GH Note:Sorry for not bringing this over earlier from 9th and 101st. Here's Leech!

Author's Preface: I wanted to try something new, something I could actually post here with the guidelines, and this just kind of popped into my head. Not my best work, but it was fun to write, I got to research biology and try something that I haven't done since V1-first person narrative, so...cool

Hope you like it!


Leech-



"That's why he liked me. You were always seeking his approval, while I provided stimulation. He gave up on you, but he adored me. Now who's the real parasite here?!"

"There's only one thing to do with a parasite. Kill it before it kills again."

Parasite-
par·a·site (pâr'ə-sît')

1.An organism that grows, feeds, and is sheltered on or in a different organism while contributing nothing to the survival of its host.
2.One who habitually takes advantage of the generosity of others without making any useful return.
3.One who lives off and flatters the rich; a sycophant.



Chapter 1-

Necrotrophic Needs-



My name is John Woolsey.

Today is a typical day.

I awake and cry broken glass tears.

Another day, I trudge through it, this little inexorable march towards the end of mortal existence for all but me.

I look at the ceiling, the same ceiling. Always the same ceiling- off-white with holes and cracks and peeled paint and disrepair, falling into...falling into.

My eyes push open, weighed down by the dust of the Dreamman, sprinkle it as he may. Do as you may, Sandman, your brother Death's dust shall not touch me.

I pull the gray, sweat drenched t-shirt two sizes two small back down over my stomach, noticing my ribs, visible as they are, jutting out through the skin of my chest.

Gaunt is a polite word for my status at the current venture...haggard does not even convey it, as I run my hands through my hair to try and somehow awake myself out of this cosmic dream called existence, failing to do anything but dislodge several gray hairs which float down to the motel floor wet with my own vomit from last night, a fluorescent testament to my habit of imbibing.

I look at the ceiling, the same damn ceiling. I should shoot a hole in it with a gun, but I do not know how to fire one...I know what I know and that is all.

This march, heavy steel toed boots we wear, chains of fate dragged behind us with righteous and furious cacophonies of clanging against the universe that holds us...this march is life. It took me so long to realize that I think myself a fool in those younger more brash and happy days. A pitiful fool.

You see, I have what one may call an interesting worldview. It all happened about oh..the numbers matter little, just blips in a great radio frequency spanning the ages(that's our life, you know!)

I was a sickly little child, frail as one could conceivably be. Mother would dote. Father would scold- "be tough. strong. blah. blah" the words were simply replacing by a loud and irritating buzzing noise after a while and finally I learned to overcome that.

I would lay in my bed, devouring books on all subjects...nothing fulfilled me. Knowledge does not make happiness, that I learned, but nor is happiness attainable without knowledge.

Life is full of many such paradoxes, the recent years have taught me, living in one myself...

One day when I was nearing the tender young age of 7, Doctor O'Callaghan, a jovial older man always clad in his profession's attire, a smile on his face of distinctly Irish features(for I was a Dublin child those long days ago) came into the front room of our small house. I pulled the wool covers over me, scratching my weak skin as they did, but providing some measure of warmth, as the door swung open and let in the cool Ireland winter's breeze.

Doctor spoke to Father(for Mother had died when I was 3.) The tears and sobs and questions of God haunt me to this day. Weak in the legs and moreso in the heart, I made my way out of bed, discarding the covers and coming across the wood floor(I stubbed my toe, and it hurt) to my room's door, pressing my burning ear(earaches were always a problem) against it. I could hear words, but none I quite recognized, before my Father shouted something about doing away with long words and cutting to it.

"Cancer."

They said.

I rushed back into bed as quickly as my pained legs(by then they could hardly support my small and ill frame) could take me, and cried those tears that felt like broken glass cutting into my soul for the first of so many times...

The next weeks were arduous, for no one in the family would acknowledge what was happening to me.

I could feel life slipping away, as if during the old days I held a tight clasp on something, and now my fingers barely touched it, my hoarse voice whispering pleas for it to return.

Father was most affected in a way I had never seen, and I would hear through the thin walls of our house his reverent prayers to the Lord for his dying son's health.

Then came that day I will not forget. Father, a burly and imposing man never known to be emotional, his hard features wet with tears from emerald eyes that I inherited. He kneeled down by the bed as if one would kneel to pray, and spoke to me for the longest time. I let him speak, caring, but barely in consciousness, my grip on mortal existence almost gone at that day, and by the end of his emotional speech, I asked, my voice hoarse from the cancer-

"How long?" Father began to bawl, and fell over me, holding me tight in those strong arms of his.

"Three days." Came a whisper. I let him cry on me for the longest time, too young to really grasp my own fleeting life, how short and pointless it had been. After what seemed like eternities but could only have been scant few minutes, he pulled back and looked me in the eyes, whispering, barely able to summon the strength to do so, let alone to speak.

"If only the Lord, mercy be upon us, would take me instead..." His head hung low for a moment, and then his eye moved upward. Father was a superstitious man, not just limited to religion- he would throw coins into the local wishing well for instance.

"Son, do one thing for me...try, before you go. Feel..." He clasped my hand in his, the tight and caring grip as I felt the sweat slick his hands, the tears from holding his head in them.

"Feel the life in me. I want this to be in you. I have no use for it. What life is there to a father without a son?" I never could understand that, but I did as I was told, and I looked into his eyes, seeing the life within him that was so rapidly fading from mine. Then...something happened.

It worked.

Slowly his skin started to turn ashen, then a horrible shade as the flesh began to decay. I tried to wrest my hand from his, but he would not let go! I TRIED! I SWEAR! Father...
The life drained out of him, his breathing became slow and labored, until finally a corpse of what used to be my father fell onto me, and I was healed. At a terrible cost.

I cried the tears the third time then, holding him in my arms and crying until the Doctor came again the next day's break of dawn expecting to find a dead son and grieving father, but found a dead father and grieving son.

That was 148 years ago, in Dublin. Living so long, one learns that knowledge is an ever lasting currency. The knowledge of my name, of my curse, did not dispel or lessen the grief I hold to this day. To know the name of something is only trivia in the grand scheme of things...but at least I know what to call my self.

I am John Woolsey and I am a Necrotroph- I feed, take the life I need to sustain, and leave.

It is the only way I have ever known.

Note: Necrothrope-
An organism that causes the death of host tissues as it grows through them such that it is always colonising dead substrate.


Chapter 2-

This one's about someone who can control neurotransmitters- Bliss and Horror minus Horror, who uses it for greedy and selfish reasons.


Sycophant Smile-



"Cute dress!" I squeal, helping Jayne into the lavender dress that hugs her curves. She's quite pretty, I must admit...but that's not what I'm here for. Though I must admit her freckles on that light skin, those auburn eyes, do tend to distract me...

"Thank you so much for being my bridesmaid, Keely." says Jayne with an ignorant smile. I return hers with a knowing one. The question on my mind since she brought me into the lavish boutique to shop for her wedding dress rolls off my tongue-

"How much is this?"

"Oh, 250 I think?" She says, an air about her unconcerned with money.

250.

Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars for a dress. I plaster on a fake "happy for ya!" smile on top of my "this was worth it!" smile. It's coming together. I met Jayne at a boutique where I work, doing some sales rep work but mostly as a cover for my real income- stealing from the rich. I ask an important question to set it up, even though I know the answer already-

"Does your Dad have that much on hand in the Cayman fund?"

Jayne thinks for a moment, and pulls out a gold encrusted, sparkling...cell phone. Growing up in Minnesota, mom would have laughed at this...over our nightly dinner of rice and beans, cold, before going to bed on hard bunks, spring mattresses that jutted into our spines and gave me my signature hunchback. Laughed so she wouldn't cry, that is...

"Daddy..." comes Jayne's bubbly and effervescent voice, speaking into the phone- "I need some money. Yeah, do we have two fitty in the bank. No, silly, of course I know our net worth! 250 I can get to without signing my name lots, Dad!" I don't hear much of the conversation, going to one of the man sized mirrors and holding up a flowing white gown...

Maybe someday...

3 weeks later-

I weave in and out of the rows of people at the gigantic wedding reception, making my way to the cake, and taking two pieces of the delicious strawberry frosting topped chocolate that melts in my mouth, pure heaven. "Cele-brate good times, come on!" The wedding music plays, hurting my ears. The handsome and rugged features of the groom, Derrick Thomas, appear in my view. Quite a treat, maybe even better than the truffle I pick off a passing waiter's cart. I have been to so many weddings...all part of the job! Hehe. I make my way towards the back of the large villa in the Hamptons holding this lavish event passing itself off as the Jayne-Derrick wedding, and make my way to the gift room. A switch of a tag, and watch stuffed in my Prada purse Jayne gave me, and no one the wiser. Fun!

2 months later-

I sit in the happy newlywed's home, admiring the architecture you only see in fancy-pants magazine, in a chair with a wonderful silk cover that does great things for the cramp in my back, as my two "Friends", Derrick and Jayne Thomas bicker about whatever it may be- something about Jayne's job. I've seen the divorce rates in this country. Delightful reading. Thankfully I have a little trick to make everything better. Derrick slams the door to his room, leaving a weeping Jayne in the room with me.

I put on my best caring voice- "Jayne, I can make it all better...for a price."

"Anything. I love him...but he's-just not who I thought he was."

Of course. I made sure of that.

"Jayne, I have a...gift. I can make people happy. Some people do this with music, or make movies or entertain. I simply touch you on the forehead, and all your worries go away."

"That sounds like a dream."

"It is like a dream...a wonderful one."

I place my hand onto her head, balmy with sweat from the exertion of the argument and Jayne slinks back into her chair, blissful beyond measure. Derrick comes back in to notice his wife in such a state, and I almost trip over some ugly modern art statue before getting my hand on his head. He kicks and struggles a bit, then the wave of happiness comes over him.

3 minutes later-

As the eternally happy Derrick and Jayne Thomas roll around their bed in passionate ecstasy, I take my payment- all of the wedding gifts, extravagant and overpriced, decadent as they are that I can fit into Derrick's Mercedes(he has 4, won't miss one...especially during all his fun with his fixed marriage) and drive away to my next destination.


Chapter 3
Epiparisite Experience-



I stand on a crowded Boston to New York bus. I abhor mass transport. Why? Simply put, transport is essential in a large community such as The Divided States Of America. The problem, as with most everything else, is the other people. The other people involved. And in this case, why in this case, they are quite the lot of characters! A wide gallery, a veritable buffet of every sort of plebian and undesirable imaginable, save for the Bubonic Plague victim, a disease that could be useful if brought back and genetically engineered towards these disgusting sorts. Sadly, those annoying scientists lack the force, the will to do so, and focus on less easily attainable but "moral" and "good"(I hate those terms) goals like curing cancer or AIDS(which does a lot of good, with the blacks and the gays being most of the victims it seems.)

I bear it begrudgingly, as I must bear most of life. At home with the wife, and the daughters Julia and Ruth, that makes it worth waking up in the morning and not putting my handy little Desert Eagle I keep in my jacket at all times in my mouth and pulling the trigger. Though that time, that blessed, almost...blissful time is more scarce these days then ever. A black woman- if you can call them "women" by any standards, gives me that look...that look! Damn it all to hell's everlasting fire if I have to work a single man for this con, and get that look! I begin to reach for my Desert Eagle, inside my heavy black overcoat that hangs over my suit and slacks combination, but stop myself. Sadly, that is not an option at this time. Those mongrels...I left the Klan five years ago, the wife again. She doesn't share my views. Nor these days does she share much with me at all, always whining about my drinking and my...worldview.

Though, thing is, she's right. This con doesn't involve my...character being a drunk, and the multitude of breath mints that had popped into my mouth about half an hour ago attest to that. I hate mint, that stinging sensation, but they are quite useful, even with the plastic feeling the dissolving strips leave on my tongue afterwards. Also, I can't use my ability when I'm drunk, so it's for the best at current time. I can't remember all of it, gets cloudy, and I sure as all get up can't rewind to- to my marriage for instance, though most of the time I rewind to planning the con. I can't walk around the memories, I can't...feel things around me, that heightened sense of perception that inspired the term "Mindscaper" from my old boss Judah, the man who gave me the Desert Eagle and most of my tricks.

I tap my cane on the floor of the bus impatiently- a bad habit, one of but many. The cane is a grand thing. Works on so many levels! You look old and frail, gray hair that unlike many men over 60 I do not dye, thin and sickly figure from the cirrhosis and cancer I still fight, people underestimate you. Makes it so much easier to take them for all they are worth. I cease my tapping as the bus screeches to a stop at my destination, and use the cane for a different purpose- the hard osmium core making it an effective tool of blunt force to wade my way through the bus riders. My cane makes the most wonderful rhythm to my ears- cane footfall, cane footfall, cane footfall, cane footfall as I walk out of the bus.

I count my footsteps(trick Judah taught me to help focus and calm down), still a bit jittery even after all these years of being considered the most professional of my profession. Still a bit jittery, the adrenaline flowing, the synapses firing- as with most things, knowing how it works does not make it easier. However, still being jittery comes with something else, something good- still being excited. The excitement in my life is limited to a few things, varied as they are- making love to the wife, conning some "poor sap" out of his belongings, and seeing the girls grow up. It's Kirby Plaza, and the giant red sculpture looms over me and the mark, a healthy looking and tall Irish man of 30 or so. He smiles, a cigar in his mouth letting out little puffs of smoke as non-smokers quickly clear a path from him to me and his hand slaps into mine, grasping it firmly, even painfully. I'm not intimidated.

I go back through the memories, Mindscaping on the rewind button. O'Henry, one of the top lieutenants in the New York Irish Mob. One of the few things that would justify the trip, one of the few things to justify any trip, is money, and he's full of it- and flaunting. Flaunting the wealth. Asking for it to be taken. You can't cheat an honest man, and O'Henry is about the most dishonest fellow you will ever meet.

I smile, trying not to smirk as I watch his cocky, big mouthed grin. He thinks he's in control of me, Jonathan Erickson, businessman seeking "protection" for his jewelry store. How little he knows. If he knew who Richard Denby was, he'd run screaming and crying for his mommy.

It has been said many times, for most likely a combination of why many idioms and clichés become so-

A. It's memorable.
B. It's true.

You just can't cheat an honest man.

I try not to smirk.

Oh, I try.

I'm Richard Denby, and I guess you could call O'Henry a parasite. I guess you could call me one too. But at least I pick my prey wisely- he takes from the innocent and the poor. I only take from other parasites, and that helps get me through the nights, being an epipariste.

Chapter 4
Biotrophic Bliss-




I stand in the shadows.

After all, they are my home.

My dwellings.

My...safe place. Where I am at peace. I watch a man pick up the KA-BAR Army knife on the table in the middle of the room and do a few quick flourishes with it before depositing it within his waist band. A bit of my hair falls in my eyes, clouding my vision with jet black strands as I quickly brush it away. Annoying as my "emo" hair style is, the long bangs in the front, down to the shoulders in the back, the ladies(and the guys) do swoon for it. So a tradeoff I'm willing to make.

It slowly dawns on me that I have no clue where I in fact am. I remember sleeping for a while, then I'm awake, standing here in what seems to be a warehouse of sorts, shadows playing around large cardboard boxes.

Damnit. I know the feeling. I know it intensely well, over the years. It means he did something...did something while in MY body. MINE! I was here first, it's my name on the birth certificate- Robert Gideon Styles. Right there! How dare he! I try to figure out a way to leave whatever sticky situation Gideon has gotten into this time, when I lose control of my limbs. No. Not again. My thin form begins to contort and twist against the forward momentum. I reach into the overcoat. Hope he forgot to dump out what keeps him away most of the time. The drugs.

DAMNIT!

Gideon is smart. Maybe smarter than me. Keen enough to be a parasite, to cling to the edges of my consciousness, waiting to strike, to take control, to do nasty and horrible things with my body while I sleep or whatever illusion he puts up. Thoughts run through my mind- if I was stronger, stronger physically would I be able to fight him this time? The brawls of my youth...our youth, made me strong for my lithe frame, but...

"It matters not." Comes his voice.

"NO!" I scream, I scream at the top of my lungs, bloody murder! But no...no sound escapes from my lips, my vocal cords grasped in a vice. The sound of silence.

"Hello darkness my old friend..." The singsong cocky voice of Gideon reverberates through my brain. Simon and Garfunkel is the soundtrack to the battle for my soul. I must say he has a sense of humor, if an odd one...

"I've come to talk with you again..." He tells me, chuckling maliciously, whispering, almost hissing the words.

"I doubt it's because a vision softly creeping..." I tell him bitterly, trying to spew venom. I'm too weak for that. My voice is filled with terror. NOT AGAIN!

"No. I do all my creeping overtly. Not one for stealth, you see, brother?"

My speech, my talking fails to distract him and I move not an inch, frozen in place but not time, watching the man in the room prepare.

"I see...don't you fucking call me brother!"

An electric shock shoots through my brain, searing in his words as he speaks them. I drop to my knees partly out of pain but mostly because of the simple fact that he wants it to be so.

"I will call you whatever I please! Now, while I may not softly creep, I...haha...I do lay my seeds while you are sleeping. And now those seeds have come to bear, and I must use the body again. But...I let you have a few moments, to cherish this feeling of being "the alternate", the "other" personality again. Just because you were the first here Robert, does not make the body yours."

"Yes it does, yes it does!" I shout, almost pleading for more time.

"When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of
A neon light
That split the night
And touched...the sound of silence."

And I'm back there again. The sound of silence is all that I hear.

Trapped.

Trapped inside the awful corridors of a mind. My mind. My own mind! I've only been here a few times. No, no, I get the feeling I have been here many times, but only a few times was I aware of it. The Bouncer, a large and stout man is slumped in the corner of this part of the mind, the non-thinking part where Gideon shut us away, where he spent most of his time in my youth. Slumped in the corner, scars cover him like a mosaic, a beautiful painting by a master artiste of violence, he bleeds forever.

Gideon's work.

A few others are here, sitting. Subservient. Duchan,Khan,Crissie,Guillermo- they do little, nothing except stare, simply stare into the abyss, the vast nothingness that awaits us soon if he takes full control. The walls, the darkness closes in as Gideon takes steps towards the man in the room.

"Koehler." He says, taking on a business tone.

"Nixon." Responds the man who picked up the knife before, he must be Koehler. In the shine off the knife my senses- stolen as they may be, my eyesight picks up a gleam of what I look like now. Richard Nixon. He has a sense of humor. Gotta give Gid that. If you are a shapeshifter, it's easy to hide who you are.

Each step thuds and clatters around the mind, the walls so tight I can hardly breathe, even though I know the only breathing truly going on is that which Gideon is doing with my lungs. The darkness so close that I can hardly see, though I know the only seeing happening is through my eyes.

I think. I think of the only thing that has ever worked, that has ever stopped him.

I think of Jayne.

Beautiful, kind, caring Jayne Campbell. My sweet heart. The darkness recedes, the walls, living as they are, shudder and turn back. Gideon doubles over in pain, clutching his head as he feels me growing stronger, with renewed energy.

"You okay, Nixon?"

He even loses a bit of the power, his flesh folding in on itself and becoming a bit of a putty before snapping back to the tight features of Richard Nixon.

"Just a headache. A very persistent headache." Mutters Gideon, shoving Koehler away.

I'm just a headache. I make my way through the corridors of my mind, oddly less familiar with these parts then I thought I would be. Thought. Funny word here. But somehow...maybe some part of Gideon inside me, I know where I must go, and in the darkness I feel against the wall, trudging forward as quicksand seems to grasp my feet with each moment Gideon is in the body. Then I'm there.

The Machine.

I stand in a lush and flowering field of bright yellow daises. I get the feeling someone tends this garden of sorts...yet I can not say who. Surely Gideon is here frequently, a VIP of these parts, but he would never show caring for another living thing. Maybe I do, when I'm asleep. Who is to say? I look over the field of daises, to The Machine. Where all of us have gone, all of us will go at one time or another. '

Hell.

Heaven.

Purgatory.

Limbo.

This is all four. Heaven lies at my feet, the beautiful garden of daises almost blinding in their light. Purgatory is beyond me, a great abyss stretching as far as one can see, a canyon of pure darkness down to the deepest depths imaginable. Above the canyon is the shining osmium bridge, jet black in color, ancient words and memories of mine etched and carved into it, spanning the abyss to where I must travel. It leads to the obelisk, towering above and blocking out the sun, leaving only swirling dark forms of shadows as clouds, Heaven's garden the only illumination. Obsidian and dark as my dreams, amorphous and ever shifting, the obelisk is alive...yet not. Mechanical...yet not. It is something outside of the realm of human experience, yet feels realer than anything I have ever experienced with my five senses, honed as they may be. I wish for a moment to remain here, to study it. I am a scientist after all, a psychologist. This is new discovery, new territory. To study this...NO!

Tricks and illusions, veils put up by Gideon to keep the body. I hear him, dully, a light buzz in my ears, speaking to Koehler about "the mission", and "the target"- some girl named Pernior. Gideon seems to know her. Never heard of her. My feet crush daisy petals under them as I dash across, leaping over the sprawling abyss and landing on my torn up, bleeding knees on the bridge, panting and trying to catch my breath.

I wish to stop, but I can not. Each second is vital. Each second, each bit of time is part of my life gone.

Gideon conducts business quickly, handing some explosives, a thermite charge and a huge bomb of superheated liquid nitrogen to Koehler and downloading the funds to an offshore account. The deal is made.

I walk the bridge.

"Good...bye, Janus." Gideon grunts and runs into the starry night, mistshifting into an almost formless state and catching an air current away from the warehouse. He knows I might get out, wants to cover his tracks.

Each step brings renewed energy, force and vigor into my stride. So close to being me again...and then I am there, at the end of the bridge.

The Keeper's room. He sits, a frail old man, hooded in dark robes, with long fingers playing on a tilted grand piano, some Bach. The room is as it always has been and always will be- tall silver walls surround me and him, if one can assign a gender to it. The walls are reflective, mirrors.

Glass.

Darkly.

I spin dizzily around, Gideon taking his last stand for control, and see it- the door, chiseled into the wall, diamond in form. I run to it, almost losing my balance but never, never my purpose. And then...

Jayne.

She stands in front of it, radiant and gorgeous as ever.

"Stay." She asks, those wonderful eyes playing pleading games.

"No. You...you died. He killed you."

"And? Does it really matter? Am I no less real here than-"

Gideon loves philosophy. That's how I can tell. Just another specter, another trick. I rush her, going right through the formless entity that is not and never will be the dearly departed, and fling open the door.

Light. Blinding light, I open my eyes. It's day again. He got a lot of use out of the body this time. I turn around and look. My bedroom. Across the counter, I immediately lunge for them, swinging my jacket around my shoulders(MY shoulders, mine once again) and placing the bottle of pills in them.

He won't be out next time.

Not without a fight.

And maybe...maybe one day I'll kill him, shapeshift into some form where there is only room for me. Maybe one day I'll slay my mind's parasite. But until then....this is my life.

This is Robert Gideon Styles. His life. Only he can live it.

Chapter 5
Symbiotic Syns-





I sit in a restaurant, across the table from a handsome and intelligent man.

Nowhere else I'd rather be.

The restaurant is a nice classy joint in midtown, New York, New York. Nicer than most places guys take me, and nicer than most places I've been. The atmosphere is wonderful- candelabras above our heads provide illumination that dances wonderfully across his handsome face, the place is disappointingly non-smoking(jonjesing a bit right now...) but that's okay, it's nice to breathe in clean air in New York for once. The waiters wear the most handsome tuxedos, the waitresses tight little black dresses that play around their thighs in nice ways that must ensure many repeat male customers. Then he asks me, in that deep baritone-

"So what do you do for a living, Elise?"

I met Tom on the train. His chiseled good looks and dark, soulful brown eyes made my eyes focus right on him.

And these eyes...they never lie. So far tonight has not been an exception- he came...he came with flowers, a dozen roses. I was wearing a rose petal in my hair that day we met on the train and talked from stop to stop...like an enraptured little school girl I even missed my stop talking to him, laughing, flirting! Sadly, now I've got to lie. Though I'm good enough at that- at lying, to make it only a white lie, assuage myself of some of the guilt.

"I work for the government." His eyes light up. Not the reaction I was hoping for. Some guys know when to lay off, an evasive answer to an important question. But Tom...too damn curious for his own good.

"What do you do for them?"

I tell him the truth.

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you."

His face freezes and he pauses for a second before a smile comes on it and he throws his head back in heavy, joyful laughter.

"Good one. It the kind of job where they call you Ms. Crawford all the time?" He's looking for hints, still on the trail. Ought to give him one.

"Sometimes. Usually it's just Crawford."

"To your friends?"

"Elise. But...but I really don't have that many friends at my work."

"I find that hard to believe." He smiles, complimenting me.

"Thanks. It's-it's not really that type of work, social work. Most of it's by yourself."

"Behind a desk, pushing papers like me?"

"Oh yeah, my oh my, so busy yap-yap-yappin' about myself I never did ask..." I trail off, letting him take the conversation away from these unpleasant waters.

"I'm in the market."

"Oh, down on 5th street? The best chili dogs there!" I give a coy smile, rope him in a bit.

"Hehe. Nah, I'm management over at Goldman and Green." He says it nonchalantly, but I can tell he's prideful. Pride cometh before the fall, but that's okay. I'm proud of my job too.

"Ooh, you're a bigshot, huh?"

He smiles warmly, trying not to grin.

"I do alright."

"So do I. So you're not dating down. Hehe." And I do. After all, they pay well for people with my...unique talents. Tom sips his red wine, and the most delightful image of him as a vampyre pops into my head. Continuing my chuckle, which he thinks to be at my own prior remark, I bring my knife easily through the soft and juicy chicken I ordered. As my reflection is caught in the knife, I go through a bit of a self-esteem moment. I mean...how the heck does a girl(lady, lady, I must remind myself) like me land a date with the Toms of the world? It's all swept away by the juicy and succulent bread crusted and lightly seasoned with lemon chicken. Wonderful, just wonderful sensation as it hits my tongue, and the warm lemon aftertaste is great.

Tom places his red wine back down on the table, etiquette pristine as always, he places it on a napkin. One of my little things- chivalry might be dead in most, but Tom's passing all my stupid little "tests" so far.

"So I see. I see...many things." He says, looking deep, boring into my soul via. my eyes. I get a lot of comments about my eyes, and "expressive" and "window to your soul" are two of the most common. Hopefully he's too focused on them to notice what I feel- the warmth running through my cheeks.

Crap.

I'm blushing. I hate blushing. Really kills the "enigma" facade if you blush. Ah well. He smiles, and I think for a moment he notices it, but the eyes- they also entrance, and he's caught up in them, bringing his wine to his mouth a bit clumsily and sipping once again.

Ok, blushing even more now. I bite down on my lower lip as he finishes off his drink and lets out a slight gasp, his face turning into an expression that mixes shock and awe. I catch my reflection in his wine glass, no longer emerald green but great shining yellow lights that break through any darkness and illuminate my pale white features, with the milky white almost swallowed as the pupils dilate, a thick black ring around the vibrant yellow, and great deep, dark blacks of irises.

Syn, I call it. And I hate when this happens. It'll just kick off at the most inappropriate times. Like now, the eyes begin to glow. I rush out of my seat, knocking over my red wine onto my best little black dress, brought out for the special occasion. The stain turns from bright red to a darker, duller color as I grab an embroidered napkin(fancy place) and begin to dab frantically, trying to stop it. I just drop the napkin and rush to the lady's room, less classy then the rest of the place.

My eye is going crazy, shifting in and out of Syn, spending seconds back as the normal emerald green orbs. I look in the mirror, slightly smudged with some other woman's lipstick. I look down to my hands, pulsing and throbbing as they are, and move one across my vision and to the periphery, a large fluorescent trail of color following it.

No! I look back into the mirror and where there by all accounts of a normal Elise should be striking auburn is dull and sickly gray along my hair. The trail etches itself, burning into the space and time around me, swirling into a portal, a vortex that begins to consume like a furious monster, a malevolent part of my mind leaping out. I try to keep focus on my self in the mirror, the loopy zoom lenses that are now my eyes shooting in and out of focus every few seconds as my eye changes color until finally…

They are here.

My eye is yellow now, engulfed in the Syn. My hair is no longer comprised of trails of auburn, but frail little branches of gray. People clear out of the rest room, not one noticing these horrible changes.

Shit!

I didn't bring them.

I didn't bring my pills.

Not the Zoloft, or the Ketamine, or the Geodone. None of it!

How do you fit those in a little black dress? I left my purse at the table, no time to get it now, no time!

Then it begins. The doctors at The Agency say they are hallucinations, but they are too real to be anything but part of my power. Part of the Syn.

The dark part.

My hair goes from gray to jet black to oil slicked darkness that drips down at the end, forming tiny little shiny reflective pools at my feet to regular black hair to ash, gray ash that dissolves in the winds now whipping around and floats away, clouding my vision. I try to move and my foot is caught in one of those puddles, pulling me down with a tremendous force as I struggle in vain against it. My eye, my vision goes through every color in the rainbow, and then combinations, swirls on the painter's palette of greens and yellows and reds and oranges, colors never witnessed before! If it didn't fill me, grip my heart in such furious terrors, I might find it beautiful.

The puddles on the floor become ooze and spread, joining each other in cackling fits of laughter, out to get me.

Out to get me!

Cold, the liquid/solid dark ooze of the darkness, of the Ugrund spreads from my toes to my ankles, and I feel it, freezing cold hypothermialike. It spreads further up, constricting my muscles into paralyzed states, going up, I feel the cold spread up my legs and I am truly, horribly, terrifyingly trapped. Then it goes from raindrops falling on my head/ surely I'll soon be dead, raindrops slowly going down the windowsill but instead going up pace to rocket red ruby comet to Mars speeding, speeding red red kruvy style black slick oil up into my mouth, into my eyes. I try to blink but my eyes are kept open, forced to watch in the mirror my torture. I try to breath, hyperventilating with terrified, panicked pants that take in no air but much ooze, ooze choking me all over.

The ooze solidifies, turning into hard black obsidian as it shifts and changes in form, growing tentacles which make their way up my legs and my arms and into my mouth and around my eyes, my precious eyes, plunging me into darkness.

And then, in the darkness, I see them.

The Choir Of Souls, they call themselves in cackles and whispers. Angelic in features and form but never, never in deeds, the horrible things they would do! Floating on half-eviscerated sulfur smelling bleeding dark crimson wings feet above the ground in what used to be a bathroom but is now the depths of some cosmic infernal abyss, swirling and crackling red and lightning all around me, they laugh. Whirling clouds surround my head, black and grey with trails of black lightning behind them sounding through my ears, making those oft-called elfin hearing-things bleed and cry out in pain.

Oh how they laugh! Singing dirges in ancient languages, tongues twisted and tied, stakes rammed through them until death, antediluvian tongues not spoken since before the dawn of time, screeching, screeching and howling like banshees, specters out of nightmares!

One of them, her beautiful but malevolent eyes marked red, the leader, the one I call Tori, floats up to me and runs her fingers, her scratching, cracked nails along my chin as I try to run.

Then I remember. The Agency put it in, only for emergencies. I bite down hard on the back tooth, tasting plastic as the capsule collides with my wisdom teeth and then hard granules of medicine, a spoonful of hell makes the medicine go down, the medicine go down!

The Geodone kicks in quickly as my eyes become green again and I fall to the floor. Picking myself up slowly I see I'm in the middle of the diner, people around screaming in terror at the frightening spectacle they have just witnessed. My hallucinations, when I go through them, my eyes go through every color imaginable and some not. In the chaos I rush to the table, knocking over a stunned Tom with the hard side of my elbow and grabbing my cell phone, going right across the speed dial.

I slam the phone against my ear as it dials.

"Corona. Private agent line."

"Extraction code alpha, Janus protocol. NOW!"

A bright light around me shocks the patrons of the fine establishment even more as a heavy, strong arm comes out of it and pulls me in. I wake up in Corona headquarters, Mikhail the extraction expert sitting over me, shaking his head.

"You have to remember to take your drugs, Elise. Corona doesn't need any more incidents, the government does need any more incidents with rogue powered super agents."

I nod and utter out a meek "yes", just happy to be alive.


Chapter 6
Kleptoparasite Killings-





She's got the most wonderful eyes.

Those baby blues, man...just thinking of them brings a smile to my face. Despite everything, despite what happened. The raven hair that ran down her back and on the sides tickled around her shoulders and neck, to be swept away for those little pecks of kisses she so loved. Just...her.

Just Julia.

While I daydream, go back through all this, I realize it's what they say-

"When you die, your whole life flashes before your eyes, kid" Judah told me, knowing that in some intangible way as it seemed he did, as this was before he bit the bullet.

There's a man with a heavy barreled, wood plated and varnished AK-47 assault rifle, and he has it pressed to my skull. He wasn't there a second ago. Though that's what they always say about me-"He was there and then...poof, he was gone" or "He was on one side of the room, then he was behind me and the jewels were gone." This guy isn't like me, or Judah, or Denby. At least that I know of. He's just some over equipped rent-a-cop with a big gun instead of a little gun.

Why am I thinking of her?

Why am I thinking of waking up in that posh hotel in Cairo, the beautiful white tiled ceiling the first thing I saw, then the revelation, the shock? Why am I thinking of turning my head to kiss her on the neck the way she loved, and seeing nothing but ruffled covers and a note that I was "really sweet" but that it was "just business"? Of...hehe, being a fool and not realizing sooner as I madly rifled through my wallet and found nothing, all cleaned out?

"Before ya eyes. Ain't it just crazy?" Judah said, and slammed down a drink .

I guess so. Because right now I can feel the cold, bitter wind of an Egyptian night, whipping past my skin as I was panicking, screaming curses as tears ran hot, scalding down my face in agony, and then I was suddenly 20 feet across the room, out of my open window. It feels so real. Judah said that it all felt real. The flashes. Luckily I was on the first floor!

The man with the gun, dressed in a 5 dollar suit, slams the front of the gun into my skull.

"Hey, watch the hair!" I try to be clever, though the joke doesn't really work as it's all cut close, except for my goatee and 'stache. Those I actually put some work into. The ladies love it, so what can I say? Though I doubt the ladies will love me in more than one piece, so when the tall Irish man with the slicked back jet black hair growls out "Move it", I move it.

"You're going to go talk a little with the boss, Harkness."

"How the fuck do you know my name?"

"Shut up and move." He says, and brings the butt across my skull, I yell in pain and bite my lip as a small tear comes to my eye. I might be a criminal, but I'm not a fighting man. Hell, if things go right no one even knows I was ever there. I sure ain't a brawler or a fixer by any measure. My mind races, trying to figure out how he knew my name, and then I remember what "talk" means in these circles, as the wet crimson drips down my cracked open skull and to the back of my neck. They keep right up with the peril, the flashes.

It's a few years ago. I'm in Cairo again, except this time it's to make every damn penny back.

"Who are you?" Comes the shout in a heavy Egyptian accent, as a garishly dressed man turns to me. I'm holding some shiny, shiny diamonds and a pearl necklace. I was a bit sloppy back then.

"I'm Mr.umm...Mr.Toodles!" I say, looking out the open window and then poof I'm 50 feet across, my shoes hitting the top of another building as I take off running, a grin wide as can be on my face. Ah, good times.

It's last year, and Judah is sitting with me in a seedy bar in Boston called Rogues, watching the game on a flickering, old and covered with dust black and white 12 inch TV. Sox are doing good, and I have to bite my tongue to not rally for the Yankees to come back.

"Ah, it's fine kid. Rogues is a...multinational, multicultural experience. You should hear when the world cup comes on, and Tokira of the Triads, the fixer over at the table in the back, screams at the top of his lungs, bloody murder like for Japan to "kill those American cunts", or especially how the power brokers from DC who come down here every now and then will yell and argue over what happens on C-SPAN. White Russian!"

The bartender, Big Dave, slides a glass down the bar. He knows Judah's favorites, it seems.

"This is the seediest dump I've ever been in, I have to say." I remark.

"Yeah, Rogues is a shitcan-" Big Dave gives Judah a look. "No offense, Big Dave."

"None taken." He mutters, and then cracks a smile. "What might your twig of a friend be having?"

Big Dave is called "Big" for a reason, but he doesn't have to mock me. I might be thin, but it's all muscle, and I can hold my own. I'm about to port across the bar and teach him a little lesson, then he runs his hand across an old hunting rifle with yellow banded ammunition next to it. I slowly slink back into my chair.

"What's a guy who can afford Pariah rounds doing running this place?" I whisper to Judah.

"Not sure. Then again, this place does pull in a lot of...supplemental income besides the drinks and wings. So, answer the man's question."

I raise my voice- "A Bronx Bomber. You have those here?"

Big Dave nods. "We get a lot of New Yorkers. Desmond!" A small Irish kid rushes across behind the bar and does some absolute magic handiwork with shot glasses, mugs, and bottles, hands shooting across each one of them as he pours and mixes, shaken not stirred of course. I turn back in the hard bar stool and look to Judah.

"So what am I here for?"

He smirks. "A job, of course. What else? Noir requires a spy, and your reputation precedes you, Harkness."

That's why it's going across my mind now. That was the last time someone knew my name without me telling them. It was Judah and Noir. My mind focuses back in as the man with the gun rushes me up the steps of the mansion I was supposed to acquire some documents and a disk from. Is this Judah's doing? No, no- he's dead. Though no one ever saw his body...no. Just hopeful thinking. Probably a traitor in the team. O'Donnell looked awfully skittish, pacing around the planning room, I remember.

Then it's 3 months ago, and I'm in Haiti, tracking down the trail of a man who can really mindfuck ya. And again there's a gun to my head, not as fancy as the guard's AK, it's an old Soviet model as a stout black man yells in a native language. Then it comes to me.

I smirk. I've always been called cocky, and a cynic. Both are sort of true...I feel the gun up against my head as the guard pushes me into the mansion doors.

"Sorry, Mr." I say, trying to contain my glee. "But I'm not Xavier Harkness."

"Yeah you are. Get going!" He shouts.

"No, no, you've made an awful mistake. I am in fact a visiting diplomat from Cairo. Mr..umm...Mr.I.R.Toodles."

"Wha?" He's able to say as I pull the same trick from Haiti, down the barrel of a gun one second, teleported behind the poor sap the next. I'm not really one for killing, guess the preppie in me died hard. So I grab the belt around his waist, take the nightstick and twirl it in my hand as he turns around. Then I bring it across his skull as eye for an eye, knocking him to the ground. He's on his hands and knees, trying to reach for the gun knocked out of his hands. I kick it away with speed. No taking chances to hot dog it.

"Tell your employer, whoever they may be, that Mr.I.R.Toodles is quite unhappy with them."

He reaches to his belt and pushes a small button on a radio. Immediately the lights go up, the alarm shocks my ears, and guard dogs start barking. Jerk.

"Hasta." I slam the nightstick into his skull, knocking him into dreamland and get the hell out of there.

Close one.

But they all are.

Chapter 7
Alpha/Omega-







The tall, imposing man stood in the middle of The Rogues Gallery Bar in Boston, MA. His voice almost impossibly low, he spoke to his Lieutenant.

"Have the calls been made?"

The Lieutenant spoke, downing a beer first, and asking for another from Big Dave.

"Yes, the calls have been made. Sable has been around the country, not to mention abroad, in the last few days."

"Then all is going to plan?"

"Yes. But...I have a question." The Lieutenant shifted in his seat. The Employer was never one for questions.

"Do ask. I'm interested what one would risk being subjected to such punishments to ask..."

"Why parasites?"

"There is a long answer and a short answer for that. I will give you the short answer- they fascinate me. Also, they are quite useful to men such as us. Does that answer your question?"

"This is for a job. Okay. I guess you'll be wanting to know what we offered them.

Woolsey, the Necrotroph, we offered a position at St.Lucius in New York. Wonderful cancer ward, lots of DNRs.

Alias:"Keely", the Sycophant, was easy enough. A huge pay day- a million point two.

Robert, or Gideon, whichever one decides to show up, Styles, we offered answers about his lost love. People are suckers for answers. They seem to forget that questions are a burden to others; answers a prison for oneself. Note that we never promised he would like the answers. The Biotrophe was eager, and Styles will be among the first to arrive, most likely on a wind current or something typically showy.

Crawford, the Symbiote, a cure for those pesky demons of hers and a way out of the government beauracracy.

Harkness, the Kleptoparasite, once again, answers- except we can actually deliver his lost love in the flesh. That's a bonus.

Those are all five, and they all accepted."

"What of the brood parasite?"

"Already here. In the backroom."

"Thank you. Excellent work, Judah."

Judah smiled.

"I don't do this to get compliments. I do this to get paid."

"Your usual fee, along with finders fees for the parasites, and extra for your trouble, is with David. Collect at closing time."

"Thank you very much, Mr.Noir."


Chapter 8
Heart's Desire: Part 1, John Woolsey-







I'm John Woolsey. And no one ever knocks on my door this early.

Knock knock knock. They come in ordered threes, every few seconds. Someone likes to be precise. Not the landlord, who'd smash his fist in over and over until I'd open up. Not the cleaning lady with her ordered rat-a-tat-tat, followed by cries of "Senor Woolsey!"

Something unexpected.

A new, dynamic factor.

I have not had this in so long...

If I wasn't so suffocated by ennui, it might bring a bit of excitement to me. I must look presentable for this fresh face, I tell myself. Getting out of the bed as several springs and coils pierce into my flesh in this cheap motel, I groan in pain. I have to avoid a puddle of my own vomit on the way, which is almost like avoiding a regular puddle. Except for the smell.

"In a minute." I say loudly, and walk over to my briefcase of things, bending over and undoing the latches. The thing swings open and I rifle through it, grabbing the only shirt that actually fits me that I own, a blue button down dress shirt, and pulling the one that I have on over my head, as it carries with it a few gray hairs. Discarding that onto a heap of clothes, I put on the button down and feel relieved to no longer have anything pushing down on my chest in such a painful manner. My habit of sleeping barefoot, necessary in the hot months and a painful habit to break in the cold, necessitates grabbing a pair of socks out of the briefcase and doing a little hopping dance that I'm sure some poltroon might find amusing to put them on.

Finally, finally I get to the door and look through the pinhole. A tall man with eyes that would terrify most but merely give off a dull sense of interest in me. These eyes...he doesn't have baby blues. Nor browns. Nor any that I can pinpoint the color of.

He has blacks. Undoing the latch hurriedly as he begins to take a step away, I turn the handle and swing open the door, almost clipping myself across the knee in the process.

"What brings you to my umm...more than humble abode, sir?"

I hope he's not here for debts. The man turns around and a large, heavy hand is thrust into my chest, knocking me a good five feet back, stumbling and barely avoiding the vomit. He steps in and closes the door behind him.

"Whoa, wait, c'mon-" I protest, and then he looks at me.

No, he stares. Stares right into my soul, in a way that makes me feel something, once again, for the longest time.

Fear. Total, undying, unreasonable...fear.

"You're-" I'm panting, sweating out of something except to cool off excess body heat once again- "here to rob me, aren't ya? Well, bad day for you. I've not had a good fight in years, and I've got a few tricks up my sleeve." I grip his arm, through his perfectly fitting suit, and try to drain him. He laughs, a deep chuckle that sends horrible chills running up and down my spine. Looking over his shoulder in a sudden unexplainable attempt to find an escape, I notice the door.

I can't see it quite as clearly as before, a shadow at the foot of it growing larger by the second and suffocating it, then the whole room is plunged into darkness.

"I am Sable Black." Growls the man. The shadows writhe and shift so that my bed is visible.

"Sit."

"No, you can't just come into my home and-"

"Sit." It is a command, not a request. So I do, my tailbone feeling a coil go right into it in the most painful way. But not as painful as what I suspect he might do to me if I didn't obey.

"I am not here to rob you."

"Oh, so you're just here to freak the ever loving shit out of me? You're- you're another one like me, aren't you?"

"Yes. But that is not my concern. I have an offer for you."

"Offer? My life sounds pretty good at this moment in terms of offers, so anything would be a step up from that..."

"My employers want you alive, John Crystal Woolsey."

"How- how do you know my middle name. I don't tell anyone that-"

"I know, John Crystal Woolsey, age 148, Necrotroph."

"Hehe." I chuckle, scared. He sounds like he's doing the bad cop here. It's working, to say the least. "You're a walking encyclopedia, aren't ya? What's the atomic density of Osmium, huh?"

"Your ability intrigues my employer. He wishes to acquire your services."

"My, my services? What does that mean?"

"Go to the Rogues Gallery Bar in Boston. All will be explained." He says, walking away as light slowly floods back into the room.

"And- and if I don't?"

"Then you will not receive your reward."

"Which is?"

"On the completion of a small task, we are willing to offer you a renewable and grand source of the life you so desperately need to take from others to further your existence."

"What task?" I'm able to cry out as the shadow around the door becomes a tendril, and then a large mass which carries him out with it. I rush to the door and swing it open once again, and the shadows surround the whole hall, receding back into light.

And he is gone.

I take the first train to Boston.



Chapter 9
Heart's Desire: Part 2, Keely-







The oil slicks up my fingers, all sticky then as it meets flesh. Feels like hell with the A/C off in here, as I yell at George to look at this carburetor. Going to be a hard month...

"Nah, thing's fine." He says, southern drawl just choking every word of his as it tends to do.

"Just don't light a match, okay, Jenna?"

Jenna is the...fuck it, lost track here, but it's after Keely, and far after my birth name. I let out a hearty and riotous laugh as George's Southern(read: Ugly, I should move back to NY and con pretty people) features curl and twist in painful arrangements that happen when he expresses joy. This is just about the most frustrating job I've ever had- my ability won't let me coast, because if the car falls apart when I'm not there, no amount of overload neurophinephrine and serotonin will save my sorry bum. Yes, bum! You heard me right! What, British people can't be criminals too? Just fucking with you. See, that's what I do. A lot of it is playing on the biases people hold- which is just about the easiest job in the world if you understand the key fact of life. See, a man once pretty much summarized it.

"Everyone who is not understanding that man produces evil as a bee produces honey must be blind or wrong in his head."-William Golding. Modern translation- people=shit.

He was too busy being smart to give any witticisms or lessons on chop shops- see that would have been more practical, though less quote worthy, as far as my current situation is concerned. But hey, in '98 I took 30k off this nutter of a cryptozoologist, and he once mentioned Golding was a big Nessy believer, so fuck him anyway.

This con is quite the simple one, and has a good reward at the end. Over in my old stomping grounds of Brighton, Dr. Hugh McLaughlin is on DNR battling esophageal cancer. Little does George know he's the sole heir, and that he's in for a lot of cash in a bit. That "bit" is the problem though! As he presses his lips against mine, I have to grin and bear it, being his girlfriend and soon to be wife so I can get a cut of the money. George grunts out something about needing to "take a leak and use the shitter, be right back" and I want to strangle his ignorant bum.

At least he's out of my face for a bit. I've got my head down under the hood of this Chevy, working on it, hands all covered in oil.

This is so not worth it.

Damnit, fuel line has been cut by some jerk, probably before we got it. I pop my head out from under the hood to go and ask for assistance(the only thing he's good at) from George and realize my surroundings.

The garage is sprawling, yet I can only see a few feet in front of me. Shadows choke everything, but I know that there's only one huge overhanging light. This doesn't make sen-

There's a man standing next to me.

A big man. Looking not-happy.

Shit.

"What- what can I do for you today, sir?" I hope this is not his Chevy. Then I notice his eyes. And I hope he doesn't know who I a-

"I am Sable Black." He says, the growl like that of the most horrible things, specters and incubi of one's dreams, invading the waking day.

"And I'm Jenna Arcudi. Nice to meet you..?"

"Sit."

"Umm..where?" There's not much room in the small shadow that we are engulfed in. He points his hand towards the hood of the Chevy and a roughly formed hand reaches out of the darkness, brushing up against my shoulder as I try to contain my fright, and slams the hood down.

"Sit."

I do as he asks, holding onto the sloped hood so as not to fall down. I feel like I'm falling anyway, as a bit of vomit rises into my mouth.

"I am not here to harm you."

"Right. How much money do you want? We're just a chop-shop, it's- we don't really have a safe or anything but there is a bit of cash in the backroom-"

"No." No? Huh? I'm scared even more. Not money.

"Should I say my last prayers here? Because I'm not really the praying type. You grow out of it, is all..."

"I am not here to harm you!" His growl, down into something subvocal at the end that quakes the air and chills my skin to goosebumps, isn't the most convincing thing.

"I am here to propose."

"Why, that's right and dandy, but George- you know, the guy from before who's prolly chokin' to death in the shadows, I saw a ring in his wallet before. I know I shouldn't have looked but-"

"Propose an offer for you."

My eyes light up, and I feel much better immediately. Whew. Not robbing, not killing, not the only thing worse- marriage. An offer I can live with.

"Yeah...c-cool. What offer?"

"Simply make your way to the Rogue's Gallery Bar in Boston."

"Oh-Ohio to Boston? Why should I make the trip?" I try to shift the momentum of the situation as always, and reach onto his arm.

"Oh, and it would help if you lightened up a bit." I think happy thoughts in the frightened state I'm in, but nothing...

Nothing happens. What the fuck? My ability-

"Your ability does not work on me, Ms.Doughty."

"H-hwha-wh-" That name has been gone for so many years, I hardly realize he's talking about me. But- but he is.

"My employer does not provide transportation, Myra. However, he provides incentive. Go to Boston. Complete a small task for him. There is one million, two thousand dollars in a briefcase at an undisclosed location, your payment upon completion. I suggest you take our offer."

"Oh, of course!" I smile and go to rifle through my jeans for my card, so we can stay in conta-and then the lights go back on. George is stumbling out of the bathroom, hiking up his jeans after using the facilities, and I smile.

"Georgeyboy, sorry, got to go. Some thing more lucrative just opened up."

"But Jenna, I love you." He reaches for his pocket. Probably has the ring in there. I walk up to him, smiling.

"Look, you'll be much happier now then you ever would be with me. Plus, I'd make a rather bad wife." I touch his face gently, and his eyes roll up in his head in bliss as serotonin floods his brain. He collapses on the floor of the chop shop and I take all the money in there.

Myra Doughty.

I haven't heard that name in so long...

I walk outside the shop, whistling a jaunty tune, and with the keys I pocketed, start up his Impala. To Boston, it'll be a long drive.

But 1.2?

Oh hell, it'll be worth it.