0 comments/ 28428 views/ 5 favorites Castles Made of Sand By: Riven___Caulfield ONE: A SIMPLE FAVOUR Sleep. Sleep is good. The warm, comfortable, soft cocoon of my own bed wrapping around me like a world apart. No cold. No noise except for the blood in my ears. I don't know how long I'd been like that. It could have been days. Safe in the dark. Silent and whole. But the earthquake blast of the door opening. But the lights exploding on. But the rough, uncut voice of my father shredding my ear canal; "You been smokin' them marijuana cigarettes, Boy?" His breath reeked of tequila already. Mom left four years ago and never looked back, due to my father's various domestic addictions. His daily regiment reads like a shopping list in my head; ALCOHOL: tequila; six ounces of beer; eight bottles of CAFFEINE: coffee; two cups of pills; three caplets of VALIUM: three capsules of. TOBACCO: one and one-half packs a day of AMYTAL SODIUM: three caplets (the 200 milligram kind) of The irony seeps in as I deny my own psychotropic tendencies. "No, Dad." "Don't give me that shit. What's wrong with your eyes?" "I forgot to take my contacts out last night. They hurt pretty bad." Please let him be too drunk to remember… "You don't wear contacts." …shit. "Get your ass up and make lunch for your sister." "Yes Dad." "Don't give me any attitude, kid." "No, Dad." I consider packing a bowl. This day isn't looking up. I had lunch to make. 'Kid'? I'm nineteen. I go and take a shower. I am still stoned; the water is woman. A smooth, invisible woman sliding over my body. Caressing that place between my crotch and my leg with a long, warm finger. I get out and towel off before my wood reaches full mast; I have lunch to make. Baby steps. Do your hair. American Crew Quality Grooming Products for Men "STYLING GEL" in big capitol letters. "Firm hold" in tiny ones beneath. Don't ask me how I can afford it. A gentle, clean and light earthy smell as I randomly craft my coif into a pleasing mess of spikes and dark curls. Baby steps. Get dressed. Black, soft dress pants from Hugo Boss. Don't ask. A crisp white dress shirt from Buffalo with the invisible buttons and dress pocket. Retailed for $95.00. I buy them just so I can wear them with wrinkles and no hems. Don't ask me how. Baby steps. Get downstairs. Baby steps. Get to the kitchen. Baby - The phone was ringing. Baby steps. Pick up the phone. "Hello?" "Charlie?" …it was a woman. "Who's this?" I said. "It's Alanna." Alanna… …what? "Oh, right, Alanna." Who the fuck was Alanna? "I just wanted to thank you for last night," she said. "I had a really good time." "My pleasure." …what the Hell was she talking about. But she kept on talking. "So Madeline and I were wondering what you were doing tonight." "I hadn't decided yet." …who the fuck was ALANNA? "Well, we were wondering if you wanted to come pick us up again. It was really nice of you to show us around when Sully couldn't last night." …I don't have a car. Sully – my older brother. Sully called me up at like 10:00 last night and told me about these two chicks he'd promised to take out last night. Told me something had come up, and could I take care of them? Right… Alanna, our cousin by marriage. Perfect Uncle Steve's stepdaughter. Madeline, her best friend. In town staying with our uncle on their summer vacation. Riiight…. What the Hell did we do last night? "Uh, yeah that sounds cool," I said. "Lemmie get your address again." Baby steps. Find a pen. …still stoned. Baby steps. A shopping list; - One-Oh-Three Dunkirk St. (uncle Steve's place) - Two women. - GOOD TIMES HAD BY ALL. I hang up the phone and slip the paper into my pocket. BANG, BANG, BANG! My little sister bounds down the stairs and crashes onto the landing. "Afternoon, Chuck." Fuck her and her big brown eyes. "Morning, Ains." "I hate it when you call me 'Ains'." Fuck her and her A-plus average. "S'okay; I hate it when you call me 'Chuck'." The phone rings again. "So what's for lunch?" she asks. Fuck her and all her potential. Baby steps. Pick up the phone. "Domino's," I say. I think I'm clever. "Charlie?" It's Sully. "Hey, Sull. What happened last night?" "Fuck last night, we have to talk about today." I tell him, "fuck today, tell me about last night." "Last night I got busted. This is my one phone call." The vacum of space encloses me. Nothing exists. Not those two women Not my little sister chirping in my ear. Not my father. Sully got busted last night. I'm not stoned any more. "What do you need?" My so-called resolve becomes tense. "I need to you to go into your room. Take a screwdriver and open up the air vent. Inside is a key to a storage locker at the airport." "Do you want me to tell Dad?" My gut tightens along with my so-called resolve. "Are you stoned right now?" "No." "Good. Get the key, go to the airport. There's more there. I'm counting on you, kid. You're my boy." He's counting on me. I'm his boy. "I'm there," I tell him, "anything else you need?" "No. They got nothin'. That's why I need you to do this thing for me so they won't get nothin' else." …no… wait… I'm still stoned. What the fuck was he talking about? "Sully," I say, "what's going on?" "Nothin', and it'll stay that way if you get your ass down to the airport and figure out what you need to do." "What am I gonna' figure out there?" "STUFF I CAN'T TELL YOU OVER THE PHONE, SO GET YOUR ASS DOWN THERE AND QUIT GIVIN' ME THIS SHIT, CHUCK!" …I hate it when people call me 'Chuck'. "No problem," I say, "I'm on it." Hang up the phone. Look at your little sister. All cute and perfect in her little sweater set. All perfect and adorable in her sensible yet styleish haircut. All adorable and smiling in all her potential and all her awards and not having any idea that worlds are going on around her. In her world, she'll be getting an IT degree and making $110,000.00 a year in Silicone Valley. Her business casual wear. Her 2.5 children. Her sensitive stay-at-home husband. Big screen TV. SUV. DVD. In my world our older brother had just been busted for possession. Maybe even dealing. Fuck her lunch. I have shit to do. Did you know that if you mix equal parts of styrofoam and gasoline with a half-part of oil, you can make plastic explosive? I learned that from Sully. True to his word, the key is in the air vent in my room. How long it had been in there, I have no idea, but a good layer of dust had gathered on top of it. I have shit to do. Baby steps. Light a cigarette. De-stress. Baby steps. Get a jacket on. A black leather tuxedo jacket from an independent designer. Don't ask. Baby steps. Hop a bus. Baby steps. Get off at the airport. Baby steps. Find the storage locker. Baby steps. Stick the key in. Fits like lovers. Take a deep breath. Baby steps. Open the box. Take a deep breath. Realize you should have worn the overcoat with the booster pocket. Put the letter in your breast pocket. Put the stack of money in your jacket. Casually. Don't turn around. Don't look to see. Fold up the map and put it in your pants pocket. Put the set of keys in your pants pocket. Take a deep breath. Don't turn around. Don't look. Take the cell phone. Stick the gun in your pants. Casually. Close the locker. Baby steps. Get the fuck outside and light a cigarette. Tear open the letter. Nervous puffs of tobacco. Shaky fingers fumbling with a piece of paper. Plain, Times New Roman typeface: "Charlie, Thanks for coming through. That locker key has been in your air vent since Christmas 2000. You're my contingency plan, kid. Don't bother to count the money – it's five thousand in tens, twenties and fifties. It's yours. The keys are an extra set for the Lincoln, and the red key is for the grow house. It's a day and a half drive away. The map will take your straight to it. Here's what I need you to do: Get to the grow house and pack it up. Everything. Clear it out. Blow it up, I don't care. Try to save the product if you can. The gun is already loaded – the safety's off. It's just in case. There's two extra clips in the glove box of the Lincoln – fifteen rounds each. The number of the cell phone is 555-0801. I'll call you on it if I get out early. If all goes well, by the time you get back here, I'll be out and we'll be smokin' a fatty on the beach in Miami. Stay cool, kid. You always were my best dealer. -Sully" Don't ask. Hop a bus. Flirt with the girl across from me. Brunette with a bob. Blue eyes and a hundred-watt smile. Don't think. Just do. Get a number. Lose it out the window. Get off at Sully's apartment building. When you're golden everything glows. The Lincoln. The Lincoln was fifteen feet or so of black convertible luxury. Long, sleek, classic lines with black leather bucket seats. Chrome so bright it hurts your eyes and 450 horses. I wonder if I had used Sully's car to pick up the girls last night. Slip into the driver's seat. Get that fuckin' gun out of your pants and stick it in the glove box with the two clips and the baggie of pot. I consider packing a bowl. I have shit to do. Start the engine. 450 horses. Roars like a lion, purrs like a kitten. It's 8:30 at night already. I'm pulling out of the parking lot and the cell phone goes off. Sully. "Hey Sully." …how the fuck do you turn on a cell phone? "Hello? Sully?" Hit a button random button. And another and another. The cell phone beeps a little beep. "Sully?" "Hello?" It was Alanna again. "How did you get this number?" "Sully gave it to me last night. He said I could get you on it today." …he must have had some early warning before they busted him. "Alright," I say, "what's up?" "Well, you're a half-hour late." Shit. I completely forgot. "Don't worry, I just had some stuff to do. I'm on my way." "Really," she says. She doesn't believe me. "Hey, it's not like I'd forget about you." I can deal with the grow house tomorrow. I remember Alanna now. Cousin by marriage. A certifiably cool woman. A doctorate in being hot. Honorary degree in worming her way into guy's minds. The tenant of any man's wet dreams – occasionally late with the rent but impossible to evict. All green eyes and wavy blond hair. She was golden. I stop by the house to change jackets and put Sully's cache into a safe place before heading out. The phone rings again. "Domino's." "Charlie? It's Jason." Jason. Jason was a semi-rival dealer from the West End. We'd gone to junior high together, and when he was low on product he bought off me on occasion. "What's up?" "I need a half an ounce." "I'm gonna' be a little busy for the next few days," I say. "Call Alan." "Alan's out too. The city's pretty dry." "Listen, unless you want to meet me out on the highway tomorrow, I can't do anything for you." "Where on the highway?" …he was serious. "Fine… meet me out by the south perimiter highway tomorrow. Let's say noon." "Noon? Cool. Thanks Chuck, I owe you one." …I hate it when people call me 'Chuck'. Well, I have shit to do. Deal with the Grow House tomorrow. TWO: THE OIL AND THE GOLD The rumble of The Lincoln's engine conjures up an image of a giant ball studded with razor blades rolling down the street. Roaring down the street. Impossible to stop – not that you'd want to try. It comes to an easy stop in front of One-Oh-Three Dunkirk Street. The Blue House. Uncle Steve's place. I hop out and make my way up to the front door. Dinnnnnngggggg donnnnngggggg. It's less a house than a mansion. Uncle Steve opens the door. His skin-and-bones frame barely filling out the golf shirt. Uncle Steve with his straight priorities and healthy eating habits and sensible haircut and 2.5 children. Miserable Old Perfect Uncle Steve. "Is Alanna here?" He just looked me up and down. "You're that fuckin' stoner boy of Jerry's." "Yes Sir, I am," I grin. He's not impressed. I think I'm clever. "Would you like some?" "I'll be fucked if I'm letting my daughter hang out with the likes of you." "I thought she was your stepdaughter," I remind him. Cousin by marriage. He goes to shut the door. "…fuckin' stoner." Slam. Dad had told me stories about Uncle Steve. Steve was a closet alcoholic in university. I hate hypocrites. I walk over to his shiny PT Cruiser and let the shiny air out of the shiny tires as I star-sixty nine the cell phone and call his shiny daughter. I was out front. Would she and Madeline like to join me? Uncle Steve's roars of disapproval weren't quite enough to stop Madeline and Alanna from slipping into The Lincoln with me. His vows of police action weren't enough to stop me as I pulled out of the driveway and cruised away. And the women were laughing. They are slumming with me. I am a vacation from their big houses and SUVs and gentlemen of great expectations. And I am their new summer home. I am their dirty little beach house, splattered with oil that ruins the beach and slaughters the ecosystem from the tanker that perverts the sunset over the stagnant lake. I am not shiny. I am their vacation. "What're we doing tonight?" Madeline asks me from the back seat. I want to muck them up. "Something dirty," I say. I want to strip away all their make-up and their political correctness and remind them the world is cold and dark and nothing you want to smile for. I drive us to the Quarry. The Quarry is an old stripmining operation about a half-hour outside of town. Now it was abandoned by the big companies – taken under the wing of some conservationist society bent on reminding people how precious nature is. How important this unique ecosystem is. How special and important and special specialness it is. I park at the edge of one of the man-made cliffs and turn off the headlights. The imperfect, near-full moon reflects off the makeshift lake below, the rain collecting in the rock of the quarry and having nowhere else to go. It shines up on us and gives our faces a pale glow. I smile to Alanna in the gentle light of the dashboard. Perhaps it was that I was so tired, or just the dim light. The imperfect near-full moon. Her shiny high-life face a little spark of special unique specialness in all this shit. "What are we doing here?" she grins, as if she doesn' already know. When you're golden everything glows. I don't answer. I get out of The Lincoln and hop up onto the hood and light a joint. Soon enough they get the clue and follow suit. Alanna to the left of me, Madeline to the right. "…here I am, stuck in the middle with you…" I sing to myself. And the women are laughing. Soon enough I'm laughing too. Soon enough I've taken the time to actually look at Madeline. Madeline, with her brand-new pre-faded jean jacket. Tight khaki-coloured capri pants. Little tank top with her little breasts. Madeline, with her thick-rimmed glasses and shy smile. Her curly dark hair. Her little nose and hundred-watt smile. When you're golden everything glows. She kisses me, breathing THC-laced smoke into my mouth as she does, and rolls the joint back onto my fingers, smiling a little fifty-watter as she leans back and looks out to the Quarry. She says she can feel the past. She says she it's the ghosts of the things that used to live here. Before it got stripmined. She says they want her. "Madeline's a lightweight," Alanna explains as I roll the joint over to her. But I don't think so. I think Madeline's in touch with something Alanna' can't find yet. She's close. "Your problem," I say to Madeline, "is you don't see how unimportant you are." The women laugh. "You're an asshole," Alanna says to me. I'm stoned now. And she's gorgeous. "No one's important. Nothing is," I tell them. "Then what's the point of anything?" Madeline says. "There is no point," I say. "Nothing. Nothing we do is important. Nothing we want is important. Not your fuckin' pre-faded jean jacket or your father's SUV or your university or your life. We're all dead. The world will keep on spinning, even if you're golden." I take another hoot. I smile to myself. I think I'm clever. Madeline kisses me again. I breath smoke. And she smiles. I kiss her back. "Maybe," Madeline says, "your problem is you don't see how special you are." I've got a half-hardon. I'm beginning to want to agree with her. I wonder how far the gold would go if she were placated. "This thing's almost toast," Madeline says. And do I think I could get another hoot off it? I do, and lean in to my cousin my marriage. She's unsure for a moment. "I'm not special," I tell her, and kiss her full on. She freezes, then loosens as I breath the smoke deep into her. She inhales, and breaths out a light steam, grinning a hundred-twenty watts. I lay back on the hood and look up at the imperfect near-full moon. Madeline stretches out next to me, and soon her curls are resting on my shoulder, a hand on my chest. "I think you're special Charlie," she says. She kisses my cheek. I remain still. I want to see how far she'll go. My hardon is disagreeing with me. "What if he's right?" I hear Alanna say. "What if nothing's important?" I don't answer. I light a cigarette. The acrid smoke hits the back of my throat and slips past to my lungs, and my high lunges higher. "Then Doug doesn't matter," Madeline answers. Her fingers slip between the buttons on my shirt and lightly caress my chest. They're freezing from the night air, little slips of ice dancing over my skin. But my dick presses harder against my pants. I wonder who Doug is. Madeline undoes the top button on my shirt. "Madeline…," Alanna says. Alanna doesn't understand. Madeline needs to forget about her GPA and her nifty little sports car. She needs to remember how unimportant everything is. "I'm not special," I say again. The pot and Madeline's hands have moved me off the hood of the car to somewhere better. Somewhere with a perfect full moon and night air that doesn't stink of the factories a half-hour away. Somewhere golden. And I can feel someone stroking my cock. I hadn't noticed them open my fly. Madeline is kissing me, and I feel the weight on the hood shift. Alanna has removed herself. I hear the car door slam behind us as Madeline's tongue slips past my lips and touches mine. The car's engine roars to warm life beneath us and jazz suddenly comes on the speakers in the car. And Madeline is jerking my cock. I hear the distant "shink" and "foomp" of a Zippo, and I smell the sweet first plume of smoke from Alanna's cigarette. She just wants to get out of here. I am aware. Madeline's hair falling around my face smell of fruits and is heavy with the scent of hair pomade. I finally move, letting a hand run through her curls and holding her to me as we kiss. And Madeline is jerking my cock. I pull off her pre-faded designer jean jacket and she grins until I toss it over the edge of the quarry into the lake below. She looks at me like I just shot Kennedy. "Nothing's special," I tell her. She tears off my jacket and tosses it in with her coat. I smile. Her tank top, her special little capri pants fly off the edge of the abyss. So far down we can't hear the splash over the jazz Alanna's using to drown us out. Soon I'm standing beside the hood with my face buried in her crotch. Her perfectly trimmed and styled bush is matted and scraggly as my tongue methodically spells out the alphabet on her clit. A hand grips her slim ass and another holds her stomach down as she bucks against my face. "Oh fuck…" she yells out. The jazz music gets louder. "Don't… don't… oh fuck…" her tiny hands grip my mess of hair and crush my face into her pussy. "Don't you… don't you… Jesus Charliiieeee!" She screams out something. I don't know if it's a word. It's just a noise. She bucks wildly against my head as her juice pours down her thighs and my throat, and suddenly goes slack. She breathes heavy. Her tiny tits heaving up and down, her nipples peaky in the cool night air. Her perfect curls a mess over her perfect face. Her perfect skin mottled red with passion. A perfect hundred-watt grin on her face. The woman was laughing. Castles Made of Sand Madeline is screaming, pounding at my back. She yells a Public Service Announcement. I can see it in bright yellow paper, sitting in an in-box somewhere: ATTN: Charlie Graves, Alanna Kay FROM: Madeline Mason You should both be informed that I am having a spectacular orgasm. Please conform your future actions around this new information. Thank you, -Madeline And she's screaming. Her pussy is so tight. And I am so ZEN. And Alanna is licking her clit. And I'm going to come too. Her stomach muscles tense and release along with her spasming pussy. And I'm going to come. Alanna pulls me out and continues to jerk my cock up and down as she rubs her own sex. And I need to come. Madeline shudders and curls up into a ball, still spasming. For a moment, I wonder if that's what it looks like when someone has a seizure. Alanna's stroking me slowly now. She doesn't want me to come yet. "You are so stoned," I remind her. She doesn't answer. She kisses me. She jerks my cock. She lays back and spreads her legs. Her angry red pussy screams at me to relieve it. She softly caresses her stomach and thighs and closes her eyes. My cock needs relief. Alanna needs to fall. But not yet. I lean down and lick the insides of her knees. She moans. I lean forward and kiss wet kisses along her thighs. She moans. I breath her in. I lick between her crotch and thighs. She moans. I slowly let my tongue slip into her hole, and zip it up the length of her pussy. She cries out. "Please," she moans, "just do it." NIKE, I think to myself. I push my tongue inside her and zip it up again, just grazing her clit. She grabs my hair and holds me to her crotch. She's not in the mood to be teased. I have other ideas. I let a finger slip into her sopping pussy, and find her G-spot. She writhes gently against me. I locate the tiny ribbed ridge inside her and begin to stroke it as I slowly and softly begin to caress her clit with my tongue. My other hand reaches up to grip hers. And she squeezes it tightly. There is a connection. I feel… what is it? "I can feel you," she gasps. "Can you feel it?" She bucks against my face now. I move my tongue faster. "Charlie…" she breathes. "Charlie, I…" What is this? What am I feeling? "I… I'm gonna' come… I wanna' come…" I slip another finger inside her slick hole and pump faster, hitting her G-spot again and again and again and again and ravaging her clit with harsh quick random strokes. She wants to come. "I'm gonna'… I'm gonna'…" I want to fuck this woman. She screams. She screams my name. Her hand feels like it's going to break mine. She bucks wildly against my face. Her hand feels like it's going to rip out a clump of my scalp. She screams that she's coming. She screams my name. I lean back and find that her juices are being licked from my face. The warm fruit smell of Madeline envelopes me, and my hand reaches down to her still dripping slit. She bites my neck and whispers in my ear, harsh and hot; "I want your come inside me. I want you to burn me with it." Skinny, endearing little Madeline. I slip two fingers inside her. She is so hot. She is so wet. "Will you do that?" she asks me, reaching down to grip my cock. I take her head and kiss her long and soft, and she grins a hundred watts up at me. I turn her around, bend her over. I slip it in, and she cries out. She's leaning down and kissing Alanna, who seems half passed out. Too much pot. "Oh God," she says, looking back to me. "You fill me up so good, Charlie…" "How do you want it?" I ask. I'm not sure if I care. "I want you to fuck me so hard you think you're gonna' break me," she cries. It's lovely when you both want the same thing. I pull back slowly. Slowly. The head nearly out. I softly stroke her back as she rubs her pussy on my cock and tries to get it inside her. Alanna has indeed passed out. "Please," she says. I shove it in. All the way. My balls slap her pussy as I pound her. Again and again and again. I watch the second hand on the clock move around eight times. And her pussy is so good. It's golden. And she's screaming. She claws at the cheap yellow sheets until they rip. "Too hard?" I ask. She turns her head, her eyes covered by the mess of curly hair. She grunts back at me through gritted teeth; "Harder." I pound her as she humps against me. Her slim, heart-shaped ass vibrating as my hips bang into her. And she's screaming. Occasionally Alanna opens her eyes in shock. She merely observes us for a moment before closing them pleasantly again. And Madeline's screaming. She wants it harder. She's coming again. PSA. Madeline's coming. Her pussy spasming around me puts me over the edge again. I want to come. I'm going to come. "Come inside me!" she gasps. "I want it inside… ohhhhhhhhhh yes…." I slap in again and again. Her pussy is dripping. I can feel it shoot from inside me. Like a spitball in junior high. Like a slug from a gun. For a moment my vision goes red. "Fuck! Fuck! Ohhhhh Charlie…" Slowly. See-sawing in and out of her sopping sex. And now she's loose, and I know my erection is fading along with consciousness. I collapse onto her slim back. I kiss her neck. I hold her hand. "Do you feel that?" she asks. I ask what. "That connection." I can't lie to her about that. I just tell her she's golden. FIVE: DROPS OF BLOOD AND THE EMPTY HORIZON Wait until I get in. Strip down. Slip in. Turn it on. Cold. Only cold. The cold water hits me like a freight train. For a moment I consider turning on the hot. My dedication to the cold proves golden. I am aware. Every nerve ending on my body is alive. I can feel the cheap floor of the cheap motel shift. One of the girls is approaching. It's not Alanna. I can feel it through the floor. It's Madeline. The shower door slides open. She stands there naked, a smoldering cigarette dangling between her perfect little perfectly pink lips. Offensive against her lush exterior. She is damaged. My dried come is hard and flaking against her thighs. She's damaged. And she grins a hundred twenty. I hold out my hand to her and she slips inside with me, giggling as she's struck by the train. She lets the water hit the cigarette and it falls from her lips, becoming brown and ugly at our feet as it soaks, a little spiral of black ash trailing into the drain. She's become so deliciously imperfect. Her skin is sandpaper. Infinite tiny bumps rough against mine as we kiss. Her nipples are pebbles. They scratch my chest as I move her face under the water and let it soak her unruly mane of curls. The woman is laughing. I lean back and look at her. For a moment, I see her as a wet rat, dripping and scraggly with those huge, dark, knowing eyes. And she's laughing. She runs the soap between her legs as I shampoo her hair. And I am aware. I can hear the Scratch. Scratch. Scratch of the soap against her rough pubic hair. I am aware. I can feel the soft, grainy feel of the broken cigarette beneath my feet. And I am aware. I can feel the ground shift. Alanna's coming to join us. The shower door slides open. She stands there, wrapped in a peach-white robe. Her wavy blond hair perfect. Her skin perfect. Perfectly perfect lips. Full. Perfectly perfect figure. Full. Perfect, huge, sad green eyes. Her sad eyes. She closes the shower door without coming in. And Madeline is laughing. But my balance is broken. I'm not golden. I'm a chocolate starfish. I'm the shit and piss of the world. I'm their dilapidated beach house with the door that hangs on broken hinges. Rats and cockroaches scream and flee for the shadows inside me when you hit a light. I'm an interesting place to visit. But something tells me Alanna won't be living here. When you're golden everything glows. We pack up. We don't eat. We've got shit to do. I go to open the door, but I feel something. You can feel things, sometimes, if you let yourself. And I feel something. I am aware. I don't open the door. I peek through the shutters. A Huge, Blue Charger sits content beside The Long Black Lincoln. It grins at me. Death now sits behind the wheel. I can see him clearly now. I am aware. He's a huge skinhead-looking fellow. I don't like his eyes. He knows he's not golden. Flunky number two is absent. I suppose he's gone into the office to find out which room is ours. I'm glad I brought the map inside with us. "Alanna," I say. "Do you remember where the gun is?" "In the glove box," she says through her toothbrush. Brush, brush, brushing her perfect teeth. "Hm," I say. Perhaps I should have been as throughtful with the gun as the map. "What's up?" Madeline squeaks behind me. Sully would know what to do. Sully always knows what to do. I can see his head poking out from his top bunk, his blond hair falling around his face like a halo. He's fifteen and I'm twelve. "Did you know that if you take some styrofoam, gas and oil you can make plastic explosives?" Sully knows all kinds of shit. The leather blazer is too hot in the late morning Sun. But the ultraviolets don't get through it. It's my six-hundred-dollar skin block. My half-assed protection against the mistakes of Them. My hair is messed up to a defiant, spiky perfection. I look golden. But I know I'm not. I close the door behind me and walk up to the Charger. Death sits behind the wheel and he watches me approach. I can see one hand leave the wheel and rest on the seat beside him. His trusty shotgun. "Hold on," I tell him. I raise my hands and approach. Dumb Fuckin' Me for staying on the same highway all day. "You can see my hands," I tell him. "How about a show of faith?" He places the hand back on the wheel. "Golden," I tell him. "Now listen, there's two of you and three of us. I got a piece in my belt, and they've both got revolvers." He doesn't move. Doesn't show an expression. I can't tell if he believes me. He knows I'm not golden too. "Then why don't you just shoot me," I hear him finally say. I'm tingling. I am aware. My so-called resolve. "Same reason you don't shoot me," I say as I approach. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Can he tell I'm maneuvering myself towards The Lincoln? Probably. It's worth it. "I'm having trouble remembering," he says. His right hand is absent from the wheel again. "I'm missing that hand," I tell him. "Deal with it," he tells me. "Just give me the map." "How do you know about this?" "Your brother squealed to me. Like a pig." I want to fuck this man up. He's pulling up the shotgun. Baby steps. Open the door of The Lincoln. "Before I slit his throat." SLAM. I am going to fuck this man up. "You're lying," I yell as I duck down, fumbling with the glove box. He doesn't answer. bang I hear it hit the passeneger door in a roar of pellets and bent steel. They don't make cars like The Lincoln any more. I grin at the thought. The Lincoln's a little less golden. I have the gun. He's reloading. Baby steps. Jump out of the car. He's reloading. Baby steps. Grab him through the window and drag his ass out of the car. Crunch. Baby steps. Smash the butt of the Beretta into his head. And again. And again. Crunch. See your brother lying dead in your mind's eye. Baby steps. Hit him again. And again. And again. CRUNCH. Look up to see Flunky Number Two with his little toy. His little baseball bat. His yo-yo homie outfit and his backwards baseball cap. See your brother lying dead in your mind's eye. Baby steps. Pull up the gun at Flunky Number Two. Don't pull the trigger. Squeeze. Watch the blood from his leg explode. Watch him go down. Baby steps. Get his toy. Baby steps. Smash him in the head with it. See your brother lying dead in your mind's eye. Smash him again. And again. Again. I am not aware. I'm something else. I am breathing smoke. I hear The Lincoln roar to life behind me, and I look at the baseball bat. It's dripping blood. It falls into a little pattern on the gravel. Slowly. Drip. Drip. Drip. It takes its shape. A winding, chaotic, random snake. Complete with a little head and little tongue. Perfection in chaos. I can't help but manage a small smile. Five watts or so. Flunky Number Two reaches for me. Smash him again. I am not aware. I'm something else. How long Alanna had been honking the horn, I have no idea. Baby steps. Get in the car. Alanna peels out of the parking lot and onto the open highway. I can't see it, but I can feel Death gather himself to his feet. He touches the welt on his forehead and tastes his own blood. Baby steps. Let Madeline wipe the spatter of blood from my cheek. Reach for the cigarette Madeline just lit. She understands. Lights another for herself. Feel my eyes well up. Sully couldn't have been killed. He was tough. I am not golden. I am something else. We're at a payphone that sits across from a truck stop. Somewhere along the way, I lost Sully's cell phone. We probably left it with the girl's luggage at the motel. The imperfect near-full moon shines it's half-assed light overhead. Alanna's smoking her cigarette in the passenger seat, watching me. Madeline is rolling her fifteenth joint in the back. Madeline needs to occupy herself. I can understand that. I punch eleven digits into the phone. It rings. And again. I am unaware. My eyes well up again. See your brother lying dead somewhere. It rings. And suddenly a few things matter. "Hello?" It's Ainsley. Thank God. "Ainsley. It's Charlie." "Where the fuck are you?" "I'm out of town. Dad knows." "Did you hear Sully got arrested?" "Yeah." I look back at Alanna. She doesn't smile. She just watches me. And I know she can feel it. "Do you know where he is?" "In jail," I say. "No, he busted out." "He what?" "He went crazy. Someone said he heard Sully screaming about another dealer." "What other dealer?" "This guy named Prokosh." "I don't know a Prokosh." Did I know a Prokosh? "Sully said he had to get out – it was a matter of life or death or something. No one's heard shit from him." "Oh God…" "Listen Charlie, you've got to get back here. Dad's goin' apeshit." "I'll be back day after tomorrow," I tell her. "Just stay out of Dad's way." "…easy for you to say." "I'm serious. Pack up some shit, and you an' me will start fresh somewhere." "What?" "If Sully calls, tell him I'm taking care of things. I'll be back in town in two days." "Uncle Steve called." "Oh yeah?" "He says he's pressing kidnapping charges. What's he talking about?" "Don't worry about that. Just get your stuff together and make sure Dad stays in the dark." "Okay." "Alright. I'll see you soon." "Okay, Charlie. Charlie?" "Yeah." "It's not the same with you not around." See your brother lying dead in your mind's eye, and you suddenly appreciate your stupid little sister. "Two days." "Okay. Bye." Click. I get two jerrycans of gasoline at the truck stop before returning to them. I get back in the car and start the engine. "What's up?" Alanna says through her veil of smoke. "Your stepfather's pressing kidnapping charges against me." The women are laughing. It's nice to hear. But I am not golden. I am something else. Sully's Grow House is another two hours away. Alanna stays quiet. She and I know something Madeline doesn't. Occasionally Alanna reaches down to the gearshift and touches my hand. She and I know something Madeline doesn't. Madeline contents herself with smoking three joints in a row in the backseat. She's designed herself a small dove's nest of jackets and clothing that fold around her like a multicoloured blob of makeshift comfort. In the rearview I watch her systematically smoke her joints. She's a robot, designed and programmed at the moment. I wonder what it would look like in her robot mind. The program code. A series of ones and zeros, broken down into rough english. STEP 1. BZZZZT! LEFT. HAND. GRIP. JOINT. STEP 2. BZZZZZZT! LEFT. ARM. RAISE. JOINT. STEP 3. BZZT! OPEN. MOUTH. STEP 4. BZZZT! LEFT. HAND. PUT. JOINT. IN. MOUTH. STEP 5. BZZT! CLOSE. MOUTH. STEP 6. BZZZZZZZZZT! LEFT. HAND. DROP. STEP 7. BZZZZT! RIGHT. HAND. GRIP. LIGHTER. STEP 8. BZZZZZZZT! RIGHT. HAND. RAISE. LIGHTER. STEP 9. BZT! RIGHT. HAND. LIGHT. LIGHTER. STEP 10. BZZZZT! HEAD. TURN. RIGHT. STEP 11. BZZZZZZZZZ! LUNGS. INHALE. STEP 12. BZZ. TOKE. STEP 13. BZZ. TOKE. STEP 14. B. AND HOLD IT. STEP 15. B. AND HOLD IT. STEP 16. BZZZZZZZ! EXHALE. REPEAT STEPS 12 THROUGH 16 AS NECESSARY REPEAT FROM STEP 1 WHEN STEP 12 BECOMES IMPOSSIBLE She's passed out by the time we hit the Grow House. The Grow House is a dilapidated barn just off a back road five minutes from the middle of nowhere. Two storeys high of refurbished eighty-year-old lumber and good intentions, jutting out of the ground. Man can build such things. It is sealed tight, so when the doors finally open a gust of air hit Alanna and I in the back. It dances around us and shoots into the building, and we're struck in the face with the heavy, sticky-sweet smell of cured ganje. I'd never seen Sully's Grow House. No one had. Except Sully. I find and hit the lights. It stretches out to infinity before us. Fields of marijuana. Hydroponics bays. Pot hangs from the celing. Pot in measured bags of five pounds each. Alanna walked through the frields of the pot as I let my fingers dance over the measured bags. Thirty-two five-pound bags. My head began to calculate. A whineing streamer of ticker tape rolled behind my eyeballs: One (1) ounce = 28 grams. // One (1) pound = 16 ounces. One (1) gram – (street price): $10.00 One (1) pound (street price): ($10.00 X 28 X 16) = $4,480.00 Five (5) pounds (street price): ($4,480.00 X 5) = $22,400.00 TOTAL: Thirty-two (32) five (5) pound bags (street price): ($22,400.00 X 32) = $716,800.00 Golden. Baby steps. I shove the measured and sealed bags onto a trolley and begin loading them into the trunk of The Lincoln. Madeline is still passed out. The bags don't smell. The curve of her hip as she lays on her side for a moment reminds me of something better. Baby steps. I pull out the jerrycans of gasoline and finish loading the last four bags. Baby steps. I walk into the growhouse and Alanna looks up from behind one of the hydroponics bays. She nods and stamps out her cigarette as I kneel beside the jerrycans and remove the knife from my pocket. A rescue worker's knife with a QuickRelease. A flick of my thumb and the blade springs free, flashing once, then twice into each of the jerrycans. I begin to walk randomly about the growhouse, a trail of stinking, psychedelic colours swirling on the floor behind me. For a moment I look down and consider the infinite chaos of the swirls. Is there a pattern? Does something govern their random colours and shapes? A splash of Alanna's foot in the rainbow on the floor confirms my suspicions. The patterns change and form anew. Anything is possible. She follows me about the growhouse, creating new infinite worlds in the puddles as she does. I wonder if she's conscious of the worlds she's changed. She examines the plants one by one, and I watch.