Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-26268104-20180205214628

The Start of the Road Trip Edit
Down the road I was going to go, to end the journey.

But let’s start from the start, just before journey began. Chris Ashland at your service. I’m the guy who was walking down the road. Not the one that was going to bring me to the madness that awaits, but the one that brought me to work. Just from looking at me, you’d hope my job wasn’t with any heavy machines or anything. I was very thin, with limbs that looked like the bones were long twigs. My face wasn’t anything to be proud of either. It was bony, with almost no fat in the cheeks or chin. I wore large glasses that rubbed against my wrinkled forehead, and my face was so angular that I looked like I was made of metal or something. My face had just enough skin to function, just like how I had just enough money to live.

Dragging my feet through puddles past hobo after hobo and slum after slum, I reached the work place. It was a simple, white rectangle with annoyingly bright red letters at the roof above the door: “San Stone Pharmacy.” The letters blinked on and off like a police strobe light, casting a glow that always contrasted with the bleak grayness of everything in San Stone, Nevada. I sighed and walked inside.

The light hit my eyes and as I entered, so I rubbed them a bit and went to the counter. About when I said lifting things was out of my league, don’t worry. I was a cashier here. Nothing to lift besides change. The pharmacy was small, and although you might be able to cram everything on two shelves with enough effort, everything was scattered sparsely to show off. From the counter, I noticed that stupid old poster of the smiling lady with the caption: “Expand your health horizons.” Noticing that the boss was probably in the storage as usual, I took advantage and gave that poster the finger. I loved to do that. What a load of shit.

Eventually, the other employees came in. Besides the boss, there were three others, but only one stood out to me. How could I forget her? Deep, thick brown hair, lush lips, and legs that could push the button in even our stoic boss. But it wasn’t her beauty in of itself that bothered me. It was, first, the mystery of why a girl like her worked in a town as wrecked as San Stone, but more second and more importantly, the non-mystery you will see very soon.

The middle of the day was a blur. I stumbled back-and-forth behind the counter, asking the customers that came and went what they were buying in a deadpan voice. Throughout the day, I stretched my arms and yawned, trying to shake the fatigue feeling in my stomach. In the middle of the day, my boss came out of his office to check on our progress, and said he’d like a moment to talk to me in his office. It wasn’t that special with no windows and only one chair, but at least it had a desk. Silence was all I heard for a moment before the boss spoke.

“I would request you to stop these behaviors.”

I stayed silent, looking into the boss’ dead eyes. He was much fatter than the rest of us, contrasting his body with his small head, but that didn’t make his glare any less threatening. I’ve gotten used to it, having been in here twice a week.

The boss continued, “Your productivity has been slipping gradually. I would prefer it if you participated more actively with your fellow employees. Can you do that?” I didn’t know what say.

If I were an honest man, I’d scream, “How’d that work out for me back then, huh? It’s been years, and I’m still stuck in that damn shack.”

But I’m not mean. So, I just opted for a grunt. The boss raised his eyebrows. “Fine,” I said.

He smiled. “Lovely. Keep this up, and that raise will come in no time.”

What a load of bullshit. He said that exact thing 20 years ago. (I’m 48 right now.) At the time, I had no idea why he would promise and never deliver, and the question was a mystery to me. But in less than an hour, it’d be a non-mystery.

I was about to leave when the boss asked, “Would you tell Jessica I want to discuss something with her?”

I nodded and left, wondering what the boss would want with the attractive, new girl before it pushing out of my mind for now. When I got back to work, the store didn’t have many people, like always. Most of those who lived here couldn’t afford the things anyway. When the few customers here cleared out and it was empty except for us employees, one of my co-workers asked, “What did he want, man?” I shrugged. None of my workers here would think I’d be the most scolded employee, considering I’ve worked in the pharmacy the longest.

After ten minutes or so, Jessica ran out, or rather, bounced out of the office, her skirt flapping up and down. This was such a sight, making me and my other two co-workers turn and stare.

After a moment of hops that almost sent a wind through me, Jessica said, “I did it! I did it!”

The two in front of me leaned forward to get a better look, as if that would help find out what “it” was.

“I got the raise!”

My two co-workers praised her with a thumbs up and compliments. I stepped back a few steps, like there was a monster in Jessica’s place. But I wasn’t afraid. I was as angry as a lion. My hands clenched into fists and my muscles got so tight they looked like they were about to crack my twig-like arm bones. I glanced to the clock above one of the shelves. My shift was almost up. Only five minutes to go.

Once those minutes were up, I carefully walked away, but once I was sure the departing employees couldn’t hear my footsteps, I stomped every step home, not caring about the cold puddles that splashed into my shoes. My home was a little white square, with all the basic needs met. There was a bed, a refrigerator, a stove, and a little closet-all in one room. The only things that weren’t life-or-death needed were one lightbulb and an old TV. At least the bathroom, which was mostly the same deal as the living/bedroom, had a mirror.

I stormed into the bathroom and smashed the mirror. Now I knew why I wasn’t rewarded for hard work. It wasn’t because I didn’t work hard enough or because my ethic sucked. For the first 11 years, I had neither of those traits. I wasn’t rewarded because I didn’t look as good as the delicious Jessica. She was rather slow, and very new, yet she got a raise after only two years, and I got nothing after 20 years. It was unfair. Pain in my fist snapped me out of my mirror. No shards got in, but breaking that mirror took effort, and the pieces were scattered about the bare floor. I decided to clean them up in the morning, so I shuffled back to the living room and fell backwards onto the bed. I settled on one thing in my mind– someone was going to pay for this.

Then it occurred to me. I always made my boss pay in my later years. When he wasn’t looking, I’d draw penises on his documents. He’d notice, but could never guess which one of us did it, and always had to live knowing that one of us was out to get him. So what could I do tomorrow? More penises? No. I would have to do something that would hurt him. Something cruel. I sighed and decided to watch a bit of TV before I went to bed. If I decided to do something illegal, maybe my final request as a free man could be a night of the Simpsons reruns. But when I turned on the TV, it was already on a news show, and what I saw changed my course completely.

The blurry screen showed a man in a suit on the podium, surrounded by one of the largest crowds I ever saw. He had black hair combed smoothly above a face with a wide, teeth-white smile and brown eyes that seemed to glow with energy and fierceness. I saw this man on TV, and the caption at the bottom of the screen read, “Gerald Paul: Speaker of the House.” Gerald took a deep breath and said the worst thing you could say to me in my current state.

“I’m aware that the opposition claims that we are on a pyramid where only a few can reach the top. I say otherwise. If you are a hard worker who can maintain the endurance for years, you can be on top.”

In other words, this situation is all my fault. I wanted to scream, but that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. So, instead, I turned off the TV and slammed my head backwards onto the bed. My throat shut as angry tears poured from my eyes. I was in desperate circumstances, and to make matters worse, the Speaker of the House was spreading the idea that this was all my fault. The only that got me to stop was falling asleep.

The next day, I woke up with crusty eyes, a red nose, and a headache. Trying to shake it off, I got dressed and off to work I was once again. I actually managed to get a few blocks away from my house before I remembered the events of yesterday. My anger renewed, albeit in the form of being grumpy as opposed to enraged this time, and I decided what I was going to do.

The initial minutes of arriving were dull. Opening the cash register, helping the first few customers, saying hello to the boss and co-workers-the usual. But soon, Jessica, (who I couldn’t stand the sight of now), told me that the boss was coming out in a few minutes. My chance is coming, I thought. Soon enough, and fortunately, during a time when no customers were present, the boss came out. He opened his mouth, about to ask something, when I cut him off.

“H...hello,” I began, trying to decide how to buildup. “I…I wanted to tell you how… how awful of a boss you are!” It was hard to start, but once I did, the words came out as steady as music.

“Excuse me?” the boss asked, stepping forward.

“You always promise that you’ll give me that raise ‘later,’ but then later never comes. And you give Jessica a raise after, what? One year? You’re a lazy liar.” To underline my anger, I knocked the cash register off the counter, then stomped around it to a shelf and knocked it down, while everyone stood still in shock. Although I enjoyed what I was doing, I couldn’t help being a little relieved that my parents, wherever those folks were, weren’t seeing this. I knocked over another shelf, then another. Then, once no shelf in arm’s length was standing, I stomped toward the door, kicking the broken cash register aside as a way to give a final goodbye.

My mind was racing like a fast car as I thought of what I was going to do now. I couldn’t go back, because employees who break things are generally unemployable. I also couldn’t go back and hurt my ex-boss more, because I already did that. My mind wandered to what I heard Paul say last night, and settled on something. My stomach turned with nervousness and the logic part of my head said it was crazy, but I settled on it all the same.

I was going to drive across the country to kill Gerald Paul.

Why not? I thought. At the time, I had no job, no purpose in life, and was living paycheck-to-paycheck. I was trash, destined to be irrelevant in the grand scheme of even this small, poor town. But if I killed Paul, I would make a statement. The news would be all over this, and they would squeeze every fact out of the story to feed their customers. And maybe some of them will be supporters of Paul, who will understand that I, a poor person, was active enough to go on a long quest to kill a national figure. The poor would no longer be seen as lazy men who could get rich if they “just tried.”

With this choice made, I marched home. My cell phone was fully charged, and using my neighbors’ unsecured Wi-Fi, I spent all day researching and downloading a few apps, learning about the “deep web” along the way. Apparently, it was the internet for criminals. You could buy drugs, prostitutes, banned books, and in my case, guns, and the best part was that it was totally anonymous. Once on the deep web, I settled on a site called “NoRulesX.onion.” According to the reviews on a site with an archive of links, everything was cheap and lethal, and it even came with a little “how-to” on the basics of shooting. Although it was slightly scary to click the link of a site that was proud of being illegal, it was also thrilling in same as when you find an old part of the house that nobody has seen before, with a sense of adventure and discovery.

Before I clicked the link, I expected a site that had every corner crammed with nasty images of death and blood, but aside from the defiant name, the site looked quite ordinary. There were a series of categories on the left labeled “drugs,” “banned books,” and “guns,” which were further broken down into things like “pistols” and “assault weapons,” just like how Amazon would have sections such as “books” broken further down in sub-sections like “fantasy” and “horror.” In the center, displays of “hot” items were advertised, like an energy drink filled with cocaine, and a sniper that came with 50 bullets. I considered buying the latter, until I learned that it was up for a bid that currently was valued at one million bucks.

So instead, I went to the pistols section and while I dug for a good weapon, I also would have to occasionally pop into plain old Google to learn what a muzzle flash or alloy frame was. I came across so many guns that looked perfect for killing, but then it would turn out that they were either up for bid or cost way too much. After a good hour of scrolling through and reading descriptions and prices, and I settled on a Cobra with brass cased ammo, mainly because I could actually afford it. I was about to click buy when I remembered from my internet research that the deep web used Bitcoin, which I had none of, so I spent yet another hour waiting to convert some of my PayPal savings into bitcoin on some regular internet site. And just when I was going to purchase that gun, I learned that I was out of the range of delivery and would have to pick it up from the seller’s place. Reading the address given after I clicked buy, I noticed that it was some house in Nebraska. I didn’t mind, since I’d drive through there on the way to Pennsylvania, and would still have plenty of distance by that point so I could practice shooting.

With the obvious and most important part of getting ready done, there were only a few things left to do before. The next most important part was getting a car, as I had a driver license, but my last car was destroyed years ago. Fortunately, this would be an easy part. On the border between the neighboring town of Hammer Hust and San Stone, there was a little car rental shop. My first car was from them, and while it broke down after a couple years, it would do for a drive across the country.

I got my dusty suitcase from the closet (I hadn’t used that thing in years.), packed my things, and went off to the bank to withdraw the handful of savings I had. The banks, like all businesses in San Stone, were sparsely populated, and I’d spend boring moments wondering why these people didn’t just leave already. My best guess is that it was the mortgage continually going up setting them back like it was for me. I wondered this as I got out my savings, stuffed them into my suitcase, went to the supermarket, and bought some food. After that, I was off on the hour-long walk to rent the car. The sun was slowly being eaten up by the horizon behind me, casting an orange glow over the gray San Stone as I began my journey, at the end of which would be the destruction of many things.

My feet ached, but I used the anger over what Gerald Paul said to motivate me to go faster, with no breaks. Eventually, I passed a sign that said: “Welcome to Hammer Hust: The Town of Industry and Fairness.” And just near it was the car rental place. As I entered and began asking about car rental with the man at the front, the last bits of the sun were being consumed by the horizon. By the time I had given out the money to pay for a good few weeks of rental, it was completely dark outside. At least Hammer Hust, even on the border, had ten times as many lamp posts. If only I had chosen a pharmacy in this town. There’d be no fear of crime, no isolation (the population was much bigger), and more chances. But back in the old days when I was in my late twenties, San Stone looked like the brightest town around– until that damned Mayor Mason screwed things up.

My Name Is John-WellEdit
With the man who I made the deal with, we walked around the little shop to the garage, which he opened. Once my eyes got used to the dark, I could see a rusty blue car. The lights were smaller than that of most cars. Perhaps its target audience was paranoid people about to do dangerous things and not wanting to get any attention. It was not a one percent car by any means, but it’d get the job done. Despite the fact that I had no risk of getting caught this early, I still felt uneasy sleeping this close to where I got my vehicle from. So after I put my suitcase on the front passenger’s seat, I drove across the industrious but small town, passing by the various factories and stores that Hammer Hust owned. Once at the edge, I got open that suitcase and chowed down on a bit of watermelon. They were one of my favorite foods, ever since my parents first served them to me. As I ate, I wondered if they were still alive. If they were, surely the death of the Speaker of the House would even be heard about in places as remote as Canada, my birthplace. Just thinking of them made me ache. I may have been a hard-nosed, cynical wage slave who was off to commit murder, but if they were alive, their sheer hope for me and my future would be the last sign that I was ever a bright, optimistic person.

I eventually just pushed the whole thing out of mind, threw the inedible part of the melon out the window, and fell asleep in a car. For some time, I slept just fine, despite quite a chill in my back from thinking about my deed-in-progress. But oddly, despite cranking up the heat every now and then, the chill got more intense. Not just that, but it seemed to change, like it was going from being a fear about what I was going to do to a fear of something close. Some that required my immediate attention. I tried to ignore the feeling, but it just grew and grew, until I just couldn’t stand keeping my eyes closed. So I opened them up and I saw…

A man sitting in the back seat, smiling casually.

Right away, I jumped up from my seat, banging my head against the front window. “W-w-who are you?” I asked.

“I’m going to call myself… uh… John-Well. Yes, that’s my name, Mr. Ashland. John-Well!” The man broke into a wide smile. I figured he was some kind of homeless person with door-picking skills, but he was dressed in a clean suit. His hair was combed perfectly, to the point that it was possibly a wig. His skin was as pale as his white teeth and his eyes were so big and wide, that it was like they expanded from being excited for too long. And he knew my name on top of that.

I wanted to say something to this strange man, but having not been much of talker for years, I initially couldn’t form a letter with my tongue.

John laid back, crossed his arms, and grinned. “Oh, you want to know how I know your name, eh? Well, John-Well is...” John-Well brought his head back and tried to slam it on my seat, but it went straight through, and as he leaned back in his seat, I made a connection.

“M…my…my head,” I managed to get out. “You’re in my head?”

“I’m afraid so,” John-Well said. “Well, fall n’ sleep now.” As he said this, his grin finally got to me, and I leaned forward over my seat and pointed at him.

“I’m not fucking crazy or anything,” I shouted. “Go away!”

“Sorry, man,” John-Well said. “I’ll be with ya for a long time. Besides, you’re going to kill the poor dude in Pennsylvania, so you’re already kinda nutty.”

“You’re in my head, right?” I shouted back, still pointing my finger. “You know what he did.”

“You’re an ignorant slob,” John-Well said. “I’d say grow up, but ‘learning’ doesn’t seem to be in your vocabulary, now does it?” I was exhausted at that moment and really wanted to go to sleep, but I just couldn’t do that with this irritating bully in the car. In my head, I ran through all the ideas. None of them would work. I couldn’t try to scare him out and kick him out, because anything I threw at him would go right through him, and every other plan I could think of relied on something that people had that hallucinations didn’t. My muscles tightened in a mix of anger and worry as I realized I would just have to sleep with him in the car and hope he would go away.

“I’m going to sleep now. Don’t you dare disturb me or else… just don’t be noisy me, alright?” I asked. Without responding and without any transition, John-Well just disappeared before my eyes. I shook my head and tried to process if what happened actually just happened. A man had appeared before me, announced he was in my head, and then vanished. He called me an ignorant slob. That comment pushed my buttons very hard. The ignorant part confused me, though. What did he mean by that? Did he mean that there was some opportunity for my heard work to pay off that was right in front of me at one point and I missed? That couldn’t be-he wouldn’t know anything that I wouldn’t know, right? I sighed, laid back in my chair, and shut my eyes more tightly than usual.

As I pondered over what made me “ignorant” while trying to get some more rest, I couldn’t help wondering about what was causing me to see things. Was I losing my mind? Surely not. I could comprehend reality as well as any other human. It must have had something to do with my recent plans to murder, but I was still making rational choices. Gerald Paul had insulted me after I worked my ass off for over 20 years, and I wanted him to pay for that in blood.

Sunlight stung my eyes, making me struggle to lift my head from the car seat. I groaned as I leaned forward and rested my head on the wheel. I checked my watch. 8:30. I didn’t check last night, so I had no way of guessing how long I slept. After a bit of snack, I started up my car and was on the road again. The GPS built into the car said I would be across Nevada in just under eight hours. Great. I could drive four at a time with a two hour break in the middle and still make it there by the end of the day.

Ten minutes or so down the road, while driving through the country, I began to think back to the previous day, and the contrast with the confidence I had before I remembered that night caused a chill to creep down my back. For a moment, I tried in vain to convince myself that it was just a dream. That I had fallen asleep and had a false awakening. Yet, just as I was thinking that, I felt the presence of another living body and while slowing down my car a bit, I turned around to find John-Well there, laying back in the back seat casually, with his arms behind his head and his feet on the back of my chair.

“So,” he said, “I hear you’re off to kill Gerald.”

I nodded.

“Shame,” John-Well responded. “He’s such a nice man. Remember what he did in Texas?” With this, he made a spinning motion with his finger while making a “whoosh” sound, and I thought of Hurricane Ronald.

“Humph,” I said. Of course I’d know what Gerald had done, or else my hallucination wouldn’t.

“Considering that, I don’t buy this whole ‘he doesn’t care’ narrative you got going on,” John-Well said. My fists gripped the wheel harder. If they didn’t, I might have risked charging at him in the futile hope of hurting him. For a moment, silence filled the air.

“What do you want?” I finally demanded.

John-Well said, “I want to you to do something more peaceful, perhaps settle in some other town, but your brain’s metal, man, so that’s not gonna happen.”

“How long are you going to be with me, huh?” I asked, firmly looking ahead at the road.

“I think… I think for a long time,” he said.

The next hours were agonizing. John-Well would come and go, and each time, he would say the same thing over and over. I was mean for trying to kill Gerald Paul, and should just settle in some nearby town instead. Every time we’d run through some settlement, he’d make a list of all the reasons that was the best place for me. Sometimes, it was a long one, but most of the time, it would be composed of only two items. There was even a village where the only pro was that they had a large supermarket. (That would’ve been a huge deal if I lived in Venezuela, but USA is different.) This persisted for a good several hours. Hours stretched into days, and every night, while John-Well never came at night, I feared him most at that time, when I would need my rest for the big day coming up.

One day, when I was approaching Nevada, where I would get my gun, I noticed something– the gas was running low. Initially, I shrugged it off, as gas isn’t that expensive, but when I scavenged through my suitcase, I found I barely had any money left. Nervousness shot through my limbs. Would my plan get cut off here all because cars need gas? I observed the area around me. I was in the middle of nowhere once again. On either side of me were trees and a few signs. I’d just have to drive for a bit and hope a gas station was close by, but even then, how would I get enough gas? I took a deep breath and continued down the road.

Within a few minutes, I saw a gas station, and thank God I did, because the supply wouldn’t have carried me for more than ten extra miles. The gas station was small, but it had what I needed. Without the worry of if I would find a gas station, my concern turn toward having enough money. I had a bit of cash left, so I got outside and walked into the little store where the cashier was waiting. This store was small, with only one cashier, two aisles of food, and one aisle of drinks. There was no line, so I walked in front of the counter and waved my money saying, “How much money of gas can this buy?” The cashier examined it and told me it could buy about 20 gallons. “Damn it,” I muttered. The cashier, considering there were nothing but trees around the store, probably didn’t get much traffic, and hence he noticed.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Uh…” I regretted saying it out loud. I couldn’t exactly announce that I was on my way to kill The Speaker of House, so I said, “Uh… I’m on my way to see my…err…girlfriend in…in Pennsylvania. Yes, in Pennsylvania. Err…Erie, to be exact.”

The cashier asked, “Why not take a plane?”

“I… am afraid of losing my things.” By that, I really meant that once I had the gun, I would have to worry about airport security finding out.

“Ah. Well, maybe this violates policy, but since the boss never checks on this store, I can give you a discount.” My eyes widened at the offer. In part because of the generosity someone was showing to a little worm of a human like myself, but also because he would likely regret it once he saw the news. “Really?” I asked.

“Sure,” the cashier said. “Just wanna help.” Minutes later, my car was filled with gas, and I only lost about 15 bucks to get it. It was plenty, and almost enough to get me to Pennsylvania. Before I went back onto the road, I entered the store one last time and thanked the cashier. “No problem,” he said.

“When there aren’t any people around, what do you do?” I asked.

“Oh, just dance, and pray, and play tic-tac-toe,” he said with a shrug.

“What else?” I asked.

“Well, I’m going to spend the next few months campaigning for Wilson Tone.”

What he said baffled me. This was a generous man who didn’t look down on struggling people like me, and yet Wilson Tone had his support. Tone was the president, and the man who brought that wretched Gerald Paul to power. I would have killed him instead of Paul, if it wasn’t for two things. One, he was president, and probably had about three times the protection the speaker did. Two, everything about him, from his insane-like smile, to his surreal sense of humor he had during meetings aired on TV, to his fame as being the clumsiest president since Ford, just made him too likable and too much of an every man to hate, much less kill. Still, this man supported someone who supported Paul, and that trait just didn’t seem like it belonged in a person who would help me out of pure kindness, like someone had extracted the aspect from a greedy rich person and transplanted it into a man who worked as a cashier in a small gas station in the middle of nowhere.

“Uh… thanks again. I have to go.”

I waved goodbye and walked rather quickly out of there, but before quickly buying a few cracker boxes so I wouldn’t be like a kid from Africa by the time I arrived. I got back in, and to my “joy,” there was John-Well, waiting for me. I expected him to wear his usual taunting look, but he looked surprised, and just a bit… as I got back in, I tried to make out what other emotion there was. He just stared at me, not so much as flinching when I slammed the car door shut and drove back onto the road. I made out the emotion of… what? Sadness? Possibly even regret? I didn’t know, but his posture revealed nothing. He was leaning forward a bit with his hands on his knees and his legs apart. Nothing out of place.

Time passed by. I think it was around two days, but I didn’t bother keeping track because it didn’t matter. As I was crossing over the border from Colorado into Nevada, I thought of my gun, and how the address was here. Opening my phone and looking at the line again confirmed that it was in a town right in the middle. Great. On the bright side, though, I wouldn’t have to drive through Las Vegas, where it was sketchy, sleazy, and worst of all, brighter than the sun.

Eventually, I passed by a sign that said: “Yonteria: A Nice Place to Live.” After a few more seconds of driving, I learned that claim was bullshit. There was no paint on anything, and no sense of architecture in any of the residential buildings, to the point that the sparsely populated houses were white cubes with doors. At least the business buildings had some decent designs, but every single one had signs that said: “Going out of business.” While driving a mile or so of driving to reach the house, I counted two people. This was a perfect place for a criminal, if he didn’t mind a small amount of business.

Eventually, I came to yet another white cube of a house. I got out and rang the doorbell. For a moment, nothing happened, but then it creaked open, and a short, plump man with a thick beard leaned out. “Yes,” he asked.

“I’ve…” It was hard to get out the request. “I’ve… come for the… gun.”

“Well,” the man said. “Right this way, stutter.”

A chill came over me. Sure he had no motive to kill me as far as I know, but he was a criminal who offered a gun online. Who knew who he was? I was invited in, and while that house was lame on the outside, it was quite a sight on the inside, with posters from various towns I have never heard of taped crudely to the walls. Beyond those, though, there was nothing much. The man went over to the cabinet next to his bed opposite of the door and searched into a long, dark box. He opened it, and walked toward me with the loot inside pointed at me. A nice Cobra gun, black as ash, but reflective as a mirror, with equally shiny bullets. Good thing that box was big, because in it was a handgun and more than enough bullets to both practice shooting along the way and do the deed. As the man snapped the box shut and shift it’s heaviness over to my arms, I said “Hell yeah! Thanks.”

The man said, “Glad you like it. Now scram.” I did as he asked and left. It wasn’t until I started up the car again this time that I noticed John-Well appeared again.

“What?” I finally asked. No response. I shook my head and continued for a few miles until my GPS said I was a good distance from the nearest town. Good. Away from any curious eyes besides John-Well’s, I opened my phone (which I barely used during the whole trip), and got back onto NoRulesX.onion. I browsed until I found the training videos. Sure, they were made under poor conditions, with simply a man (who had his face blurred out) talking in a dim basement about how to shoot and sometimes going outside to shoot in the woods around his house.

Watching the first videos made me learn the basics. I learned that my gun was semi-automatic (as opposed to a revolver), that grip was important (to stay on the target when taking the second and third shots), and that you shoot with your non-dominant eye closed. I poured over these for the next hour, with the most important bit I noted being to aim for the torso. Although the sun was going down, I decided that I should be able to test it once my eyes got used to the darkness. After waiting for that, I got outside from where I was parked (in the middle of nowhere) and searched around me for something to shoot. Other than the road and my car, there were mostly trees, but I did spot a sign in the distance. Carefully lifting the gun and putting the bullets in, I held my breath and closed one eye. My hands were shaking, and I wasn’t sure if I was mostly from being nervous about what I was doing or if the gun was really that heavy.

Finally, I fired, and the sheer shock from the noise caused me to lose my balance and tumble to the grass ground. Brushing off loose grass from my pants, I got up and cautiously approached the sign I shot at. It had an arrow on it pointing right. I couldn’t find a hole anywhere. Damn it. I sighed and got a replacement bullet from the box. I decided that this time, I would at least try to fire a few consecutive shots without falling down. This time, it was easier to pull the trigger. The noise startled once again, but I resisted the urge to lose my posture over it. Fighting against the recoil, I fired the second shot, then the third, then one more. I put my gun back in the box and took a look at the sign once again. I scanned it up and down. No holes.

“Great,” I mumbled.

At that moment, I felt John-Well’s presence and looked behind me.

“I’m sorry,” he said. I squinted at him through my glasses, trying to guess if this was trick.

“Oh?” I said.

“I mean it,” John-Well continued. “I’m really sorry for treating you like an idiot.”

I stepped forward, seeing if there was a hint of glee or mischief in his face, a sign that he was pulling some nasty joke on me, but his face was serious. Could this hallucination have thoughts and feelings? I wondered. I couldn’t be sure that he was sorry… yet, so I got an idea.

“I’m going to bed now. Goodnight.”

John-Well nodded and walked through the door into the backseat. From there, he laid back on the seat and closed his eyes. If he didn’t go back on his apology by morning, I’d know he was not lying. For now, I was tired, and just wanted some sleep. I put the box down at my feet so nobody would see, and laid back in my car seat. Before I went to bed, I looked back at John-Well, who was snoring his head off. He looked oddly human, and I couldn’t help feeling…attached. Like he was not just my brain trying to convince out of this crazy scheme, but a person who had desires, emotions, ideas, you name it. One thing that changed since I started was that I was now starting to recognize that this was one of the nuttiest thing I ever did in my life. Did I still want to do it? Absolutely, but I couldn’t help noticing that I had… what? Doubt? Remorse? I shook my head. I couldn’t let these feelings distract me. So I instead thought about my gun, and how I would drive a bit slower from this point on so I would have more time to correct my aim.

Sunlight pierced my eyes, making them open. Fighting the grogginess of morning, I pushed myself up in a straight position. I surveyed my car, and found that John-Well was awake as well, sitting straight up with a wide smile on his face. “Rock n’ shine,” he said with a grin. His voice was calmer this time, like he was no longer trying to get under my skin. I didn’t respond. “Good morning,” he said.

“Morning,” I said back. My stomach grumbled. I reached into the suitcase and unzipped it to get out a melon. I chowed down, threw the shell out the window, then on my journey I continued. It was just half an hour down the road when John-Well spoke up.

“Hey. Wanna play a game?” he asked.

“What sort of game?” I asked, turning toward him and away from the traffic jam.

“A place is reflected by who guides it, like a parent. With that logic, let’s guess what the mayor of each town is like,” said John-Well.

I thought for a moment, then hesitantly said yes. After some navigating out of the jam, we came to a village. It had a few houses and the only real businesses were a couple smoking factories. Noting the feeling the village brought, we both couldn’t help visualizing the village president as some dark shady man with a hood coat to hide his face. The next place was a town where every building was a cube or rectangle-not one smooth angle in site. We decided that the mayor of this town was angular as well, and probably very stiff, dressed in clothing that wouldn’t give any clues into his character. While we did this, we both laughed at some of our increasingly ridiculous suggestions. Every time we laughed, I felt my view of him as a hallucination to dissolve more and more. By the time we were on a highway that passed by yet another village, I couldn’t help thinking of John-Well as… a person.

The idea was so absurd, but he could learn, he could change, he had a sense of humor. It was just getting harder to see him as a hallucination. Outside, I was laughing, but inside, this thoroughly disturbed me. I was trusting this… thing, and my muscles tensed up wondering what he would do to me with this trust. Would he make me humiliate myself or cause an accident? Would he… and this thought alarmed me, would he make me get caught? The idea almost made my feelings boil to the surface as we discussed a village with flowers on literally everything, but I choked them down. My mind screamed for me to pull out of this game, as I was just making the problem worse. But like a sugar-packed snack that I couldn’t stop eating, my body failed to obey my mind. I just needed someone to gravitate toward. Someone I could share my feelings with when sharing them with virtually anyone else would make me get caught for sure.

DoubtEdit
We continued. When we eventually got bored of the game, we just were in silence for a few minutes. Afterward, John-Well said he was going “off-duty,” and vanished instantly. I was a bit sad to see him go, but I suppose you can’t expect him to just hang around all day. Noticing that the sun was going down, I observed the area around me. By this point, I was somewhere in Iowa, and a large town was coming up. Hopefully, not too crowded to get through. Fortunately, it was still some way off, and with that, I could practice just a bit.

I got out with my cobra and ten bullets loaded in. I noticed a sign some way from my car, and aimed at it. Holding the gun with two hands as instructed, I held my breath and fired. Struggling not to let the recoil or the noise get to me, I got all my rounds out. Afterward, I carefully approached the sign and took a look. Like the first one I practiced on, this had an arrow on it. I counted and saw that I made a good four hits. Three of them landed around the top right corner, but the fourth one landed almost in the dead center. I felt a rush of joy knowing that I was getting good at this, but then it was undercut when I remembered John-Well. Based off out first conversation, he seemed to really support Paul, and knowing that made me feel just a bit guilty knowing I was going to kill him. But he was a hallucination, right? Not a real person. But then again, there was that generous man who help me with my gas. Did I just happen to come across the right people, or were there plenty of supporters of Gerald Paul who were actually good people? Surely, there were no “good” people who supported Hitler or Stalin, right?

I shook my head. There was only one person. Why did I spend the whole day viewing John-Well as a person? He was just in my head, and the only reason I saw him as a person was because he changed a bit and had a sense of humor. I’m truly losing my mind, right? I thought. I took a deep breath and decided from this point on, I will try to get unattached to John-Well. I was mad for this entire day and didn’t want a man who viewed a hallucination as a friend to become the normal “me.” So, I took a deep breath and headed back to my car, where I fell asleep, although it took longer than I wished, as I shivered wondering if John-Well would appear again tonight and if he would figure out about my new plan. Fortunately, he didn’t come that night.

The next day, I woke up, fighting the usual morning headache as I had my usual breakfast and started up the car. It wasn’t until I was a mile from where I started and an hour from that town when I remembered my resolve about John-Well. I turned around to find that he wasn’t there. No surprise, as he did seem to appear and disappear quite randomly. As I wondered when he would appear, I drove into town. A half an hour down the road, I noticed it was going to be one of those days. The day where there’s a black hole in your stomach that sucks up everything that goes into your mouth and never fills up. Unlike most times I had this, I didn’t try to ignore the feeling. I was getting closer to the end of journey, and would need all the calories I could get for my mission anyway. Once I got into a traffic jam just outside the town, I unzipped the suitcase and reached my hand. The only thing I felt was the gun box, my cell phone, and its charger. There was no food left.

What was I going to do? I thought. I was super-short on money, and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to buy a couple large bags of chips in town, much less enough healthy snacks to last me until I got to the speaker. A million ideas went through my head, and most of them involved me stealing it. I went through the stages of grief, except for two, three, and four. In other words, for the ten minutes or so I was in traffic, I denied that I would have to do it. But when I realized I wasn’t thinking of a counter-solution, I came to accept this. I took a few deep breaths, trying not to think about what would happen if I screw this up. Parking my car outside a church, loading up my gun and hiding it in my pants, I went out. I looked around for a moment first. I was definitely in Illinois, but where? The place was nice, with plenty of fall-colored buildings that matched the trees planted in front of many houses.

As I admired this place, I walked back and forth down the block, looking with envy at the delicious restaurants I passed by. That steak place called Ernie Place looked great, and it was too bad I’d have to get the hell out of this place once I stole money. It occurred to me to look in the spaces in-between the buildings, as any person there would surely be isolated. There were people there, but they were mostly homeless, unsurprisingly, and if they had anything, it’d just be plain cruel to do that. Fortunately, between a library and the aforementioned Ernie Place, there was a man in a suit. He looked a lot like John-Well, who I was already trying hard to stop thinking about. Like him, he was neatly combed and his wide energetic eyes and fancy suit reeked of classiness. The only difference was that this one was black and had a well-groomed beard as well. He was staring at the wall, deep in thought.

My pulse was climbing, so I had to do this before I lost my sanity. I looked around to see if anyone was nearby at the moment. There were only a few people on the other side of the street, but they were on benches engrossed in some newspaper. I took a deep breath, drew the gun, and dashed straight toward the man. Bumping into him, I felt his sides, struggling to keep his squiggling body in place. My face was buried into his suit from the bump, and I felt no wallet. I searched the chest part of his shirt, found a wallet, and yanked it out as money spilled everywhere.

Pushing the wallet shut, I turned around and ran the other way, my gun at my side just in case. But within a second, there was a pulling at the back of my neck. The moment I turned my head to look, the man’s fist landed right in the jaw. I dropped my gun and stumbled back, bumping into a wall. I immediately dropped to my knees and scrambled for my gun, which the man picked up and examined carefully. He barely seemed to acknowledge me, only taking the measure of stepping on my hand as he turned over the gun.

“Hmmm…” he said. After a pause, he added on, “Dinner it is. We’re going to Ernie Place. Hope you’re hungry.”

“W…w…what?” I said. I just failed to rob this man, and he wanted to take me out to dinner? The man explained his demand again, then said his name was Cannaton Ernabeth. Really fitted a man who would ask me out to dinner. “Oh…ok,” I said. His foot came off my hand and I reached above for my gun, which he held up high.

“If you don’t mind, I’m going to have this for now,” Cannaton said. “By the way, you can just call me Canton.”

He helped me up with one hand. I gave him back the wallet and then stumbled back to my car, wondering what I was going to do now. I couldn’t try again to steal, as I lost the element of surprise. While I could try again in a town later down the road, I’m not sure if that man would give back the gun. God forbid if he find out it wasn’t legal and get both me and the generous seller who helped me busted. I took some deep breaths and decided that for now, I would just go with the flow, and if he got suspicious, I’d just lie. I practiced lying in the car, imaging being in a crowded restaurant with that man’s eyes locked on me.

“I bought that gun legally,” I said aloud, although I made sure the windows were closed so nobody would hear me. “I bought that gun legally. I bought that gun legally. I bought that gun legally.”

I spent the whole hour saying that one phrase, until I was sure it sounded genuine to me. I checked the time on my phone. Ten minutes to spare. I got out of my car and walked into the Ernie Place. The instant I was in, I had to take a moment to admire the place. Soft yellow lights hung above every table. They cast glows on the reflective floor. At each table, there was an empty wine glass, waiting to be filled.

I was snapped out of my daze of admiration when a woman at a desk to my right asked, “Is it just you?”

“No,” I said. “I’m waiting for someone.”

I sat in one of the soft, comfortable chairs, and soon, my friend came in. He explained he was having dinner with me, and sat down. After we ordered our appetizers, I decided it was time for a good explanation.

“Why are you inviting me out to dinner?” I asked. “After I… you know?”

The man smiled. But he didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into his pocket and put my gun on the table. I looked around to see if anyone would notice, but it seemed it was a slow day here. Not many customers, and as long as the food-people didn’t notice, no risk of getting caught. We both just stared at the gun for a moment, like it was a possession both of us deeply desired.

“You’re pretty skinny,” he said.

I checked my arms. What he said was always true, but with my rationing, it was more truthful at that time than ever. My arm actually looked like twigs that were dyed the color of skin. They looked fit for a child from Africa, rather than a scheming murderer from America. I nodded. He continued. “Then I suppose you robbed me to pay for food?” I nodded once again.

“Glad you’re honest. I’m a businessman. I’ve encountered every con artist in the world, and know who’s two-faced and who’s not.” I took a breath, preparing for more questions.

“Is this gun at least legal?” he asked.

“I bought that gun l-legally,” I said. Right after I said it, I traced my mind through the phrase. I said much of it smoothly, but stumbled just a little bit on “legally.” Great. I stuttered on the key word in front of a man who claims to have been lied to many times. As I expected, he raised an eyebrow. If I didn’t practice so much, maybe I wouldn’t have screwed myself so badly. The man turned around to see the waiter coming with the appetizers, making the businessman quickly hide the gun in his belt. My stomach was grumbling, but the man asked if they could be held for a bit. When asked why, he said he wanted to discuss what to eat as the main course first. Once the waiter left, the businessman put the gun back out on the table, albeit much closer to him than me, and said, “I’ll give you some money. You can get a suit, then job, then straighten yourself out… on the condition that I keep this gun. How does that sound?”

My stomach tempted me to say yes, but then my brain reminded me of my mission. If I chose the deal, this would all be for nothing. I would have quit my job, drained my savings, drove across the country, and broke the law by buying a gun. And it would all be wasted. Yet, if I refused, I wouldn’t get to eat, but even worse, he could call the damn police on me, get me arrested, and this would still be for nothing. Noticing my open mouth, the man said, “Take your time. It’s a slow day.” Yet, at that moment, I felt something from behind. Something alive. I don’t need to remind you who it was, do I?

“Hey,” John-Well said. “Are you OK?” I couldn’t respond, or else the man across from me, who was patiently looking at me, would know I’m crazy.

“Alright,” John-Well said, noticing my silence. I looked back and saw that he was slowly turning from me to the gun to the man and widening his eyes as he noted what was happening.

“Looking at something?” the business man asked. I shook my head and apologized.

“Are you going to take it?” John-Well asked. I rubbed the sides of my head as I pressed my eyes shut. The stress. Oh, the stress made me feel on the brink of exploding. “Well, go on ahead,” John-Well said. I didn’t answer. “Take the deal. Take it,” he said. I grunted at him, hoping the very patient business man wasn’t bothered by my state. John-Well continued, “I’m sorry I’ve been a jerk to you. And yes, I know I’m not real, but we had such a good time that I… I wanted you see me as… someone you could trust.”

Someone I could trust? Seeing fake people was one thing, but treating them like they were real and equal to your real friends was a whole new level. I promised I’d stay away from that area.

John-Well went on. “Whatever the case, look at his front pocket.” I did as John-Well asked, but didn’t speak, worried the business man would notice. There was a red slip sticking out, and I could make out white text that said “…n Tone.” This man supported the current president, and therefore Gerald Paul as well. “He’s so generous. He gives food after you stole from him,” John Well said. “And yet he supports him. That gas station worker and this man. How will they feel if they learn on TV that you used their kindness to kill a man they admire?” My lip trembled and I thought my tongue was going to burst from trying not to speak.

“And what about your parents? Sure, you don’t know if their still alive, but if they are, they’ll surely hear of this. Even if you are lucky to be killed rather than sent to prison forever, you’ll still die wondering if their around somewhere to learn about this. Do you want that?” Not only did I want to scream at him, but mentioning my parents made me want to cry. I rolled my eyeballs all around, pushing back tears that struggle to come out and slide down my cheeks. But what happened next forced them back out of my eyes.

My entire vision was replaced with a picture of Gerald Paul. I could still feel and hear the environment around me, so I rubbed my eyes, and blinked a few times. The picture didn’t go away. The realization of what was happening set in. John-Well had just replaced my entire vision with this picture. All worries about that businessman thinking I was crazy went away. I screamed, “Fuck you, John-Well! Fuck…you!” I faintly heard the businessman asking me what I was doing, but above it, John-Well spoke.

“I’m just trying to get you to see another point,” he said.

I shouted, “You’re driving me mad! Mad!”

I stretched out the last word as I felt hot tears pour down my cheeks. I flapped my arms around in anger, although I couldn’t see them. As I did, I took a closer look at the picture. He looked just like he did when he gave the speech that made me promise to murder him. He was standing proud and strong in a suit with a teeth-white smile and a crowd behind him. The picture got further away, with nothing around but blackness around. When I turned my head, I found that I could look around in this hallucination land, which besides the picture, was nothing but a black void. By the time I was a good several “feet” from the picture (assuming this fake world used the imperial system), it began to morph. As far as I was, I noticed tears coming out from where Paul’s eyes were.

“Stop! Stop it! Just fucking make it stop!” I screamed.

I turned away, only to see another picture. I’ve seen this one once or twice on the news, but never really thought about it much. It showed an early-20s Gerald Paul laughing behind his counter. There were a few other people standing next to him as well, who had their faces blurred out. To the right, another picture emerged. This one showed him, seemingly in his mid-30s, shaking hands with an elderly man with thick glasses behind the same counter. He was older than any of the people in the previous photos, so I assumed he was the boss. But what did this have to do with… and then I made the connection as I noticed white text beneath the sign that said: “Different outcomes, but just like you in origin.” This man didn’t think this was my fault because he was evil. He only had a select experience. I took deep breaths, calming my nerves. Surely, John-Well would let me out now that I came to my senses. “Let me out,” I said calmly, and without responding and without any smooth transition, I was back to the real world.

The world was sideways though, and it took me a second to realize I had fallen to the floor but hadn’t noticed. Maybe my sense of touch was actually dulled as well. Getting up, I saw the businessman and the other restaurant people, as well as a few other customers, were crowding around me, utterly baffled. Turning behind me, I saw that John-Well was still there, staring at me firmly with his arms crossed. I would’ve been embarrassed in any other case, but there was something more important at hand. I marched up to the businessman and said, “I will take the deal. Thanks.” The businessman seemed to calm down slightly, but he and everyone else still took a step back. Someone in the crowd asked what I was talking about, and the man claimed it was a deal for buying dinner.

“What was that?” the man asked.

“Seizure. No medicine left,” I said. I paused, before adding on, “That’s why I needed the money. Don’t worry, I’ll sort it out.” The man raised his eyebrows, but shrugged and said, “Well, as long as we have our deal.”

I smiled and we sat down, while I reassured the kitchen staff that nobody had to call an ambulance. The food was delayed, as the staff were shaken up, but this was a high-class restaurant, and the food was great. Fat chicken, a delicious soda, and a gigantic bowl of rice. Once the dinner was done, we went outside, shook hands, and he left. As he disappeared beneath the horizon, I felt both nervous about the future and relieved at the same time. Relieved that a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I took a deep breath, and headed back to the car for sleep. But just as I got to the car, I heard the faint voice of John-Well in my head.

“My mission was accomplished. Goodbye,” he said.

Having gotten used to that man by this point, I shrugged and fell asleep quickly, deciding that tomorrow, I would drive to Pennsylvania, which I heard was nice and warm most of time, and settle-in some town. I wouldn’t have a high chance of becoming rich starting a new job in my late 40s, but at least I’d live comfortably in a neighborhood that hopefully wouldn’t be a crime-infested cesspool like San Stone. I wondered why I didn’t left earlier, then I remembered the rent kept going up and cutting into my travel budget, and I was worried about withdrawing my savings.

The next day, I got up, breathing in and out and feeling over my wrists, as if to confirm that there were no handcuffs over them and never would be. As I got up, I turned around to see John-Well wasn’t there. Not out of the ordinary, but somehow, I felt different. I felt like someone had just departed, and that feeling told me one thing: He was not coming back. He completed his mission, and now he had no need to be here. I smiled, thinking about how, annoying as he was, he saved me. He made me understand the lesson those two people were unintentionally trying to teach me. I took a deep breath, and exhaled, releasing all the emotional weight I put on myself through this quest, before I started up the car, leaving this town. The town was just outside of Ohio. I decided that I should be able to get to Pennsylvania in just a day if I went a bit faster than usual.

The rest of the day, my mind was occupied with wondering when the next time I’d be able to eat would be. I was more than full for now, but it could take some time before I could get a job, and I’d have to go hungry until then. Hopefully, at least I could have water somehow. Maybe there would be a river or pond somewhere.

End of the RoadEdit
Many months had passed. After a few days of sleeping in my car right outside the town of Crescent, Pennsylvania, I got a job at a pharmacy. The town is small and old, but had been growing steadily for the past few years. That’s why I chose the place. With growth in the town would come growth in the companies there, which would mean rising salaries for people like me to deal with the business competition. The boss was caring, always encouraging me and my two co-workers to do good work with motivational words, and from his tone, I could tell he was not messing around when it came to running the company.

One day, I was toward the end of my shift. I was just showing off someone a certain medicine for back pain when on the speaker, the boss said, “Attention, customers. The store will close in ten minutes. Thank you for shopping at The Crescent Pharmacy.”

With that, the few remaining customers began to leave, and after I collected my paycheck, I did too. Before I walked home, I took a look around at the small town of Crescent. Surrounding me was the standard things of towns-roads, cars, buildings, businesses, and the like. But they were so beautiful. The soft red of the buildings mixed in with the trees planted on the sides of the roads. None of the colors sharply contrasted one another. According to The Crescent Daily, this was what was causing the boom in population, and by extension, industry. I took a deep breath and got into my car. Yes, it was stolen by this point, but the last few weeks were stressful as hell, as having to walk a mile to work and another one back would just be distracting from my priorities of recovering from stress and being good at my job.

I went back to my studio apartment. Like my home in San Stone, everything was in one place, but thanks to my life as an employee being much better than before, the compactness felt homey, not confining. Without crime going on, I would never have to sleep to the sound of some people fighting outside at two in the morning. As a side-benefit, my bed was much softer as well, although I wondered if that was just because I didn’t spend much time thinking about stress. However, throughout the months I spent here, I began to realize that this was really my fault. Maybe Gerald Paul was right. If I had just taken this risk with my savings and left, I could’ve been fine. Oh, the years and years I had wasted.

When I got home, I got out a good game of Solitaire, which I bought a week or so ago, and played some. I loved that game as a kid, and every time I played it, it brought back old memories. After an hour or so of the game, I felt a jumpiness in my leg, and decided I needed a good walk. I live at the edge of town, which was just as lovely as deep within, where my workplace was. It was very green, with grass on either side of the road, and the only sounds were that of the cows from the barns outside Crescent. Although I was happy, when I went outside and walked outside the town, I wondered if I had enough time ahead to do anything significant. Sure, my wages were going to go up, and I would be rich before you know it, but indeed, my blind hope in the town of San Stone costed me decades– decades that I could have spent doing something of value. I took a deep breath and told myself firmly that I still had at least 20 years ahead of me, and unlike San Stone, Crescent was thriving, so I’d grow financially here more than I would ever in San Stone.

Noticing the sunset, I was about to turn around and go back when someone patted me on the shoulder. Turning around, I saw that it was a homeless man. Long beard, dark circles under eyes, and stained gray clothing. Behind him, there were two others who looked pretty much the same.

“We’re homeless. Can you spare any money?”

I reached deep into my pocket, and after a bit of digging, I took out a good ten dollar bill and a few pennies. My guess is that I wore these pants when I went out one night and forgot to put the change back into my wallet.

After handing it over, I got a surge of curiosity. I’m not sure why, since I handed money over to homeless people before, but since I still hadn’t managed to get the courage to try to make any friends yet, I wanted some interaction. So, I asked, “What happened?” The homeless man turned around, eyes wide, while his two companions widened their eyes in surprise as well. Must have been weeks since someone tried to have a conversation with them. The first homeless man then turned back to his friends.

“When’s the bus coming?” he asked.

“In ten,” one of his buddies said. “Do we have enough now?” He nodded and sighed.

“Why not? What else is there to do but wait,” he said. Afterward, he took a deep breath, sighed again, and began to tell me the tale. “We were all buddies at work, having a great time. We worked in the pharma industry, you know, the one that makes all the pills.”

“Yes, I work at one myself,” I said.

“Well, lucky you,” the homeless man said. “Because we all lost it. A rare virus spread among us three and a couple others. Messed up our memory.”

I squinted. “But then how do you remember this?”

One of the buddies from behind said, “Only affects the day-to-day stuff. Still remember my family, my friends, you get the picture. Still, made us unable to pay the bills. And here we are.” As much as I had sympathy for what was happening, I wish I didn’t stick around to hear the last thing that the other buddy, who had been quiet this whole time, said just after that. After a little laugh, he said, “And they say ‘work hard, and you’ll be rich.’”

“Thanks, but I…I have to go,” I said.

I hurried home and lay on my bed for a while, staring at the ceiling. What he said brought me back to what Gerald Paul said. He said people could succeed if they just tried. Was that true? Well, depends on the person you ask. Him? Absolutely. Me? Certainly. Those homeless guys? Not so much. Yes, Gerald was certainly only basing this off what his own life was like, but he was a politician. Those people had to meet all kinds of people. Surely he would’ve seen people like them and understand it’s not all about how well the system’s working for him. My muscles tensed up and I clenched my fists. This man, oh, this man didn’t care. Regret surged through me, and I got the idea, but I tried to push it out of my mind. I almost ruined myself trying to do that. I couldn’t do it again. I decided to go to sleep. It was a weekend tomorrow. Some shut-eye and maybe some good ol’ TV would help.

When I woke up, I initially went on with my usual weekend routines. I had a shower, got dressed, and got some breakfast. It was only when my toast was almost ready that I remembered last night. No, no, I firmly told myself. Don’t think about that, it’ll only cause you to do it. So, once breakfast was done, I settled on some TV. After a bit of browsing, I settled on some stupid family sitcom. Things were well for a good 15 minutes, which composed of watching Mark pretending to be a monster and bribing his little sister into giving him her Halloween candy or else he would eat her. Must have been a Halloween special. It was great until the commercials came on. I switched channels since the fast-forward feature was disabled for most channels. Yet, as I scrolled down the list of options, I saw that seemingly every other option was the news. I told myself not to, that it would be about Gerald Paul and his cronies, but curiosity got the best of me.

I was right. Footage showed Wilson Tone standing up straight at he stepped up onto a stage and in front of a podium. It was outside, in some city, and there was a vast crowd in front of him. Below, a caption read, “President Tone accused of ‘eroding the American dream.’” After the cheering of the crowd died down, Tone began to speak, but I wasn’t listening. All I could think about was Gerald Paul, the Speaker of the House, and my ultimate enemy. I turned off the TV and tried hard to think about something else, like that show about the kid who claimed to be a monster, but the show just didn’t have as much weight or importance to it. I thought back to my job, my future, my life. But this anger inside me– it wasn’t about me anymore. It was about the disdain Gerald had for the poor. I, in my current state, couldn’t be considered poor. Those poor old men, on the other hand, were the definition of poor, and it wasn’t their fault one little bit. I took a deep breath and decided on what I was going to do. It was like before, and would be harder without a gun, but this time, I wasn’t doing it for myself. I was actually doing it for someone else this time.

I gathered three good knives and put them in my suitcase. Afterward, I just upped and left. Gerald’s house was quite close– only half a day away. Thank God there wasn’t any big traffic many when I was very close to his house, because I might have had a panic attack and drove into another car when I felt a familiar presence behind me, and turned around to see John-Well, just sitting there, wide eyes locked on me. I grunted a question. “Hmmm?”

“Just stop it,” he said. I didn’t respond. He continued, “Clearly, I can’t persuade you.” He vanished, then there was a flash. My entire vision was replaced with something I couldn’t make out. I was only for a split-second, but it was enough to make me turn the car to the right and get back on track just in time to prevent some serious damage.

“A little too late, aren’t ya, John-Well,” I said.

In my head, he said, “No. Just takes a while for a certain feeling living deep in you to create me.”

That sentence made me confused. What did he mean? Which feeling and how did it “create” him? I didn’t have much time to think further, because he put another image in front of my vision, and this time, it stayed just long enough for me to make out that it was a picture of the house that Gerald Paul lived in. It sent my car slamming right into a tree on my left, making me black out for a minute. When I woke, my vision was blurry, and there were cracks in the windows. The front, where the second longest tree branch had landed, was where the cracks were the most concentrated, with them becoming more sparse the farther you went from that place, except for another spot in front of the passenger’s seat, where the longest branch stabbed through the window. Feeling over my body, I didn’t break anything and my suitcase was right beside me, although one of knives inside poked through the material.

I started by getting the case and opening the door slowly and cautiously, until I had yet another vision, this one being of a newspaper, but I didn’t have time to read the headline, as it disappeared in a second. The vision made me jump and bang my head against the ceiling of the car, after which I dashed out, scraping my legs on a few trees in the process. I only just managed to get to the road with my suitcase when the newspaper vision hit again. It was there long enough for me to read the headline: “Monster Murders Beloved Speaker of the House.”

“Not real!” I shouted, dashing down the road. The visions got more intense from this point on. Horrible images of blood, and stabbing, and gravestones, accompanied my horrible sounds of Gerald screaming and a few boys (His kids, I guess.) crying. Tears poured down my face and stained the road, and the persistence and length of these damn hallucinations made it hard to stay on the road, but I did.

This went on and on for 25 minutes, and by the time I saw that house, my body was burning from anger at both John-Well and Gerald Paul. I tried to redirect it all toward the latter, because I couldn’t kill the former. I took a deep breath, got out the sharpest of the three knives, and marched toward the door. It was a bright, beautiful house, but I had no time to observe or admire it. Looking around, I saw that although this place was fairly close to the white house, this town seemed quite small, based off the sparseness of the houses and businesses. Odd for the speaker of the house. But I pushed that out of my mind and marched onto the porch. Even ringing the doorbell was a challenge, because a hallucination of a coffin with Gerald’s body in it caused me to miss it twice. At this point, the sounds of crying and screaming were persistent even when the visions weren’t there. I could barely hear the sound of the doorbell over them. After a minute, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

Turning around, I saw a large man dressed into a police officer– like uniform, but that wasn’t what made me jump. It was that the symbol on the shoulder of the uniform stated clearly that this person was part of the “capitol police”– the people who protect members of congress like Speaker of the House. But what made me even more startled was that this police person had a machine gun. Great. I was caught, and I would need a much better weapon than a knife to get past them. Over the screaming in my ears, I faintly heard, “Are you a member of the Paul family?” I tried to focus on his face, but more images of coffins and Gerald’s funeral invaded for a moment, and by the time they went away, the man’s face reeked of suspicion.

“I… I…” I said. “I was… just looking for a… an old friend. Long time since I’ve been here.” The man’s head turned to the suitcase, and while he looked over it, I saw over the porch fence that there were a three more of these capitol police people on side of the house that thanks to my state of insanity, I didn’t notice.

“What’s in the suitcase?” the man asked.

His eyebrows were furrowed not in curiosity, but anger. He was onto me. I looked at my case, over at the area where the knife made a hole in it. At the moment, the biggest knife went straight out through the hole and landed on the edge of the porch. There was a long pause, as everyone took in what happened. In that moment, I looked at the window to the right of the porch, and got an idea. With one hand, I grabbed the knife, shoved it through the first capitol police officer’s throat, and then jumped over the porch fence, as gunfire rang out from behind me, causing my ears to throb in pain. Just as I hoped, one of the bullets shattered the window. Momentarily, I heard them reloading, giving me just enough time to help myself through the window and into the house, although the broken glass rubbed against my stomach as I did.

I was breathing hard and sweating with my arms burning from the both stabbing and the climbing, but there was no time to rest. Looking around, I could either go right to a living room or left to a kitchen. Which way would lead to the speaker’s bed? I opted for the kitchen, because it was closer. As the doors burst open behind me and gunfire continued, I kneeled behind a pillar and surveyed the room. This was a dead-end. No doors or stairs leading to a bed.

“Fuck!” I shouted.

My cover was being chipped away at fast. I would have to do something. I leaned forward to get to the one drawer that was out of the line of fire. Inside, there were a bunch of butcher block knives. Useless. Reached for the next drawer, praying to God nobody would notice my arms sticking out. Inside, there was mostly just some spices, but among them, there were also cigars, and (Aha!) matches. Grabbing the box, I unzipped the suitcase and got out my last two knives. My pillar of cover was wearing thin from gunfire, but there was just enough time to light a knife on fire, wait for their reloading period, then throw.

The knife hit one of their feet real good, and their legs and the ground burst into flame. The other two looked in shock, while continuing to fire as the officer whose legs were on fire dropped to the ground and rolled back and forth, desperate to put to the fire out. I lit my other knife, and threw that one at the leg of one of the others. His legs burst into flames as well, and he had to stop shooting and join the other in the quest to stop the fire spreading across their bodies. The flames that got onto the floor were fed by both officers rolling on the floor, and noticing the flames, the remaining member stopped to try and stomp them out.

Taking advantage of this, I tore myself away from my nearly destroyed pillar and dashed toward the distract officer. I could do it. I could force this last person into the flames, end his ability to fight, and with no defenses left, that speaker, who I guess was hiding in his bedroom, would be all mine. This plan would have worked perfectly if it weren’t for the vision I got just as I was within arm’s reach of my target. The world around me altered, with all the officers around me replaced with Gerald Paul. It was only for a second, but it made me trip, putting my head at the feet of the last officer standing, just like I was with the businessman I tried to rob. Except that he wasn’t holding a giant machine gun.

Scrambling back, I clawed around the floor, with my hand stinging occasionally from touching the fire. By the time I felt over a dropped gun, the face was staring at me, and by the time I was in the ready-to-shoot position, so was he. I remembered back to my practice, but that was with pistols, not a giant gun that made my aching arms even worse. The pain was like needles were sticking out of the bones in my wrists.

We both fired at the same time and by the time he was down, the aches and pains in my shoulders were worse than ever.

I took a deep breath, then another, then another. The layers of sweat on my brow had tripled by this point. When this fight started, I was angry, but now, with three people dead and still one to go, I lost all emotion. I was too exhausted to feel anything besides fatigue and pain. I was a machine. And speaking of pain, I looked down and saw a nasty area of holes right in my left shoulder. The bullets had gone straight through, and right in the center of this, there was a hole about the size of a quarter where the bullets hit me the most. Realizing how much pain I was in, I screamed in horror as I slammed the fist of my good arm into the scorched wooden ground again, and again, and again.

It was too much. Too, too much. And I still had work to do.

Finally, I dragged myself to my feet, holding one of the stolen machine guns with one hands. My feet felt like they weighed a ton, and every step was tiring, but I went on. The worst part was walking the stairs. Just an hour ago, this would’ve been a flight of stairs, but with hallucinations of Gerald’s body and the sounds of his kids crying and him screaming raging in my skull and the aforementioned exhaustion on top of that, I could’ve almost said that this part was as agonizing as the fight, as crazy as that sounds. Fortunately, by the time I was at the top, the hallucinations had merely become an inconvenience for me, like bad weather.

Once I got to the top, there I was, in a hall, with many doors on the left side, except for one, which stood out not because it was straight ahead, but because I distinctly heard a gasp of horror as I got to the top of the stairs. This was it. The end of the road. OK, the “road” actually ended outside the house, but this was where the journey would end. I took a step, then another, and with every step, the dread growing each time. This would be the end of my life as well as his. If I chose not to commit suicide, a lifetime in the slammer would be certain. If I ran off, I would be the most wanted man in the world for God knows how long.

Reaching the door, I took a deep breath, opened it, and closed my eyes. I couldn’t face it.

Slamming the door open, I brought up my machine gun, and with my eyes closed, I shot all around the room, as screams echoed from all around. Screams? With an “s” at the end? After a few more second, I opened my eyes and took in a big shock.

Gerald was huddled in bed with his kids, and I just shot both of them as well. Gerald had his eyes closed too, with his arms wrapped around either child in bed, and when opening them, he looked to one kid, then back to the other, then back-and-forth for a few moments. He then looked straight into my eyes, already wet eyes producing more tears. Looking closely, I could tell that I shot both kids many times in the head, while Gerald had his shoulders hit. After taking this in, my gun dropped to the floor, and I stepped back. Tears began to gather up in my own eyes as well, and my mouth was open in shock.

Gerald’s expression went from confusion to shock to pain, and finally settled on anger. He stayed that way for a moment before he noticed I wasn’t armed. In response, he exploded from bed and tackled me to the floor. Once I was down, he pushed away from me, got up, and took a look over my miserably damaged body. Noticing the blood on my left shoulder, he raised his bare foot and shoved it against my shoulder. I screamed, and considering the pain was worse than that you get in your funny bone, I could guess that wasn’t healing anytime soon.

“You killed them!” Gerald shouted, as he stopped stomping on my shoulder to kick me in the groin.

More pain. The theme of this night seemed to be, “What would make Chris’ life suck as much as possible?”

After what felt like forever, he stopped and stepped back, breathing hard. As I got up, he looked to his dead kids, then back to me. He got up the machine gun and handed it back to me, and from the flinching on his face, I could tell that was painful from the shoulder wounds I gave him.

“Do it.”

I backed against a wall.

“Do it!” he shouted.

“W…” I could barely get the word out. “Why?"

“What do I have to live for? You killed my kids. You bastard, just do it!”

I didn’t budge. I understood, but he was the Speaker of the House. Surely, he had something to live for over there.

“You’re… in congress,” I said.

Gerald pointed a finger at the bodies. “They… mattered to me.”

I sighed, and remembered why I came here, and aimed it at him.

“Not that I care,” he asked, clearly bitter, “but why are you doing this to me?”

“You are the one who made classism possible. You say ‘Oh, you can do it if you tried.’ Makes everyone who's poor seem lazy to everyone.”

There seemed to be some hint of remembrance of that speech in his eyes. They widened a bit. “You think I despise you?” he said. “I always wanted to help you people, but everything and everyone’s interconnected, and every party has a set audience. I couldn’t do it, but I want you to know that I and my supporters always were rooting for you people.”

Before I could process the speech, I pulled the trigger.

For a lack of a better word, his head exploded. The remainder of his body fell backwards, landing on the bloodstained bed in between his two dead children. With nothing left to do, I fell backwards as well, and boiling hot tears rolled down my cheeks.

Faintly, I heard police sirens from outside. As I lay down, staring blankly at the ceiling, I realized one thing– Gerald and his supporters were not lunatics, but reasonable people. If only I understood them better, if only I understood him better, then none of this shit would’ve ever happened.

Ah, politics– the quickest way to get people stereotyped and killed.

Creeper50 (talk) 21:46, February 5, 2018 (UTC)Creeper 