "don't get sick" face masks but go out with half their body exposed and one shade of pale away from turning blue.

But here's the thing--actually, they've been ready for this for a long time, and have long since killed off all the nerve endings in their legs. Why? Because rules regarding uniforms in middle school and high school. Although a lot of my students wear jersey suits all throughout the school day, most schools _mandate_ that girls come to school in their uniform, meaning girls _must_ wear skirts with socks below the knee as they walk or bike to school, without exception or regard to temperature. *Most all do* however wear gym shorts or jersey shorts under their skirt, so they get some mild insulation, but you still wouldn't catch me going out like that (for a number of reasons). I think there should be a cold weather alternative, I'm in three layers and feel colder just looking at these girls on their way to school.

This isn't without its own bit of ridiculousness added on top like a crazy frozen cherry. Uniform skirts all are meant to be worn at the waist and extend just past the knees. However, social protocol for almost all girls is--by default--to roll the waist and pull them up so the end of the skirt sits halfway up the thigh, sometimes higher. This means that, just to walk to school, they are *doing something that purposefully makes their body temperatures lizard-like, just because they feel like they should be fashionable* which starts to explain a vicious cycle of expectations and short skirts and dead leg nerve endings.

So there's the answer to my question of why so many older girls and women continue to go out in near nothing with frost on the ground. They've been trained from a young age to accept frostbite as a way of life, and take it to the next level themselves to "look good" by societal standard and freeze their butts off.

This may also help explain why 80% of conversations in Japan during the winter consist entirely of "samui ne" ("cold, isn't it?), as they haven't been trained or allowed to put on more clothes when they feel cold, so they just have to deal with it and say samui ne one thousand times a year in mutual commiseration.

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Socrates Smith and the Hood of the 'Hood

 Socrates Smith was a thinker and doer for the people, using his outstanding grasp of the world and all its concepts to expose the falseness of the evil people around us. He works tirelessly as a LPIofP, a Local Private Investigator of People, for the people, completely uncompensated with only his pride as payment. With his extreme intellect he outwits and stuns would-be bad guys, befuddling them with his brawny brain and righting the wrong for the benefit of all.

(Actually, Socrates Smith is an insane asshole who thinks he is too smart and takes "concerned citizen" to its extremes and everyone hates him and thinks he's ugly.)

Anyway, here's a day in the life of LPIofP, Socrates Smith.



    It wouldn't be long now.
    I had been awaiting Sneaky Dan for what seemed like days. Of course, my clocks always fast so I never know the time, but I can feel the anticipation mounting. The hairs on the back of my neck prick at every slight movement and cat yowl. Garbage left to the curb reeks but I endure it, knowing that when the moment is right it's the last place that sneak will see me coming from.
    S. Dan outgrew his shoes around this neighborhood a long time ago. People have been relying on him because there's no one else around doing what he does. It's his hood, and he knows it. He's been leaving guys hungry and dolls begging for more. But he's been getting too high and mighty around here, and the weakness is starting to show. As an LPIoP, I, Socrates Smith, knew it was time to get the sauce on Sneaky D. and disseminate the evidence to the people.
    The only way to take down a sly dog like Dan was to take out the bricks from the bottom of his own ivory tower, and send it into a topple like the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
    But actually make it fall down, too.
    He's always late like a trademark. It's his way of setting the scene, making sure you're desperate for what he's got by the time he's there. I'd been playing his game. Putting in the order and waiting. He puts on a good front to be sure, and he makes his tips flashing that quick smile. When he knows he has you though, watch how fast that grin sinks and he's hitting you up for your fix. The deals stop coming in, and he knows he has you hooked. That's when he gets sloppy, lazy. His boss is pulling the strings, but he's still making off like the upper crust of a middle man stretching out of place.
    I heard the rumble of a V4 bouncing back from cul-de-sac and the unmistakable stutter of his ride. A beige Honda Accord kept a low profile, made it easy to slip in anywhere. Once I pounced, he would be going nowhere fast because the people would know the fault of what he was doing, would see through the thin veil complacency on the product had lured them into.
    There's nothing in this for me. I am for the people, and for truth. Socrates Smith wants nothing more than the truth.
    I swear my heart beat fast, my senses were piqued, and I could hear the banana peels rotting under my feet. The odor of coffee grounds and someone else's dog droppings were seeping into my skin, though I didn't even notice. Cellphone camera in hand, this was going to be the exposure that purified this neighborhood all over again.
    Then something that didn't fit my calculations--a sudden turn. The common path was interrupted when Sneaky Dan and his rumbly ride made a sudden stop at the other end of the sac. The poor dame. I saw Snee-Dee leak out of his driver's side door and sidle up the step to deliver a box of medical malady to the lady across the street. I cringed, bit my lip and took in the overripe odor of lawn trimmings. I was helpless to stop the exchange, but I knew she was a victim of him too; like me, like us all. But when the S.D. trudged back to his whip, he was on the way over, floodlights illuminating the shadow of my trash can but my figure remained hidden among the shadows.
    It was I, Socrates Smith, who had him in the headlights.
    Sweat poured down my grimy complexion. How long had I been here anyway? I was feeling light headed but punched myself in the knees to refocus in the mission at hand and make the pins and prickles subside. Sneaky Dan strode right up, smug as ever, knowing he had what I wanted. I waited until the last minute, until I could smell his alluring scent, though I wouldn't submit--not this time. He was mine. I jumped when he was so close I could taste the cheese, flash going of as ten pictures took themselves and would bust him for the last time.
    "Hey!"
    "FUCK!"
    "Sneaky Dan! Do you not consider the feelings of all beings? Do you not see how your actions slow the spinning of our very being? How you leave people either yet to be satisfied or wanting more, all so you can live your fetid existence amongst us as the demi-god of temptation. I have the proof now. You have done enough, and no more wrongs shall happen from this night on, leave this place!"
    His fear was palpable as he screamed, "Why the fuck are you in garbage you crazy asshole!?"
    "Because you keep bringing the pizzas late" I riposted, with a flourish of camera phone, snapping another quick series of penetrating shots, "and sometimes they're a little cold!"
    "Fuck you! I don't give a shit, but the fuck if I'm coming back here you sack of shit! Fuck you in the garbage just to be an asshole, fuck! Get your own fucking pizza, you're insane."
    With that, Sneaky Dan began a hurried move back to his vehicle, but I knew I had him. Where could he run? They said my order would arrive by 5:30pm. It was 5:44pm and I had time-stamped photos to prove it. I shot him one last time on the way out with a flash.
    "And you haven't brought any good coupons in like three weeks!"
    "Fuck. You!" He sped off into the night, but I knew when I brought this slip to the uppers at Cheesy Pete's he'd be busted down to topping boy. Truly, Sneaky Dan could not see the havoc had wrought upon humanity. I saw through the veil, pierced the heart of the beast, and brought the illumination in front of him. Of course those of sloth in darkness recoil from the light. But it was only I, Socrates Smith, who could show him and show us all the errors of selfish ways.

100-sum Things That 20-sums Should Know

100-sum Things That 20-sums Should Know and Do

I find that these kinds of lists have presented themselves to me before, but they're either written by someone with an over affinity for personal hedonism, or someone who's too idealistic and specific about what each individual should be able to achieve.

This is a balanced list of things to pay attention to now, applicable to anyone. Some of it may seem painfully obvious, though it's often forgotten. Other items may seem uncommon but have value beyond what you know. If you're having troubles in life, outside of crippling debt, then it is probably because something on this list is being ignored. Please, read through and find what you need or need more of.

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1. If you think you should do it, do it now.

2. If you feel you shouldn't do it, end it now.

3. Eat more fruit, not just fruit flavors.

4. Love like it's a verb.

5. Listen to what others have to say. It's called "communication" and seems to be a dying art.

6. Don't stress. It is absolutely stunning how many people fret over issues of no real matter, then let the biggest problems in their lives continue without action.

7. Wherever you live, make it your home.

8. Make a difference, if only a small one. A good one, preferably.

9. Don't be the best, just try to be better.

10. Put down your phone. You must relearn to be yourself apart from accessories and attachments.

11. Even if you love music, pick somedays to leave the headphones at home. Music is like a mental current, let it sweep you away when you need it but don't lose yourself in the flow.

12. Walk. Often and for long distances. Preferably where there is a tree or two or a thousand.

13. Look at the lives of others to give a sense of scale and perception, not a judgment of comparison.

14. Find out how to be comfortable in your own skin, and in silence. Try being naked more often (you know, where comfortable to do so).

15. But seriously, shut off your damn phone. It is giving you a new form of ADD. Being in constant connection hasn't really made relationships/friendships stronger, just significantly more dependent.

16. Learning exceptional control of your hormones will always benefit you.

17. Pay extra attention to children. You will learn something from them you can't learn yourself.

18. Don't buy superfluous brand-based products.

19. Bring back a degree of chivalry to your life. Stand up for yourself and for others.

20. Exercise regularly. No matter how little the amount, it is better to consistently have a small routine than to go all out only sometimes.

21. Make sure to make it to another continent before you're 25. If you're already past the mark, get there this year. Have lots of good experiences and a few bad ones and learn from both. You won't look back.

22. Learning to dance will always be a good idea.

23. Learning an instrument will always be a good idea.

24. Learning another language will always be a good idea. Even if you were to never use it, that learning process trains your brain to think in new ways.

25. Find a way to create: paint, draw, sing, or become an awesome storyteller. No matter how queer, raunchy, or poorly crafted your creation may be, you're better for having it as an expression of yourself.

26. Common sense isn't as common as one may think. Create your own method of it and make it common to you. Be aware of your own actions from an external perspective.

27. Be weird. People remember you as someone more confident than others, stand out in those memories.

28. More than sex, learn to make love. And don't forget the most important word--reciprocation.

29. Treat strangers with kindness, not because of the golden rule, but because it's a decent thing to do for anyone.

30. As technology becomes a more necessary and invasive factor in life, always take the opportunity to do something in person if possible.

31. Move away from your hometown, if only for a while, then you'll know new growth. The farther you move, the harder it will be, and the stronger you'll become.

32. Listen to a lot of music, and by music I mean nothing that will make the Top40. Find the gems out there.

33. Stop smoking. If you don't smoke, don't start.

34. Getting high gets old. If you don't think so, then you are quickly running out of ideas for things to do, and you'll get old too.

35. Whip cream is not a food group, don't indulge it like it was one (that goes for any comfort food, and double for you, Nutella). Know what you put in your body.

36. Eat out only as often as you would cook for yourself, and do your best to avoid middling between the two with ramen-and-egg-mac-'n'-cheese three times a week.

37. Stop watching TV. Go forth and make your own adventure, without the drama.

38. Always value friendship, the true friendships, for they are few and shall be fewer still. Try as hard as you can not to pass on the opportunity to spend time with someone. A slight inconvenience for you can mean to world to someone else.

39. Money is a tool, use it well, but don't spend all your time worrying about how many tools are in your toolbox.

40. Be polite. Be courteous. Be more than formal. No one hates someone who is genuinely cordial.

41. Try not to see 4am very often without good reason.

42. Instead of looking for the meaning of life, make your own life meaningful. Actions over thoughts.

43. As hard as it may be, stop playing video games. Live in reality. If you can't stop, do more to regulate the time in other worlds and be inspired by the one you actually live in.

44. If you find this world uninspiring, study people of history, science, and spend more time outdoors. If that doesn't work, go back to your TV/video games and don't burden others with your nascent eternal boredom.

45. Smile.

46. Be there for others.

47. Drink micro-brews as much as is possible. Know your wines.

48. Climb mountains, figuratively and literally.

49. You may not need to meditate, but find the time, even if only for a few minutes a day, to silence the phone, part with the screen, turn the music off and sit down. Tea is acceptable, but nothing else. If you can't collect yourself for a few minutes a day without distraction, you're moving too fast but won't be going anywhere mindful.

50. Read.

51. Read more. All smart people read. Not all people who read are smart, but all people who are smart read.

52. Try to get to the beach, don't stray from the waves for too long, it gives you a sense of scope and depth.

53. Spend time appreciating animals (outside of captioned memes on the internet).

54. Learn to cook, it's not hard. You'll never regret making things delicious.

55. Practice something daily. You will always find ways to improve.

56. Experience real and open communication. It's surprisingly rater to find someone that no subject is off limits to, and when you do, stay connected.

57. Pay attention to news and politics. Even if it doesn't interest you, it's better to know the world outside your own and engage it.

58. Have a lot of pleasure in your life, without the sexual variety being scary or off-limits.. Don't let society, rules, and suggested taboos control you--otherwise that society will be the only thing screwing you. Loving yourself is equally important. After that, it's about trust.

59. The second cheapest wine is good enough.

60. One night stands are only to vent stress or prove a false sense of value, making lasting connections are always worth more, because rarely will fooling on the first night, with little resonance after, ever turn into something happy--and that will only be if you are selfish.

61. There is a difference between giving up, and knowing when to quit.

62. Drink often in smaller amounts, not periodically in over-consumption.

63. Being sad for more than 20 minutes at a time is a waste of time. Move forward.

64. Take vacations for as long as possible. Don't just stay somewhere, but inhabit that place.

65. Regretting regrets is just another regret.

66. Tipsy is a mystical state where ideas come more easily and conversation flows more freely; mad drunk is a waste of money, life, and liver.

67. Look at the sky more often. Dang, man, but those clouds though.

68. Continue to question like a child and you may never have to lose a sense of wonder.

69. Be kinky, as long as it is someone you trust and care for, who can communicate with you freely, it's only going to make things more interesting. Don't forget to laugh.

70. Please sing--it's not about being good, it's about having your own voice.

71. Don't be afraid of tears.

72. Use moderation in moderation.

73. Take risks. Gamble on good bets cautiously (though not in casinos).

74. Write. Write. Write. Write. Write.

75. Find a symbol; be it an animal, a character, or a precious item, give it a place in your life and make sure others know it.

76. Engage your nostalgia, and use it as a measure of how far you've come.

77. Be sure to vote. You don't get the right to bitch about anything happening above you if you don't exercise the one ability you have to change it.

78. Being absolutely immature at times is totally acceptable, so long as you don't forget how to get back to being conscious beyond it.

79. Happiness is not a goal in and of itself, it is the base that you need to launch into doing other things of real progressive product.

80. Do not lie. Ever. Even if you get away with it, you are not better for it.

81. Good dental hygiene will do more for you now than you know. It's time to floss.

82. Go out at night and look at the stars until you're bored of them, then keep looking until you're interested again.

83. Don't wait, ask now.

84. Stop trying to live life at room temperature. Feel the crush of failure and fuel the revelry of success.

85. Fantasy has its place. Visit often, but don't buy a time share there.

86. Be good to all of your organs.

87. Don't change the world. Be the big change on a smaller level, personally with others and in your communities.

88. Stop deceiving yourself because it's easier.

89. Think. Be constantly conscious of everything. E-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g.

90. Be unstoppably, uncomfortably curious.

91. You are already all that you need.

92. Find the ability to have a serious moment with twelve people, and a party with only two.

93. Dream. Then find the next step towards making that dream part of reality.

94. Respect nature.

95. A few deep breaths can go a long, long way.

96. Use your imagination, it is all that makes you different from trees.

97. Love each other fiercely.

98. Read this list one more time, knowing it's a lot at once, and pick a few things from it to focus on most.

99. Repeat steps 1-99.

100. Grow up, grow wise, grow strong, without growing complacent.

101. Always be you.

Breakfast

Who wants eggs~

I Will Fly You To The Heaven

    Spending the day soaking in the rays--not that there is another way to experience the weather here now--two lovers were sitting atop the plane's left wing. It was a relic of a long-off time mostly forgotten, as only the remnants of an old world give any truth to the tale, and this scrapped empty hull of a flying fortress was from an age before the Great Waste.
    A boy takes off his right catskin sock and throws it at a girl. It just seems like the thing  to do; hoping to provoke a fight to kill off the latent boredom that piled up late in the day.
    And who's going to tell you not to, the shambling ones don't talk and the living don't waste their time on punk-kids who may not live to see their next bowel movement.
    The sock finds its way back to the boy, wadded into a ball and striking his ear. This is the sign of a challenge accepted. Swords drawn, meaning nails bared, the tangle begins, the pulling of hair and the grabbing of limbs and the biting of skin.
    To anyone passing by, this roughhousing would look no different than the struggle for life against death. Not that life nor death got noticed much now.
    No less than twenty strands of hair are ripped from the scalp of the girl who takes a significant amount of skin off the back of the middle finger of a boy using his knee to shove the girl shooting for his waist who succeeds in grabbing a scrap of cloth and pulling the boy towards her as his flailing of hands signals a panic of possibly losing this one, clawing at her face and opening scars on her cheeks not yet healed, though done in futility when the girl butts the head that has twenty less hairs into the boy's groin, causing a moan and knocking him over to end the fight, but not before the girl's foot finds the soft spot between the boys legs a few more times as vengeance for starting the squabble in the first place.
    But this sort of thing is normal now. They'll probably be right back to breeding after the pain wears off the boy's parts.
    Before he can get back up, she slams him into the crushed, crashed seat of the cockpit of the plane that, unknown to them, dropped the bomb that ignited the war that ended the world.
    "I will fly you to the heaven!" she bellowed, with a final blow to the trouser snake, doubling the boy over in the seat where once a pilot lit the fuse that would consume it all, meaning she won for today.
    Who knows what will happen tomorrow.

There is a Lion at the School! Let's Beat it with Maths.

    And it was about that time that the lion hopped the school gate and walked onto the main ground. As if the soccer field were the Savannah, the king of beasts out of place strutted casually about the thick chalk lines like this was already his territory. Then again, should he decide that to be the case, who was going to say he was wrong?
    It was my second day on the job as the assistant math teachers at Dalerose Elementary School.
    The students reacted like child actors out of a B-movie. They acted exactly as you expected, their surprise was no surprise. Lining the window, some recoiled while others marveled, eyes growing bigger the longer they stared. A couple turned to their best friends and asked "What should we do?" as if the other seven-year-old had taken emergency lion attack classes at the local community center. A couple of girls started crying just a little from the shock. A few boys continued staring in awe even as the reality set in, muttering "cool" under their breath.
    What snapped everyone out of wherever in their mind that lion's appearance took them was when it started approaching the school entrance. I guess it really always had been plotting a lazy course, but it took a number of slow motion seconds before it was obvious that the door of the school was open and that's seemed to be the lion's destination, as if on a premeditated mission or just after scraps of school lunch from the cafeteria next door.
    My brain swirled with practicality, my years of experience as a consulting actuary boiling everything down to practical action for effective results, though how best to handle a lion entering an elementary didn't have a matrix of possibilities in place. Strangely enough, having no ideas in the moment, I apprehensively looked to the kids.
    I moved over and squatted down between the group of huddled girls who worked themselves back into a corner while the boys still stood in file along the edge of the window.
    "Okay. Okay. Okay. Class. We have a problem--"
    "THAT'S A LION! A LION! WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO!"
    "Listen. Listen to me, we shouldn't--we mustn't allow ourselves to overreact."
    "A LION A LION (wait until my Mom hears about this) that's a LION out there! TEACHER! TEACHER! TEACHER!"
    "Alright, settle down now settle down."
    "WHY!?"
    "Because… that's what you do when you see a lion. You just settle down."
    "IS THAT THE BEST THING TO DO BEFORE HE EATS YOUR FACE!?"
    "No, not really, but now let's remember what we learned in maths."
    "Teacher, I don't see how multiplication will help us here."
    "No, no (and we haven't studied that yet) I'm talking about probability."
    "Proba-what?"
    "Now, something unknown and impossible is occurring. This can't happen. Logically, the only appropriate response is one of equal impossibility." He couldn't believe it, he was actually convincing himself. And he couldn't believe the kids were buying it.
    "Okay, we'll beat the lion with math, YEAH!"
    "AH YES, beat lions with MATH."
    The teacher was sweating, yet managed to stay cool. "That's right, we'll beat it with math. So, the first illogical thing to do… is settle down."
    "MATH OR NO MATH, THAT LION WILL STILL EAT FACES, TEACHER."
    "Yes, indeed. So, for the next thing I'm… I'm going to go and punch that lion in the face."
    "WHAAAT-T-T!?"
    "Yes, it is the only way."
    With that, I strode out. Walked out the school and into the yard where the lion was prowling closer to the school.
    Steadying my nerve, looking at the fierce visage staring back, a "who the hell do you think you are" swagger reflecting my nervous tension in beastly eyes, it was a moment of truth…
    I walked right up to the lion and punched square in the nose. A right hook with force, thrown haymaker style that sent the animal reeling backwards, as it let out a terrible scream. Even though I had only been at the school a couple days, I could already recognize the loud squeal of some of the girls in class, though I hadn't got their names yet. Even in this moment, strange how the thought that came into my brain was "and now they'll never forget my name."
    The lion cowered back, and made a motion like it was going to leap, but stayed its place, roared, then began to saunter away with the same casual gait it had approached the school with minutes ago, as if nothing had happened out of the ordinary.
    I yelled a few taunts after it, which brought growls. Things like, "This is a no lion zone," and "school is no place for you, lion, you can't even read," and "that's right! Ha!"
    The student crowded around the hall outside of class as I walked back in, giddy as can be though still in disbelief. I mean, come on, that was a freaking lion, king of the jungle and eater of faces. A lion that just had its face punched by a maths teacher.
    Some boys were still glued to the window to witness the beast meander out the way it come. The girls were feverish, screaming "How did you do it? How did you beat a lion in a fight?"
    I had been prepared for this moment, in the case I should return unharmed, still only barely believing what happened myself. "I beat it… with mathematics!"
    I could have said anything, but the rallying cry of mathematics went around the class. From that day on, all the students had a new favorite subject and favorite teacher at the school.
    Half an hour, after the commotion subsided some and I went to change my shirt due to profuse sweating, I stopped by the principal's office. Mr. Malcolm was still changing out of the lion suit. Who knew taxidermy could be such a useful hobby.

Brent Danley Jones, Musician

I picked up a guitar knowing only 4 chords and released an EP.
http://www.reverbnation.com/brentdanleyjones

Barry at the Festival in Love

BARRY at the FESTIVAL in LOVE

       "Mari, try this."

       "Why?"

       "Because it's good, duh!"

       "How would you know?"

       "Obviously, just look at me!"

       Barry slapped his ample belly, once, twice, and many times after to make it shake.

       "Ha, of course, you'll know." The girl called Mari took the fried shrimp sticking from the end of his chopsticks and ran back to her mother.

       The summer bred sweat faster than flies, and Barry's pores were put into double time after Mari opened wide in front of him and took his offering.

       Would she even know that was his way of saying "I love you" without the words.

       He stood and watched as she rammed into her mother's behind face first, chopsticks still suspended in the air.

       Barry was all of ten years old, but had already been in what he knew was love half his life.

       He knew it, his brothers suspected it, his parents knew but acted ignorant of it, and Gummy--what he called his friend from India, Gupta--knew it five days a week, but this summer he wanted Mari to know it too.

       That fried shrimp had been an offering, She had taken it, and as far as Barry was concerned that meant things were serious between the two of them now.

       The summer season coming again was as expected as the sun returning to the sky following night. This one still felt special, a boon that it brought the festivals of summer along with it. There had been times Barry thought it may never come; that instead the leaves would only grow greener and the rabbits more numerous without the heat breaking acceptable limits into something more than good weather. When it finally did, he knew their marriage was one step closer to being in the works.

       Because, naturally, as all small boys will tell you, being married is what happens directly after you like someone a whole lot and get them to say the same.

       Mari's mother turned around as her daughter hid herself in her skirts, finding Barry and giving a big smile before the crowds broke the field of vision. Barry took that warming look to mean "You have excellent chopstick abilities, and will surely make a fine husband for my only daughter."

The fact of the matter was Mari held a place as the youngest of four daughters. Barry could tell, however, with that glance and grin, that, at the time, there had been only one daughter she was thinking of and only one Barry who could possibly be fit to wed her sweet girl.

       Barry new to play it cool, and ran back to his own mother and father seated at a far table taking in the entertainments of the night, and dug in to the plate of deep friend chicken left on the table. His father had his fill of both chicken and beer and now fell victim to a world where only falsely nostalgic beach guitar on stage could be heard, but his mother saw and knew.

       "Oh Barry, how red your face is now. Been running with your friends in circles around the festival here have you?"

       "Yeah," Barry said from behind the grease of a leg bone, "sure have."

       "Gupta was here a minute ago looking for where you'd been."

       What a fool! Barry must seek counsel, and quickly.

       He burst through the crowd forming the back audience with no tables, leg bone firmly in hand, until he found the familiar brown skin of Gupta's clan.

       "Gupta?" He inquired with a word. A quick finger from one of his friend's sister pointed him in the direction of a shiny rock booth, where Gummy would be scooping all a small bag at $2 for all the false agates it could carry.

       He moved past the doubled over figures of grandpas and grandmas, and ignored a number of boys from his grade at school who saw him, one of whom waved but he pretended not to notice as more important things were at hand now.

       "Gummy! I did it!"

       His deep-tanned friend spun around, loosing a few agates from his bag, saying in a quick breath, "Kiss her?"

       Barry slapped him across the shoulder and Gupta laughed, "Yeah, I thought so." Knowing that his friend wouldn't be in such rushed high spirits unless it was good news, Gummy grew a grin across his face and slapped him back.

       "I'm going to do it," Barry announced for one person to hear, "I'm going to say… you know, that stuff."

       "Good. Give this." Gupta extended an ochre-green agate the color of magic to his breathless friend, gap-tooth grin never ceasing on his face.

       "Thanks. You're the best!" And with that, Barry was back off.

       He hustled by another group of boys in his same grade but another class as they howled over a game; someone had won and Barry intended the next winner to be him. He slowed his pace back to the walk of a boy who didn't have the prospects of his entire life set into a stone. In a gaggle of middle school girls he caught sight of one of Mari's sisters, and tried to avoid the judgment of her gaze. He was already very familiar with the taunts, "fat boy," "fatty cheeks," "heavy hitter," and didn't need to be reminded with an off look. He moved past and almost came face-to-upskirt with an unknown older girl pushing by a group of 50-somethings, clapping in tune with the wailing guitar on stage a mile away. Barry suppressed the strange surge of coming that close to a short skirt gave him, refocusing to the goal at hand as he picked Mari's Mom out a head above the crowd.

       She was a bigger lady, and had a big front part of her along with the extension of her waist line, and somehow Barry thought that was a fine thing. When he scoped the skirt beneath the figure of motherhood he spied no little girl between the legs of people trudging here or there for less important reasons. The image of the short skirt he saw on the older girl flashed in front of his mind again, as a small boy's conscious however pure couldn't help but be curious of what lies beneath, but he shook his head until his cheeks flapped and made a sound of getting knocked back against his face in attempt to focus on the mission.

       He cautiously trotted over to where Mari's mother stood talking to a teacher of a lower grade, his actions to deliberate to not be obvious to her, and when he came wandering aimlessly, she pointed. He followed in the direction of the goldfish stand, where a deft hand and sympathetic booth runner could score you a ten cent pet for a number of days until you learned a lesson of what death was in life.

       He picked her out of the crowd immediately, black and white summer dress striped with parapendicular lines just like they talked about in math class earlier that day, though it hadn't been the most riveting conversation. He'd make good on his fried shrimp and show that he was interesting and kind and smart and had all the best of intentions.

       Barry began to advance, throwing the slimy leg of chicken beside the booth in the grass.

(He'd come get it later, he told himself).

She was watching, just watching, as a couple of older boys hooted and hollered while their friend lost, again, and cursed, throwing the weak fish skimmer into the water in a show of defiance and false anger.        He got a quick reprimand by the booth runner, saying he was an imbecile and that's why the fish wouldn't come to him, they could smell it, though he still accepted his next dollar to play again all the same.

       Mari was startled when Barry tapped her on the shoulder. She got an expectant look on her face when she saw who it was. With all the composure she gained from having older sisters, she gave her face a aloof look that said "Oh, Barry, didn't notice you over there" without words.

       "Here!" Barry announced aloud, and loud enough that the booth runner glanced over. "It's for you! I got it for you. Or, er, Gummy said, uh, this is what I wanted to give you, like I said!"

       She looked at the pudgy fingers and open palm in front of her face, and then back to the round cheeks of the boy who offered the stone to her. "Thanks" she said, as she swiped the stone with two fingers, gingerly plucking it without making contact with the sweaty palm of the boy who offered it.

       "Y-Your welcome!" Barry bellowed, loudly enough that the boys skimming for fish noticed, and one missed his catch, the small feeder breaking the limp wafer that would never net a one of them unless the booth runner felt like it. Cursing loudly he threw the skimmer back into the water, this time with enough force to splash some water up an onto to the booth runner and Mari. The booth runner took his festival flyer and smacked that boy in the head with it (he was his younger brother, after all) and sent him running with a hurl of curses and insults as his compadres let peals of laughter into the night.

       Barry was there in an instant, stiff handkerchief out of is pocket, "Let me--"

       "It's fine, I got it" and the girl lifted the stripes on her black-and-white dress to wipe her own face so that Barry, who wouldn't admit it until years and years after, saw her underwear for the first time.

       "D-D-Do-Did you like the fried shrimp?"

       "Yes, thank you. And thank you for your rock too. It's very pretty."

       "Thank you" Barry said, pretending in his own mind that the sweat was just summer heat.

       "My Momma says they're gonna do a barbecue tomorrow after the festival, because the boys aren't done having fun. That's what she said."

       "Oh yeah?"

       "You're going to be there too, right?"

       "Yeah."

       "Cool. So, I'll see you there. You're the nice boy. Thanks Barry."

       "Yeah, sure."

       "Thanks for being the nice one. I know what my sisters say, but I still think the same. This greenish rock, I'll show it to them if they say anything else but that."

       "Yeah. Thanks."

       With that, Barry turned around, ready to walk away, thoroughly embarrassed though over what he couldn't decide. It was then Mari grabbed him from behind. He felt her skin and bones close to his flab and flesh and swore it lasted an hour or more. He could tell she would grow to be just like her mother, and he thought that was grand.

       When she let him go, he set off running without looking back.

The Cleric

  Humble Beginnings and The Voice In Your Head

    "Hurry up and chop that wood."
    " . . . "
    "Well come on. Wood lacks the vital faculties to chop itself."
    " . . . "
    "And if wood had such sentience to control its own actions, it would also be then opposed, most likely, to the act of self-hatcheting."
    " . . . "
    "What'smore, wood really wouldn't like--"
    "Where am I?"
    " …I thought I had made it quite clear that you are a person in front of an unchopped woodpile, and one that needs a significant amount of hacking at to become a chopped wood pile, which is, by the by, the thing which you had best be doing."
    "Who are you?"
    "It grows cold soon. This, like everything I will speak to you, will be for your own good."
    " …Who am I?"
    "Trivial, only of importance in that you are someone who will grow very cold--I say near frigid--unless he picks up the axe to the immediate left, and begins forcing it with some degree of strength upon the segments of cut-but-not-chopped former trees to your immediate right."
    " . . . "
    "Well I suppose you are a 'he', and that much I can tell you. Now, be a good he and get to chopping wood. There is still much that remains to do, for about the next ten years."
    "Ten years?"
    "Give or take some odd months."
    "Where are you talking from. Who is this. Why am I here."
    "All questions that will have clearer answers in the ten years to come."   
    "I am not waiting ten years. Show yourself! Who is out there?"
    "As I said, it may not be ten years exactly. Perhaps you will only have to wait, say, nine years and three months. You know, if things are going well."
    "Is this some manner of wizard's trick? Did you kidnap me? Where's father!?"
    "Kid, there is no napping nor is there any father. You are here now, and safe, and you will continue to be both of those things so long as the chopping of wood begins post haste."
    "This is some really weird wizarding… thing going on. I don't like it! Show yourself wizard!"
    " 'Show yourself this', 'Show yourself that', which hero are you attempting to portray with such commanding diction? None that will make a non-wizard that doesn't exist appear. Were I truly of the arcane magical persuasion, I would have enchanted that axe there to begin splitting wood autonomously, or cast a spell to simply control you to get the wood to be chopped. But neither happens. Besides, I want you to cut the wood, and I want it to be of your own volition. Even if it's forced volition."
    "And if I don't? If I just sit here and wait for the cold to take me and die by morning?"
    "Then your sense of dramatic stubbornness will have surpassed the body's natural defense of self-preservation, and I do not believe a boy of your stature in both mind and mold will have that force of will."
    "Oh yeah!?"
    "Yes. Not yet. Though I do believe you have enough force of arms to force the wood into pieces numbering more than one. Get on it."
    "Not until you explain what trickery this is, what ghastly deed has been done, what wicked plot has been wrought."
    "The only thing rotting is the wood."
    "That's not what I meant and you know, who do you--"
    "Audible sigh. I will tell you. If you will shut up."
    " . . . "
    "Good. Now, I can tell you are remarkably practical for a boy your age. That is good, a solid base to work from. It will take a bit of faith now, and in the time here on out, to put that potential in you to decent use. Until that time, you will train and listen and follow the teachings and gain strength and wisdom to serve me and most importantly to serve this world, while also bettering the self. I will help you with all that you need to do."
    " . . . "
    "Oh. And I am the disembodied voice of a defeated god only you can hear that lives in your head."
    "Nope."
    "Yes. And I will guide you through a life of training and teaching that will deliver you unto greater purposes."
    "Nope."
    "Audible sigh number two. I can't actually express emotion through this link yet, and am already exacerbated with other tribulations at the moment. If it will please you to prove this is a voice on the inside, think at me. Think your words that you would say instead of bleating them into an empty forest."
    "I will find you and kill you."
    "That's not very nice."
    " . . . ! "
    "Is that going to be a common thought directed at your benefactor?"
    " . . . "
    "I'll take the silence as progress. Now, if you will direct your attention to the ditch of water around the corner of the cottage. See it?"   
    "Yes."
    "Oh good. You learn quicker now. Alright, watch closely."
    " . . . It's glowing."
    "I guess you can say it out loud to no one if you want. Yes, this is more than a parlor trick, but the most I can do in my current state."
    "Can you tell everything that I am thinking?"
    "Maybe."
    "What did you do to the water?"
    "Channeled the divine through its body."
    " . . . "
    "It probably also got a bit colder. Just a byproduct."
    "Can I drink it? I just realized that I can't remember when last I drank."
    "Yes. I can tell you it is clean, good water. It is also now conveniently colder."
    "Do the glowing thing again."
    "No. The divine is not a play thing. Just drink and believe."
    "I can't remember the last time I drank anything… but I also can't remember… anything."
    "Yes. That is a byproduct of my interference in what you have been through, much like the water cooling is an unintended consequence to my energies reaching through it. But believe me, both are for the best."
    "I don't understand."
    "You don't have to. Now that you have drank your fill, and you have to do is cut wood. Night comes. It will be dark soon."   
    "Is there--"
    "--No, no one else. Just you, me, and much work to do. You have no family. Not now. That you still remember having a father and mother at all is remarkable. But I, and you, and we know nothing of them. I will look after you, I will keep you safe. And I will help with what things may come, as long as you do your part to grow stronger and wiser so that you may face them."
    " . . . Okay."
    "Good. Honestly, I thought it would take a few more days in the cold to reach this point. That's excellent."
    "I still don't like you."
    "You don't have to."
    "I just have to chop the wood."
    "Yes. Now you are getting it. I want the mountains surrounding to echo back the crack, and the trees to tremble with fear that they might be next to feel your mighty swing. And I want you to think why you do it, as you do it."
    "Mister, I ain't too strong."
    "You will be, you will. Just believe and all shall be made clear. Also, chop the damn wood already. I'm ever getting cold now, and I'm incorporeal."

    A half-hour later and there was a small stack of chipped and chopped wood of unintentionally variant sizes, but enough so that with the addition of some kindling and tinder it sufficed in making a fire the warmed the hearth of the cottage with the one wooden-framed bed that they boy slept in that dreamless night, and for many dreamless nights to come.

Manuel's Blood

    There was a lot you could get done in three days. 72 hours ago Manuel had been your run-of-the-mill Mexican gardener/painter/roofer/gutter-scraper/farmhand who also occasionally found himself in medical programs of new prescriptions that didn't kill the rats, and were therefore ready for the next level. A mere 4,000-sum minutes ago, he just started being a professional carpet cleaner for the day. From wetback to the purest evil power in three days flat.
    He was a hard-worker, you had to be, or you died. That was it. You see the men, lined up along the street from the intersection with the 7-11 all the way to Home Depot bordering the highway exit ramp. Standing wasn't a crime, but it was enough to get you suspected of one, and whoever decided to be the good samaritan for the day would watch for patrols, nonchalantly calling out "la chota" or "tamarindos" to signal that everyone should start walking along the street, as if they were on there way to dominate the park on the opposite side of the highway for a family reunion.
    But Manuel didn't feel like walking that day. He'd been loaned a shitty ladder by some old dame he was installing lighting fixtures for and banged his shin hard, catching his leg on the counter before the rest of him hit the floor. He already had a few odd varicose veins and managed to nail one right on so that his whole leg looked like a bruise within five minutes, and that five minutes he spent trying to apologize, "sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry" to the older lady who was saying something about the new countertop she put in only the week before, berating him for possibly knocking it off-level before it settled firmly. Because that was what was important to her. He sucked up the pain amidst the apologies, and continued to launch volleys of "sorry sorry" through the thick cloud of chidings as he tried to refocus on the fixture, getting the last fasteners on the decorative light box that cost more than he would get paid that day to install it. Didn't matter. You finished the job even if they told you to stop and insisted you leave. It was the only way to try and jangle some money out of the deal, because there was no rule saying they had to pay you at all for a job that wasn't done. No pay, no food, you die. Simple as that. He broke the skin on the tip of his fingers trying to screw with his fingers, which helped relocate to a different pain. He got the money, but received no lemonade before having to walk back home that day.
    Now, when los tamarindos came around today, and he could not find it in him to take his half-purple leg and start moving it down the street. He sat on the sidewalk on top of his toolbox and stared at his knees, waiting for them to pass, and for the day to be another minute or two closer to over. The drove slow, and you could just see the dull reflection of sunglasses behind tinted windows. Manuel couldn't see this, because he was counting to thirty while carefully examining the hole in his jeans torn from the countertop incident. Then his counting was interrupted by a long drawn squeal of brakes, and that was unusual for a police cruiser. There was a lot a of money in keeping cruisers in top shape. He thought about offering to fix them as only a half joke, but knew not to speak until spoken too, as the meek might get pity so long as they put their nose in the dirt and waited for authority to kick them in the head a few times and move along with the day. When the cruiser's door opened, he knew that he wouldn't be getting any work today--as he had not the past two days before--meaning no food, and he might as well just quit wasting time and die.
    "Hey. You."
    "Sí."
    "Hey you speak English."
    "Sí. Yes."
    "Can you clean?"
    "Yes."
    "What can you clean?"
    "Anything."
    "Yeah? Can you clean some carpets? You can do carpet cleaning, right?"
    "Yes."
    "Good. Get in and just keep saying 'Yes' and nothing else. Get in, let's go."
    For your average intrusive shakedown, a list of questions containing no real importance would be asked to try to fish out inconsistencies in order to prove you were suspicious. They'd ask you who you were, who your father was, what you address is, if you had ID, what you did yesterday, what you did the day before that, what your father was doing on each of those days, if you had a cellphone on you, what its number was, who was the last person you called, if you had your Dad's number, where you were going, why you were going there, if your father would be there, and where could they find you or your father tonight. Then they would ask the same thing backwards, as a tiresome test of memory and basic English, hoping they could confuse someone into making a mistake that could classify them as 'suspicious' and warrant further questioning. Refusing to answer their 'common sense' questions would be enough to earn you a suspicious label. And that was just the way it was. You dealt with it occasionally so you could work occasionally, and on a good week you gripped enough cash to buy the 24-pack over the 12-pack and still send some back home. But if you got in a cruiser car, your time at that pick up point was over, because you would not be back on the strip waiting for a pick-up truck again because that would make you really suspicious. It means that you had somehow earned your tag as 'suspicious' and if they saw you in the same place twice after your trip to the station the next trip you'd be on was back across the border.
    Manuel knew the hinderance in store and counted it as one more day with no work. You took it with the same patience and acceptance that it took for most people to stand in incredibly long lines. And it was about as aggravating. It just meant he would have to find a different section of town to stand in now, toolbox in hand, as the days dragged on.
    At least, that's what it would be if he'd been found as suspicious, but this was different. No officer before would ask if you spoke English. They would just assume it because you had to, and they knew it. This was different. Manuel went along with it, no outward reaction to the uncommon development, moving along with the steps presented much like an animal being willingly herded into a pen. His mind, however, was racing to think of what comes next.
    "You said you speak English. How much English."
    "A little."
    "Not that much? How much is not that much."
    "Speak some English."
    "Yeah? But not that much English, right?"
    "Yes. Just a little."
    "Fine. Convinced me. Just don't ask questions, do the job. How much is it for carpet cleanings?"
    "Seventy-five is good."
    "We'll do that. Make it one-hundred if you do it without talking and do it fast."
    "Yes."
    Manuel was by no means a dumb man. You never let on how much you actually know, it retains a bit of your power to know more than you let them believe. Picking up the odd word in a fast-paced discussion can tip you off if the occasional bad day-employer is going to cut your pay right before they drop you back off, or if they are going to ask for something more they didn't agree to. And really you couldn't be dumb when you had to be a master of ten different professions upon request. If someone needed a sink fixed, you were a plumber. If someone needed drywall torn down, you used to be a construction worker. If someone needed help butchering cows, your father used to own a farm and you've been doing it since you were twelve. Manuel had a carpet cleaner in his hands before, and you just make it do what it's supposed to. An easy enough job for a skilled-unskilled laborer, but one that most people didn't want to do. That doesn't explain why police officers are getting him to do it, and insisting he not talk as he does. Best case scenario at this point is that there is some kind of narc program recently put in, where they will actually take him to rat any of the other corner workers for pedaling drugs in addition to cheap labor, and the carpet cleaning is just an innocent enough ploy to lull a false sense of security.
    By the time they arrived at wherever they were going, Manuel was let out of the back and he saw that the sky was grey, the temperature dropped a few degrees, the wind picked up, and he didn't give a fuck about any of that. An immediate survey of the surroundings saw that there were six trailers forming a semi-circle end-to-end like a train that was never meant to move.
    "Alright. Get that stuff outside of that one then go in and clean the floor."
    Manuel could only give them a glare for about three seconds before realizing that is all they would say and all he could stare. He had his own suspicion raised, but couldn't see well enough to get their names.
    He had heard about things like this before. When he saw there was a not a rented cleaning machine, but a bucket with chemicals and sponges, he knew most likely what this job was. It was something best just to put your head down and do, before there was a reason for someone else to clean up his blood.
    He slowly loped over, grabbed the bucket, and didn't look back at the two officers. If they were going to shoot him before or after there wasn't that much he could do about it. Just focus on the work. You had to work and eat or die.
    Blood was the only common stain harder to get up than red wine. Without a powerful cleaning unit spinning brushes at 100rpm, it would have taken about as many times long to do it by hand. This blood was thick and there was plenty of it. Manuel tried not to let his brain or bowels get the best of him. It had sunk down into the fibers far enough that he would need more than a whole bucket full of bleach if it were normal blood. More than only the bottle in the bucket. And this was not normal blood.
    Manuel opened up some of the agents and started scrubbing around on the floor. The officers stood at the rear of the trailer and talked quiet in the back, watching through the doorway. They'd occasionally raise their voice and ask if it was coming up, and ask if he could go any faster. His response was always "Yes". As he scraped at the shaggy carpeting, it was impossible to quiet his thoughts from trying to find answers to unasked questions. It was a skill of laborers like him to never betray emotions through expression, unless it was a mimicry of someone else's jovial laugh to offer a false "me too" for whatever the person they were being indentured to that day found funny. The officers, however, weren't as good as he was at covering up nervousness. He hadn't looked directly at them, save the three seconds outside, but when one called out and tossed him an extra sponge and water bottle, Manuel could see their faces were more contorted in worry as they watched him from across the trailer. It was obvious they had done something they shouldn't have, and were using an anonymous, exploitable--and if need be erasable--kind of labor to clean up the evidence of their mistake, whatever that may have been.
    Manuel knew ostensibly they didn't want to be close to where he was cleaning, for whatever traceable evidence could be accidentally picked up like hair or blood drops. That made sense. They couldn't get a cleaning machine either, as it would be on record and linked to them. Also obviously why disposable labor would be preferred. In the cases of things like this before, two officers of the law and one Mexican without his papers, brutally maiming or murdering someone who was probably white could only have one conclusion. It was pretty flawless in its simplicity, all things considered. Though they could have very well bought some mechanic's uniforms and done it themselves, if that were the case, but the alacrity they picked Manuel up with and the rush to get it done said something more. All these thoughts flickered like fire through Manuel's mind but it wouldn't deviate the task at his hands. His bruised leg hurt from being hunched over on his knees. He kept scrubbing. He knew this was something more than a bit of foulplay. The blood was thicker than it should be.
    Los tamarindos were obviously getting uneasy, and he just keep doing as he was told, hoping the worker's adage of working until it's done if you have a hope of getting paid would still hold out as true, and allow him to be alive with that money in hand, whether he cleaned the blood or not. He just wanted to be home, or back on the curb. Somehow he knew there would be no leaving anytime soon.
    Those chotas were letting a degree of panic start to show through. While his skill in English wasn't great, Manuel picked up some things like "did it too soon" and "it's not going to work" and "we should have waited". He was now convinced he was exactly where he shouldn't be.
    "Is that fucking carpet clean yet."
    "Yes."
    "No, not just 'yes', is the, the stuff… is it really fucking clean or not."
    "Yes."
    "God dammit, wetback son of a… look, just go look okay?"
    Manuel heard the officer approach. He kept on brushing.
    "Oh shit, you are fucking kidding me."
    He had seen that even though Manuel had been scrubbing away, there was no difference in the leaked red liquid.
    "Shit. Shit, shit, shit. You said it was getting clean. Shit."
    " . . . "
    "Okay, so, you said you know how to clean carpets, why isn't it clean?"
    *brushie brushie brushie*
    "Why isn't it clean!?"
    "You need more bleach." He overstepped his boundaries in speaking, but playing dumb wasn't being a good answer this time. "The stain, is in the low part of the carpet so you need bleach first then you need the white powder."
    "Bleach… so this isn't good enough," he motioned to the bucket, "then what is?" The officer was close enough to talk but it seemed like his skin was reeling backwards from the spot he was standing. It appeared to take great effort to raise his hand and point at the tub of chemicals Manuel was given for the job. "And what kind of white, powder, what's white powder?"
    Officer J. Sander--Manuel caught his name--had not taken off his sunglasses the entire time and was sweating. But the name was not the indication Manny wanted. Sander retreated back to where his partner was fiddling with some book, repeating to him the request for white powder. The air in the trailer was humid and now turned desperate. The other officer decided that the white powder must be an abrasive salt-based cleaner that his sister once used on some kind of gravy spill.
    Sander looked to his partner. "Alright. It'll only take one of us to go get this stuff, it's just--"
    "Do you think we could just cut up the carpet? Or burn it, or--"
    "Are you fucking crazy? We can't go near that, and to burn it!? Do you know the consequences for doing something, anything against--"
    "Okay, okay fine just get the cleaner, quick we can't just stay here all day without others coming by."
    "I don't think this is a good idea. I am staunchly opposed to continuing trying to do what isn't working, we need to figure a different way out of this."
    "Right, and what do we tell the others? We failed in correcting our own mistakes? Can you imagine the punishment on top of what we must already do?"
    "I am just saying, there must be something else--"
    "Well I don't know what that is! So I am going to go and buy the greatest strength industrial cleaner in a can that doesn't leave a paper trail to me, or anything else that could lead back here. So until there's another way, shut up, stay here, and make sure no one else comes."
    After a small agreement of times, Sander walked out. Manuel had stopped scrubbing.
    The remaining officer moved closer to look at the unchanged rust colored stain. "Why won't this get clean, and why did you stop?"
    Manuel saw he was being addressed by M. Rodriguez. Without confirming until this point, Manuel was still sure of there being a Spanish heritage line in one or the other, though both had indistinguishably colored skin, meaning that the ancestry would have been farther back, but was no real surprise in the circumstances when he finally made the link.
    "I need more water." He purposefully leaned on the falseness of his overtoned accent as he spoke. "Is no good to have cold water, need hot water."
    Rodriguez impatiently directed his weary-looking hired hand outside to dump the water about fifty feet from the trailers in the woods. When Manuel brought the bucket back, the officer found that the current trailer was lacking in the ability to produce any water warmer than tepid. He loudly announced that he would go to the next trailer and see if they had hot water there, and that Manuel was to stand right fucking there until he got back.
    That gave him only about thirty seconds, a minute if he was lucky. He ran.
    Manuel burst into the trailer's bedroom and slammed the door shut. Jumping the puddle of blood, which he had only been washing around the entire time knowing the officers wouldn't get close enough to notice, he stood before the closet on the opposite side of the bed, and fiercely rolled the sliding door.
    A horrid wave of stench belched out immediately, and two severed arms were jostled from their place on the altar inside, falling to Manuel's feet. A gaunt face stuck on a spike had been stripped of eyes, nose, and mouth--it's gaping holes and maw crusted over with dark black secretion. Symbols drawn on the walls included many pointed stars, something in the shape of a goat's skull, and many repeated mantras in what looked like an older version of Spanish, though being written in dripping blood made the words illegible. The arms had originally been on shelf and fixed into a holding position around tattered brown book, the cover showing no words. Despite the place it occupied, the musty tome was in excellent condition. A cape was draped almost comically about the lower cubby of the altar's shelf, where the organs would be resting in slow decay.
    He murmured a quick prayer as if he had always known it under his breath, "He sido convocado, tómame como tu demonio," then reached in beneath the cape, drawing out what may have once been the large intestines, but was now more like a wet dead snake, and turned to face the opening bedroom door as Rodriguez came in.
    "WHAT THE FUCK DO… shit no, NO!"
    With a twist of his arm as if he was cracking a whip, Manuel lashed out with the rotten intestine and caught Rodriguez on the shoulder, severing it off with the stink of burning acid following on the backdraft. A shrill scream drowned out the sound of the second stroke Manuel leveled horizontally, entering and exiting at opposite hips. The terror-pain cry subsided slowly, and Rodriguez fell in half.

    When Sander returned, Manuel was sitting out on a folding lawn chair. Knowing something to be amiss, he approached at a quick pace, grocery bag from Home Depot in hand, demanding to know where his partner was and why the filthy wetback wasn't still inside cleaning the damn stain.
    "My name is Manuel… " He didn't rise from his chair.
    "I don't give a shit what your fucking name is spic, get back in the trailer and--" Sander was slow to notice. Something strange. Manuel no longer had the whites of his eyes.
    "…but you may call me Dévos."
    "I, what… no. No, no fuck no you WHAT! Where is Rodriguez, where--"
    "You have done appalling work in attempting to conceal your mistakes. You can choose now to continue your servitude to extend into yet another life, or you can die here and now." His accent was thick, but spoken with perfect diction.
    "No… no, no… "
    "You will work tirelessly, and you will be tortured, and you will continue to work. You will work harder than ever before, or you will die. That is the way it is. Which do you choose?"
    "I can't just… no, no… "
    "First, you will clean the blood of your failed sacrifice with your own sullied hands. You will, of course, loose your hands in doing so, but this is the price you will pay for hiding your incompetence. Then… I think I will need to feed."
    "No! No! NO!"
    The demon smirked showing yellowed and pointed teeth, "Work or die. Admirable and awful in its simplicity."