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FBI Agent Detmeier didn’t think he’d hang off a helicopter anytime soon. It was the furthest thing from his mind this evening. Television and movies certainly ruined the junior agent’s perception of the service. After completing his training in Quantico, Jim Detmeier proved adept at the computer-something he was always mildly teased for by his classmates. Even in the twenty-first century, the classical style of bullying still exists.
Because of that aptitude, his first job upon graduation last fall was the incredibly dull and monotonous Cyber Surveillance Unit. Since then, it’s been six months of monitoring shitty civilian tips and loose ends. If the Federal Bureau of Investigation had a hazing ritual, the Cyber Surveillance Unit would be at the top of the list.
Agent Detmeier spent most of each 12-hour shift monitoring specific individuals on the Internet for suspicious activity. These often come from anonymous tips or go into the FBI pipeline for a suspect’s continued use of suspicious sites, usually teetering around the dark web or more suggestive sites of varying perverse flavors. Most of the time, individual targets did very little else beyond looking at pornography and sports scores on ESPN. Thankfully, most of the targets had their laptop cameras closed. For every closed camera was another in full, unceremonious view. Detmeier would like to forget more than he’s seen in the last six months of old perverted penises than three lifetimes could make up for.
Jim strolled to his office outside Washington, D.C. He lazily swiped his badge at the entrance and again at the elevator to the tenth floor. Jim yawned twice while clutching his large mug of coffee and swiped one last time into his SCIF, or sensitive compartmented information facility. In that room, he shared a cubicle area with three other agents, each monitoring three given contacts during their shifts.
“So, Timmy, who do we have on the docket tonight?” Tim was the closest thing that Jim had to a friend in his new position. Jim hoped Tim felt the same, but he couldn’t tell. The other two agents with them tonight, a brooding woman named Felicia Parker and a tall former Division I basketball player named George Russell, sat quietly at their desks. Only Agent Parker mildly acknowledged Jim’s presence. Her eyes screamed, “You’re late,” without saying anything.
“Goddamnit, I hate when you call me that,” said Jim. He revealed a slight smirk that matched Jim’s like a mirrored image. “Ugh. Fine…Asshole. So, we have the same three people as last shift – the suspected car thief, the boring fertilizer guy, and the chronic masturbator.”
“Ooof, that’s tough. I get a new one tonight to add to my list after closing “Mr. Pyro.” Jim’s smile widened in a grin that screamed “obnoxious” and bordered “shit-eating.” The police in Dayton, Ohio, arrested Terry Tuttleman, 46, AKA “Mr. Pyro,” last Friday for conspiracy to burn his business down for insurance. It wasn’t necessarily a feather in Detmeier’s cap, but it gave his supervisor enough onus to provide him with more complex cases.
“So, who’s the newbie? I know you got the other two boring ones. Let’s hope this one is interesting.” The two boring targets Tim referred to were both cyberbullies at the high school level. Beyond a few anonymous tips, there was nothing the FBI could do until either escalated their childish banter. Jim looked at his email and task package list and found his new surveillance target: William Ames, a suspected dark web administrator. Things were looking up. He closed his eyes briefly and sipped his lukewarm coffee before turning to Tim. He had to think of a witty retort.
“Oh, whatever. At least I don’t have to sit there and watch my new guy type out Internet searches for Sydney Sweeney’s feet pics.” Jim laughed. He got him good. Tim started to chuckle but cut it off when he realized that would likely be most of his shift’s next 7-10 hours. “I got me a suspected dark web administrator – read it and weep!” His voice went into a southern drawl that sounded like he was the ringleader of a rodeo. Tim stared blankly back at him.
“Oh, screw you, that’s actually exciting!” Tim mimicked the finger (after all, the watchers were also being watched) and slinked back into his six-screen rig for another hour of monitoring Pornhub searches and Door Dash orders.
Jim settled into his shift setup after meeting with his supervisor to discuss his new target. Most of the surveillance job inside the SCIF was monotonous and tiresome. Without using a cell phone or regular Internet searches, each agent did what they could to ensure their eyes wouldn’t cross. As much as it sped up brain melt, a successful tour in this job wrote an agent’s ticket to bigger and better things within the Bureau. Jim could hang on that helicopter after all.
The first hour went smoothly. Both of Jim’s cyber-bullies had homework to do, so most of their searches involved Wikipedia and Chat GPT. Mr. Ames, however, was very strange off the bat. Jim noted a list of searches in his log. He stared at the list on the screen in puzzlement.
“Jazz influences of modern artists and rock music”
“Indian pornography and red circle sexy sexy”
“Metaverse article about the influence of technology and A.I.”
What the hell did jazz influences and Indian porno have to do with the Metaverse? Some searches and websites puzzled the brain, but those three made zero sense. Jim looked at his watch. 8:30 p.m. Break time. He left the secure facility and walked outside with his telephone in hand to call his girlfriend, Maddie. The phone dialed three times before she picked up.
“Hello, Clarice,” she said in a voice that attempted to mimic Hannibal Lectre. After half a year on the job, he thought she would tire of it. She did not.
“Ha. Very funny,” said Jim. “How are things going?”
“Not too bad. Just finished cleaning up after dinner with Janice.” Her roommate was sweet, if not mildly excentric. “Besides a bunch of random robo calls on my phone interrupting our meal, it’s been quiet here. Are we still planning to go to the farmer’s market tomorrow?” Jim had to do the mental math on how much sleep he could get before going to her apartment at noon to go to the Annandale farmer’s market before it closed at 1:30 p.m.
“Sure, babe. Just slogging through this shift. I swear it will get better. I promise I’ll get on the day shift once I close another hot case.” Jim wasn’t entirely convinced that was true, but he had to give her a convincing lie.
“Yeah, you will, Mr. Rockstar. OK. I gotta go. Try to call me again on a break before I go to sleep around 11:30 p.m. Love you.”
“Love you too,” Jim said. He hung up and realized he would be a fool if he didn’t put a ring on her finger by the end of the year. He filled his lungs with the last deep breath of fresh air for the next three hours and returned to his desk.
The night continued as usual. After a few random chats with friends on Facebook, one of the bullies looked to call it an early night. The other bully focused his attention on a girl. A few D.M.s he sent to the poor girl’s Instagram made him cringe. Either way, he made a file for the new conversation in case it progressed into something more serious. Mr. Ames continued a dizzying array of searches that made no connection. If this guy continued to type out gibberish with no prospect of conversing with anyone online, he would suggest his supervisor dropped the case. Either way, he logged his next set of insane searches.
“California drought figures 2011 to 2022”
“After Hours Movie Quotes”
“Lion and witch and wardrobe”
“Lady PGA tour leaders of the last twenty years”
Jim continued to monitor the two active targets for the next hour. Eventually, Mr. DM gave up on his latest love, Lex, and fell asleep. That left Mr. Ames. His next slew of searches seemed as random as ever until Jim noticed something as he logged the final one.
“Heroism in the military and examples”
“Electric vehicles of the future”
“Realizations of horrific news for J.D.”
Jim looked at his watch. It was 11:16 p.m. He wiped his blurry eyes and looked at the last one: “Realizations of horrific news for J.D.” What? What is J.D. This guy did a lot of dumb searches, but that one seemed especially stupid. Jim waved Tim over to look at it.
“Huh. I have no idea. This guy seems like a nut job who is just typing random shit. Probably not a lot of the black market and too much black tar. I wouldn’t read too much in on it, bud.” Tim gave his coworker a reassuring pat on the back before returning to his desk for his monitoring.
Another long search came into his database, turning his blood cold. He saw the search on the screen: a single word written repeatedly.
Jim knew what an acrostic was. He quickly opened Ames’ file and looked at all the searches in a row.
“Jazz influences of modern artists and rock music”
“Indian pornography and red circle sexy sexy”
“Metaverse article about the influence of technology and A.I.”
“California drought figures and 2011 to 2022”
“After Hours Movie Quotes”
“Lion and witch and wardrobe”
“Lady PGA tour leaders of the last twenty years”
“Heroism in the military and examples”
“Electric vehicles of the future”
“Realizations of horrific news for J.D.”
He saw it almost immediately before moving towards the door of the secure facility to grab his phone: J I M C A L L H E R. J.D. was Jim Detmeier.
He nearly toppled over Agent Russell’s massive body as he darted out to grab his phone. He unlocked the screen and saw no missed calls. “Oh, thank god,” he said to himself. He scrolled on his phone for a second to calm down. He saw a single unread text message from an unidentified number in his area code. He could only muster a short gasp before calling Maddie immediately. The single text message said the same thing as the search: “Call her.”
The phone rang five times before Maddie answered.
“Jim, I didn’t think you were going to call, I was about to–”
“GODDAMNIT MADDIE DON’T HANG UP!” Jim shouted into the phone. “Maddie, are you OK?”
“Jesus, Jim, can you tone it down a little?” Maddie said. “Yeah, I am good. I was getting ready to go to sleep. What the hell is wrong?”
Jim couldn’t get the words out fast enough as he fumbled for his keys. Screw work. Work will always be there. He had to drive to see her and make sure she was OK. “Maddie, I don’t know what’s going on, but I think somebody is fucking with me.”
Maddie sounded puzzled. “Who is messing with you? How could they know – you’re FBI.” He interrupted her.
“Look, damnit, I don’t know.” He started the engine and nearly wrecked his car, putting it in reverse in the tight parking lot. “Maddie, has anything weird happened tonight? You didn’t say anything earlier, right?”
“Jim, I am fine. Besides the random robocalls, there’s nothing wrong.” Jim suddenly remembered the robo calls from earlier.
“Mads, what is the number? Is it the same number? How many times did they call?”
She took a second to go through her phone and made a noise that he knew was her sour expression. “Huh. I didn’t realize it, but they are all from the same number.”
“OK, Mads! Listen to me.” Jim screamed into the phone as he drove 86 mph down Interstate 495 toward the Wedgewood apartment complex in Annandale. He didn’t care if the cops stopped him. Hell, the thought of getting pulled over might be better. He might need backup. “You need to stay put wherever you are.”
“Jim, what the hell is going on? You’re scaring me,” Maddie said with increasing concern.
“MADS! I hope I am. You and Janice need to lock the front door, get into a safe room, and lock that door. Then you need to call the police and wait for me. I am almost there! Please stay on the phone with me. I am almost there.” Jim saw signs for her exit.
“Oh,” she said, “that number is calling again. Should I answer it?”
“Maddie, no! Just hang on. I am coming to you. Baby, please stay safe and get into a room and lock the goddamn door!”
“OK, Jim, OK!” she looked at her phone. “Whatever it was went to voicemail. I’m getting scared.”
“I am almost there. I am..”
Just then, Jim heard three loud knocks on the door and heard a voice that sounded like his. He could barely hear it.
“Hey babe,” the voice said. “I’m here to help. Open up!” Jim’s bowels nearly loosened from the other end of the line.
“Oh, thank God, Jim. You’re here. Coming.” She hung up immediately.
“NOOOOO. MADDIE!!!” Jim screamed into his phone. He was a mile away from her exit and could see her apartment from the view of the treetops.
Agent Detmeier had the opportunity to lead the FBI manhunt in the incident’s immediate aftermath. Maddie’s phone was first analyzed at the forensics lab back in Quantico. The voicemail was only a few words. The voice on the message ran through countless samples and databases to find a source. The words haunted Jim, driving him to relative insanity…but he couldn’t let go. He could hear the words when he closed his eyes to sleep. He could hear it when he looked at old pictures of his beautiful girlfriend when she was alive. It was a constant. Those words.
J.D. ACROSTIC. J.D. ACROSTIC. CALL HER. CALL HER. NOT IN TIME. NOT THIS TIME.
We’re all just simple fools looking for new and convenient ways to get our rocks off. At least that’s what Alex told himself when he got an unsuspecting instant message from somebody he hadn’t talked to in years. It was the middle of the fall when she messaged him, even if it felt more like winter when she entered his life after years and years of silence.
Anna Renquist.
Jesus Christ. How long had it been since they last spoke to one another? Ten Years? Fifteen? More? He thought about it a lot, but only after the first few conversations did he nail down how long it had been. Looking back at everything that happened, he should have been reading a book about the five stages of grief to better prepare him for everything that would occur throughout two very long and introspective years.
The message seemed harmless enough at First. Let’s go back to the beginning.
Stage One: Denial
November 7, 2021
Alex had a hard time falling asleep lately. That’s an understatement. Alex hadn’t fallen asleep before 2 a.m. in about three weeks. Most of the time, he sat in bed and stared at the ceiling. That never really worked. It often made him more awake because his brain would trick him out of being sleepy. He tried the more modern methods, and those all did about as well as the blank staring into the void. Melatonin did nothing (weed never worked on him, either). Sleep sounds like rain just made him have to pee for some reason. Hell, there were a few nights that he tried to close his eyes and count sheep. None of it worked.
His girlfriend Andrea kept telling him to see a doctor. “Maybe it’s sleep apnea,” she would always say. Alex didn’t think so. He wasn’t sure what it was exactly, but it wasn’t sleep apnea. He wasn’t highly fit but wasn’t chubby or overweight either. Andrea often teased about his “dad bod,” even if she knew Alex would scowl back at her for several hours before getting over it.
Alex figured the sleep deprivation/voluntary insomnia had something to do with a few things he noted lately:
Lack of motivation at work
Lack of motivation in his relationship
Lack of motivation in his hobbies and interests
Lack of motivation to see his friends and family
A general lack of motivation
On the evening of November 7, Alex felt tired before 2 a.m. for the first time in a long while. The wind picked up late into the evening, with temperatures dipping into the twenties. He lay beside his girlfriend, Andrea, in bed while she snored. He thought about getting up and grabbing something to drink. Watch some TV in the living room. There was always the home office where he worked for some one-on-one time. That could put him to sleep.
No. Alex decided to stay in bed and scroll through his phone in case he might fall asleep. His eyes fluttered a few times while he scrolled through his Facebook feed when a notification popped up. Alex tapped his screen to read who hit him up on Messenger. It was a name he hadn’t heard in years. He couldn’t remember becoming friends with her (upon further inspection later, they became friends back in 2010).
He stood up in the bed to read the message. The time was 11:34 p.m.
Alex stared at the screen for a solid minute. Anna Renquist? As in, childhood friend Anna Renquist? Family friend? He was sure that she babysat him at some point when he was a baby. She was three or four years older, so it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. Either way, it’s been a long time since they spoke.
He tried to think about the last time he saw Anna. He remembered seeing her at a get-together at her grandparent’s house at the beginning of the millennium. He remembered arguing about the Battle of Fallujah with Anna’s father as a bright-eyed college student, such as he was back then. He still had strong opinions about the War on Terror, of course, but at least he wasn’t such an arrogant prick about it anymore like he was nearly twenty years ago.
Alex wasn’t part of her family but had been a longtime friend of the Renquists long before he was born. Alex’s father, Jeff, cared for Anna’s grandmother as a young doctor back in the early 1980s, and he stayed close over the years. The doctor visitors from Ms. Renquist’s favorite general practitioner lessened, yet Alex’s father still found a way to come around. Eventually, he had a family of his own and became an unofficial part of the Renquist clan by the mid-1980s when Alex was born.
Alex cleared his throat and finally decided to respond to her. He could be cordial without wondering if it was some solicitation.
Alex felt like an asshole for being so matter-of-fact and to the point. But this was like getting an unsolicited call from a telemarketer. He didn’t know what to expect. It was too late to take it back, so he hoped she would forgive the unpleasantries. The tiny dots moved for nearly a minute before stopping and starting back up again several times. She responded a minute later. The news made him get up from the bed and stand up. Andrea continued to snore, blissfully unaware of anything else going on. Alex looked over and briefly wished he could trade places.
George Renquist was Anna’s uncle. Of the three Renquist brothers, George lived the most exciting life. Instead of following in the family business of plumbers, George chose a life as an independent general contractor-for-hire and all-around handyman. Alex didn’t know how he made his money or if it was ever genuinely reported on his taxes. Of course, none of that mattered anymore. Alex’s dad also did under-the-table doctoring for George over the years.
George was not the healthiest man. He loved to drink and eat. Mostly, though, his vice was drinking. Some of Alex’s earliest memories are sitting on George’s lap while he held a rum and cola cocktail in hand at get-togethers and other Renquiest family functions. He never drank to excess, but you could always tell her where he was in a house from the trailing scent of alcohol. Overlooking his drinking problem, George was a damn good contractor. Although he attended school at the prestigious William and Mary College in Williamsburg, VA, he was self-taught in every aspect of his business. His last girlfriend, Janice, was his bookkeeper and kept all his records straight (including late notices on payment).
Alex assumed his drinking finally got the better of him, or he had a heart attack.
Alex finally fell asleep after the message trailed off around midnight. The sleep came quickly for once. Not that it was perfect, mind you. But sleep is sleep, and Alex needed a few consistent hours to reset his body. He woke up thinking that he should thank Anna for helping him fall asleep, but immediately felt wiser not to. At the very least, a reword of his response. He awoke early that Monday morning and decided to handle the awkward conversation before getting ready for work. Andrea continued to snore.
It was four hours before Anna replied.
She was right. Alex overthought and overanalyzed everything. Alex received the message on his phone after his Zoom meeting at his work. He worked for a small communications firm called JanTec. Most of the staff came into the office one or two days due to the ongoing COVID-19 pandemic, so virtual meetings were held on Mondays and Tuesdays the majority of the time. It was much easier that way. Regardless, Alex disliked what he did with a passion.
Alex stared at his phone in his office for a few minutes before responding. Andrea, who also worked from home in the same office, asked what he was looking at. “It’s nothing, just a message from an old friend.” When she asked who, he mentioned a childhood friend who got in contact with him about a death in the family. She looked him up and down before shrugging in disinterest. She continued to design a newsletter for one of her client’s upcoming email campaigns. Unlike Alex, Andrea loved her job. She was an independent freelancer, after all. True to his fashion and current mental state, Alex both admired and hated this about his girlfriend.
He decided to play it cool on his message back to Anna.
That last stupid comment tasted like shit in his mouth. Sure, he barely knew Anna. It had been years since any communication. He vaguely remembered seeing pictures of her kid and husband on Facebook—otherwise, just radio silence. But something easy about her demeanor made him want to talk to her more. In his therapy sessions later on down the line, he would describe this curated nonchalance as “Bitchy Manic Pixie Dreamgirl Chic.”
He thought about leaving it alone and simply going back to work. He set his phone down and started writing an email to a coworker about an upcoming project. Halfway through his outline for an upcoming meeting, he told his girlfriend he would use the restroom. Safely in his small apartment toilet and standup shower, he decided to be authentic and tell her the truth. Why did he go to the bathroom to respond to a childhood friend?
She responded a few minutes later. This time, Alex was ready for it. He was still in the bathroom, anxiously waiting for a reply. You don’t pour your heart out like that and put your phone away. That declaration demanded a response, even if it was to tell him to fuck off forever. Either way, he was ready.
Work essentially stopped for Alex for the rest of the day. Over half an hour later, he finally exited the bathroom as a person with a purpose. Was he given a purpose? Alex thought it sounded like a homework assignment. Either way, he would do it.
“Hey Andrea, guess what?” Alex was unusually chipper coming back into their small office space.
“Alex, you were in there for a long time; I don’t need to hear about how big of a shit you just took. It’s disgusting, and so are you.” She looked up to gauge his face for any sign of resentment. Sometimes, Alex thought she openly looked for ways to find it, like she got off on it. He cleared his throat and spoke up.
“No, Andrea. It’s not like that. I just wanted to let you know that I will write something tonight. Like something original.” She laughed loudly, making Alex step back towards his desk.
“You’re going to write something?” She was giggling the entire time she got the words out. “You have talked about becoming a writer for our three-year relationship. I have seen exactly one short story in that time, and it wasn’t the best.” This declaration of distaste came from a woman who reads fantasy novels about elven sexual intercourse exclusively.
“Well, I am. Either it’s a poem or a short story. But, whatever it is, I am going to do it. I am committed.” When she asked him what made him want to dust off his old hobby, he said he felt motivated by something somebody said at work. That was a bald-faced lie. The first of a few, he would tell his girlfriend over the next few months. For whatever reason, he wanted to impress Anna.
That night, while Andrea snoozed away with military precision, Alex sat on his couch with his laptop and a notebook he last used several years ago for “interesting writing ideas.” When he found it buried in a drawer underneath a large stack of his 2019 and 2020 taxes and a stack of cashed checks dating back to 2016, he hoped there would be a holy grail of information to draw from.
Nope. There was almost nothing. Only four pages had any writing, and most of it was illegible. There was a note dating back to 2016 for a “short story – hearing neighbor through walls – or poem – whatever.” Maybe he could write a short story about a man in an apartment complex who heard something he shouldn’t have through the walls of his home. Not too bad.
He started slow at first. Soon, the words came to him in the old familiar way he knew and used to love. He started the evening writing to music with headphones. He enjoyed the gentle click-clack of his laptop keyboard more and turned the music off. It was soothing, even if he made the same noises during the workday. Those always sounded annoying. This was bliss. His fingers, slow at first, kept to a machine gun rapidly after the first half an hour of writing.
He drew from a bit of his own life to help round out the short story. He figured he would use the backdrop of his rocky relationship with Andrea to create a basis for what would happen. Essentially, a single man hears a couple arguing night after night through the wall of his apartment. Over time, he got used to it and even set his evenings to the late-night yelling matches. One night, the fight began as usual, around 10 in the evening. Then, about twenty minutes after it ended, he heard a series of loud crashes and more screaming. It didn’t seem like a fight and more like a struggle. Was it an argument or a break-in? Were they in danger? The man had to decide. He left the end ambiguous and wrapped up the story’s eight thousand words around 2 a.m. He closed the laptop and strolled from the office past the bathroom to the last room down the hall. He collapsed into bed and closed his eyes. He fell asleep almost immediately.
He awoke nearly five hours later and couldn’t wait to send it to Anna.
Was he hallucinating, or was Anna being a little flirty with him?
Anna did not get back to him for nearly two days. The anticipation ate at him like a cancer. The hardest part was playing it cool and not messaging her asking if she had read “From the Walls.” It was a good thing he didn’t have her phone number. Otherwise, he would have texted for an update on his latest opus.
He kept calm, at least in his mind. When he and Andrea ate dinner that evening, she got on his case about staring at his phone every five seconds. “This isn’t like you,” she said. “I don’t know why you keep staring at your phone, but I’d like you to stop.” Alex ignored her request. Soon, though, she was fast asleep, and the “writer” spent the evening pretending not to care about his phone by doing other things. At one point, he cleaned his entire kitchen while his phone sat idly on the counter with every notification known to his iPhone on and ready to go off.
Did she not write back because it was so dogshit? Was she not responding as a non-violent form of protest against Alex’s supposed hobby? Several similar thoughts ran through his head. He settled on her being too busy or overcome with his writing quality. He knew it wasn’t the latter, but in his mind, he would accept anything to move on theoretically.
She got back to him the following afternoon. By then, all pretenses were gone. Alex was a complete emotional wreck. He almost fell out of his chair when his phone dinged on his desk. The rejuvenated writer immediately rushed to answer it in the restroom. He didn’t even pause to excuse himself in front of Andrea.
But he wasn’t sure if he was OK with it. He was almost sure of it. He closed his eyes and waited for the response. The chat bubbles seemed to flash in front of his eyes for hours. He finally got his response three minutes later. All his other work would have to wait. There was only this response at this point in his life. This moment. Nothing else. He wasn’t sure if it was a make-or-break point, but it felt like one.
“YES!” Alex yelled enthusiastically from the confines of the bathroom. Andrea did not hear him because she had her headphones on while working. He couldn’t believe it. A (relatively) rave review about something he wrote? And from somebody with some taste. That meant something, too.
Sure, she’s a mom and married with a kid and everything. But she had it. Well, at least from the recent pictures she posted on her Facebook page. Alex wasn’t sure if he was so excited because he found her attractive or because his recent conversations with her made him feel interested, wanted, and restored.
She loved something he did. Love may be a strong word. But she didn’t outright say it sucked. Andrea only had a passing interest in his writing, even if it was a poem he wrote for her that got her to go out with him all those years ago. Anna rightly guessed that it drew from real life. He guessed it was hard to hide. The words spilled out on the page. Alex wondered whether he was talking too much about his personal life with her. It probably didn’t matter. But it could mean everything. He tried to shrug it off and continue to play it cool.
Alex thought very carefully about his response. He wanted to go with his gut and be truthful while simultaneously remembering that he was in a relationship, and she was married with a kid and lived hundreds of miles away. Alex mulled it over for another thirty seconds before responding. He didn’t want to lose the pregnant moment.
There was an infiniteness to talking to Anna. He couldn’t quite explain it. Time stood still and moved too fast at the same time. Maybe it was an illusion. Feelings work that way, especially when you haven’t been given time and attention by somebody you love. Then somebody who talks to you comes along and breathes some new life into an otherwise mundane existence. He wasn’t sure what he felt, but it was something more than a casual conversation.
In whatever multiverse where Alex would shoot his shot, he did so. Fuck it. If it all came crashing down, Alex surmised, he would be down one old family friend and a Facebook contact. He didn’t even have a phone number. It would be as if she continued to not exist like the last decade of his existence. He gulped once while he sat motionless on the toilet seat in his bathroom and responded.
Alex returned from the restroom with a broad smile on his face. He let out a cheerful breath and returned to his seat to answer emails.
“Wow, must have been a good one,” Andrea said. She reached across from her desk to touch his shoulder. Alex was alarmed at first, then grabbed her hand and turned around.
“It was. It was great.” Andrea wasn’t sure she liked the smile on his face, especially after he said he just took a giant shit in the bathroom. It was a more comprehensive smile than she had ever seen in their dating years. It was an idiot’s smile. She once again shrugged it off and continued working. She didn’t hear Alex complain once for the rest of the evening. He walked around with a satisfactory grin that made her question what was happening in that bathroom. She had never been the jealous type, so why start now? Alex made sure to kiss her on the forehead before she fell asleep. Andrea thought she saw him drinking coffee after dinner. Why? He already had enough trouble sleeping, so inviting that much caffeine into your bloodstream seemed almost ridiculous. And on a work night, no less. She wasn’t sure why, but she went to sleep uneasy.
Anna and Alex talked that night. Anna initiated the conversation around 9:30 at night. It started slow initially but picked up momentum after a few interactions about what each other did during the day. Alex had nothing but positive things to say. Anna had more to say about fulfilling orders for her bakery side business. With Thanksgiving coming up, it was one of the more busy times of the year. On top of all the duties of a stay-at-home mom and wife to a working husband, she needed to figure out the rationale for chatting so late.
The conversation continued for another three hours. They talked for roughly the same length the next night. Then, the night after. In his mind, Alex knew that pursuing anything more than casual conversation was a bad idea. No. It was a terrible idea. He messaged her late into the evening for the fourth night in a row.
They talked about everything and nothing at once. Over time, and after hours of conversation, Anna’s walls crumbled. This was no easy test for Alex, but he was engaged. He was methodical. And most of all, he was committed. For what, he wasn’t sure. He found himself emotionally invested in whatever these conversations were forming into.
Anna opened up more about her personal life. Her son, whom she adored more than anything on earth, was a popular topic of conversation. The older yet unmarried/childless Alex could do nothing to agree with her musings about raising a kid. Nonetheless, he stayed interested without sounding like a prick for not having one himself. She even talked a bit about her husband, Rodney, and her current struggles with him.
Two minutes later, he found out exactly what it was. Apparently, for Anna, it was a naked photo she took of her breasts. Alex couldn’t believe his eyes. He had to blink a few times to make sure it was real. Alex didn’t respond at first. He started at the screen for a solid minute before doing anything. He could feel sweat forming on the top of his brow.
He zoomed in to get a better look at it. Although it was a reflection from the mirror and not an authentic nude “selfie,” he got the picture. Anna’s breasts looked like something you saw in old dirty magazines he stole from his dad’s stash he kept under the bed. It was not the over-inflated crap that saturated pornography online nowadays. That was all easy and readily available. But it was all the same-identical girls with the same tits making the same faces at the camera, with or without a guy giving her the business end of his over-inflated dick.
Her nipples looked like two giant erasers, sitting atop two mounds of flesh he wasn’t sure were fake or not. He didn’t care. They were perfect. To be that perky in your early 40s would be a feat of bodily engineering he could not fathom. He looked over guiltily to his girlfriend, who continued to snore away, blissfully unaware. Feeling the guilt rising and his crotch turning hot, Alex got up to go to the bathroom. It was hard for him to walk. By then, his penis was almost fully erect through his basketball shorts. He could feel the heat continue to grow like a lit ruse up his spine. The sweat grew to full-on beaded droplets coming down his face.
He got to the bathroom and locked the door. The impulse to use his hands on himself was more significant than ever felt. Despite the ever-increasing urge to touch himself, he thought it courteous to reply. After all, he just received an unsolicited gift that will keep on giving in his mind for months, if not years, to come. He screenshotted the photo just in case she recalled it before responding.
The conversation continued like she didn’t just send a nude photo to Alex a few minutes ago. Alex, who graduated with a history degree, weighed in on the 1945 Dresden fire bombings. He even recommended a book he read a while back about the end of the war and its impact on German society.
Alex could not get a read on this woman. First, she showed him her breasts; then she started pontificating on the atrocities of World War II as if she pulled all that information out of her back pocket. Even after hours of conversation on topics he couldn’t fathom remembering, she was an enigma. Not the same girl he remembered all those years ago. Alex thought that it was human nature to change a bit over time. Some do it more gradually and gracefully than others. But Anna? She was something special.
The conversation fizzled around 2 a.m. Neither Alex nor Anna mentioned the nude photo at all for the remainder of the conversation. When Anna told Alex she was going to bed, he told her to have a good night and pleasant sleep. He even wished her a good day, fulfilling bakery orders tomorrow. He then proceeded to masturbate the minute the conversation ended vigorously. The time it took for him to whip his dick out could have been a world record if there was one for such a thing. It took less than a minute for him to cum. He created a secret folder in his phone for the photo, masturbated again, and crawled into bed. He fell asleep immediately.
The conversations went deeper. Longer. Sometimes, the talks went well into 3 a.m. Yet when sleep came, it was the best sleep in memory, even if for only a few hours. They didn’t talk every day at first—maybe a few interactions here and there during the day. Soon enough, they chatted for a few hours collectively during the day and through the small hours of the evening at night.
They talked about music, art, and film. Most of their favorites only partially met in the middle. Anna knew when Alex was bullshitting, so the thin veneer of constantly agreeing with her picks stopped quickly. It took very little time for him to adjust and be truthful about his interests outside of writing. Their disagreements were few, which made each conversation feel like a refreshing oasis in a desert of daily mini-fights and micro-escalations.
He always started at his home base in bed next to Andrea each time they talked. After a half hour or so, with Andrea solidly asleep, he moved out of the bedroom into the living room to chat into the evening. Alex even lit a candle a few times to “set the mood.” Sometimes, when the conversation approached mild levels of flirtation, he would bring out his computer to keep conversing with her while he touched himself to the saved picture she sent.
God bless technology.
Alex kept telling himself he was getting the best sleep of his life. In reality, his appearance and attitude made more than a few people notice, including his girlfriend and people at work. During those few days he went into the office, some of his colleagues noted the raccoon-like ring around his eyes. Despite a chipper demeanor, Alex was mentally and physically exhausted without even knowing it.
Worse yet, he grew increasingly distant with his girlfriend, Andrea. At first, she commented a few times on his cell phone habits. Those habits were never fantastic, but now it was almost as if they were connected or sewn together. Every time she saw him sitting on the couch alone, plowing away on his phone, a renewed fight began.
It became more fodder for the conversation he would inevitably have with Anna later in the evening. Like a comedian observing people shop at a grocery store, Alex’s fights with Andrea were a great source of material. In his eyes, it was the perfect way to keep the conversation from going stale.
Alex knew that the manufactured disdain was all coming from his end. Despite her focus on work and sleep, Andrea never gave him a real reason to have so much disdain.
“Did you ever think I am sleeping so much because we have nothing to say to each other?” Andrea remarked one evening in December while they cleaned up from dinner. Alex kept loading dishes into the dishwasher for a few seconds, silently staring at her.
“Look, I don’t know why you are sleeping so much. But it’s like it’s 9 p.m., and you turn into a pumpkin.” He thought about how he could turn the knife more. “I’d love to do more with you in the evenings, especially on weekends. It doesn’t matter what day it is; I’m alone in the evenings.”
Andrea looked like she was about to cry. She looked away and sniffed a few times, holding back tears. “You know, sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, and you aren’t there. What are you doing? Where are you doing? And most importantly, who the hell are you talking to? Are you hiding something from me?”
Of course, Alex was very much hiding something from her. The only thing he could do at that moment was deny everything. “Andrea, I’m in the living room because I don’t want to stare at the ceiling for hours waiting to fall asleep. This is a small apartment, and we have one bed. You are a bit of a loud sleeper, which is OK, so I want to ensure I am exhausted before coming back to sleep with you.” Alex used his hands to illustrate the size of their room.
“Yeah, speaking of, am I not attractive to you?” Alex thought very carefully about what he would say next. Andrea was attractive. She was beautiful. He always thought she was pretty. He remembers seeing her from across a bar in DC when they first met. For a bar called the “Ugly Mug,” she was the hottest one there. He remembered briefly telling her that joke before buying her a drink. He smiled a bit and remembered why he fell in love with her in the first place. Then he remembered the accusations and decided to lay into her.
Yes, she was attractive. But there’s no adventure in seeing her ass or breasts when she gets out of the shower. It’s routine.
“Yes, of course, I do, Andrea,” he said convincingly. Her head moved to one side as if she knew he would return with a conditional “but” to finish his statement. She was right.
“But we haven’t been hot to trot for each other in a while. Sleeping is one thing, but our lack of togetherness is another. We act like the perfect couple when we are together with our friends at a party. But at night, what are we? Are we separate people?
“What do you mean separate people?” Andrea stopped cleaning up and set a dish down. She took two steps towards Alex and made him back into the kitchen corner with the sink on the left and the dishwasher on the right. She had him cornered. “So, our relationship is solely based on how often I fuck you?” Of course, it wasn’t, but they hadn’t slept together in two or three months.”
“Of course not, Andrea,” he said with concern. It felt genuine. “It’s not like that. I worry that we aren’t spending enough time together.
“Well, look at yourself. You spent all your time glued to that goddamn phone. Where would there be time for me, sleep or not?” She had a point, and he hated it. He looked at her with a dumb look that said he had nothing left in the emotional tank to empty. She threw a dish towel at him that he caught in mid-air. “Fine, Alex. I love you, but you’ve been pissing me the fuck off lately. Do whatever it is on your phone if it makes you happy. I hope you are telling the truth about everything.”
“Andrea, I do love you, and I am. It’s just a coping mechanism. I know scrolling is bad for most, but it’s soothing for me. That’s all I am doing: a few Wikipedia articles here and there. I can also show you my Duolingo score if you don’t believe I am also re-learning Spanish. I want to be productive with my time as I deal with this insomnia, you know?” He did not have those Duolingo scores but figured he would gamble with another lie. What’s one more?
“OK, Alex. I love you. Please work on coming to bed earlier or see a doctor about it. I worry about you.” She kissed him on the cheek and went back to the bedroom.
“I love you too, Andrea,” Alex said, kissing her back. He couldn’t believe everything that just happened. How many times does that make for the stretch of the truth? There are too many to count. For a minute, he even believed what he said. Either way, there was plenty of stuff to discuss with Anna that evening.
He feels his heart beating faster. He can’t blame it all on the screen time. It’s the 21st century, after all. We are all walking automatons staring at different types of screens all day. They are all different varieties with similar heights and finishes. With the shallowly lit computer screen staring back at him, something about this moment makes his breathing more shallow and forced. Something about the words on the screen gives him pause.
It’s different from the thousands of words he usually types. Different combinations of the exact words strung together like some occupational Jenga: “We can circle back on that later” mixes well with “Please advise” and “Let’s set up a Zoom call for the afternoon of the 14th.” Different combinations are going out to the world, all with the same message: this is the vehicle to get the machinations of money moving. It is a means to an end – what end, nobody knows. But the work emails string together in utter nonsense but come out white as snow on the other side. Nobody knows how, and nobody cares how. But in this moment, the words on the screen matter.
You aren’t sending it to send it. You’ve thought about it carefully. Hell, you made several drafts. You don’t even do that for important work emails. You wrote and deleted words before coming up with the perfect sentence to send. Is it the recipient? It’s not a communication to another office drone this time. This time, it matters more. This time, there is more on the line mentally and less on the line literally. The touch and go of daily life spelled out with your fingertips. And here you are: waiting to hit “enter” to the perfect execution of your thoughts, ideas, hopes, and beliefs. All in this moment, there is nothing else that matters. You can’t tell if this will be a blip in the soundtrack to your life or if this is the song you’ll play at your funeral. So you say the words aloud as you type, retype, edit, and delete. Start over. Exit out of the screen and enter again. All to say the same word in different variations – but now it sounds like work. It feels like work, which you don’t like. You will try to detach those emotions from this seemingly emotional moment. You finally release all your feelings and anxiety and hit enter. The words pop up on the screen like the results of a game show. You smirk in satisfaction as you await a response. This is what accomplishment feels like.
In which I generate five random story dice and create a short story out of it. See the full list of stories HERE.
Terry could not believe she said yes. She honestly seemed excited when he told her where they were going. When she gave him a list of what she was into after they matched online, Terry was perplexed to say the least. His match, Lisa, wanted the following out of their dinner date spot:
Fun, but eclectic with a “dose of nostalgia”
Not fancy, but clean
Somewhere with a lot of people (She noted her love of the sound of “busy;” whatever the fuck that meant
Somewhere cheap (As she said, “it’s just a first date – no need to break the bank”)
And finally, somewhere that will make her laugh upon reveal
Terry kept their initial conversation fun and flirty. Secretly, he stressed about what location could encompass all of those extremely specific things. To him, it seemed like a really tall order. Lots of expectations. He ended their first chat exchange with a promise to reveal their date spot a few hours before he picked her up. She lived only twenty minutes in the neighboring town, so he began looking through Google Maps and Yelp to find a spot that fit the exact description of clean, nostalgic, and cheap. About five minutes into his search, he found it: Country Time Buffet.
The restaurant sat tucked away in the corner of a shopping center he sometimes went to for his dog’s speciality food. The reviews were okay for a buffet of its vintage. The pictures inside reminded him of going to Old Country Buffet with his family as a kid. It hit all the points that Lisa wanted and more. The gold-tinted buffet islands. The outdated menu selection with familiar favorites the whole family could enjoy. A website with only the address and business hours listed (in Courier font no less). The early-1990s carpet that probably hadn’t been replaced in years, if at all. The only thing he wasn’t quite sure of was the cleanliness. A few of the reviews on Yelp pointed to that. He hoped “not fancy” was more important than a place being ostensibly clean.
Terry picked up Lisa at 6:30 pm. They got Starbucks and drove around for a bit to get to know one another. Terry loved her bubbly personality. She even managed to laugh at a few of his jokes. They arrived at Country Time Buffet around 7:15 pm. When they walked in, the place was almost completely empty. Lisa giggled with excitement as Terry payed in advance for their admission into the buffet. There were five separate buffet areas oriented in a giant “U” shape. Terry noticed a booth in the back with a group of kids, likely the owners’, working on schoolwork while an older woman vacuumed the aging carpet in an empty seating area near them.
“So, yeah, I guess we can pick a booth and go at it,” he said. The half smile he gave Lisa was one of half-confidence. He would never dream of taking a first date to a three-star buffet in the back of a strip mall. But here they were, and she still had a smile on her face. That had to account for something.
They sat down briefly in a booth near the front entrance to set their coats down. In their hands, they already had their drink cups and their first plate. The woman at the register in the front, likely the matriarch of the family business, made it a point to hand out the first plate because “they had been discouraging people to come in with tupperware and eat us out of business.” So, it seemed it was a modestly priced Buffett ($15.75 got you entrance to the good eats with all the soda, water, or tea you wanted). Coffee was oddly extra.
After a few more careless chit-chats about their strategy, Lisa touched Terry’s arm and made her way to the salad section. Terry headed to the soup first. Growing up in the northeast, soup was a way of life for nearly the entire year. You ate your chowder when it was cold out, and you still had it in the summer to savor the best catch from the Atlantic. He grabbed a bowl from the side of the soup stand adjacent to the salad station and placed it on his first plate. He glanced over at Lisa busily arranging a series of healthy toppings onto a bed of romaine lettuce.
He looked down at the steaming circles and saw the three soup options, all uncovered and blistering in the heat from the yellow lamp above it: broccoli cheddar, some sort of chicken noodle, and New England clam chowder. Terry thought none of the options looked good. He glanced over at the salad bar to find it empty. Lisa was already back at her seat and on her phone, waiting for Terry to return to start eating. He looked around at the other four parties seated around the large dining area. Nobody had soup. Was that a coincidence. He was about to exit the area when the woman who took his money came up from behind him.
“What’s wrong?” She said in an elevated tone. Her brow furrowed. “Are you not hungry?”
“No, it’s not that,” he said, “I was just wondering if I wanted soup or not.” He felt that was a good enough lie to get him a quick exit out of the soup and into some healthy greens. The lady grabbed his soup bowl and ladled a large amount of soup from the third selection.
“You do. Here, try the clam chowder. I made it fresh today.” Terry wasn’t so sure, because there was a slick of oil on the top that was so thick he thought America might invade it. The lady gave him a smile that felt uncomfortable and walked back into the kitchen. Terry grabbed a packet of oyster crackers and headed towards the table.
When Terry got back to the table, Lisa quickly set her phone down and greeted him with her smile.
“Shall we eat,” she exclaimed as she bit into her first few bites of salad. Terry smiled back, staring down at his soup-adjacent liquid contained in his tan plastic bowl. The bowl had a small hole on one side, just in case you wanted to chug the chunks like a hot lemon tea.
He took his first bite as he talked to her about his job. He choked through it as he got to the point of discussing the finer parts of defense consulting. The soup tasted even oilier than it looked. The chunks of clam tasted somehow like wet pearl onions. He wasn’t exactly sure if they were even thawed from their frozen state yet. Definitely from a can. The lady was correct in saying the soup was made that day. She never said it was any good. It was not. But he continued to chat with Lisa as he politely finished the bowl.
After they talked for a few more minutes, they realized their first course was done. Time for the main show. They walked together up to the buffet area together and grabbed a plate. This time, they both walked through the hot food section together, chatting as they selected from the usual assortment of homestyle favorites like green beans, mashed potatoes, fried chicken and meatloaf. She was heavy on the green beans. He went heavy on the meatloaf for some reason. Once again, none of it looked promising.
Terry felt the first twinge in his stomach about four bites into his main course. It couldn’t have been the food he ate earlier. He never ate heavy on the day of a date. He did the mental gymnastics in his head and thought all that he had that day: two eggs, a cliff bar, and a small bag of chips from his work’s vending machine. No. This had to be the damned clam chowder with the barely edible clams from the Exxon Valdez spill. He cleared his throat a few times and kept eating. The lady came by and took their plates from the first course and refilled their iced tea and water glasses.
“How did you like the chowder?”
“It was fantastic. Just like home.” Terry knew that she knew he was fucking with her, despite his best impression of politeness. Her smile quickly turned to a frown. He thought he saw a bit of disgust.
“Well, just a reminder, we close at 8:30 sharp, so don’t sit in here all night eating all this good food.”
“Will do, m’am,” Lisa said with a pleasant gaze that brought back the lady’s smile. All the while, the low murmurs in his stomach became a full blown growl. By the time he finished his serving of mashed potatoes and half the meatloaf, the pain from his stomach traveled up into his chest and nearly through the esophagus. Whatever was in there wanted to leave. Now. He couldn’t tell if he was sweating or not, but he sure felt like it.
“Will you…p..please excuse me,” he stuttered to her.
“Oh, sure. Are you okay?” She seemed genuinely concerned as she finished up her plate of vegetables.
“Yeah, no. I am good. Just need to wash up real quick.” Of course everyone knows when you say “yeah, no,” it really just means just “no.” Also, washing up in your second plate of food was insane. He knew it. She probably knew it. But he did’t have time to explain more. He had to get to the bathroom.
Terry sprinted towards the back corner of the restaurant to a swinging door. There was only one restroom with a single toilet and it was occupied. He banged on the door as the clam chunks began to rise.
“PLEASE. .PL..HRRRRRR…EASE…” I need to go to the bathroom.” He banged on it a few more times. He gagged even more.
“HEY! Just a minute buddy.” It sounded like an older gentleman was in there. He wasn’t sure what the bathroom would look like. The place was relatively clean, but even relatively clean places that have bathrooms that look like the scene from Trainspotting. At this point, he didn’t care. He would blow chunks in a fucking Christmas stocking if he had one.
Three minutes later, a short older man with thick glasses walked out of the restroom. “Here you go, asshole. Take your time, buddy.” Terry didn’t even acknowledge him. By now, the full-on flop sweat started to soak into his dress shirt. He stormed into the restroom and immediately expelled the tea, chowder, mashed potatoes, and whatever meatloaf he managed to put into his body into the toilet. It felt like hot rocks were shooting out of his mouth. He could taste everything as it came up, which made him throw up even more. He finished his vomit session with a few whimpers and spits into the toilet about three minutes later.
After flushing away the evidence, he cleaned himself up as best he could in the mirror. Terry splashed water on his face to get some color back. It didn’t work. He stayed in the bathroom for a few more minutes to compose himself. He knew he wasn’t going to eat. He would instead ask the woman for a coffee cup. Hell, he’d even pay for it. They couldn’t fuck up coffee, right?
He exited the restroom about twelve minutes after first entering his vomit-fest. Lisa was not there. A short note written in pencil on a napkin now sat where her finished plate of food was. Terry could only laugh after reading it.
“Terry – this was fun, but really? A fucking buffet? I wanted nostalgic, not trashy. Don’t break the bank, but damn…not here boo. I’m sure you are a nice guy, but this isn’t it. Better luck next time, kiddo. Thanks for the mediocre food. Hope you found whatever you are looking for in there. You didn’t look so hot before you left. My girlfriend picked me up. I was texting her the minute we got in. You did make me laugh, though. Ciao.”
Terry stared at the note for a few more minutes before the lady came back around to collect the plates.
“Are you all alone now?” She asked. There was now a smug look of satisfaction on her face he didn’t like.
“I am. I guess it wasn’t meant to be.”
“It never was,” she said as she walked away with the empty plates.
Terry thought about just getting up to leave when he suddenly felt the urge for some dessert. How bad can defrosted cheesecake be anyway?
He had three pieces before heading home. The lady gave him a cup of coffee. On the house.
Part of the Seven Deadly Sins Short Story Series. What is it?
This is the story of Cliff and Sarah.
The story format is Instructable.
Part I
How to Ruin Your Relationship
Hello instructable users! Are you in a stable relationship and are looking to royally fuck it up? Are you tired of people giving you “life hacks,” when they themselves can’t seem to put a pair of pants on alone?
Then look no further. Thanks to my asshole husband (soon to be ex-husband), I have a step by step process of how to ruin your relationship together. I’ll show you how somebody can go from an ambitious and upstart “man-of-the-century” to fat, alcoholic, degenerate who can’t pay his phone bell. For the sake of protecting his name for the next round of our lawyers and child custody, I will call my husband “Cliff.” Why? Because that’s what he fucking fell off of over the last six months.
My name is Sarah. This is my life instructable.
Materials:
A once-ambitious man/woman (for this scenario, we will use “Cliff”)
Real life people problems
A child
A high-powered job or profession
Home mortgage
Copious quantities of alcohol
A sizeable severance package
Step 1: Meet a Significant Other
The first step is the most important of all! It might seem obvious, but I want to be as thorough as possible for this instructable. I think those are the ones that get the most votes, after all.
Anyways, it’s important for this process to find somebody and fall in love with them. You don’t necessarily have to get married to them, but it surely helps. That is what Cliff and I did a mere eight months after meeting each other in a coffee shop. More on that later. I thought we married for love. I never thought it was for “convenience.” That should have been my first warning sign. Unfortunately, that is an entirely different instructable.
As a side note to this first step, I want to tell you: Don’t have a favorite song. Just don’t. Don’t listen to it. Don’t dance to one at your wedding ceremony. It’s the first thing you’ll do as a married couple, but the last thing you will want to remember. Once it’s over, you will end up hearing it in your car in the days and months ahead (see the final step if you want to spoil it.) For your sake and your sanity, don’t have a favorite song. Our song was “God Only Knows” by The Beach Boys. Fucker.
Step 2: Make Lots of Money to Complicate Things
Okay. So you have a new man or lady in your life. Things are going great. Every kiss was new. Every fuck was a new feeling and sensation you knew couldn’t get any better. You were right.
The honeymoon period has a way of putting a haze over your eyes to the realities of the situation at hand. Everything was going smoothly in our new marriage. At the time, Cliff was a hedge fund manager at a big fancy company in Washington, D.C. I was just a barista who handed him his venti latte every morning at 7:30am sharp. Every morning. Remember that.
Once we got married, I had the option to “take a break” and finish school. His salary allowed us to find a new place in the city. It was my dream home. I was literally living the dream. For a failed grad student working at a Starbucks, I felt like I was married to Prince Charming. He swept me off my feet in that first year. I had time to pursue cooking, go to school, and be there when Cliff got home from work. Part of me felt like a 1950s housewife, which I secretly resented.
Step 3: Have a Baby
If you really want to screw things up, why not add a baby to the mix?
As a result of the fairytale, I got lazy about birth control and got pregnant when I didn’t want to. I was too busy being a homemaker and student, I guess. We were married and very happy on the surface, so we decided to stick with it. We converted my “study” to a nursery. Thankfully, the home we bought was big enough to incorporate our baby with room to spare.
To make a long step short, we had the baby. We will call her Jane for the sake of her privacy. It was only after the baby that everything really happened. Everything fell to shit. That’s when the drinking started. That was the beginning of the end. The fairy tale was over before it even began.
People have been taking social media and the Internet way too seriously lately. On top of that, the political candidates of certain parties continue to bum me out. With all this sadness and political incorrectness going on today, how about having a little fun. I think we could all use a laugh…why not do it with political BDSM fan fiction?
It was a night of political gridlock in South Carolina. Another city, another long and intense debate. The assembled masses of ardent supporters flocked to the auditorium to hear their candidates speak. Fingers pointed and mouths flapped the truths of a continued socialist nightmare looming in the distance horizon should any of their political counterparts win the election. Candidates blamed President Obama and his political stranglehold on the Republican party patriots. The air was thick with opinions and casual racism. It was an exhausting event. Nobody felt that more than Ted Cruz.
Ted Cruz was tired. After spending the majority of the evening sparring with his Republican foes on stage, all he wanted to do was go back to his dressing room and relax for fifteen minutes before his car came to take him to his hotel. The next day meant more stops on the campaign trail up north in New Hampshire. Cruz shook his head and thought how long the road was to election. More cities. More hands to grip and grin at. More. More. More. How could a face like his continue to smile with so much pain behind it. What he needed was a break. He needed a release. But how?
Cruz told his assistant Grace that he would be in his dressing room for an half hour or so before his ride came to get him. He did not want to be disturbed. His shoulders slunk as tiredness sank into his body like a cold Calgary winter. He just needed to close his eyes and relax. As he turned down the hallway of the auditorium’s backstage, he walked into the room marked “T. Cruz” and opened the door.
This WAS his dressing room, at least earlier in the evening. In fact, his bags and briefcase were still on the chair beside the back table. Everything else in the room was different. The most noticeable difference in the room was the presence of his foe, Donald Trump. Trump sat upright with back was turned to Senator Cruz. He was still wearing his suit from the debate. Well, most of it at least. He rotated around from the back table and grinned at his guest through his ivory white porcelain veneers.
“Oh, hello Ted,” Trump said. “It’s good to see you here. Please sit down and make yourself comfortable.” Trump began to sway his generous white hips back and forth. Frank Sinatra played low on a small set of Bose speakers nearby. Trump looked both calm and reserved. More importantly, he appeared to be in a mood largely foreign to Ted over the last few weeks: relaxed. Ted wanted to relax as well, but not with Trump around. That went double for him in his own dressing room.
“Make myself comfortable? Are you serious?” Cruz began to point his finger at Trump in the same manner he did on stage just minutes before. Little did Cruz know that it was one of Trump’s biggest triggers. “What are you doing in my dressing room?” Trump was the last thing Ted wanted to see this evening, especially after the way he was viciously attacked just minutes ago.” Or so he thought.
“Oh, right…about that. I decided to consolidate our rooms for the evening. I think after the things I said, we need to talk it out and see if we can find some common ground. Maybe we can explore more. Can I pour you a scotch?”
“No, I don’t want anything to drink, I want you to get the hell out of my room!” Cruz’s sad, pudding face curved down. His lips drew back from his teeth and he began to anger more inside. The sensation felt hot. He felt something else inside as the anger droned in and out of him. Something new weaved into the insanity of his hate quilt. It wasn’t his opposition to women’s rights or his support to overturn the Gay Marriage Amendment. It was something else, deeper even. Was it…love? acceptance? No, surely not. How silly. This wasn’t some schoolyard kids game. This was his room and he wanted Trump out.
But the kid gloves were off, and so was Donald Trump’s pants.
“Shut the door, Ted,” he said. Trump proceeded to take his shirt off and add it to the small pile of clothes on the floor. His look was strong and determined.
“Absolutely not,” Cruz roared back. “I’m not going to stand for this in MY dressing room. If you want to change, you should go do it in your own room, Donald.”
Cruz’s voice began to tremble. His lip quivered as a small river of cold sweat began to trickle down his ample forehead. “I….I want you to leave Donald.” Trump merely looked back at him and shook his head from side to side.
Trump sauntered towards Cruz. He began to touch himself through his Armani boxers. “You like what you see, Ted?” His eyes were piercing. “That’s a big rod of New York steel pointed straight at you. I’d like to introduce you to Trump Tower.” Cruz jumped back. He was about to flee from the room before Trump ramped up again. Trump’s voice, louder now, seemed determined to keep Cruz there with him. Alone. “Just you wait, it’s gonna be HUUUGE.” At that moment, Ted realized this wasn’t a normal situation. This was special, and Trump had chosen him. On the dresser in the room, near the tanning cream and vat of children’s tears, was a giant bottle of petroleum jelly. But for what?
“You’re all talk,” Cruz Said, “and I completely meant what I said up there tonight.” Cruz did not shut the door, but turned his back to it and walked closer to Trump, who continued to touch himself. “I don’t even think you’re a true Republican. You come from a town that’s socially liberal, supports abortions, and is entirely focused on the media. You’re self obsessed. Imean, look at you. Why the hell won’t you stop touching yourself. You are not displaying the values of a good candidate for this party. This must be how they do it in New York, because it is certainly NOT how we do it down in Texas or up in Canada. Does this get you off talking down to me like this, treating me like a piece of meat?”
“As a matter of fact, it does. I am dominant, and I need a good slave.” Despite the hesitation and confusion in his eyes, Cruz continued to listen. Trump pulled a ball gag, handcuffs, and blindfold out of a duffle bag next to the crumpled pile of expensive clothes. “Well, Texas,” Trump said, “I’m about to whip some New York values out of you.” I want you to put this blindfold on and ‘feel the burn,’ as they say.
Senator Cruz had enough. It was time for him to leave. He shook a disapproving head silently at Trump and headed back towards the door. As his sweaty palm gripped the door knob and turned it clockwise, he released his grip. Ted could not believe what he was doing. He lifted his cell phone up to his ear to call his assistant. Trump looked hesitant once again. His jowls turned up in disapproval. But there washope there, and not the kind that Obama continued to spout over the last eight years.
“Hi, Grace, it’s Senator Cruz. Yeah, I am going to need another half-hour before you guys take me to my hotel.” They continued to talk for a few more seconds. Cruz stared into Trump’s piercing eyes. “I guess something just came up.” He closed his phone and kneeled down on the ground towards Trump: his first act of submission.
“Alright, Ted,” Trump said with a wide smile across is artificially tanned face, “let’s make America great again.” Trump walked past him and shut the door.
Part of the Seven Deadly Sins Short Story Series. What is it?
This is the story of Ashley and Peter. It is written in the style of First Person Narrative.
PART I
I hate myself the most after he forces me to do anal. I don’t even like it. In fact, I hate it. I’m not sure why he convinces me to do it all the time. Sure, I muster up the strength to tell him no sometimes. But that word is Peter’s trigger. When he hears “no” everything in my life goes to shit.
I’m not sure if he ever learned to fully process its meaning growing up. Who knows, even though his mother is a conniving bitch that probably would have left him to die on a cliff from exposure like Oedipus. Maybe he didn’t hear it enough. I doubt it. Either way, there are issues there. Deep seeded issues. And every goddamn one of them comes spilling out like a geyser when its late at night and all he can do is think about a different way he can hurt me.
He doesn’t hurt me physically. No physical scars exist. Not really. Unless it’s sex, or whatever he wants to call it. It’s getting to the point that I begin to sweat profusely every time he unzips his pants. He could be changing out of his work clothes, and it still feels like the nightmare is beginning. Sometimes it’s better to just give in and let him fuck me in his own special way – no words or kissing. All I can hear is the pain throbbing inside my skull and the dull THWAP of skin connecting. I am a helpless doll on the corner of our bed. He is the powerful figure with doll eyes. Thrusting and pain. The last thing I usually hear before he walks out of the room to go downstairs is his zipper. What a tragic way to bookend each time, right?
I don’t know if it’s rape. I’m too afraid to ask. I’ll never tell my friends. I never see them anymore, anyway. Peter doesn’t allow it. No social media, either. I have a tumblr page, but I am afraid he will find it and pick it apart or tell me I am a whore. Then he will have sex in his anger and wrath. It’s the worst ten minutes of my life, replayed daily. I wish it was at least agreed upon. But the sex never feels consensual, although it did when we first met a year and a half ago. It was great. But that changed quickly. I really miss those days. Sometimes I wish it was rape, then I could at least identify it in my mind.
Tonight, the last thing I hear is him zipping up his pants. The deed is done. Congratulations, Peter: I hope you enjoyed it. There’s blood on the toilet paper already. Here’s hoping it doesn’t get worse. He motions to me to look at the clock. It’s 8:15pm. He says four words to me: clean up the kitchen. I tell him “ok.” He can now retreat to his study to masturbate or watch TV or do whatever the fuck he does. It never involves me. My job is to clean and cry or scream into my pillow until I give up for the evening. Then he comes in and feels like the man. How truly special he is.
I tell him that I love him. He doesn’t respond. He looks into my eyes with a doll’s stare for several seconds before leaving. Those words used to mean a lot. It’s the last thing he hears coming from upstairs for the rest of the evening. That is unless our daughter has been crying in the next room over.
“Shut the door, Ted,” he said. Trump proceeded to take his shirt off and add it to the small pile of clothes on the floor. His look was strong and determined.
Delusional Thoughts From Fantasy Island 