Tom Moses

He gathers all his friends in a single place.  He thinks he has me grasping at straws, he thinks I believe Randy and Ricky are capable of all this on their own.  The revenge story is a tired plot, I’ve heard it at least a dozen and recited it on my own at least twice before I was twenty, the son of a bitch has no idea who he’s toying with.

The fucker’s guards go down easy; they’re not even worth a third bullet to make sure.  Guns aren’t very satisfying; a million assholes can squeeze a trigger, some of those assholes actually know what they’re doing.  Fists and blades are what I’m looking for, but I’m not an idiot. All these sons of bitches will be packing at least a nine mil. or even a forty-five. read more »

“…have been burning well into the morning.  The third such fire erupting since the predawn hours, we are still waiting word from Global Securities chairman Marc Spector, but to this hour no one has been able to reach Marc Spector.”

There hasn’t been anything new in the news since before I can remember.  Just a load of heartless hate mongers with their own agendas to push down peoples’ throats.  I wanted to relax for a Saturday, take a load off, rest up and plan my next move; but the phone will probably start ringing in the next few minutes and I’ll have to find something to say to the Press.

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Flames lick my skin; singe the hair at my legs.  I walk through the fire and yet I feel no pain.  I look all around as would a curious child, everything seems so upside down.  It’s like a fever dream, the floor is above me, yet I walk upright…just on the ceiling.  I can feel the prickling texture of the drywall at the bottoms of my bare feet.

It’s so very strange, where am I?

{You humans are funny creatures,} a voice calls out to me, familiar, I’ve heard it sometime before.  I look behind me, expecting to be sucker punched by another pansy but I see nothing.

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Orange burns through the overcast gray the best it can, only succeeding in small efforts to defeat the coming rain.  Across the four-lane street from an old friends’ house, the suns’ last grip on the daylight hours cause my eyes to strain.  The wind is slow and as quiet as the sidewalks are empty.  It’s a ghost town here and an impending sense of dreads takes the forefront of my mind.

All the foot traffic ceases and changes direction before the people come near Manny’s place.  And just like it is some Middle Eastern village in the middle of nowhere, I know something violent is coming.  All the signs are here.  There are no witnesses, no bystanders, even a cops’ cruiser makes a U-Turn at the intersection not twenty yards east of Manny’s small house.

I don’t like this one bit.

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His house was still a wreck from his meeting with John, most of that mess had been cleaned up, but there was still the matter of the black scorches on the stairs left over from the Paramedics. Rubber gloves on his hands he had been at work cleaning the bedroom from top to bottom. For whatever reason, the act of cleaning usually gave him time enough to think and sort things out; it was almost a similar exercise to his morning runs and workouts, except there was more to think about when he was not as active.

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The street lamps were dim and yellow; the few that worked hardly provided enough light to keep the streets safe at night. Jackson kept his eyes roaming while he canvassed the area from the safety of his Honda. Counting the illicit customers coming and going from the yellow house on the corner of Third and Elm, seeing no apparent pattern at this time of night, but all the same the plan did not matter to whatever pattern the customers took, there were no innocents in this equation.

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His office would’ve been much more impressive if every stick of furniture hadn’t come from particle board put together at prison industries, the quality of work produced by felons was quite evident the moment Jules laid eyes on the wannabe mahogany desk. Though this behemoth of a man was certainly brave enough without suggesting that Jules come to see him without handcuffs on, but so many of these guys were like that, brave on the outside but cried themselves to sleep whenever something went horribly wrong. Jules sighed and took a seat, this guy was harmless, and helpless but there was probably little in the way of power he had over the institution other than making the inmates feel better about themselves so that they might push less grievances against the reformatory.

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Jules slid his feet over the polished tile floor, walking had proven difficult enough but really, why was there any hurry? The officer stuck closely behind him and Jules thought about how funny it was that no one else paid any attention to his presence. No stray glances, no gawking, not even an unkind phrase was good enough to acknowledge him. He kept on the straight path toward the elevators guided only by the officer’s occasional word: “Right” or “Left”.

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