deistbrawler

I didn't realize I could actually post stories on here...fantastic

I made a claim that I could write anything and two female friends on Facebook challenged me to write them love letters. It was actually rather difficult considering I don't know that much about them nor have I had any sexual relations with them.

Mi Amore,
I long for a time when I can lay with you and caress your skin. When I can breathe you in until your scent intoxicates my surroundings. Until the smell of you and the feel of your skin can make the earth melt around me. I crave endless sessions where I can run my fingers through your hair. Where I can trace the contours of your body until I can draw it with my eyes closed. I desire a moment where the simply sweet whispers in my ear can relieve the tension in my body. The way you taste no chef can reproduce or philosopher describe, like a thousand of the finest pure cane sugar plants in the world, only exponentially sweeter. A kiss from you, even one as momentary as a simple glance of lips, can make me envision a heaven.

Even now I picture your face and its envelopes me into a euphoric state. A simple smile seems to eliminate the years of toil my body and soul have taken. I see a place I once thought unimaginable and unattainable and it seems to fill an endless void that has been placed in my heart.

Walls once formed in my mind have allowed a stream of creativity to flow through my head and open up doors of infinite wonder. Poetry holds more meaning. Music seems to speak to me in a dialogue once unheard. Art seems to pale in comparison to the actual beauty that I see in you every time you walk through a room. There has yet to be a play written, a sentence thought, or a song sung that can accurately describe an emotion that I didn't even know existed until the first time I looked into those passionate eyes. Eyes that can both soothe and entice.

Every time the phone rings my heart skips at the thought that I can hear that voice that can inspire in me great moments of clarity. A voice that could make a child laugh, a mother cry, a father do whatever the daughter bids, and a man, a simple ordinary man, become an extraordinary being of  ambition and desire.

I have looked and strived for Nirvana and have found it not in myself alone but in you, in everything you do, in every word you speak, movement you make, look you give, and action you take.

You are a muse for the ages. Erato, Terpsichore, Euterpe…they only pale to the glory that you can inspire in me and all those around you. The Greeks would have wept if they saw you from the sheer thought of the possibly of never seeing you again. Like Bizet's "L'amour est un oiseau rebelle" or Puccini's "Un bel dì vedremo," you have the ability to inspire opera's the likes of which no one has seen.

I will see you in my dreams my love. Until I see you again.
Don Juan

Hey Gorgeous,
I wanted to tell you that every time you smile it brightens my day, thank you for smiling all the time, it makes my days fantastic.

I wanted to tell you that every time you laugh it makes me glad that not only am I alive but that I'm alive to hear it.

I wanted to tell you that every time you speak it fills my heart with joy. I can listen to you for hours and not get bored.

I wanted to tell you that every time I see your eyes it makes me want to smile, even when you are sad, angry, or happy those eyes can trap me forever.

I wanted to tell you that every time you touch me you make my heart skip a beat. It doesn't matter if it's a punch, a hug, or a slight graze.

I wanted to tell you that I love you for your energy. You can make a long day seem fresh. A cold night seem warm and a hot night seem cool.

I wanted to tell you that whenever I get depressed and I see you it turns my depression right around and shoves it out the door.

I wanted to tell you that when I'm happy you make me feel like I could burst.

There are a lot of things that I want to tell you. I want to whisper them in your ear. I want to shout them at the top of my lungs. I want to sing them to the people all around me.

When I get to touch you its like I just become a school boy, some weird, teenage schoolboy who can't talk to a girl to save his life. Ya wanna wrestle? Wow, there are so many things that make you unique and I think it's the fact of how unique you really are that makes you indispensable. Like how you just bounce around, I think you skipped to me one night. Or that you are the complete epitome of an extrovert. Ya know, it could be that you have an amazing body that makes me just want to jump on you like a rabbit on a carrot.  Then again it could be your wit and humor. It could be that sparkle in your eye that makes you always look like you're up to no good. That you are one mischievous person. A kiss from you is like a Christmas present everyday. If I could……never mind. You're one of those people that I could listen to talk for hours. You always seem to lift a room up when you walk in. It's like you're a bright ball of sunshine. A glow. A young soul. No doubt you could make a guy do anything, write poetry, take up art, wash their car…take a shower. I would love to wake up to you everyday. To get a sight of you in the morning would allow me to have a better energy boost than a cold shower or a hot cup of coffee. I would consider myself the luckiest man in the world.

Wanna make me the luckiest man in the world?

Yours always and forever,
Don Giovanni

It's day's like today that make me glad that I don't kill myself.

That came out wrong.

I don't mean to alarm anyone. I think if you've never had a moment where you wanted to kill yourself that there is something wrong with you. There has to be. Either that or you've just led a fantastic life for some reason and in that case I am jealous and thereby want to murder you…no offense.

The past few months that thought has ran through my head several times. Until recently that is. I don't know particularly know why those thoughts stopped. They just have. And I'm not going to debate it really. I haven't met anyone new. I haven't gotten a new job or suddenly found money that I didn't have before. My life hasn't really 'changed' any. I don't know if it's the weather. Or that I'm starting to get my creative flow back. Hell, I'm currently getting sick…thus the vitamin c pills I have been taking and the green tea I'm drinking right now. Although the cigarettes I am smoking with both probably don't help any. I just hope I don't get sick sick….can't really afford doctors and such.

Maybe its listening to the blues…I've been doing that the last three days.

Now when people think blues, or at least some people do, they think of depressing shit. Not really. The blues has many categories. I personally prefer the more 'rock' type of blues like Lil Ed and the Blue Imperials, or Stevie Ray Vaughan….right now I'm listening to Jimmie Vaughan a song called "Cool Lookin' Woman."

David introduced me to this online place called Pandora that you can basically create your own radio station. I have two right now. One called Metal & Mellow and another called simply Blues.

Think I may skip my usual routine of Monday night Sidelines and go to a blues bar, there are a couple that I know of….I miss Beales Street Pub (if that was how it was spelled). It was this little blues bar in Marietta. The place was tiny. But I've noticed that at blues bars most people are just in a really good mood. I can't remember a fight ever breaking out at one. And there hasn't been any annoying drunk assholes. Of course, there also seems to be a relatively few amount of women at them and even fewer people my age. But a blues bar is a place where you can just go, drink, smoke, and enjoy some really good fucking music.

Not to mention not many people can play the 'blues.' you may be able to copy a song, but if its not in you it will not sound the same. My air force buddy David (a.k.a. Davie Boy) is an amazing guitarist. But I asked him one time if he could play the blues and he just shook his head no. He told me he couldn't make a guitar sound the same as a blues musician.

Now its Johnny Winter with a song called "Let's Start All Over Again."

You know, maybe it is the blues that is lifting my spirit. Or maybe it's the weather J.  

I've actually thought that maybe I won't try to date. Maybe I will just say fuck it. I haven't spoken to a girl in a bar in a long time (No Phil I do not count Monday because I don't remember shit that I said to that girl). I don't know why really. Maybe my heart isn't in it. Maybe its my head. It sure as hell isn't my penis. I think its going to cut itself off and go find someone else to play with.

Man, how can you not like the blues?

I also started posting on a website called DeviantArt. it's a pretty cool site that seems to share a lot of like minded individuals as myself. I put up some poetry on it. Poems that I have posted in blogs on here and I got some great feedback. Not a lot, but considering some times when I post blogs on here I don't get a single comment. My numbers seem better there.

Now its "Truck Driving Mama" by Watermelon Slim.

The skateboarders on the road underneath my apartment are kind of annoying the shit out of me. They are trying tricks that none of them can land so all I keep hearing is the slap of the skateboards and then the sound of their feet as they run to keep from falling. Maybe that's annoying me because I never could skate. I complained about skateboarders at KSU one time while I was trying to write a paper and Steven said to me…"Hey, at least they were trying." I guess that's a good point huh?

Maybe some times we just need to try. Doesn't matter what it is. Whether it be different food. A new drink. A new style. You never know right? You can't really know yourself until you try new things. I was thinking of shaving my beard…

"On The Run" Stevie Ray Vaughan.  

So, I've been thinking lately. Is being single really all that bad? I mean, I have more money than I would were I in a relationship. I don't have to watch what I say or what I do. I don't have to check in or make sure plans aren't conflicting. I mean fuck. If I get off work and tell myself hey, go to a fucking bar. I can go to a bar without worry of pissing someone off. I can flirt with whoever I want to flirt with. Shit…if I don't want to bathe for three days then by god I don't have to bathe. Bella certainly doesn't tell me to take a shower first before going to bed. She doesn't complain about the way I smell when I come home from work. She doesn't even argue with me about what I'm wearing. Granted, she doesn't have a vagina that I can touch. Nor does she kiss.  And she doesn't quite smell as sweet. Alright, a woman would be nice every now and again. I can't go womanless its not in my ability. But maybe I can do this single thing for awhile huh? Maybe. For some reason I haven't been as lonely as I have been recently either.

"Evil Woman Blues" by Magic Slim and the Teardrops.

I have no idea where those feelings went. Its not like I'm not alone as much anymore. Nothing has changed there.

I was contemplating not drinking as much for about two days. That's gone away. Maybe I just won't drink as much when I drink. Yeah, that sounds like a plan.

I'm actually even really considering heading back to school in the fall (or at least trying to). How often do I repeat myself in blogs. I'm starting to feel like it happens a lot. But then again if the same things keep going through my head then its no wonder why I keep repeating them.

I was wanting to write some poetry. I even have a note on my desktop that is telling me to. But I don't have anything poetic to write about. I'm not feeling love, haven't had sex in several months, haven't experienced anything new, I'm not currently depressed but I'm also not 'happy,' nature isn't really appealing to me right now although I have been taking advantage of the weather and have sat outside the last two days. At least until it starts to get cold and I can't feel my fingers anymore.

Well, one of the skateboarders just yelled "God Damn't" and it totally through my train of thought off. Fucker, I almost want to walk down there, grab his skateboard, and just bash it into the ground then hand the pieces of it back to him and walk away. Be like, "there, now you can't suck at it if you have nothing to ride." I'm glad that sometimes my conscious gets the better of me. Were I a different man I would totally do it. LOL.

"If You Have to Know" by Lonnie Mack.

This Pandora thing is also a great way to find new music, not that I've bought a cd in over a year. And no, that's not because I'm downloading any music. I don't have an MP3 player, kinda don't want one either. It doesn't really serve that big of a purpose for me. It's odd too because most of the time I write I don't like to listen to anything but this blues just seems right.

I'm supposed to be hanging out with Tim tomorrow night. We'll see if that actually goes down. I have no plans tonight but then again I don't really have the money to go do anything either. I called Michael, a buddy of mine that I haven't really hung out with in years but lately we've been hanging out a little more, but I don't think he gets off until way later. So yeah, don't know what I'm doing.

I also haven't completely decided what I'm going to do with my income tax return…part of me says go get some new tats, part says save it, part says go on vacation, and another part is just telling me to piss it all away. I don't know if you remember me saying what upper arm tats I want.

"It's Too Late" by Guitar Shorty and the Otis Gang.

But on my right arm I was thinking a type writer with demons coming out of it and on my left a movie reel with the faces of my favorite horror characters. But at the bar the other night this tattoo artist was like, "Why don't you just tell him what you like and get him to draw something." Him being Sam Parker, the guy who has done all of my tats. And I've actually been really thinking about that. Why not? Sam is an artist and what better way than to just get an actual art piece on my arm and not something so simple? Hmmmm. Guess I will have to debate on that.

As for vacation. That's another. I would really like to go to Savannah. The last time I went it wasn't so great. Then again I wasn't able to do the things that I wanted to do (which was mainly just get drunk on the beach…or in a bar). I could go to Charleston (but I've been there and done that). I was thinking maybe finding that beach house I'd gone to with Katie and Michael and Tim (but then again, been there done that). I know I plan on going to Texas some time in late July early August, I'm guessing before school starts. I want to see family, friends, mainly I want to see my cousin Jared. He's been through a lot of shit and I feel for some reason closer to him than a lot of my family. I don't know why, its not that we really communicate that much. Its more on the lines that I don't think we have to. We're about the same age and the last time we talked our lives had gone on almost identical paths.

Although now the crazy bastard says he wants to be a preacher and that is something that will never happen to me. No thank you. You people with your Christian god can keep that god. LOL. I separated from that path a long time ago and haven't regretted it. Some of my friends have even found "God" again and good for them, I'm happy that they've found something to believe in and embrace. Me, I believe in entropy. That's what I believe in.

I think I should change the voicemail on my phone to say, "Hey, this is Ty, if you know me you know that I don't answer my phone….did I mention I hate having to even listen to voicemails? So if you want to get in touch with me…please, please, just send me a text message. Please." I'm a writer people, a writer, not a public speaker. The only time I actually like talking on the phone is when I've just met a girl and want to get to know her….when I haven't heard from someone in a really long time….or when I, or someone else, has a really great story to tell. (and yes, if Happy's girl reads this I was referring to you just calling me LOL)

"Some Day," by Otis Spann. Wow, this is a really good song. I like this type of slow blues…yes, there are different categories of slow blues too.

I watched Max Payne last night and was thoroughly disappointed. Waste of five bucks. Waste of the money they spent to make it to. Although that chick Olga Kurylenko was pretty fucking hot in it…of course she was hot in Hitman and Quantum of Solace too. David became obsessed with Mila Kunis.

"I Want A Little Girl," by B.B. King.  
I want a little girl, call my own
She must be someone who's all alone now
Say, I want a little girl to fall in love with me, oh yeah
I want a little girl, but she may not look
Just like a picture in a story book
If she can cook chicken, yeah, she'll suit me to a T
And she don't have to wave her hair
Or even wear fancy clothes, I wouldn't even care
She don't wear nylon hose, ohh
I want a little girl to love a lot
You know that I'd give her everything I got
I want a little girl to fall in love with me

Now I'm listening to "One Eyed Woman (Live)" by Lightnin' Hopkins.  

The sun is going down and the temperature is dropping and that makes me slightly sad. I don't want to go inside. Its seems like there is never enough time in the day for me when my spirits are uplifted. You know, I got a day job so I could have more time in the day (guess I will have to wait for summer).

"Goin' Down," by Stevie Ray Vaughan

I have stories running through my head at a rapid pace…but Warbringer keeps slipping in there telling me that's its still here. That it still needs its voice, that it still wants to be heard. Maybe I'm just waiting for my voice to get going again. Or maybe I just don't want to write that 'novel' that everyone keeps asking me about. I don't mean 'novel' with Warbringer necessarily, just a novel in general. Prof Grooms always told me to make one of my drug culture stories my first novel, Michael even told me to go with that, but that's not what I want to get published as necessarily. Granted I may be able to write a badass novel about it, but I don't want to get say 'stuck' in that genre. Who knows, if one creeps in I may just do it.

Part of me wonders why all of my stories never have an 'ending.' Is it because I'm afraid to finish things? Is it because if I actually do pump out that novel that I am afraid of criticism? Maybe. I've never really gotten criticism per say. I've gotten some constructive criticism but I've never had anyone just flat out say that my shit sucks. I did that plenty of times in my creative writing classes to other people (ask Michael about it sometime) but no one ever did it to me. I'm good at tearing things apart (ask Sherman about his screenplay). Guess I'm afraid if I actually put myself out there that I'm going to get ripped apart and never want to write again. I wonder how many 'great' writers there were that were the same way and never got noticed. That we as a reading audience have never had the ability to read and appreciate.

"The Bounce," by Bryan Lee.
Anyway, if anyone is reading this and they have an idea for something to do let me know. Send me a text message.

Guess I'm running out of things to say, thanks for listening.

(these were playing while I was editing this)
"At Last," by Etta James
"Catfish Blues," by Jimi Hendrix
"Sweet Home Chicago (live)," by Freddie King

Aww man...I've been wanting to write. Guess all it took was to get to sit outside for a little bit and smoke cigarettes and drink a beer as I went. This one just flowed.


The Hitchhiker

Charlie stepped over the already burning body, the one that was crisped like burnt bacon, smoldering and bubbling, the one he had set on fire. He looked at the body, the hair still burning in little puffs, the skin cracking. He smelled the burnt hair, he listened to the skin pop, he felt the flame. Then he kicked the body of the nineteen year old woman in the face. The lips burnt back from the teeth provided no mercy as he repeatedly shattered them out. They would need another way to tell this body, try something other then fingerprints and dental records. He looked at the body a few more times then kept on walking.
It was the third this week, by far not a record but it was a sign that he was starting to crave it too much. Craving the screams, the agony on his victims face.  He was craving the tingle in his balls every time he stripped them naked and knew they were thinking he was going to rape them, and hoping that that was all he did. But he never raped them, never wanted to allow DNA evidence at a scene.
He kept his environment clean, sterile, like a glowing white hospital room.
As he walked to his car he looked back one more time, savoring the look of its face, the mouth a gaping black hole, the skin burnt just as black with patches of normal skin seeping through. The last time he had killed it had taken them only a few hours to find the body. He hoped that this one would last a little longer, at least long enough for the animals to get to it.
He jumped into his car and fired up the old and reliable 5.7 liter V8 and pushed it into drive. He maneuvered down the old dirt road like he had done it before, in fact he had, on numerous occasions to get a feel for the road, to let it know what it was speaking to him, to know if it considered itself worthy of the gift. It did, with nearly three ninety degree turns few people ever traveled all the way to the end of the road. It wasn't a good fishing spot either.
He checked behind him, looking to see if the tires of the car were digging too deep into the road and when he saw that his treads were only matching those around him he continued. He hated having to rake the road behind himself. It was a pain in the ass and took hours.
He was only about a mile on the main road when he saw a young looking woman sticking her thumb up and he pulled over. When she got in she looked at him and smiled.
"What?" he asked.
"Nothing, you're just a little more attractive then most of the guys who pick me up."
"Guys pick you up often?"
She flung her hair back over her shoulder and he could feel his cock stiffen.
"All the time."
"In that case."
Charlie popped a u'ie which wasn't easy in the big car. But he managed.
"Where we going?"
"To a little spot."
"You don't get nothing until you take me somewhere honey."
"No see," he said, looking her over, "I like to taste it before I deliver it."
She smiled at him and nodded.
He led her down the same road, back through the dirt and ninety degree turns. She smiled at him the entire time. He got out of the car and led her down a small path through the woods. As she neared she called over her shoulder.
"Smells like someone was burning something out here."
"Probably leaves." He replied.
She entered the small clearing ahead of him and looked around. She saw the body lying in the flames and laughed.
"Looks like they left what they were cooking."
As she neared she began to back up.
"That looks like a person."
He hit her directly between the eyes and she looked confused and stumbled backwards almost into the still burning fire. Her eyes began to glaze over and he slapped her a little.
"Ohh don't go out on me now baby."
They began to clear and he rubbed the knife against her flesh. She flinched and then remained absolutely still as he ran the blade edge of the knife up her shirt, splitting it. Letting the little pink bra become exposed, allowing little slivers of blood emerge from the tip of the knife as it ran across her flesh.
He looked into her eyes and instead of seeing the accustomed look of absolute terror in her face she looked calm, even had a slight bit of a smile playing at her lips. He flinched backwards and she grabbed the wrist of his right hand, the one that held the blade and smiled ruefully. Her grip strong and true.
"Well aren't we a pair." She chided.
She entered her blade in the center of his right forearm and slid it down forcefully all the way until it got stuck at the wrist bone, using her left hand. The blood washed over her and he dropped the knife and staggered backward trying to stop the flow of blood that was gushing from his right arm. He twisted and fell down and she stood up, rubbing the blood with her hands, including the one that held the blade, over her chest and her throat.
"Bitch." he stammered through clenched teeth.
She stood to the full height of her five foot four frame and then moved toward him with the grace that her small compact body allowed. She was strong, much stronger than an average woman of her height. The years of gymnastics had helped.  
He tried to remove a small pistol from the back of his pants and got it about halfway to his side with his left hand before she stepped on it. She leaned over quickly, pulling some rubber tubing from her back pocket and wrapped the upper arm of his right arm so the bleeding would stop. He slipped into unconsciousness.
When he woke up he was next to the fire of the burning woman, his body splayed out in an x and tied up. He tried to struggle against the driftwood that he was tied to but because of the angles he wasn't able to budge.
"Now who…" he heard her voice but couldn't quite place the location, "would have ever thought I would find someone else like me?"
The sun was getting low and he estimated that he had been out for a few hours. The blood on his arm was dried and sticky, making it itch something horrendous.
"I'm not like you!" he stammered through teeth that were chattering from the temperature that was rapidly declining around him.
"Ohh no? I can only suppose you brought me here to kill me…much like that bitch dead there."
He strained and looked at the body that was much less of a body than a charred chunk of meat and began to get another erection. He didn't know how, but he tried to will it away.
"Look at you."
She stood over him completely nude. Her small breasts firm, nipples hard from the cold exterior of the growing dusk. He body was sleek and trimmed and he could see that she shaved everything. She brought the knife up to her face. It was curved much like a sickle and she licked the blade drawing blood.
"Know what I'm going to do with this?"
He tried to shake his head and finally sputtered out the word no. She knelt down and let the blade pierce the flesh of his left leg at the ankle. The blade ran all the way up to his thigh. He felt intense heat as the hot blood waved over his legs and he muttered a small guttural moan. She tied the top of his thigh off with another band and looked at him. Kneeling so her pussy was just inches above his head. Close enough to smell, but far away to not be able to reach out…and bite. She stood back up and smiled at him.
"We can work this out. Maybe work together." He said through gritted teeth.
"Work what out?"
"This, you don't have to kill me."
"Ohh but I do…and I'm going to enjoy every minute of this."
She ran the blade up his other leg and tied it off just the same. He screamed and then realized it was pointless. He had picked the spot. He knew this area. There was no one anywhere near him. He sucked up a tear and shook his head to throw it off.
"Ohh baby…" she cooed, "this is going to be so fun."

Into The Eyes of The Devil



      Jeremiah stood outside of the coffee shop on a busy corner of a typical New York City street, his hands in the pockets of his trench coat, his deep blue eyes on the time displayed on the board across the street.

   It was 1:15 pm on a drizzly Monday.

   He watched as the throng of people moved around him, the buzz of the cars as they drove by, taxi cabs swerving in and out of the traffic, tourists with maps in front of their face as they tried to navigate the roadways.

   Some people were Christmas shopping, some were tagging little children along with them, others seemed engrossed in conversations as if they could change the course of the world...or their world at least.

   He waited until the clock hit 1:17 and then stepped into the coffee shop. The place was intense. Pushing through the crowd like one would at a popular rock concert he nudged through other customers until he made his way to the counter. He ordered a coffee, black, and paid the cashier in cash. Then he moved over to the little side counter and added the necessary amount of cream and sugar then looked for a place to sit. He eyeballed everyone in the room. All these people that even though they were sitting, or standing, just a few feet away from each other but would never speak, never meet. That person could have been a distant cousin, a long lost sibling, the love of their life, but they would never know because the interaction simply didn't exist anymore. People stayed to themselves, mingled inside their little group, remained disconnected. He spotted a pretty girl sitting alone in a corner, reading, and pushed his way over to her. He sat down at the seat across from her and she never looked up, probably imagined he was someone simply looking for a seat to sit and enjoy their coffee. Maybe pull out a book themselves, a newspaper, maybe a laptop. He eyed her book, Notes From The Underground by Fyodor Dostoevsky and smiled. Sitting next to her were a pack of cigarettes even though you couldn't smoke inside anymore, and a highlighter. She was wearing a black tank top, a small cross penetrated a thin line of cleavage and a long brown skirt with knee high black boots. Her jewelry was simple, and even though she was wearing a small brown jacket he could see that perhaps she had a tattoo sleeve on her right arm a slight bit peeking out from the top of the jacket and at her wrist. She had raven black hair and thin arched eyebrows that framed a very soft, and very delicate face. He reached out slightly and touched the hand that hovered near the cigarettes. She looked up quickly, then back down.

   "Can I help you?" She asked.

   Her dialogue wasn't that of a typical northerner, it had a slight southern drawl that had dissipated from too much time spent up North. She sounded educated though in her enunciation.

   "Why are you reading what you're reading." Jeremiah replied.

   She looked up slightly, arching one of her nearly pencil thin eyebrows at him, and he could see a wisp of a smile in the edges of her eyes, though her book still covered her mouth.

   "Because its a good book?" She answered.

   He smiled back and nodded then took a sip of his coffee, letting the warmth roll down into his stomach.

   "Why's that?" He questioned.

   She put the book down and looked at him, no smile was on her face but he knew it had been there. Her eyes became stern and this too made him smile.

   "Do I know you?" She asked.

   "No."

   "Did I look like I wanted to be interrupted?"

   "No."

   "Then why bother me?"

   "Because you're the most attractive flower in the shop." Jeremiah replied.

   She blushed a little bit and a small smile creased her lips. He looked down at her hands and saw that she bites her fingernails, then at the little hard spot in the center of her lower lip that says she chews on it.

   "Interesting choice of words. Do you mind if I get back to the book?"

   He shook his head no and she returned to reading, moving in her chair slightly so that she wasn't turned away from him, but rather towards him. Jeremiah knew he was attractive, he had luck with women in the past. He was around six feet two inches tall with sandy blond hair. He was an athlete all through high school and college, he even at one point had a possibility of going pro in baseball, which he turned down. He was dressed well, and had all the proper manners, he sat up straight, walked with his chin up, kept his elbows off the table. He waited until she looked like she was into the book again before speaking.

   "What's your name?" He asked.

   She pretended to ignore him and he slightly touched her hand again. She lowered the book slowly, determined to look tough, but her body language said otherwise.

   "Elizabeth."

   "Do you go by Elizabeth? Beth? Lizzie? Liz?"

   "No," she laughed, "by Liza."

   "That's an interesting name."

   "And you? What's your name?"

   "Jeremiah," he replied as he looked down and took another sip of coffee.

   She closed the book, careful to mark her place, and eyed him.

   "And you? Do you go by Jeremy?"

   "Jeremiah...I go by Jeremiah."

   "Well Jeremiah," she said as she moved herself around to face him full on, "How can I help you?"

   "I just wanted a pretty girl to talk to."

   He looked around the room, eyeballing the other customers, and shifted in his seat. Then he looked outside at the crowd on the street. Then he cocked his head to listen to the house jazz that was playing over a speaker barely audible over the roaring mass of people.

   "Are you from around here Jeremiah?" Liza asked.

   He turned back to her and grinned.

   "No, this is my first time in New York City."

   He looked at a clock on his right wrist, 1:25, and readjusted himself once again.

   "Really? You don't seem like a first timer. And how do you like the city so far?" she inquired.

   "Do you go to college Liza?" he asked, ignoring her question.

   "I did."

   "And yet you still highlight your books? Did you finish school?"

   "No."

   "What was your major?"

   "Art history...what was yours?"

   "Social theory."

   Jeremiah looked around the room again then turned to her quickly.

   "Do you believe this country works Liza?"

   "I believe we live in the greatest society in the world."

   "Really?"

   "Well, like any society we have our problems but overall yes, I would have to say yes."

   "See Liza, I believe this country needs a change. One not heard by planes crashing into a building..." as he said those words several of the customers looked at him sharply, "After nine-eleven what happened, this country was united, our government leaders could do no wrong. It only took a few months to realize we were the ones that were wrong. When did this country sway?"

   She hesitated, and eyed him curiously.

   "This is an interesting way to start a conversation with someone you just met. But in answer to your question, I'm not following."

   Jeremiah took his toboggan off and rubbed his hands through his shoulder length hair then returned the hat to his head.

   "When did this country go for the people by the people, to for the government by the government?"

   "That sounds like treason soldier." Liza laughed.

   "Treason? Treason is passing a law to raise your own salary but not one to provide more aide to public schools, or Clinton. Treason is making it to where the people vote for someone i.e. the popular vote and yet another becomes president i.e. the electoral vote or Bush vs. Gore in two-thousand. Its when people fly to the government to ask for bail-out money in private jets. When the rich get rich while the poor get poorer. When we will no longer have social security by the time we retire and yet continue to have to pay it. When a man dying of cancer can't get treatment because he can't afford it. When a person can be funded by the government to sit on their ass and do nothing for themselves or their country."

   Liza turned in her seat, moving away from him, away from the conversation.

   "Its an interesting discussion but I believe I want to move back to my book."

   Jeremiah suddenly grabbed her hands and she recoiled.

   "Do you know what time it is?"

   She looked at his watch on his wrist.

   "Its 1:35. Would you mind letting go of my hands?"

   Jeremiah did no such thing.

   "Did you know that the nearest police station is four blocks from here?"

   Liza snapped her hands back and scooted her chair back away from the table.

   "Look buddy, I don't know..."

   "Did you know that right now a man in a bank six blocks from here just shot a teller in the face?"

   She topped moving and looked at him.

   "What..."

   "Did you know that the police from that station will be heading there and that if something were to happen here, right now, it would take them nearly fifteen minutes to get here because of traffic unless a unit was close by?"

   "You're scaring..."

   "What we need, as a society Liza, is a revolution. The people need to be united. The only way to do that is sadly, through terror. An act so great that it will be heard throughout the country and the world. Even with wanna be peace ones like the Civil Rights Movement there was terrible violence, it was the violence people saw on television every night and that is what united them. Before rebuilding, there must be destruction. Right now can this country get any lower? Can the people be pushed any harder? Ten dollars for a pack of cigarettes? Six dollars for a gallon of gas? Why not just tell the car manufacturers they must stop producing gas powered cars now, right now, not ten years from now, not five years, now? Because the government cares less about the people and more about money, making money, its business now, that's all it is."

   Liza made to stand up and he beat her to it and pushed her back in the chair. The shop stirred and a man in the back said, "Hey Pal," but Jeremiah did not hear him.

   "What I want you to do..." Jeremiah said as he reached into his coat, "Is not move, not a muscle, not an inch."

   From inside his coat Jeremiah pulled out two FMK-3 Submachine guns and turned to the room with them at chest height. He unloaded. Liza curled up into her seat, her knees in her chest, her hands over her ears, and screamed. The two little guns each carried 40 round, 9mm, magazines and sprayed the room with bullets at a rate of 650 rounds per minute. Halfway through the room Jeremiah had to stop and reload but he did so with the fluidity of someone with lots of practice. The shop went into chaos. People ran over each others as bodies dropped like flies, others simply stood in shock, some went for the back door while others pushed into each other for the front door like one large moving block. When he had reloaded Jeremiah fired into that block. Blood, screams, and shouts filled the small room. The enclosed space quickly filled with the permeating stench of hot blood, feces, and urine as some pissed themselves in fear. He ripped into a woman cradling her baby to her chest. He tore into an old man huddled in a corner. He shredded a clerk still holding on to a cup of coffee. He turned the pistol to the person who had been sitting next to him and fired off three rounds sending brain matter into the floor and blood up into his face and clothes. With almost everyone down he reloaded once again and quickly moved about the room dispatching everyone that was still alive and made his way outside.

   Outside on the street most of the crowd hadn't noticed what was going on inside. The FMK-3's were silenced and the sound outside drowned out what little noise could be heard from inside the shop. Some of those who had made it out had simply taken off running. Not alerting anyone around what was going on. Jeremiah reached back into his coat, letting one of the guns hang limply at his side, and pulled out a grenade. He pulled the pin and tossed it into the street. When the grenade exploded it sent a taxi cab careening down the street where it collided with two other cars and came to a stop on top of three pedestrians crossing the busy intersection. He tossed out four more grenades then switched back to his guns. Many of the people on the sidewalks had stopped to see what happened to the cars when the bullets flew through them. Jeremiah pulled the pin of another grenade and tossed it into a school bus full of children. He took apart a pair of businessmen with the guns so bad that one of their arms ripped off. A bullet whizzed by his ear and he turned to see a plain clothes police officer firing at him but with flawless perfection he stopped him dead in his tracks, then turned back to the people. He reloaded again, and again, and again before tucking the guns back into his coat and walking back inside the coffee shop. Outside on the street people were running around in disarray, some over other bodies, some past burning cars. As he opened the door someone dazzily walked by repeating over and over again, "This doesn't happen here."

   Jeremiah stepped over the bodies, kicking a large man out of the way, and sat back down across from Liza. He picked up his coffee and took a deep swallow, and strummed his fingers to the now clearly audible jazz music. He looked down at his watch and saw the time, 1:43. All of that, all of the destruction, all of the lives lost both innocent and not so innocent, in under ten minutes. His hands were shaking from the massive surge of adrenaline in his system and he reached out and touched Liza. She stood up, screaming, and he pushed her back down into her seat with ease. Still screaming he slapped her into the face until she stopped.

   "Why are you screaming?" He asked casually. "What good does that do?"

   She looked up at him, her eyes beet red.

   "I like you Liza, that's why I let you live and because I like you I'm going to tell you one more thing. Eight blocks from here is a ferry, you run to that ferry and get on it, don't stop for anything...it leaves in fifteen minutes...you can make it. Get as far away from this city as you can Liza. As far away as you can in the next two hours. In two hours this will be on the news. In two hours rush hour traffic will start. In two hours this city will cease to exist. They think a suitcase bomb only holds the destructive power of 1 kiloton of TNT but they are wrong Liza. The world will get our message. This country will change. This incident was to get the medias attention. Get as far away from this city as possible. It was a pleasure meeting you. Goodbye."

   With that Jeremiah walked out of the store and disappeared into the chaos. Liza ran, she ran as hard and as fast as she could.