Ninpocho Chronicles’ Character Background

“People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.” Kossori didn’t know what it meant, exactly, but he was only five years old, so his mother was far older and far wiser than he was. He was sure she had some kind of point, but at the moment he was just lost. Kossori got lost often, both mentally and physically, living out here in his parents’ research facility. He never got so confused as to think it was a good idea to throw stones in glass houses, though.

“Mama, we do live in a glass house. It’s a greenhouse!”

“Hush, child. Listen to me well because your friend is very important, not just to you, but also to our future here in this greenhouse. When you say mean things to people they get upset and, when they get upset, they tell their daddies and mommies about the mean things you said.”

Kossori’s mother stood in silhouette as she took a drag from her cigarette and stared absently up into the night sky. She was a beautiful woman, if slightly severe in feature, and Kossori took after his mother a lot in terms of looks. They were both rather pale blondes with angular features and, truthfully, they could have grown up to look nearly identical had it not been for the age and sex difference. Call it the blessing of being born Yamanaka; had Kossori took after his father more, Kossori’s mother might have smothered him in his crib.

“Mean things make daddies mad and mad daddies don’t sign checks as often as they should. So just don’t throw stones, alright kiddo?”

“I don’t got no stones, mama! ‘Member last time, I busted the ceiling I threw it so very high?”

His mother laughed, choking on smoke a bit as she did. Of course the researcher could remember such a serious blow to her studies; it had been the middle of winter and six months of wild growth withered almost overnight because her son had been too scared to tell his father. Kossori didn’t need to know about how much he had cost her, though. She just nodded her head and leaned harder against the side of the facility.

“You threw it so high! I was very proud of you, but it cost us a lot of money to fix the glass. Words are like stones, Kossori. Mean things you say can hurt a person worse than a rock through a window pane, but either way it costs us a lot if we aren’t careful about our aim. Just go apologize to Tomiko and leave mommy alone now, alright? I’ve got a few more experiments to perform and then I’ll come around to make sure you tucked yourself in right.”

The Yamanaka youth wasn’t used to talking to his mother for such an extended period of time, so he didn’t want to argue for fear his mama might not talk to him again. Kossori merely nodded sheepishly and scurried off to find the girl he had called freaky. Of course, having to take the time to find Tomiko gave him plenty of time to stew about having to apologize too. By the time he found her, Kossori was pissed.

“Your daddy is a dumb shit just like my daddy says and if you tell on me I’ll make sure all the kids at school know you eat bugs!”

Tomiko had been playing in the atrium and was startled by Kossori’s sudden appearance and remark. The Hachiashi female did seem rather freaky-looking with her six arms, considering she was so young and so very small for her age. Supposedly, Tomiko suffered from some genetic disease that made her develop faster than her chakra could allow, but whatever the reason, the boy thought she was just gross. Apparently, the girl agreed with his assessment.

“You better not! You know I was just hungry that day and, and, and you ate some bugs too so you’re just as stupid if you think bugs are gross. Plus, my daddy is the smartest cause your parents work for him and he says that makes you ‘the help’ and you don’t mean nothin’ to nobody.”

“You take that back, Tomiko! You take that back or we’re not friends anymore!”

Kossori steamed. Tomiko knew he was sensitive about how nobody liked him! After all, it was the only reason they were really friends; he was stuck here because of his parents and she because of her condition. If his mama was right, neither of them should be throwing rocks.

Tomiko apologized eventually and the two kids played well into the night. Kossori never forgot how she acted, though, and his little heart hardened a bit further that day.

 

 

Fast forward a few years. Tomiko and Kossori are now academy students, but they didn’t exactly grow up to be the best of friends. Kossori’s lineage linked the young shinobi hopeful to all the pain Tomiko experienced at the hands of Kossori’s mom, so strain grew in all aspects of their lives together. Kossori picked up on it first, as subliminal as it was on Tomiko’s behalf, so of course he did what all boys do best: he made the problem worse.

At this point in their “friendship”, Kossori and Tomiko barely spoke. The research facility kept the two tethered physically, but emotionally they couldn’t be more different. It sometimes seemed to Kossori that Tomiko was only happy when he was upset, but to his defense, she WAS only happy then. Usually the boy was only sad or angry if his parents did something to him, so the inverse of that situation was that Kossori’s parents couldn’t be running their tests on her while they were running the misery train on their son.

Perhaps it was because of this emotional polarity that the two children often found themselves on opposite corners of what was essentially a mansion composed primarily of glass and steel. Perhaps it was just too hard for Kossori to watch his friend get experimented on. Whatever the reason, we see that the young Yamanaka has taken to exploring the grounds.

“Fuckin’ Tomiko!”

Now eight, Kossori had moved on to bigger and better curse words, but one thing never changed: Tomiko was still a grade-A cunt. The girl had told her father about how Kossori cheated off one of her tests and now the bastard was pulling an academic review board together to assess whether the boys’ parents were cut from the same cloth. When Kossori’s father finds out, the boy will be in for some serious trouble. He had overheard some of the teachers talking one day about it; supposedly, the man was trying to get the boy in trouble at school, too! It was hot gossip in the right circles, mostly because Kossori was never the type to need to cheat on a test. It mattered little, whether Kossori was innocent or not. Academia called for blood from on high and from the lowest of low.

“Fuckin’ Tomiko…”

A students of more than just the ninja arts, Kossori found himself wandering the halls of the brick and mortar section of the sprawling estate. This segment of the immense property tended to have the more interesting architectural designs and the academy student was a fan of anything related to engineering. Honestly, it was just happenstance that the boy ran into the perfect solution for his Tomiko problem along those halls.

“Come on, Tomiko! You’ll never believe what I found near the Solarium!”

Kossori feigned excitement as he pulled on the spider girl until she reluctantly got out of her hospital bed. He was already out of her bedroom door as Tomiko finally planted her feet on the floor. By Kossori’s estimation, he had to stay two steps ahead of his rival if his plan was going to work.

If all went well, Kossori’s father would never hear about how his son cheated on that math test.

“Wait up, Kossori!”

Tomiko’s words barely reached Kossori as he unlatched the grate tucked behind the decorative woodworking adorning the walls. The grate was really only accessible if one was to sort of jump back and forth between the walls, as the beaming blonde boy finally discovered, but what the grate itself hid was an even greater find.

Inside these walls were even more hallways and Kossori knew once Tomiko saw them, she’d beg to help him investigate. It was the last mystery in an estate that grew smaller and smaller by the day, thanks to age and understanding.

“Wow.”

It was a simple exclamation, but it was weighted with all the wonder a sick girl could muster. Kossori eagerly helped Tomiko down into the breezeway between the studded walls and vaulted down with her once she was out from underfoot. The boy had never actually entered this space previously, only thinking it’d be a great place to trap his rival, but now that he was down in the guts of the home with Tomiko, he couldn’t help but feel the familiar stirrings of friendship taking root again.

Grabbing the young kunoichi’s hand, the two embarked on an adventure that would change the course of their lives forever.

 

Kossori still couldn’t get over the fact that he had followed Tomiko into the gap between the walls. The little psychopath had assumed that if she had gotten lost in there, it would surely trump any other matters at hand. Hell, he had even hoped that this might have been enough to get his youthful indiscretion ignored completely, had he had an indiscretion, that is. But why did he FOLLOW Tomiko?

Was it because her hands felt soft?

Was it because he missed the fun they used to have?

No, he reasoned that it had to be something else. More likely, Kossori was afraid that she would get out and ruin his plan entirely. Worse yet, she’d probably tell on him for trying to trap her too. Women, am I right? That had to be it. It had nothing to do with the fact that he noticed how each of her six hands somehow seemed equally soft. That was obviously a lot of hand lotion and this was obviously a case of Kossori needing to make sure she stayed lost.

You don’t typically fall in love in secret passages. That’s better left to public parks and hastily-paid-for hotel rooms. Granted, you also don’t typically wind up living most of your life inside the walls either. It was quite the conundrum, but luckily it was one Kossori wouldn’t have to worry over. After all, he missed public parks almost as much as he missed Tomiko. Her death was a real blessing because now he’d never have to worry about how to date a girl inside the walls.

 

It felt like just yesterday that he urged Tomiko into that space tucked away where most men forgot to look. It might as well have happened today, for all Kossori could care. The meager amount of fungi and mold growing off the bricks barely kept the boy upright, let alone processing cognitively. He was trapped in a hallucinogenic nightmare brought upon by a simple need for survival. Rats came by on occasion, but only a few ever made their way into Kossori’s gullet. Most of them feasted on what remained of Tomiko.

They were his special stash, his holiday feasts! But what was he thinking about again? Right… that time in the walls.

It was weird, being in such a cramped area with little light and seemingly less air. Kossori felt instantly apprehensive about his decision to follow Tomiko and the odd spores floating through the air didn’t help matters. Such little air, he thought, and each breath of it a poison. Still, he knew that he made the right decision to follow her. Sure as shit, she claimed she could have climbed back out of the grate they had entered through thanks to her numerous arms. Kossori had urged her forward, however. Wherever they would wind up was all thanks to his fear of repercussion.

The joke’s on him, huh? All because he had picked on a girl, Kossori would be exposed to his friend’s death. It really did suck being him. It might have all worked out, too, had Tomiko not found that gap in the floorboards beneath them. She had been ahead of Kossori out of necessity due to space, so as they had edged along, he had unwittingly urged her towards her death. Apparently this section of the sprawling manor was not a newer addition to the property, such as was the case with the research half of the estate; these walls had real roots in the region. It sucked to be him, sometimes. He’d really like to explore more, but now he had to go find help or risk getting in trouble for this too.

The only problem was that there didn’t seem to be a way out. That was why he was where he was when the walls opened up and took Tomiko away. One had to keep their strength up during an ordeal, even if the sustenance was rodent. The rescuers might have seen a shadow rounding a corner, had their eyes not been locked to the horrific appearance of Tomiko’s battered and bitten body.

The worst of it was that there appeared to be human bite marks on some of the softer parts of the body. Tomiko was swabbed summarily and samples of spores were sent off for study; there was a worry of a possible containment breach, apparently.

No one knew where the other child had gone, mostly because no one even knew another child was missing. His parents weren’t exactly focused on their progeny when their pet project was in jeopardy. Tomiko’s father was already blaming their family for causing his child’s disappearance, citing Kossori’s dishonest nature as proof. Kossori never cheated a day in his life, but the idea of it was enough to heap all the blame squarely onto his shoulders as far as her father was concerned. His parents were just quick to agree with whatever kept their funding up.

By the time anyone realized Kossori was hiding from the authorities, he had eaten enough shrooms to sprout a third eye and chant in five languages at once… or at least that’s how it had felt at the time. It was certainly evident that something had gotten free of the research-side of the estate, anyway, because Kossori was really messed up. He certainly didn’t remember eating Tomiko.

He didn’t remember it had only been five days.

She Laughs as She Runs

It was like a scene straight out of a slasher flick; there I was, just getting into my car, and there he was, just feet away but completely hidden in the shadows. I didn’t even notice the presence of another person, but a slight sense of unease did seem to pervade the otherwise unremarkable night. The encroaching tree line has always had a tendency to set one’s nerves on edge due to the deep, dark shadows they foster, though. Granted, things I’ve seen around here would have you leery of the forest too. The South has had its share of horrors committed upon its soils and the vegetation here seems to remember it all; wisps of once-forgotten nightmares hidden in shallow kudzu graves and nestled in briar patches as bristling as the misdeeds of man. Even the scent of the honeysuckles belies the undercurrent of rot and decay.

If we forget about the dead and dying, however, and if we put aside the fact that a mass grave of over three hundred slaves was but a few minutes walk away, we can touch upon the fact that the Indians once called the creek upon which my stretch of forest resided “Euharlee”, or something to the effect of “She Laughs as She Runs”. It’s kind of messed up when you think about the town’s history, but you can’t deny the Cherokee sure knew how to give beautiful names to their waterways. Plus, it’s not like you can blame the Native Americans for the sins of the settlers that were to follow.

At least, that’s what I thought when I flipped on my headlights and saw the figure there, staring at me in silhouette. I won’t be embarrassed to admit that I thought it was Slenderman; The hooded figure seemed to belie that this was something of ARG fame, of course. I had only just started getting into the online horror scene; my first thought went to the fantastic. I silently reminded myself that Slenderman wasn’t real and decided that this was just some creep looking to carjack my ass away from the prying eyes of the cops. It wasn’t some Indian spirit sent to shout something along the lines of “boogah boogah.”

If only I had been right. Instead, the figure I had seen in front of my hood vanished… although, vanished seems to convey a sense that this thing disappeared. Really, it seemed to fly towards me and into nothingness simultaneously. It was like a snap of lightning in reverse; the darkness was contained to a single point, then everywhere for but a flash, and then it was gone like it never happened. In fact, the acrid scent that was left in the air upon its wake invoked memories of summer storms with none of the pleasant associations too, now that I think about it. Had this been a true storm and had I seen more than one of these figures, I might have made the connection earlier than upon writing this, but as it was I barely believed I saw anything at the time. You know those days after watching a quality ARG… everything feels a little more possible than it has any right to be.

I would have wrote it off completely and permanently too, if the report didn’t come in shortly thereafter. You see, I’m a member of the police force here in town and I’m proud to serve my community. Should those in command find themselves with a copy of this testimonial and feel it necessary to relieve me of duty, I suffer that indignity with grace, knowing I did the right thing. You see, he’s killed again, apparently.

We don’t know the exact reasons for the appearance of the bodies. We only know for sure that the killer seems to prefer pubescent females and that he somehow mottles the skin of the corpses we discover while simultaneously filling them with creek water from the Euharlee. Some appear to have committed suicide. In other situations, a driver manages to plunge their vehicle into a place it wasn’t designed to be plunged into, whether that place be a creek, a river, or a ravine. Heck, one time the body was staged to look like the driver was trying his best to eat the concrete abutment his car had crumbled around. There’s always still the mottled skin and still the signs of creek water in the lungs. It was the damnedest thing.

I think when I really started to question the legitimacy of this serial killer was right around the time we fished that girl out of the Etowah. She was beneath Milams Bridge and, if you’re a local, you’ve probably heard the tales: a ghostly green light led us to the body. What few have uncovered, however, is the fact that the girl’s lungs were still filled with creek water. It was spooky, honestly. It was as if the killer had managed to fill the child to the brim and then somehow vacuum-sealed the girl in order to preserve his calling card. The Etowah is a river in this area and I shouldn’t have to be the one to explain to you how river waters and creek waters differ. Just know that science is involved: currents, vegetation samples, sediment tests, what have you.

This killer was really starting to freak me out.

Of course, so much of this was kept from public record. In the beginning, when we suspected a serial murderer, there was the ambitious dream of a collar that might promote all of us out of our Podunk town. When things started getting a little too metaphysical, it was already too late. We had kept others in the dark for so long… by this point I no longer considered the ramifications of what might lie outside the city limits. Higher-Ups could be damned, this was my town and I intended to right the wrong that had been poisoning the community.

Then the shadow man happened. I don’t know what’s going on, but I have a feeling that it’s all connected. There was a story I uncovered while researching crimes in the local community, but I can’t see how that kidnapping is really a part of this. I can’t believe my actions might have caused this. I won’t. The girl that was fished out of the River running beneath Milams Bridge was wearing an emerald pendant necklace; that is surely what set off the rumor mill about ghost lights. It couldn’t have been the remnants of that original old ghost story because Patricia was never actually found dead, she was just staged there to capture a decent set of photos. The body they gave to the grieving family was another of the murderer’s victims, too waterlogged at that point to accommodate easy recognition. Patricia is still considered a missing persons case, even if I know where she is.

The family ever noticed the mottled skin on the corpse we put in Patricia’s place. I made sure to keep a close eye on them ever since I took their daughter, just in case they realized something was up. I couldn’t afford to let them investigate the disappearance of their daughter because Something chose Patricia Ann Cook, but unlike the others, Patricia managed to get away from their fate. I had to know what made her special, but the mottled skin, the water in the lungs… it was all still there; the only difference is that Patricia is still alive. Unfortunately, though, all that water makes it tough to talk to her. Maybe the truth was captured in one of the photos I took of her that day, but it’s going to be hard to gain access to those again after I managed to successfully pin the crime on ole’ Willie Cochran.

Maybe, if I recreate the kidnapping, take the same photos… I just need to find the right girl. This time, I need to keep more of the evidence than just some emerald bead a young half-Cherokee girl wore as she drowned. Even if I have ascertained that the necklace is definitely involved in whatever is taking and killing these girls, I need more to go on than just fashion accessories. I keep pestering Patricia to reveal some secret hidden deep within the well in which she’s tapped, but the only words I ever managed to hear my supernatural steward gulp down were two words that sounded something like “yunwi tsunsdi”. Since then I’ve simply began keeping catalogs of my findings in the hopes that someone out there might know a little more.

Oh, I also hope whatever girl I choose laughs as she runs. Patricia never ran in fear a day in her life and now that she’s been freed from her restraints, she laughs as she runs again. At least, I think she does… It’s hard to tell with the water spilling from her grinning face. I fear I may be going mad.

 

You can’t spell “home invasion” without Me.

Home Invasion is an art form. Sure, it’s not an easily appreciated art, but all the same, it does take a true master to coax out the subtle nuances of the art. Plus, if you can imagine Bob Ross peering out of a copse of happy, little trees, waiting for you to let out your dog so he can break in, well… you can see the line between art and downright violation can blur. Make no mistake, I’m not trying to shine a positive light on what I do for a living. I desecrate living spaces and truly do believe I violate a person’s sacred space when I enter their home.

Honestly, why else would they call it an invasion? It just so happens to also be why I call myself the master fit to display this art. I take a secret pleasure in knowing my desecration persists, still to this day, in those places I’ve visited in the past. My canvas consists of road maps and street signs. Oh, and if you happen to notice a door slightly ajar when you could have swore you left it shut, you might just be living in one of my masterpieces.

You see, My home invasions are subtle at first, typically, but every so often I break the mold and escalate. If you routinely leave the house only to discover upon your return that something you owned had been moved, you’re welcome. If the remote turns up somewhere no one ever ventures towards, yep, you guessed it. Subtle stuff, right? Sometimes, though… sometimes it escalates pretty damn quick.

Take the previous example, where I used Bob Ross as a stand-in for myself. The home owner I like to scope out for this scenario is one that had only recently purchased a new dog. Sometimes, for flavor, I would also keep surveillance on adoption shelters, but let’s be honest… home invasions are at least partially motivated by profit and people that can buy dogs for two grand can afford to lose a trinket or two to the local pawn shops. Plus, they didn’t adopt, so screw them, right? Animal rights all day!

That brings me to step two: dog treats. On the first night, I never get to close to the individual lucky enough to have garnered my attention. I stay on the periphery of the property with the most succulent-smelling doggy treats known to man. Have you ever wondered why your dog seems desperate to get at that one place he or she just can’t quite reach, right there in what seems to be the most obnoxious part of your yard? Well, I can’t claim I’m in ALL these yards, but over the years, I’ve definitely been in a few.

Lets put it this way… I don’t have a home address. By this point in my career, I’ve taken to sleeping in guest rooms in homes of which I’d developed a fondness. Once you can get into a home, it becomes increasingly more difficult to get yourself out. Unless you own it, am I right? Stupid banks with their adjustable rate mortgages and the like… I’m glad I don’t have to worry about that kind of thing.

Well, on this particular night, I had reached a critical moment where I had to move on or move in. I had already followed a young couple into Petland, pretty much just because I was shopping nearby and heard the husband mentioning working nights and feeling safer having a dog around. I had even followed them out after they had their pup in tow, practically salivating at the thought of having a new home on the horizon. I had stopped just long enough to pick up the treats, but that part of the process had almost become automatic to me. After all, I needed them for the execution of “Operation Doggy Door” and it helped disguise the fact that I had entered and exited behind the same customers. I had even spent the initial night on the periphery, scoping out potential points of entry should the initial plan fall through. The only thing left was the night of execution; it was moving day.

The trick to moving into a new home is to be nonchalant about it. Don’t look out of place if you hope to make it your space; it seems so obvious written out, but so many fall prey to the desire for an all-black wardrobe and they invest so heavily on turtlenecks… I just don’t know. Me, I wore both a dark Columbia windbreaker and gray sweatpants to sell the idea of being a routine jogger. My “Beats by Dre” were in my ear, but no music flowed through them; they were just there to be a gaudy item to draw attention away from my face in the event that someone might have recalled seeing someone outside that night. I had already placed a few treats in the puppy’s preferred corner of the yard and I was just waiting to hear the door open.

The great thing about subdivisions is the illusion of safety they provide; I could smoke a cigarette in front of your home, lingering in the street like some kind of fitness oxymoron, and still I could know when you went out onto your back patio or deck. It becomes simple from there. Only at step three, I can already count myself successful if I go the primary route of Operation Doggy Door. This is where you have to make a decision, if you hope to follow in my footsteps: do you kill the home owner or do you cohabitate? When I’m only passing through a town, I usually opt for the kill, but I am an experienced Invader and I know that cops the world round are all too quick to believe a burglary-gone-wrong scenario. The husband will of course report it when he gets home in the morning, but by the time the cops arrive to investigate, I will have already left the region. The cops will claim that someone tried to force their way inside, like they do, and the more callous officers might claim it a “crime of opportunity”, but in the end all officers will likely jump to the conclusion that the would-be burglar was scared off when they accidentally murdered the wife.

After all, nothing was missing. Sure, I added one more desecration masterpiece in my wake, but as far as most cops are concerned, I left empty-handed, so I must be low-hanging fruit in the hierarchy of cases needing handled. Murder is murder, granted, but if you pick your operating cities right, you can usually rely on receiving little more than a precursory investigation for something like a burglary gone awry. They will assume a struggle took place, most certainly. They’ll even vacuum up loose fibers and check for prints in the areas surrounding the house, but if you Invade with the best of them you will find that little conclusive evidence can be found. After all, you spent the night in your new home; It takes little more than an hour to clean up the area around the body and then reposition it for the best impact. Plus, if you’re like me, you wear weighted training vests under your windbreaker and you essentially craft smaller shoes into bigger shoes, just to really screw with any possible forensic evidence.

———————————

I guess what I’m trying to get at here is that preparation makes perfection, even when it comes to things like murder and home invasion. I don’t find myself in situations like the one I just briefly described often, but hopefully you got just enough of a taste that you’ll come back wanting more. Escalations do occur in my line of work and some of the homes I’ve visited have been harder to leave than others for reasons not even I can quite explain, but I can understand if you want to downvote me into oblivion rather than read about my continued adventures. Some people just can’t stand it when the bad guys always win.

I took NuVigil and I’ll never be the same.

I want to start my first post on NoSleep correctly, alright? I’m going to come out right off the bat and warn you that this story will feature a rather healthy laundry list of negative side effects, much like the drug the story was named after. Of course, unlike NuVigil’s side effects, my story won’t have Big Pharma there to sweep its effects under the rug.

At least, I hope not. If you’re reading this, copy it. Paste it into your favorite word processor and print it out. If you find that my story has been found out and if you check one day to see no trace of its existence, repost it in my place. The doctors can’t be everywhere. They’re everywhere I look, granted… but that’s my whole point. Someone needs to help me reveal the worst side effect of them all: the suspension of disbelief.

I know the doctors are real. I know Big Pharma is coming for me.
Now, thanks to NuVigil, I can rest assured that they really are.

Buckle up kids, and pop a handful of your favorite memory enhancers, because this is going to be a long ride down memory lane; when you try to backtrack to where it all went wrong for a junkie, the road tends to get a little bumpy. I only ask that if you have a prescription to any form of modafinil, that you walk away now, while you can. Once you believe, I fear none of you might be safe from that most harmful of side effects.

NuVigil can turn thoughts real.

If you’re aware of the drug and its properties, forgive me the slight lesson I must now give on the drug Armodafinal. For those not in the know, Nuvigil is simply a name brand and Armodafinal and NuVigil are one and the same. Much like how wolves will sometimes wear sheep’s clothing, so too must drugs sometimes masquerade in more innocent-sounding things. Armodafinal and its predecessor Modafinal are cognitive enhancers. It too sounds innocent enough at first and that’s exactly what I first thought when I took my first quarter of a pill.

“Sure, man, it SOUNDS good, but weren’t we just watching Limitless? Are you sure you’re not just baked out of your mind right now and forgot whatever freaky pills your girl gave you to try out? I mean, you’ve always had primo shit, but even you got to admit that some sketchy opportunities have came your way. Remember the crystal, Stan?”

“Hey, those crystals changed peoples’ lives, man. Plus, like you said, I always have primo shit. Just take a smaller dose size if you don’t believe me dude, but I promise you, this WILL change your life.”

So yeah, I took the tablet from his outstretched hand and I ingested it without giving it much further thought. Stan did have the best drugs, after all. I wasn’t lying when I said I only took a quarter of a tab at first, though. It’s just that when you’re waiting almost thirty minutes to feel any sort of effect, you usually assume you have the tolerance of a god and go all in about five minutes before your world starts to melt away. At least, I’d have to admit that was my tendency when it came to minor drug abuse anyway.

Alright, you got me. I took a whole pill right from that start. I admit it. I never claimed to have started this journey with you as an innocent. If you recall correctly, I only remarked that the name NuVigil sounded innoncent enough. We’re all wolves here, reader; you should know that by now. Back to the story, though. I’m not done changing into my costume of the victim, after all.

One hour into my first experience with NuVigil and I had already sorted my friend’s entire vinyl collection­… a collection that he had bought with the bulk of his earnings as a drug dealer. You don’t have the primo shit without earning a few dollars and this collection of records was fucking huge. I would have estimated there to be at least 800 vinyl albums in the assortment with a few three or four LP box sets included. Stan said they were collectible and easier to explain away than large amounts of liquidated equity, but when he started talking numbers I used to zone out, just hoping the conversation turned back around to the drugs and when we wanted to do them.

Now it was like my mind raced for the chance to talk numbers. Alphabetizing was an arduous task for someone as lazy as I used to be, but at the same time it was truly something anyone could do. On NuVigil, it was like I wanted to do something no one could do.

“What the fuck man, what the fuck! You told me this was the stuff, Stan, and I didn’t believe you at first, but man…”

Stan laughed. He knew exactly what I was feeling: the inhibited Dopamine reuptake, the increase in Norepinephrine, the Histamine level spiking right alongside the activation of Orexin. He had felt it too, before he started thinking about concepts like liquidated equity.

Shit, it was like the tv show me and my bud had just been watching was real.

Sometimes, I still wish this was all one big fiction. Stan would still come around, we’d smoke a few fat bowls, and that’d be that.

If only.
*****

 

When I first began abusing NuVigil, it was no one’s fault but my own. Don’t get me wrong, I did my research and abused the cognitive enhancer as safely as one possibly might, but I still knew what might happen should I start experimenting. If only I had heeded Stan’s warnings, I might not have even noticed the side effects right away. A pill a day is arguably excessive, but when I was running at that pace, Stan never said a word. When I doubled that dosage, though, that’s when things got weird.

The first thing I noticed, which may or may not seem particularly odd and which may or may not be included as a side effect would probably be the fact that Stan was now afraid of me. A single pill lasts anywhere from twelve to fifteen hours and, while it’s more than enough to get you through any long shifts you might pull at work, it just wasn’t cutting it for me personally. I mean, I was getting so much accomplished. Tasks which seemed daunting before almost seemed like games to my buzzing synapses. My whole body was on fire with ambition and I couldn’t relegate that to only half of my life. Stan saw my desires as sick and always seemed worried. I knew he was afraid I’d surpass him once I could figure out what exactly I wanted to do with my drug-fueled motivation.

So I began taking two pills a day on a twelve hour rotation. What of it? When you’re taking a pill that helps promote wakefulness while simultaneously decreasing your desire to eat, you make smart decisions such as this. I had so much free time at this point thanks to my magic little pills. Since I used time more efficiently thanks to my increased concentration and since I had more of it thanks to my near-constant alert state, I figured I’d maximize my downtime too. I would have done anything to achieve my goals, even if I wasn’t quite sure what those goals were at the time.

That’s when Stan tried to stop me.

 

*****

 

“Dave man, you’re literally scaring me right now.”

“Good because you’re genuinely upsetting me right now.”

We’d been going at it for the past hour. I rolled through his neighborhood, just to see if he was home, and noticed him outside playing with his daughter. I didn’t even realize I intended to stop in until I pulled onto his driveway. I was part of the way through shifting the gear stick into park by the time Stan got to my window.

I just needed a few more pills. I had found a less anxious source in Big Pharma recently when I realized I could easily fool some shrinks into giving me a proper prescription for the drug and I knew enough young street toughs looking to turn a quick buck that I could easily supplement what the pharmacy provided without Stan’s help. Still, though, I was really hoping I could change Stan’s mind on the matter.

Focusing on the task at hand, I pulled the hunting knife out of my glove box with my right hand as I opened the driver side door with my left. By the time I had both feet planted on the pavement and the knife planted in Stan’s neck, my undirected ambition realized why I had arrived here at this time. It was the exact same time of day as when Stan first introduced me to NuVigil and as my mind made the connections between the current hour and the hour of that past experience, so too did it make the leap from time to the record collection I alphabetized.

I had forgotten to arrange the vinyl by date. I’m sure Stan understood.

Anyway, sorry about rambling. These days, the doctors make me write even if I don’t want to, but Big Pharma supplies the goods, so if they want me to write, I guess I must. It’s almost time for my pills, though, and I must admit it gets really hard for me to focus without a fresh dose of NuVigil, so I suppose I’ll end it here. I don’t know if the good doctors know about this cell phone I’m posting from or not, but if you liked this story and want to hear more about Stan and the crystals or about my experiences here in Central State Hospital, let me know in the comments below.  Trust me, my story isn’t the craziest one I’ve heard here, but at least I know the story about the crystal is real. You’d have to be nuts to believe someone in a mental hospital.

I’ll be in touch, assuming they don’t confiscate this phone and assuming I remember who I am.

Serial in a Small Town – Draft

Mama always said I was meant for great things. Nothing she ever said proved to be a lie, but for a long time, the kids I grew up with had held me in their sway, so of course I doubted her. After all, they were so cool with their nice clothes and combed hair. I was just invisible… a mere shadow created by the light of their lives. I know better now, though. As the light fades from their eyes and as they finally notice my glory, I realize I am truly great. Thanks, mama. I couldn’t have done this without you.

You see, life is hard when you’re invisible, but it’s harder still when you’re invisible in a small town. My friends were all roughly my age, so we were lumped together from the word go, but we were also very different. Some of you might be confused by this concept, but that’s probably because you believe your way of thinking is right… kind of like my friends once thought. You’re wrong, though. You’re not from a small town, so you don’t get what it’s like. In my town, there are (or were) only one hundred and sixty-five of us. When I talk about small town living, understand that I don’t mean your small town. In your town, maybe the Walmart is the sole source of entertainment. In my town, there wasn’t even a store to channel rampant consumerism into the holes in our hearts. There was just us, the twenty-seven under twenty-seven. If you managed to be invisible in such a small crowd, you were doing something wrong.

Of course, eventually I realized that was my strength. While I stood above their sleeping forms, I knew I was onto something. As I plunged the knife into their necks, one by one, room by room, and house by house, I felt fucking great. These had to be the things mama said I was meant for. Looking back now, maybe none of this could have been avoided. After all, mama was always right. Sometimes, though, I wonder if my life couldn’t have gone differently. Next go around, I hope you’ll notice me. Until then, notoriety will suffice to take the place visibility should have occupied.

A crying child needed you and you turned your back. Now the whole world is going to have their eyes on me. As I clean the blood from the blade and arrange the skulls to form a makeshift audience for my great and secret show, I think back to that fateful day when my life could have changed and laugh.

The look on that bastard’s face when I stuck this very weapon into his gut was worth losing my so-called friends.

You see, nothing mama ever said was a lie, but the same can’t be said for me. I lied when I told you mama was always right. When it came to the men in her life, she was dead wrong. There was a parade of them waltzing their way through my life and even before I became a shadow, somehow none of them noticed their effect on me. Each of them wronged my mama and I was left picking up the pieces of the woman’s self-respect. Can you even imagine having to be that pillar of strength at such a young age? While my friends were off playing kickball, I was left having to sober my mama up after my friends’ daddies got done putting away their balls. Mama might not have been in the noblest of professions, but she deserved more from the men in her life.

Then, he came along.

We were so happy for a long time. The stranger came into our lives like a lone gunslinger, here to route the criminals from our small town, and from the second he met my mama and me, life did change; I just never realized that my life wasn’t already on its way to my current destination. After all, he brought my mother flowers. He took her out on dates. If anything, I was sure life was getting better.

Of course, for a while, life did improve. Bob wasn’t like the others, he respected me just as much as he loved her. Tri-county baseball leagues followed, I was bought nice clothes, and even I could fool myself into thinking I had a dad, like my friends, but better because my dad didn’t disrespect their mothers like theirs did mine. Mom was happy now and so was I. The problem was that mama and I were both proven wrong yet again.

The night the screaming started, I was dreaming of play-offs. It was a wonderful moment, seeing myself behind the plate, the hometown hero come to make good with a two-on-base homer, but unfortunately I couldn’t stay asleep no matter how hard my unconscious mind tried. Getting out of bed, groggy and scared, I could almost convince myself that Bob was watching a scary movie. No matter how nice my new daddy was to my mom and I, though, we still didn’t have the kind of money for a television set. Hell, back then I was lucky enough to own the footy pajamas I wandered downstairs wearing.

When I finally built up the courage to figure out the source of the screams, the last good dream I’d ever have dissipated from my mind. I hurried into the spare room that Bob had temporarily turned into his study while he and my mom still discussed the possibility of turning it into a nursery and I pulled the switchblade from the desk drawer where Bob had stored it for safe keeping. He said every boy deserved to learn a thing of two about self-defense when he bought it for me, but I was still too young to be trusted not to cut myself. Leaving the room as dark as I found it, I scurried down the hall just sure I was going to prove to mama and Bob both that I was old enough to help defend the homestead. Creeping close to the bedroom door, I performed a little reconnaissance before rushing in on the bad men that had entered our home to hurt my mama. I was scared for her, but Bob taught me to never enter into a scuffle without being fully aware of the situation. Switchblades could be hidden anywhere on a person and one should never bring a knife to a gunfight, or so I was told, but what I saw upon entering certainly didn’t have any words of wisdom attached.

In fact, to this day, I’m not entirely sure what I saw, other than that look on the bastard’s face. Bob had done unspeakable things to mother and surely would have slowly killed her had I not woken to those muffled screams. The cops later told me I must have rushed up on him from his blindside and caught him in the gut with the illegal switchblade he had procured for me, but in my mind there was only that moment when his eyes went dark. Even as mama lay there dying, telling me how I was meant for great things, telling me not to be scared, to never be scared… all I could see was the light dying in their eyes. My mama. My daddy. I wasn’t scared, but I knew something fundamental had changed in me. I was nothing but a shadow of my former self and as if everyone else could see it, that was the day I first became truly invisible.

The funeral parlor was deserted, the night I held vigil with my case worker over the lost soul of my mother. None of my friends came to see me and none of my mama’s clients pretended to care that some used up old whore was killed by her latest john. No, the town shirked its responsibility for these untimely deaths and they ignored a crying child as surely as they ignored the sins of their fathers.

The Alpha Bet PDF… cause you know… letters.

For those of you curious enough to bother looking, here’s the beginning of my Alpha Bet script. It’s the roughest of first drafts, but let me know what you think.

THE ALPHA BET

The Alpha Bet – “P” stands for Pitch!

The Alpha Bet (Movie- Romantic Comedy / Bro Flick)

This pitch has been designed for:
• DreamWorks (makers of “Eurotrip” and “I Love You, Man”)
• Apatow Productions (makers of “Trainwreck”, “Bridesmaids”, & “Knocked Up”)
• Netflix (fairly new in the realm of original motion picture, “Shotgun Wedding”)

These production companies were chosen due to their ability to see past the traditional views of the romantic comedy genre. Apatow Productions in particular has started adopting anti-romantic comedies in a fairly major way, but Dreamworks has been known to not bat an eye when it comes to some of their racier film credits within this genre.

Logline: The English alphabet has 26 letters in it; In “The Alpha Bet”, there are 26 women.

Synopsis

Do you know someone that makes everything in their life a competition? Andy knows at least two. His friends Rob and Johnny are always trying to one up the other and, somehow, Andy is always getting pulled into the middle of things. Usually, Andy doesn’t even mind. There’s a lot of fun to be had when you lay it all on the line. The only problem is that, this time, things are different.

You see, Andy is getting lonely now that he’s slowly creeping up on the ripe old age of thirty. He just wants to do an honest day’s work and come home to do an honest wife. His friends, though… they have something else in mind entirely. They propose a new bet, one meant to prove once and for all who the “Alpha” is in their friendship. The terms are simple: whoever manages to bed a different girl for every letter of the alphabet the quickest is the victor.

They call it the “Alpha Bet” and Andy is about to become an unwitting participant in what might ruin his one chance at true love. What can the guy do, though, when his friends won’t take no for an answer? Whether he participates or not, Andy is about to come face to face with the realities of trying to make it from A to Z.

While the tragedy that is chauvinism rages on elsewhere in the city, dog groomer and stage manager Zoey finds herself in need of a new place to live. Her tenement building caught fire due to faulty wiring and neglect, but luckily a friend of hers knows of a perfect substitute domicile: an apartment in Andy’s own building. The fates are speaking, but will Andy hear them over his knucklehead friends?

Hijinks ensue as Andy turns down girl after girl in his search for the right one. Somehow or another, he’s being dragged into the bet by sheer coincidence and bad luck. By the time Andy gets around to winning the heart of his dear Zoey, though, too much damage might have been done… especially considering how Andy’s friends are jealous they’re not in the lead.

This film tries to skate a fine line between romantic comedy and bromance, but in the end love perseveres. A story that might seem like an excuse to see 27 different sex scenes becomes a testament to the idea that, while not all men are pigs, most certainly can be.

Concept

The romantic comedy is on its last legs these days for several reasons; the most prevalent of which is the fact that most men don’t aspire to take their girls to what is seen as a “chick flick”. The Alpha Bet tries to undermine this rationale, giving guys a reason to look towards a love story for the sake of a good time. Whether the audience is there for misguided reasons revolving around full-frontal nudity or whether the men in question just want to have a good laugh at the expense of the follies involved in single life, this is the Romantic Comedy to shift purchasing power to a newer, more masculine audience. There will be plenty of eye candy for the ladies as well, of course, and humor is humor no matter your gender, so hopefully chauvinists and feminists alike can enjoy watching the world of romance get turned on its ear.

Worst case, there’s no such thing as bad publicity. For every boycotter, there’s another facebook post telling friends that disagree with the poster that they might just enjoy spitting in the face of the few that takes things just a little too seriously.

Cities Burn

Ext. Alleyway – Atlanta, GA – Night

Shortly after dusk. Camera stays tight on a series of liquor bottles lined up along brick wall. A monologue fades in as the audience watches a pair of legs enter the scene before the speaker kneels down to begin filling the bottles with some sort of liquid from a gas can.

ROB, age 28, is seen ensuring each bottle contains roughly the same amount of gasoline. He is wearing dark jeans, a black hooded jacket, and some sort of nondescript, dark shoes. White fabric is hanging from his back pocket. The person he is talking to cannot be seen.

ROB
It’s funny how the British called it a Glorious Revolution, isn’t it? I mean, they only called it that because it was supposedly bloodless and yet…

Rob shakes his head. He begins tearing up what appears to be a scrap of bed sheet that he removes from his back pocket. This is apparently what he is using as a fuse for some makeshift Molotovs because he begins shoving the scraps into each bottle he just got done filling.

ROB
Well, Jim, your parents must have knew you would wind up here, because just like James II before you, I’m afraid you’ll have to die for the cause.

The shot should widen here to include the entire alleyway. Jim, 35, is seen propped up against the opposite wall with both his hands and feet bound. Another piece of bed sheet has been used as a gag for the older male, but he manages to spit it out of his mouth.

JIM
You’re fuckin’ crazy, man! That’s not even how it happened! Did you even pay attention in class? James II died of a brain tumor! Untie me, man… we can talk about this!

In a rage, Rob spins on Jim and slams his head against the brick wall, not just once, but three times. The older male slumps further down, obviously unconscious.

ROB
You shouldn’t have said that, Jim. We have God’s work to do here and I’m not going to allow any naysayers among the revolution.

The scene opens up wider still and the audience sees that the two men are in an alley across the street from the capitol building. Rob gathers up the Molotov cocktails, and walks up to his target, the capitol building itself. He moves with the quiet resolution of someone absolutely convinced of the purity of his actions. A news report begins playing over the scene, but based on Rob’s continued action, it’s obvious that it’s separate from the scene.

REPORTER’S VOICE
So, Robert, how is it that you came to be at the right place at the right time, when in so many other cities no one responded until it was too late?

ROB’S VOICE
Well, I’m glad you asked, Jill. You see, I heard around campus that something big was going down, you see? And I’m a curious sort of kid, so I keep my ear to the pavement. Turns out, some professor was spittin’ out garbage about how the only way to exact change was through violent protest.

REPORTER’S VOICE
Oh no! What happened then?

ROB’S VOICE
Well, I’m ashamed to say that I didn’t report it right from the start, to be honest. I just thought, man, I can’t get a guy fired if it turned out to be just talk. So, I decided to keep a close eye… and to stay safe.

REPORTER’S VOICE
Is that why you had the gun?

ROB’S VOICE
Uhm, no. I guess I didn’t believe it could be true, the more I found out. I mean, could someone even orchestrate something that grand? I went out there to confront him, but when I did… I had no way of knowing he’d be carrying! I didn’t mean… I didn’t…

REPORTER’S VOICE
There you have it, folks. Straight from the boy that would come to save a nation, we hear the harrowing tale of how one capitol building was spared the fate that befell thirty-seven others. In what’s become known as the greatest show of “civil” disobedience, some still advocate peace. James Hawthorne, university professor and would-be terrorist, died on route to the hospital, a victim of his own ideologies.

Rob reaches the capitol building, throws one unlit Molotov through a window, and an alarm sounds. He then lights and throws a second, but it breaks against the wall, harmlessly scorching the brick exterior. Running back to where he left Jim, Rob drops the last of the bottles around the man’s body and unties him.

ROB
I’m sorry it had to come to this professor, but every cause needs a martyr and I’m just too pretty to die. I will help spread your message, though, don’t worry… you just won’t be around to admit the words were yours.

Rob mock-struggles with the unconscious man, making sure to beat himself up nicely for the sake of the cameras. He then removes an item from his waistband and the audience sees it’s a gun. Flipping off the safety, he shoots Jim once in the chest, close range. Sirens are heard fast approaching the scene. Returning to the news report, Rob has one last thing to say to the cameras. Here, the scene will actually cut to the televised news special. Rob is looking directly into the camera and issues a plaintive decree through a sad, bittersweet smile. His face is bruised, his cheek is cut, but his eyes are on fire.

ROB
Jill, I just wish that those in power had listened when they should have. I just wish that Jim got his message across peacefully. It’s not that I believe this act of civil disobedience was right; too many died for that to be the case. Had they just listened, though…

Rob slams his fist on the anchor desk before him and grimaces in mock pain.

ROB
This world can be a better place.

Like Mile Markers

First off, forget her.

And keep your car in your own lane.

That bread truck isn’t as inviting as you think.

It couldn’t finish the job.

Next, just remember it gets better.

Or, it better get better. You can’t take much more.

Eventually, though, step one takes route.

You pull off the interstate.

A family of five survives.

Don’t forget, you better forget you too.

That guy can’t exist anymore; not with all he’s seen.

He’s seen whole worlds shattered. His last dreams scattered.

He is going to need time to see them recovered.

Oh, and forget about forgetting.

It’s always going to be there, somewhere.

Maybe it’s in your home, in bed, or in your head.

Maybe it’s the baby clothes you try to avoid.

Shopping reminds you of buying for two.

Maybe you should just move on.

Sleep with a dozen girls or maybe a slew.

The new you likes the way they feel around you.

Even if, in the back of your mind,

you know she felt better.

Just remember, it gets better.

You can’t forget something so simple.

Yet, it grows so hard to believe in anything.

Even the idea that clocks tick forward.

An Elegy of Emotion

Once upon a time, I believed that emotions could die. If you tried hard enough, feelings would simply wither away like so many untended crops. This even became the foundation of my philosophy; through stoicism, I would forget the man I was meant to be and embrace the beast humanity was at its core. I would care not for the trials and tribulations of my fellow wanderers. I would simply cease to be in the emotional void that had become my heart. The only trouble with this concept is that the heart is an incredibly strong organ. To remain truly unaffected by mankind is to shun mankind. For, you see, all it takes to mend a wounded heart is the simple act of sympathy. Sympathy leads to compassion and, from there, redemption. This is the story of how one heart began to beat again; it is also the story of how one heart stopped.

It began simply enough: two young boys would bond over a simple game of soccer. One was older. He was the pride of the school and the celebrated success of the latchkey generation. He was my friend without question. The other (as I will always describe myself within the secrecy of my own mind) is no real prize. He didn’t understand how to be a kid because he was never given the chance. He was an older brother in a fatherless household and, by default, he became something of a surrogate dad himself. Neither boy was content with this place they had been given. The older, we shall call him Drake, wanted more out of life. He sought things that his childhood chum couldn’t even begin to fathom. The other, a younger version of myself, simply wanted less. He didn’t want to be responsible for another life. He didn’t even want to be responsible for his own. While Drake had always wanted a younger brother, the other had vehemently wished he could have given his away. On the soccer field, however, none of this mattered. They were simply two kids enjoying a sport neither of them fully understood.

It comes back to me as if it happened yesterday. That summer was filled with sleepovers and shenanigans. We ruled the streets from the seats of our Huffies… or, rather, he ruled from the seat of his. My family couldn’t afford name brands any more than they could afford to call off work. Regardless of the name of the bike or the kid riding atop it, however, Drake and I still believed ourselves to be kings. Nothing was forbidden for us. No one could account for where we had been. What had started on the soccer field soon spread the width of the town. I forgot about my responsibilities and Drake, well, he could forget about the future to the degree any forward-thinking individual could. It felt like childhood. The only problem with that, of course, is that we must all grow up.

Robert Drake would go on to join the school soccer team. He fell in love with a beautiful girl and generally led the life I had wished for myself. I wasn’t quite so lucky. Drake’s girlfriend, Sam, was my young heart’s one true love. She was just female enough to excite my boyish curiosities, but she was also just enough of a tomboy for us to get along famously. Drake knew how I felt. Of that, I am sure. He never had a jealous bone in his body, though, and he understood that what we had together was more important than petty squabbles over pretty faces. So instead of growing angry, he introduced me to a girl of my own.

By this point in my life I must pause to say that I had turned into a real wild child. Drake could afford to follow his dreams. I could only afford to rebel. Rebellion, after all, is both cheap and abundant. While keeping your nose to the grindstone requires a certain amount of freedom to be sacrificed, running wild only requires a healthy supply of hostility. I was angry at the world. I was angry at myself. I was even angry at Robert, despite the fact that I knew he had done nothing to wrong me. I was built to throw punches and to piss in the wind. Basically, I could go nowhere because I always had somewhere to be and that spurred in me a darkness I will never be proud to admit to. Needless to say, when Drake sat me down and introduced me to his sister (his mother’s favorite, if you can believe it), I was in no condition to be good for her. Drake still felt he should try to save me, though. His sister Holly and I never did work out, of course, but salvation has a funny way of working itself out through our failures. Trying to make it work for his sake led me back to myself and from there I managed to find something even greater.