Honesty from the get-go.

Dear Santa,
All I want for Christmas is a few well-cut shirts, the thingamabob to connect my Shure SM-58 to my Powerbook, drive, diligence, determination and a digital SLR camera, confidence, competence, consistency and my keyboard from home, courage, passion, intensity, an Apple AirPort kit, criticism, a blue blazer, and four weeks with family and friends.

And one of those svelte lady elves.

I cut myself, cut myself off. So I bled, I hemorrhaged friendships. And I just sat there as it happened, like the time I sliced my fingertip with a pocketknife and watched the bright crimson drops as they fell.

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everything confuses people and gets misconstrued and i'm exhausted by the effort of it all.

I want to scream from the very middle of my body because I keep reaching out and reaching out and reaching out but I never touch anyone. I rub against the outside of their bubbles, but the friction frightens them and they float away. I scream but no one can hear me through the bubbles. If I try very hard, sometimes I get inside someone's bubble and we sit there looking at each other. But I always get so excited they kick me out and I fall and hit the ground, hard. I explain this to the person in the next bubble I get into but they kick me out because I'm boring.

I try so hard to be a better person.
I seize the day.
I move away.
I jump out of planes.
I talk to people from Japan and Sri Lanka and the town ten minutes away.
I change countries, change lifestyles, change people, change clothes to see the better person I will become.

I do the things that my stomach tells me not to.
I sing in front of other people.
I write about what is wrapped tightly inside me.
I make movies some people hate.

I try so hard to be better than everyone else.
To write better, to sing better, to talk better, to laugh better, to love better, to live better.

I try so hard to be a better person than everyone else, but I only make myself worse.

Tonight I cried because I feel like a small boy with big thoughts, like being an astronaut or changing a country. I cried because I don't want my father to die. I cried because my mother told me about a woman who saw her son die and was shot and stabbed in her breast and is in critical condition in the hospital with no reason to live. I cried because they burnt her house down. I cried because I don't know why it was done or who did it and that is the problem. I cried because I love my family and they are good people. I cried because I don't know very much at all. I don't know why I cried.

I am worried for my country.
I am worried for my country and I am worried for my family.
I am worried for my country and I am worried for my family and it is not enough to be worried.
I am worried for my family and my country and it is up to me to change it.
I am worried for my family and my country and I must learn my country and change it.
I am worried that my brothers will be gunned down.
I am worried for my family and my two countries: the one that my family lives in and the one I must learn about.
I am worried that I will not be able to change it.
I am worried that I am young and naive and that I am thinking young and naive thoughts.
But I cannot afford to be naive because bad things are happening every day.
I am worried that soon these bad things will touch my family.
I am worried that I am too far away and that I am too far away and that I am too far away.
To change it.

http://static.flickr.com/31/40683445_0783e990d5.jpg

Objective time is linear. We each have a subjective time. The differences between us lie in how we let objective time influence our subjective time.

Nethra walks into doors and doesn't see curbs. Once I watched her walk across a tile floor with a crumpled sticker stuck to one shoe. Every other step made a popping sound and I had to tell her before she noticed. Her hair will get in her food and her food will get on her face. Today, she parked the shopping cart and turned away, oblivious as it rolled back and followed her fifty feet to the car like an obedient pet.

Walmart sells cheap shirts.

300 million misfits.
300 million nervous laughs
and furtive glances.
300 million pale skins over
fast-food muscles and
rigid, conservative bones.
300 million sames trying to be differents.
300 million-man marches for
women's rights and
black power and
gay marriage and
corporate responsibility and
flood damage and
it's all walking the walk
and talking the talk.
300 millionaires who pull their strings and yank
three hundred million puppets together,
stringing them along, choking and
strangling their ideas,
wrapping them around their little fingers.
300 milling mindless zombies in
three hundred small bucolic towns in
three hundred states of mind-
less existence in every city.
300 million lying liars who lie to each other,
lie to themselves,
lie down and get walked on,
lie down, roll over and fetch the paper-thin democracy
all the lies are based on.
300 million nobodies.

New writing.

He speaks to his father every week. They have conversations that skip pleasantries in favor of start^abruptlysuddenly and end that flare into^existencebeing and end^{just as}suddenly. Every month, on On the 1st weekend of every month, they al they spend time together,- writing, talking, laughing.

A s Under a short,^shortstout, squat tree is a ^woodenbench. They are island of both on^thinan^stripisland of grass beside
A thin strip of grass beside a quiet street. Under a short, squat, gnarled tree is an equally ancient wooden bench. There is the distant sound of children playing. The occasional car cr

A bedroom. The sheets are bundled untidily into a corner of b small bed. The closet doors are open, and we can see a number of identical shirts, outfits. an outfit reproduced seven or eight times. The floor is cluttered with the paraphenalia of except for one corner which is immaculate. Apart from the bed, there is no other furniture.

The Kind of September

Many years ago, when life was simpler, when girls were disgusting and evenings frittered away outdoors, I had a nemesis. And though the cause and circumstance of our opposition was appropriately diminutive, its intensity and gravity was as real as anything else. We went to school together, glared at each other five of seven days a week, shared the kind of barely sheathed conversations war generals might before decimating each other’s armies. His name was Charles Campbell, and even in my naïveté, I could sense he was bent on seizing the snobbish entitlements his christening demanded.

To say he was my nemesis implies fairly even odds, but in this fight I was always outclassed. Charles was your textbook schoolyard bully with one notable exception: I was his exclusive victim. There was never any physical confrontation, although I have a vague recollection of a push or two. Since Charles was half a head taller, we both recognized the futility of actual battle. No, this was purely psychological warfare and mostly one-sided; I never once sacrificed my lunch money or my science project.

On the playground, every recess was an emergency convening of a boys’ club whose name is long forgotten. The secret meetings were conducted, start to finish, atop the jungle gym, blood rushing from our hooked feet to our upside-down, beet-red faces. The handshake consumed most of the agenda. But often I was prevented from taking part because Charles would find some way of disqualifying me as tirelessly inventive as it was trivial. My responses normally materialized hours later, while I was recounting the day to my mother on the drive home.

My annoyance and frustration built steadily until the day the stakes increased tenfold. It was Sports Day, the annual celebration of prepubescent athleticism designed to create three times as many losers as winners. I was participating in the Math race, a peculiar mix of adrenaline and arithmetic that required your partner to sprint towards you with a number problem; using his back as a makeshift desk, you scribbled the answer and sprinted back, clutching your scrap of paper for dear life.

My team was widely expected to win based on my blazing acuity and little else. True to form, I crossed the finish line unaccompanied, out of breath and beaming, only to have my flawless calculations discarded as in my haste, I had mistook a ‘1’ for a ‘7’. My answer was off by six hundred. I cried shamelessly, racked by grief. Even my competitors sought to comfort me. But not Charles. After school the next day, he and I were left alone in the classroom. Whether it was by unfortunate fate or by deliberate design, I’ll never know, but he procured my forfeited medal from his pocket and dangled it in my face, all the while lambasting me for my loss.

A few months later, we graduated to different schools, but I nurtured my hate. I would see him a handful of times over the next several years, and with each encounter, I would calculate how to ignore or dismiss him. Eventually, I forgot about Charles.

Then late last year, I heard the news that Sandra Campbell, mother of one Charles, had been murdered, the terrible unintended recipient of a contract killing - she was just screwing the wrong guy at the wrong time. The news brought back my memories of Charles, and I was able to piece these together with my newfound knowledge of his parents’ separation and divorce. I saw that he, like myself, was the product of his dysfunctional home; the difference was in the dysfunction.

With the passage of seasons, childhood enemies become indistinguishable from childhood friends – nostalgia blurs the messy details. Now Charles is the one racked by grief, and I want to reach out, hold his hand, and think of simpler times.

Family is important because if you kill people or are famous or if you are crazy, when the rest of the world hates you or fears you or likes you, they will be there, like normal, like before.

I think, therefore I am tired.

I'm too quick to have a good blog. I take in data so fast that the output is all it can do to keep up. Data goes in so fast it's all the output to keep up can do. In data goes fastly and the keeping up is hard. Everytime I think I have a concept for the blog, I eat 10 books and drink some movies and then I have a new concept. People pride themselves on consistency; they create consistency, they pretend consistency. Like I-person, we-people are phasish. We go through phases. But now I see that phases and inconsistency is not failure. Are not unsuccess.

I am trying to find myself in this place. I don't know who people know when they know me. Recently, I've started taking deep breaths or closing my eyes or slowing down when I walk. When I ride home, it's as if I'm on the sidewalk watching the two metal kaleidoscopes instead of riding on the seat.

My head is too full of thoughts and my thoughts come too fast for my head to hold it all. They spill out into the real world as words and notes and pictures. The hard part is to control the spill so my mind-talk pours smooth like good wine into a good glass and becomes art.

The rite mixture rough sim please city end come Plexi tee yields Ellie gaunts.

Two Seconds Inside

VoiceStream, ha!
basketball in 30
gotta get ready soon
Tamika outside
laughing, ha
exercises in style
exercising
school tomorrow
2 more books to go
Joey laughing
Bahamian accent
should I drop out
radio meeting Thursday
missed the exam
schedule conflicts?
or leave it open?
meet ivan at gym
buy bag
money for semester
lie to them
this isn't home

Sixteen

Apartment

4 bed, 2 bath, kitchen, living, laughing. 3 J'cans, 1 Bahamian. Fully furnished, carpeted, A/C, hot water, good times. Water, gas, electricity, soca included. Fridge, stove, microwave, dishwasher, Sunday dinners. Views woods and pasty neighbors. 15 min from campus, 15 hrs from family. Laundry facilities nearby. 3,000 memories/mth. Tel: 607-275-1154.

Story

"You're wrong," said the man, clutching it close to his heart.
So the American shot him.

You Must Be This Tall to Read

Semeret, Nitin and I spent the day at Six Flags: Darien Lake.

I will mention only one ride, the first one we saw, an all-wooden coaster affair that damn near killed me. Undoubtedly, my reinitiation into the world of amusement thrills after such a long hiatus upped the adrenaline rush, but the sensation of hurtling to the ground strapped to a missile on a track was, in a word... cool. Predator is not the longest, tallest, fastest, twirliest, or most dangerous coaster in the country, the state, or even in Darien Park. But the 'High Thrill'-labelled ride delivered a primal punch to the gut.

Waiting for the Predator, I realized that the day was to be spent, not on the rides, but in the lines. As such, I adjusted my expectations and enjoyed myself thoroughly. We melted in the summer heat which hit us from above and radiated from below, but we jostled and punched each other in the lines, laughing at the punchlines, the three of us a high-school joke ourselves - "A Jamaican, a Mauritian, and an Ethiopian are in a theme park..."

Shortly after Predator, I sat and had my caricature drawn. The artist was a 20-year-old with hair that flopped in his eyes, and we struck up such lively conversation that at times he stopped drawing. After a lengthy exchange of ideas and contact information (we might collaborate on an animation project), I beheld my cartoon self. I'll add it to my 1991 and 2001 versions.

The day passed at the perfect pace, leaving us with just enough time to savor each portion. After having our frail bodies tossed, turned, splashed, spun, bounced and bumped in every direction, we capped the experience with a cool evening sit-down in the giant ferris wheel; from on high, we surveyed the careful haphazardness of the park and the controlled mayhem of the rides.

I spent too much and shouldn't have eaten the fried dough, but I'd do it again in a skipped heartbeat.

Best ride
The softball pitching machine.

Turn-Based Strategy Games at 4am...

I have a roommate.

His name is Cong, and the correct pronunciation requires reproducing the sound the ball of your finger makes as it skates the top of a congo drum (something like coumb). He is from Viet Nam, the country most devastated by white people until very recently. I am also from a country once molested by white people. I haven't tried this line of conversation yet, since my stories will be 400 years old and my complexion is now one shade short of the desired result of Crest Whitestrips, so I might come across as holding the whip instead of receiving the lashes.

Truthfully, I haven't tried much conversation at all. Our conversations, a ponderous exchange of heavily accented Jamaican and Vietnamese varieties of English, have been restricted to pleasantries delivered at both ends of sleep. Only rarely does this coincide with the morning and evening hours, as Cong appears to sleep in tandem with certain species of frog.

We have a lot in common. Often when I am on my laptop, writing blog entries and such, Cong will be on his laptop. Often when I am reading my book, tidying the room, or dressing, Cong will be on his laptop. Often when I am sleeping, or aspiring to the unattainable peace of my subconscious, Cong will be on his laptop.

Cong is in my life because my premeditated negative responses are limited to drug offers and mass suicide, so when my friend asked me to house him for a few weeks, I agreed. Apart from two brief stints - the first year of my little brother's life, when he was confined to a crib, and the first six weeks of my freshman year of college, when my roommate was the local distribution point for marijuana - I have lived alone. I am not used to sharing my space or my toys.

However, there is something about his mostly silent companionship that makes me almost like him, something that draws me to him beyond our shared affection for ethernet cables. Almost. I move into my new apartment in four days.

Story

"You're wrong," said the man, clutching it close to his heart.
So the American shot him.

Attn: Customer Service Dept.

Dear Sir,

I saw her when she got on. I was occupying a comfortable two or three seats near the front of the bus, enjoying the oasis of controlled cool amidst the oppressive July heat. A handful of patrons dotted the bus. I sized her up immediately, but hoped my instincts were wrong.

She sat across from me. Her clothes indicated that customary fashion inhibitions had vaporized in the summer heat. This is a curious condition that plagues the town, leading men to parade the streets in the trendy combination of light blue shorts and brown work socks up to mid-calf. This woman was not so indecently dressed, but should have taken under revision the decision to rechristen an outfit she last wore during the memorable summer of '78.

I digress. Her appearance can be overlooked in the larger scheme of things, as can the facial twitch which seems to be parceled out to every citizen over sixty in the bucolic town of Ithaca, NY. Some musty tucked-away store, whose last sale was also in the summer of 1978, must be attracting fresh geriatrics, force-feeding them a hundred cigarettes a day and passing mild electrical shocks through their bodies. I can find no other explanation for the uniformly odd antics of these people. This store must also be issuing month-long bus passes to the winners of a neverending game of bingo.

I digress again. The point, sir, is that I would not be writing this letter had she not spoken. My best speculation is that the equally eccentric, overweight and aged stranger she was perched beside was her audience. The running conversation she initiated in the direction of this man never lost steam, even momentarily, and covered a number of useful topics. The commentary, for it was more of a monologue interrupted by affirmative grunts from the poor fellow, was conducted at a volume which, had she been a schoolmistress, would have rendered superfluous the need for a PA system.

I am now extremely knowledgable in the art of freezing double strength iced tea in recycled soda bottles and estimating the quantity needed for trips of various durations. A well-made mix can last from two to three hours. Further, I am equally versed in the related field of purchasing remote-controlled toys for grandchildren at Radio Shack. In a surprise twist, the batteries needed to power these toys are no longer included but, in fact, sold separately. This policy must have been recently introduced since 1978.

In the name of all that is good and holy, please send a large shipment of your best earplugs to the enclosed address, to be paid by money order upon receipt.

Yours truly,
Keiran King

Dr Keiran Recommends:

-Self-analysis
-Taking the trash out, as in yesterday
-Crystal Light® On The Go drink mix packets (sized for adding to bottled water)
-Ramming the vending machine for free bottled water
-Teddy Graham® snacks
-Decisions
-Learning from mistakes
-Macintosh computers for everyone
-City of God (2002), directed by Fernando Meirelles, set in a Brazilian ghetto
-Playing with Lego bricks
-Self-expression
-Family
-Making lists

Personals

SBM, 21, 6'3", seeking companion, 20s, preferably SF, for friendship. Ethnicity, religion, background, language, appendages don't matter. Must be able to look into my eyes and not only recognize the dark abyss contained within, the frustrations and complexities, but must identify with said abyss. Pale skin and brown hair not discouraged, but must understand they are operating at a distinct disadvantage at this point in my life. So it go. Interested persons should anticipate intense passion but a catastrophic exit. Oh, right, I said friendship. And you know what? Background matters. If American, must be able to name 3 of England's Prime Ministers and last 3 World Cup champions. And scratch the B part, coz I'm not really B, I'm Caribbean. I'm tired of this B & W obsession. And scratch the S in SF, because, you know, we can always work something out. (I'm sure he's not that handsome.) Should be able to kick my ass in 3 sports. 4 and I'll start to feel kind of silly. In fact, scratch 20s, because, look, if you're hot, you're hot. And scratch friendship, because, look, if you're hot, you're hot. And scratch F, because, look, if you're Pierce Brosnan, you're Pierce Brosnan.

Post Script

New content in my writing collection. Read it here.

Warning! Consuming these stories may result in an increase in blood pressure, chest pains, dizziness, headaches, nervousness, an increased heart rate, tremors, dry throat, stomach pain, fatigue, confusion, difficulty breathing, drowsiness, hallucinations, lightheadedness, shortness of breath, decreased urination, depression, general ill feeling, back pain, anxiety, insomnia and/or a decreased sex drive. The author takes full responsibility and, he might add, no small measure of pride, for any instances of the preceding symptoms.

Home

Went home this weekend. Stayed with Raisha. Went barefoot. Listened to reggae music, good music, old music. Got in the water. Had some spicy food, good food, cooked food. Wore sunscreen. Talked about pastimes, good times, long-times. Enjoyed some hot and heavy steel pan. Complained about the heat and the taxis. Never left Ithaca, NY.

Thanx, Rae.

Library

Mirrored, low hedges and tall groves of faux wood panels, each holding too many leaves to count, resting on a carpet of mottled green hues and kept alive by a phalanx of fluorescent suns, trees of knowledge in this open secret Garden.

Silence

The synthetic veins of the building humming relentlessly, inhumanly low, the imperceptible breathing of the walls, the ceiling, the mute taunt of the silent sweeping second hand on the clock, an endlessly delayed cadence, and under it all, a dull pulsation, a dark, distant pounding inside my head.

And

Running through the night rain across the small dividing lawn, braids hastily pinched above my head like a splayed cigarette, the air clean and dry around the heavy raindrops, slippers playing sloppy hopscotch with the puddles, a short cleansing nothing.

Summer Vocation

This is the first summer I'm actually getting summer projects done.

No Money, Mo' Problems

48 hours. That's how close I came to being kicked out of college. Again.

Technically, I have never been kicked out of college. I sent in a letter of withdrawal to the University of the West Indies which was officially recognized as such. But I was merely preempting that which I knew was coming anyway. Two and a half years of Submerge sandwiches only leaves mustard stains on your transcript, not good grades.

And I'm only foolish enough to make the same mistakes when it comes to women, not work. It was not academic tomfoolery that endangered my enrollment this time, but financial entanglements. A neverending series of twists and turns meant that the loan I thought I had secured was, in reality, a figment of my imagination. Nothing more. Ironically, I already had money in place for the upcoming 2005-06 academic year, but this wouldn't matter if I was no longer enrolled at the school.

Long story short. I got an eleventh-hour reprieve from the warden (read financial aid officer) yesterday, so that I didn't have to reapply to the college. Anticipated funds are as good as the real thing.

Word of the Day

Context sentence for glutinous found on dictionary.com:-

'At this point Leonardo wakes, decides the sensation is extraordinary but not death, and gazing up through the glutinous film of boiled carrot drippings, says, "No, Salai will be riding a horse."'

Periphery
glu·ti·nous adj
having a sticky consistency

The Web on 'Woven'

Weeks ago, I asked the readership (both of you) to vote whether to see my brother, Darren, weigh in from time to time on this blog. The answer was yes; see above for his first post, written in the virgin hours of his summer vacation.

Haze

work... punch out... sleep... wake at 7am... go back to sleep... oversleep... skip bath... rush to work... punch in... work... punch out... eat... punch in... work... punch out... sleep... wake at 7am... go back to sleep... oversleep... rush to work... punch in... work... switch depts... work... switch depts... work... sleep... work... sleep on a bench... oversleep... miss shift... go on probation... work... skip meal... sleep... skip meal... work...

Unable to keep up with the oscillation between being awake and being asleep, my level of consciousness has plateaued so that I am not sure if certain memories of the last 72 hours are real or not. Walking around feels a bit surreal. For the past few days, if I haven't been sleeping, I've been working, and my systems can't keep up.

The Premature Reception

In the mad dash to work this morning, trying to effect the transformation from groggy incoherence to perky operator inside of ten minutes, I managed to forget my reading. Faced with boredom, I found a borrowed library copy of The Prometheus Deception on a low shelf. Great title. I had not read any Robert Ludlum before, and this is the guy who wrote the Bourne trilogy. I'm over 100 pages in now, and the durned thing is an exercise in improbability, written in classic paperback thriller parlance.

It is not only that our hopelessly overwhelmed and attractive protagonist escaped, with the help of a Lebanese blonde and starting unarmed, from an arms bazaar on a cargo freighter by blowing the entire shibang to bits with Stinger missiles in his hand. (That word was Lebanese, not lesbian. Go back and check. Shame on you.) After all, Ian Fleming pulled off mid-century equivalents in his novels, and it worked. But, to add insult to incredulity, the reader must endure multiple rooms where 'no expense has been spared', a hero whose internal catchphrase, repeated ad nauseam, is apparently It was insanity!, and... argh, forget it.

I remember when this kind of popcorn paperback was all I read, and I emulated it in my high school writing. Just seems like a 73-year-old novelist (in 2000) should do better. At least there's still Crichton. Somebody buy me State of Fear.

Periphery
Jurassic Park could happen. Hee hee.

Write On

Paradoxically, in order to avoid a summer of attrition, I've decided to dig myself a little deeper in my literary trench. This effort will manifest itself manifold: on this blog, as lots and lots of reading and absorption of ideas, as regular doses of news and opinion in print and online, and also as new fiction material. I've found another reserve of energy, oddly enough, from a magazine article whose content is far removed from writing, but whose style and vernacular seems a more polished version of my own. Embracing my life as an artist has meant coming to terms with a painful level of exposure. Every photograph I print, film I screen, and scene I stage is an opening up of the parts of me that life trains me to hide. I have had to reconfigure my expectations. It's a brave and exciting new world that I am learning how to experience, like a child. Detraction is my traction; failure is my fuel. I'm carpe-ing the diem.

Writer's Block

For those of you with a sadistic streak who just can't get enough of my writing, I have good news. Now that summer is underway, I started writing fiction again, and I decided to find a block of space online to dump it along with some of my previous stories. My search led me all the way to... Blogger. Follow the link in the sidebar (or I could put one right here, couldn't I?) to read them.

It is not a blog, so don't bother to check for updates. Whenever I have something new, I'll let you know here. As with all of my creative endeavors, I am thoroughly embarrassed by almost all of my writing and consider it to be crap. But I must generate crap on my way to greatness, or even mediocrity. Please leave your criticisms before you leave the site.

Connecting Fact & Fiction

I knew very little about professional computer gaming before penning this story, and it was, as always, fascinating to learn about a new world. I researched quite a bit to try and get details right, which at one point involved surreptitious reading of my brother's gaming magazines. It was important to me to understand how gamers interacted with the real world given their immersion in a virtual one.

Fatal1ty and the other members of Clan Kapitol do exist, and are quite successful. Of course, where reality restricted my storytelling, I took licence. The professional gamers whose likenesses are used in the story are perfectly law-abiding citizens. My Stoll Center is a fictional building squeezed into a real New York City, but the historical information Li provides is all accurate, as is Fatal1ty's insignia.

More Info:
Fatal1ty's website
BBC interview with Fatal1ty May 26, 2005
Cyberathlete Professional League
PC Gamer Magazine online

Fresh

Jared Derek did not like his job. Saturday night, and the wild inebriated escapades and fogged car windows he should be enjoying had been preempted for six hours of deliveries in a station wagon with a bad cough and a thorough inability to maintain any proposed temperature. Since he did not drink and had no girlfriend, his suppressed casanova instincts had a low chance of actually being called into action, but Jared refused to let reality interfere with the therapeutic value of criticism. He only moonlighted at the pizzeria on the weekends, the semester still stretching a few more interminable weeks, maliciously holding beyond reach the relief of summer vacation. Summer. Promises of humid days and balmy nights had revealed themselves to be empty, as winter was dragged unwillingly into inactivity by the new green muscle of the trees.

He charted a diagonal path across the tiny parking lot as the dark wind seeped into his untied sneakers and untucked shirt. A long trail of goosebumps sprang up on the back of his neck, young golden hairs standing to attention. He hunched his shoulders and kept his head down, withdrawing into himself. The cheesy neon sign above the entrance cast a muted luminescence on the gravelly asphalt. Jared turned away from the parlor, facing the convenience store, and sat on the hood of the vehicle, his butt comfortably warmed by the fading embers of its internal combustion. The delivery 'fleet' was officially on a ten-minute break.

He popped two aspirin and the bag of potato chips. A puff of salt tinged with vinegar escaped. He glanced wistfully in the direction of refreshments. Too lazy, he put the bag aside and fingered the box in his pocket. Sharp, biting night air contrasted with the musty appearance of the sky, the smoky combination of cloud and pollution forming a heavenly affirmation of approval. He traced and retraced the contours of the packaging, creating a tactile memory in case he might be required to recall its exact dimensions at some later time. He did not know why he had bought it, or why he had chosen tonight, this arbitrary frigid night - unremarkable except for a near-naked housewife who had opened her door, nipples ablaze through her sheer gown - to smoke his first cigarette.

Carefully, he held the box and removed the plastic wrap. The sturdy cardboard was smooth to the touch, with the faintest hint of gloss, and Jared considered that if there was such a thing as expensive cardboard, this was it. He flipped the top of the pack open to reveal an inner silver layer and within, nestled in its sanctum, two neat rows of sleeping beauties. Each slender stick was pure white, whiter than the freshly bleached socks in his drawers, whiter than the sheets he used for his term papers, whiter even than his imaginings of a soft upper thigh, whiter than anything Jared had seen. It was as if the finest powder had been sculpted into cylindrical perfection. The only interruption occurred just before they disappeared into the box, in the form of a narrow band of silver serifs identifying the brand.

After a long while he used his thumb to push one of the cigarettes above his peers. Mimicking some image of panache that was an amalgam of every film, television and observed smoker he could remember, he dipped his head and raised the hand gripping the pack until the two met, at which point he expertly extracted the cigarette with his lips. At the precise instant his cinematic fantasy ended with the realization he had no lighter or matches, a black SUV pulled into the adjacent parking space. A haughty set of sandy locks and compact pectorals jumped out, and on the off-chance Jared stopped him.

"Hey man, you got a light?" he asked, and with the movement the cigarette almost dropped out of his mouth.

"Sure," the guy drawled. He flicked the flame on a translucent lighter and held it out. Acutely conscious that his hacking and gagging would now have an audience, Jared leaned forward and inhaled in tiny measures, fully expecting the cigarette to violently ignite and burn into a comic length of ash. He felt nothing, and wondered if he was doing it right. Praying away catastrophe, he held his breath and then exhaled. Flecks of tar, nicotine and other assorted carcinogens tickled his throat as his respiratory system expunged the contaminants and adjusted to the experience. Gray vapor danced a freeform ballet away from his face.

"Thanks," he said. The guy shrugged. "No problem," he said as he went inside the pizzeria. Jared held the cigarette in the crook between his index and middle fingers and smoked his first smoke. By the time the guy came back outside, the butt was nibbling at his fingers and he was only slightly worse for the wear, a shadow of queasiness in his stomach.

"Bum a smoke?" the man asked. Jared took out a second cigarette and gave it to him. With a nod, he climbed into his sport utility and drove away, the exhaust mingling with the last wisps rising off the stub on the asphalt, its owner already preparing his next delivery.

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Shelved

Hope Turner did not like her job. It was once again the time of night when the internal mechanisms of the ceiling clock slowed, in defiance of her urgings, to a murderous crawl, when the half dozen or so aisles of cough drops, junk food and tampons could nevertheless free themselves from their linear confinements and bend their prefabricated components with enough detached concentration. A creased crossword puzzle rested on the counter under her elbow, satisfied with its solitary blue-inked entry. The bank of overhead fluorescent lights evoked the countless tanning sessions inflicted on her dry, tight, overbaked skin, whose shade appeared even more artificially orange against her papaya hair. Heavily outlined eyes unfocused from within scores of miniscule wrinkles. Her hand hovered, motionless and chafed, in midair.

The familiar scrape indicating the automatic sliding door broke the humming hypnosis of the air-conditioning and ventilation systems. She turned her head lazily. The source of the disturbance, a bobbing black pate, was visible over a neat legion of antiperspirants. Hope remembered her crossword, gave 6 Down a cursory effort, then dismissed it. The head paused, a dark sunset behind a medicinal skyline. Hope watched as the entire figure came into view and slowly, almost painfully, approached the register.

He was a college student, as far as she could tell. There were a small number of distinct demographic slices that frequented a convenience store, and Hope had become quite adept at instant categorization. She identified the telltale flipped collar of his pastel polo shirt, the obsessively prepared hair, and that indefinable sense of intellectual dominance that only surrounds those whose higher education is in progress. She saw all this and more before he deposited his purchases on the counter. Avoiding eye contact in the customary way, she scanned the barcodes on the maximum strength aspirin and potato chips. Swiveling the digital readout she tapped the total price, flashed a wan smile and watched him extract the correct payment from an elaborate collection of lint, receipts, crushed papers, office paraphernalia, a small comb and a veritable library of stubs. She waited. Correctly anticipating the male aversion to toting shopping bags, she handed him the two items and dropped the money in the cash drawer.

She was in full swing congratulating herself on the completely silent encounter when, clearly as an afterthought, the boy halted in mid-stride, dug his hand back into his jeans pocket and simultaneously pointed behind her head.
“Lemme have a pack of cigarettes,” he said.
“Which ones?” Hope asked.
He waved a hand. “Doesn’t matter.”

She lifted a handsome white-and-silver box from the nearest rack. Clear plastic hugged the edges, adding an extra layer of protection and mystique, while a thin band of textured red, like a lipstick kiss on a napkin, sliced the front of the packaging and hinted at the excitement within. Hope passed the scanner beam over it. For a moment they both held it as it passed between them, then the boy paid for and pocketed the pack. With a muttered thanks and a quick backward glance, he left the store. The chilled air, thrilled with its fleeting fortune, rushed into the entrance, one cold ethereal finger brushing back an errant lock of her hair before the glass partition slid shut, the closed drawbridge leaving Hope to her practiced monotony in her commercial bastion.

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Disposable

Amy Moran did not like her job.

Against the screaming reprimand of her brain, she opened her eyes. She was wedged half in and half out of the passenger side of a car, her legs obscenely spread to accommodate her awkward kneeling position. Inches away from her face, two massive tree trunks joined at one end and covered in thick coarse black hair gyrated slowly. Far worse than the sight was the smell of the man's crotch. The salty sweat running in rivulets down his beefy skin mixed with the intense and foul odour of older, stale perspiration, the accumulated dirt, grime and oils of a couple days of living, and the equally repugnant smells of dried urine and ejaculate. The result was a sensory experience so nauseating she wanted to retch, and only her considerable practice at suppressing her gag reflex prevented her from adding yet another bodily fluid to the mix. As she moved back and forth, her nose was repeatedly crushed into a tangled mat of black pubic hair, the pungent self-replenishing point of origin of all these smells, and she resorted to holding and taking breath at short intervals, a difficult task since she could not breathe through her mouth. But it was not the first time Amy found herself in this position, not by a long arcing shot, and so she fell back on the survival tactics she had developed and refined during her short career.

She was in her bedroom, which tripled as her living room and kitchen. The room was dimmed, halogen lamps in the corners casting fountains of light which hit the ceiling and fell, cascading on the sofa-bed, the television set and the bookshelves. She loved to read. She padded over in her pink ankle socks and knelt by a low shelf. She selected a thick hardcover tome, the adventures of a young boy wizard. It was not the boy who interested her, but rather his close female companion, a resourceful and independent girl who was as critical to the resolution of the book as the main protagonist himself. She had read it many times, but still she nestled on the couch and carefully cracked the spine open. The smell of an expensive book was one of her favorites, the pages retaining an ancient whiff both of the printing press and the faraway forest in which the father tree was felled. She was just about to turn to the first chapter when a rough hand grabbed the hair at the back of her head and thrust her forward, making her gag. She threw her head back, coughing and spitting, one iridescent thread of saliva dangling, like a rope bridge over a gorge, in a low parabola from his member all the way to her young lipstick lips.

She looked up at him sharply, and the blazing fire in her eyes must have singed his lust, because he muttered a quick apology. He held a cigarette, half its length gone up in smoke, between his engorged fingers. The jowled face silently communicated the strain she was creating by stopping. Amy was immobilized by the smell, which grew steadily worse. Five minutes was almost up. She could not last much longer, and she sensed the feeling was mutual. She resumed her activity, but hastened the arrival of the climactic moment by grabbing the man's testicles and pressing one finger on the soft flesh behind it. The man's rhythm accelerated.

From a distance, all that could be seen was a parked car, passenger door open, and the punctuation of smoldering orange at the tip of the cigarette as the man gripped the door frame. The chubby fingers tightened, fingernails flush with blood, flesh white as snow. The iron grip held for a few seconds, and then the hand, along with the cigarette, dropped out of view. Inside the car, Amy wiped her mouth and waited expectantly. A crushed green bill, folded lengthwise, stuffed itself into her tiny brassiere. She extracted her lower body from the confines of the vehicle, and both parties resumed their normal manner, she the ice-cold exterior required for her profession, he the slightly constipated look caused by constant strain on the heart muscles. Amy knew these moments were her most valuable, when men, weakened by exertion and still in the aftershocks of ecstasy, would give her anything. However, the police officer had nothing that she wanted, except perhaps...

"Hey, how about the rest of that?" she asked, her voice dying across the parking lot. The man looked at the cigarette, the spent tobacco, the greasy gray marks of his fingers, the damp filtered end, and said, "Sure, sweetie." She took it in her spidery hand and watched the cruiser disappear around the building, into the night. Her stiletto heels hurt her toes as she walked back into the dark shadow of the mall. Weak plumes of smoke appeared mysteriously out of the black void, the only magic trick she knew. She sucked the cigarette hard, absorbing its full calming narcotic power, then she used her thumb and forefinger and flicked it onto the curb. As she secured her payment, already calculating its use with a maturity beyond her years, the hot embers, the last hurrahs of a miniscule bonfire, slowly cooled until there was nothing, just the blind, endless night.

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Unhealthy

Don Baumer did not like his job. The angry hydraulic indignation of a passing truck had snagged on the corners of his subconscious and yanked his thoughts, abruptly, back to depressing reality. The interior of the patrol car was thick with human smells, which Don inhaled through his greasy, bulbous nose with an instinctive satisfaction. Intermittent twin searchlights washed over the vehicle, overexposing Don's pasty white flesh, the hard light contrasting with the soft spill from streetlamps that turned the blacks to dark shades of purple and orange. He sloshed a sluggish sausage-fingered hand over his face in an unsuccessful attempt to remove the sleep. His eyelids pulled down insistently. He twisted the other arm, resting on his expansive gut, and glanced at the wristwatch. Ten to three in the morning.

The navy blue cruiser was parked obnoxiously, one rear tyre and mudguard squarely over the yellow line, in the hazard lane of a nondescript section of highway south of downtown. The sombre metallic finish and doused brake lights practically invited an accident, as any motorist fumbling with his glove compartment or having an argument on the phone would either clip the rear bumper or swerve out of control; panic would do the rest. Don had pulled over because he was tired, it was a slow night, and besides, he could not care less. His mind was only too willing to switch over to the dirty erotic visions of his dreams. Even now, his penis was still hard, and though he could not see it over his uniformed fleshy excess, he could feel it pressing against the fabric of his brief and trousers.

He relaxed his weight into the plastic-covered seat, molded, after hundreds of outings, to the shape of his body, and watched the sparse traffic. Off to one side and below, the tall thin trees that thrive in a temperate climate huddled together in groups, their hoarsely whispered gossip floating back to Don's ears. The woods were teeming with small wildlife. Raccoons, badgers, skunks; all meandering through the nocturnal landscape, marveling at the concrete-and-steel effrontery to their habitat imposed by their human neighbors. Every so often, an errant deer would be killed on the highway, its raw innards some sort of modern art installation on the asphalt. Always, with the slow-moving inevitability of a lava flow, nature crept forward again, threatening to reclaim the cemented pylons and riveted beams, keeping a maintenance crew busy trimming and sawing and chopping year-round.

Don slipped his feet under the pedals, in the tight space above the floor of the car. The gnawing in his groin was still there. He shifted and enjoyed a long, slow release of air from his ass. He ran his hand up and down his thighs, and was distracted by the glinting of metal on his fourth finger. He held it up in the musky light, fiddled with it with his thumb, examined the thin crosshatch on the gold band, twisted his hand to see the shifting glare. A memento from an earlier time. When life was, in theory, much simpler, when plans were a dime a dozen, and dimes only in a dozen plans. He opened the car and cast his nostalgia aside. The rhythmic red beeping, alerting drivers to close the door before bombing around at sixty miles an hour, penetrated his skull and cleared his head. A green sedan nearly sideswiped him and he recoiled, way too late to be of any use. Slow reflexes. He decided to move the vehicle.

He started the car and pushed the automatic transmission upward, the lever behind the steering wheel clicking grudgingly into place. The tyres crushed gravel and eased onto the perfectly smooth road. Every fifty yards, a deliberate and precise bump in the road, a small elevation designed for the purpose, kept Don awake. He needed release. The cruiser hugged a gentle curve in the highway, another precautionary measure bestowed by the engineering gods. At the precise edge of town, where incident report pushpins suddenly proliferated on the oversized city map in the station house, Don took the off-ramp. An old strip mall, long since outbuilt, outdone, and outsold by the newer superstores, the Walmarts and K-Marts, sat neglected beside the highway, the long brown row of stores in the centre of an gridded expanse of parking, like a laden barge in open sea. Don drove around to the rear of the mall, the side hidden from view of the streets, shielded from the highway by trees. He parked, the lone car in the lot, left the window open and shut off the engine. And waited.

A slow minute passed, then out of the dark shadows dropping off the mall, a waif of a girl waltzed slowly towards the dead cruiser. Don, equally dark inside the car, watched the familiar sashay. Small pert breasts, less than a handful, were covered by a tight green mesh of complicated design. An anaemic stomach and waist led to the tight curve of the buttocks, in cut-offs that were almost painted on. Thin, shapely legs, pale even in the darkness, thrust towards him in alternating fashion. The clickety-clack of the stiletto heels emerged from the still night. A pinched face, roughly fourteen, came up to the window and bent down. "Hey, Don," it said, and in reply, he squeezed his crotch with his meaty hand. "Five minutes," he said, and tilted his neck onto the headrest.

The girl swung the door open. Don walked around the car and repositioned himself in the passenger seat. The auburn pigtails crammed themselves between his legs and got to work. His thigh muscles in spasms with the pleasure, he remembered the cigarette his partner had offered him earlier and retrieved it from his top pocket. He looked down and another wave of electricity coursed through his clogged veins. He popped the cigarette lighter from the center console and lit up. He blew the twin streams of smoke in the direction of the bobbing motion. Don closed his eyes.

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Slim

Eddie Pritz did not like his job. He liked the uniform, enjoyed the morning routine, neatly pressed trousers and starched collar snug and secure around his skin, belt wrapped tightly in place with room to hook his thumbs, shoes and hat providing the bookend touches, shiny black and carefully maintained. He savored the badge, the pin, the number, the epaulettes. He especially loved the gun, locked in its molded nylon and suede holster, cool and heavy in his hand, hot and light on the range. He touched it now, feeling the cold metal under his palm. He liked being a cop. He just didn't like being a cop here, in this town, in front of this door.

He looked over at his partner, who was relieving his feet of their arduous task by leaning his considerable bulk against the wall. Eddie felt the familiar mix of amusement and disdain as he examined Don, buttons straining against his round, massive, fleshy belly; pant zipper making its slow journey southward, too weak to fight the lifestyle of its owner. Small narrowed eyes, double black marbles sunk in a huge round red oyster, stared back at him. Eddie sighed, a tired and practiced exhortation of all his frustrations.

They were on opposite sides of this apartment door, listening to power chords and cymbals crash through at headache-inducing levels, the sort of volume that tightened Eddie's facial muscles. This unrelenting assault on the eardrum was the reason for their presence, some disgruntled fellow tenant of the building having called the station and complained an hour ago. Eddie raised his eyebrows in question, and got a beefy nod in return. His knocks were entirely swallowed by the music; Eddie watched and felt his knuckles rap mutely on the wooden door. He abandoned that and banged with his fist. "Police. Open the door, please," he intoned. His asynchronous pounding echoed down the hall, joining the punk rock madness.

A few heads popped out from their respective sanctuaries and popped back in when they saw Eddie at the end of the floor, hammering away. He stopped. Listened. And realized that the only sound coming from the apartment was the music. No laughing, no shouting, no sounds save the clipped, blasting distorted electric guitar and the hoarse scream-singing of the vocalist. He ground his jaws together, sawing the two uneven rows of teeth back and forth slightly, an involuntary reaction to trouble he had developed as a child that had earned the wildly divergent disciplinary approaches of his mother and his dentist. On the other side of the door lay the simple explanation, but even so he felt his heartbeat quicken and his slim muscles twitch. He twisted the silver knob, which responded easily, and swung the door open with the flat part of his hand.

In addition to the wall of auditory bricks that hit him, an equally powerful and devastating smell hit Eddie's nose, forcing him to whip out his handkerchief as a substitute mask. The scene before him was mundane and unsurprising, but unpleasant nevertheless. A generic boombox, Japanese import, pumped away right beside the door frame. Two twin-size mattresses, poached from long-expired bunk beds, were shoved against the far corner of the room, flat on the floor. The rest of the studio apartment seemed to be an aftermath of shirts, shorts, pizza boxes, crushed soda cans, dirty underwear, empty brown paper bags, garbage-filled brown paper bags, more dirty underwear, half-eaten collections of potato chips, cookies and cereals, soiled socks stuffed in shoes, disposable knives, forks, spoons, plates and bowls, all radiating from this unadorned nexus of slumber and sex. Hanging off one mattress, completely naked, completely tanned, and completely unconscious, was a young woman, fake blonde locks dangling in a stagnant pool of vomit. Propped between the closet and a wall, his arms permanently wrapped around the wastepaper basket, sat the paying occupant of the premises, organizer of the party, and partner to the lady, mostly clothed but also unconscious. A cigarette peeked from behind his ear, appraising the damage along with Eddie.

Eddie stood there, in the entranceway, one hand on the door, the other on his hip, staring, long after his partner turned and walked away, grunting something about the car. He continued to scan the room, a human security camera, until he was sure he had seen everything. He saw the tiny fort of beer bottles that grew into a full military complex by the chest of drawers. He saw the punctured ping-pong ball that indicated any number of drinking games. He saw the box of condoms, seemingly unused. He recognized several signs of bachelor living from his own apartment. And then he had seen enough.

By state law, police officers were not allowed to enter a residence without permission, but Eddie didn't think these particular occupants would mind. He crossed the room efficiently, pristine boots neatly sidestepping the accumulated haphazard objects of filth, and removed the cigarette from the guy's ear. Crouching by the stereo, the navy blue pant fabric pulled tight against his buttocks, he arrested the frenetic progress of the rock track and pulled the door shut as he left. He spun the nasty little nicotine stick in his handkerchief. A gift for his partner.

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Expensive

Grant LaRue did not like his job. He did not like his courses. The time and mental effort he invested in avoiding work of any breed was generally more than it would have required to do the work outright. All of which explains why on this cold Saturday night, instead of finalizing, editing, writing, drafting, outlining or even thinking about his numerous overdue papers, Grant was driving back to his apartment on campus - the seat beside him occupied by a sizzling hot companion, topped with pepperoni, green peppers and pineapple - with the intention of drinking himself into a stupor.

He eased off the accelerator and relaxed his back into the leather upholstery, a succession of small groans emanating from both as they acknowledged each other's presence. The heating vents breathed the aroma escaping from the pizza box and redistributed it until the entire vehicle took on a tinge of edibility, becoming panels of dough and seats of cheese. With measured nonchalance in a quick flick of the wrist, he slipped the unlit cigarette behind his ear.

He cracked the window to hear the low roar of the wind, like waves constantly crashing into the side of a cliff, crowding all else out of his mind, washing it clean. The hand running through his perfect sandy curls moved to one of the chrome knobs on the stereo panel. A reverberating reggae tune, something generic about freedom and love, blasted from the six speakers. Maybe about hardship, too - Grant could never parse the Caribbean lyrics. That's what he needed; a beach, his very warm, very wet, very willing girlfriend lying on top of him, blocking the sun, and a bottle of Jamaican rum. And a case of Red Stripe beer.

The steering wheel obligingly twisted under his command, guiding the black metal off the main road and into a residential community. Every tree-lined street and neat clapboard two-story housed college students, some of whom spilled outside their domestic confines in twos or threes. Grant swept down the road. He could pull over and join any of these low-profile rituals. But he preferred to vomit in his own toilet, thank you very much.

A cop car cruised by in the opposite direction, but Grant had his eyes closed and didn't notice. The song ended and was replaced by the same song again, only faster. He eased up an inclined driveway that curved behind a patch of evergreens and parked, yanking the microphone from the reggae deejay. A brief moment of silence, then the rustlings and whisperings of the night faded back in. The door opened, and his Converse sneakers padded around to the back. Pneumatic hinges on the trunk engaged to reveal a three-dimensional matrix of alcoholic beverages. Grant couldn't help but smile. He reached his fingers around the first stack and heaved.

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Connection: Chapter 17

He was almost to the lobby when a firm voice stopped him. "Mr Warren, I'm afraid I can't let you leave." It was a stern-faced security guard. She was about five-eight with a dancer's lithe body. He grinned, and Li threw her arms around his neck. "It worked beautifully. The public announcement operator thought I was the real thing. He gave me the controls and I held the walkie-talkie up to it. The conversation boomed through the building's speaker system. Everyone heard it."

They exited the centre and headed towards Central Park. The sun cast elongated shadows as they strolled on the sidewalk. Robert looked at Li as she snuggled against his side.

"I like a woman in uniform," he said. "Maybe we won't return the costume when we get back, how about that?"

She smiled seductively. "How about we return it, but keep the handcuffs?" she teased.

"Sounds good." He grabbed her then, and they met in a deep kiss.

"You know," Robert mused, "I never told you my gaming alias."

"That's true," Li said, and kissed him again.

"Artemis." They went through the park gates hand in hand. "The Greek god of wild things."

Connection: Chapter 16

Robert exhaled deeply and focused on the ground. "I don't think shooting me is a good idea, Fatality," he said.

"And why is that? I happen to know these rooms are soundproof."

"Perhaps," he said as he removed the walkie-talkie from his pocket, "but there's still the two thousand cyberathletes on the convention floor who would hear the shot."

The arrogance disappeared instantly. Fatality held the gun in disbelief. "You're bluffing," he said weakly.

"Perhaps," Robert said. "But if I'm not, you have roughly thirty seconds to escape this building with your freedom, if not your reputation. I noticed a number of cops on my way here."

Dread filled Fatality's face. The gun arm wavered. Robert watched the man's life disintegrate in between them. He laid the radio on the glass table. "It would appear I chose the better weapon," he said.

Fatality sank into a chair. Robert relaxed with the lowering of the gun. He opened the door. Hesitating, he left the broken man with his head in his hands.

Connection: Chapter 15

Robert took the stairs up to the fourth floor and walked the intricately carpeted passageway. Cream molding framed the open doors to the suites. Semicircular mahogany tables topped by bouquets stood between the rooms, inanimate sentinels guarding the secrets within. He entered Suite D. A long conference table dominated the room, its thick glass surface exaggerating the emptiness of the room. There was no place to hide anything, but Robert worried he was being tricked somehow. He knew the danger of this rendezvous.

The door closed behind him. He spun and saw Fatality twist the lock. "So we're not interrupted," he said. Robert's body was a taut spring, ready to snap. He swallowed his fear. Now that he was face to face with the man, this whole mission seemed foolhardy. Fatality was startlingly built and a good thirty pounds heavier than Robert. He was locked in a bare room with the man who forty-eight hours ago had tried to burn him alive. Fatality spoke first.

"You think you know something." It was not a question. "Doesn't matter. Whatever you think you know is irrelevant. This ends now."

He advanced towards Robert, who started to respond.

"Shut up. I'll ask the questions. Why did you come here? To blackmail me?"

Robert straightened. "I'm not interested in your money."

"Don't be idiotic. The whole world is interested in my money. Every week, someone knocks on my door trying to separate me from my money."

"You sent those men to kill me."

Fatality scoffed. "Yes, I did. Evidently they failed. Incompetence. A blessing and a curse. Desirable in your enemies, and damaging in your comrades. All my victories come through the incompetence of my opponents."

"Your victories came because you kill your opponents," Robert shot back.

"That's the idea, Robert. I kill them on the screen."

"And in the real world."

"When necessary, yes." Fatality flexed his arms. "An inconsequential differentiation. Throughout history, men have eliminated their competition outside the official arena. The Greeks did it. The Romans did it. Gladiators were poisoned before matches to tip the outcome."

"You're insane."

"Insanity is merely genius without direction. And you can see I'm very direct." He whipped out a Glock handgun. "I'm pointing this gun directly at your heart."

Connection: Chapter 14

The reaction would have been humorous if the stakes were lower. With cameras on him, Fatality regained his composure, but not before his expression betrayed his surprise. Robert was holding a paper with two words in bold black marker: I KNOW.

Both men moved away from the spectators. Robert never broke eye contact. When they were close enough for privacy, Fatality said, "There are conference rooms on the fourth floor. Meet me in Suite D in ten minutes." Robert indicated his agreement, and Fatality returned to the deathmatch. The exchange had taken seconds. Time and place, Robert thought. Life doesn't give you second chances.

He met Li when she emerged from the lavatory, fixing her new clothes. She had heard everything over the two-way radio. "An unnecessary precaution," she said, tapping the one in his back pocket.

"Better safe than sorry," he replied.

"You sure you don't want me to be there?"

He sighed. "It's safer if you don't."

"But I could just hide the stuff, and then--"

"No," he said firmly. "I have to do this alone."

And with that, he walked away and was swallowed in the mass of activity. Over at the primary table, clan Kapitol yelled their victory. Amidst the enthusiasm, one man stood grim.

Connection: Chapter 13

The Stoll Centre is located on the Avenue of the Americas, a stone's throw from the Hilton New York. Though monolithic, the unimpressive façade acts as an inadvertent camouflage, the building melting into its skyscraper surroundings. Hardly any of the Manhattanites who hurry past recognize that on a given day, thousands flow through the three double doors into the capacious lobby and the numerous conferences within. Today, however, it was hard to miss.

A rippling fifty-foot banner proclaimed the site as the venue of the World Cyber Games. Robert and Li could read the beacon from blocks away. A steady stream of pedestrian traffic converged on the structure. They swept into the foyer, where an oversized sculpted computer spilt its wrought-iron innards, cables pointing to nearby events and gold circuitry providing a floor plan. A bank of flat-panel screens listed match times and participants. They crammed into a well-appointed elevator to descend to the ground floor.

Li immediately noticed commonalities amongst the occupants. All young men, most wore baseball caps, t-shirts and jeans. Robert was easily the most handsome, although his build was replicated. Cell phones, water bottles, belt clips and other paraphernalia added the finishing touches. A far cry from the suited businessmen the elevator usually shuttled.

When the reflective doors slid open, Li gasped. The image was distinctly Orwellian. Banks of computers stretched as far as she could see. A centre aisle separated two columns of tables. A row of identical black computers and monitors lined each table. And at each machine, there was a person, headphones on, hands at the ready, intensely focused on the contents of the screen. Li was in the Mecca of the cyberathlete.

Robert held her hand and led her around the skirt of the room where some display booths provided a good vantage point. He scanned the room with his trained eye. He identified several American players, a handful of Koreans and some others. No Fatality. No clan Kapitol black shirts. Briefly, he wondered if he was wrong. No, he told himself. Industry pressure alone would force them here. Fatality and clan Kapitol were sponsored by several leading technology corporations, who were singularly interested in capitalizing on their investments. Missing a global tournament would jeopardize their sponsorship contracts. And I already know how far they will go to protect their cash flow.

It was possible that the clan was practicing in one of the adjacent rooms. Often, these large competitions connected several independent local-area networks so teams could play unofficial matches in their downtime. However, there would be too many to search, and Robert wanted to wait for the opportune moment. He recalled the schedule in the lobby and checked his watch. Fifteen minutes.

They slid behind two consoles and pretended to log onto a first-person-shooter. In truth, Robert set the screens to display the perspective from a random combatant in the game. Anyone passing by couldn't tell the difference, and it freed them to watch the entrances for their quarry. Li was struggling with the combo headphones and microphone, so he gently laid her hair flat and adjusted the headband.

"Try to look natural," he said with a smile.

Li said, "This is about as unnatural as it gets for me. I feel like Julia in 1984."

"Who?"

"Never mind."

He was about to pursue the discussion when the surrounding gamers started murmuring and he looked up. The members of clan Kapitol were filing down the aisle, Fatality talking in front with the match coach. He quieted Li and mentally named the faces. Behind Fatality, the manager Lunch. Then Orb. Ouija. Czm. Spook. He did a quick count. Six plus the coach. One too many. Who was sitting out the match?

Match time. The five R3volution players sat opposite clan Kapitol, the computers facing each other. No eye contact was actually possible during the game, so the proximity was a formality. The objective was to have more kills, or frags, than your opponent in a given time. When you died, you were automatically reborn, so the number of frags you could theoretically accumulate was limitless. The virtual versions of the players moved around in a map, an enclosed fight environment with obstacles, hiding places and rooms. Although teammates communicated during the match, the coach would issue specific instructions to coordinate the effort. A sizable crowd assembled to watch.

When the match was underway, Robert saw that Fatality was the member not playing. Standing beside the coach, he remained pokerfaced as the frag tally swung between the teams. The perfect setup, he thought. Tight match and Fatality on the sidelines. He's bound to be tense. Robert waited until the bout was half-finished, then gave Li the signal. She went with the shoulder bag to the restroom to change. He checked his back pocket and moved into the crowd. Sidling to the front, he placed himself directly in Fatality's line of vision.

Connection: Chapter 12

The problem-solving value of sleep is underappreciated. The beneficiary of slumber is not the body, but the brain. While the organs hum along on cruise control, the brain consolidates, reviews and analyzes the streams of information gathered during the waking hours. When Robert took his first step of the day, his mind had already made great cognitive leaps.

His investigation the previous night had established means, motive and opportunity. The television cop triple threat. But for any event, there is time and place. The place was obvious. It was where he lived. He now considered the timing of the attack. Why yesterday? Once he figured it out, the solution presented itself. The irony did not escape Robert. The attempt to keep him away was the catalyst that would send him there.

It took about two hours to bring Li up to speed, throw his clothes in the washer and dryer, grab some food, and enjoy a long soothing bath. Li directed the mixture of oils and soap from outside the bathroom. He imagined her nubile form submerged in the water. It was enough to make him forget about clan Kapitol and Fatality. They spent the afternoon refining the plan and flirting.

In the evening, they drove to the quiet downtown square and purchased round-trip tickets, then went into the local costume shop. Robert put their purchases on his credit card. Li neatly packed the items in a shoulder bag along with her toiletries. They split to get food and magazines for the journey, then met for a final check. The lime-green Beetle was left at the bus terminal the next morning.

Connection: Chapter 11

Robert remembered his old computer. As the hard drive got stuffed with data, the computer slowed and slowed until he finally had to do some digital housekeeping. He felt the same way. Having learnt so much so fast, his mind was slowing down. What he needed was to reboot.

"Li, I've got to get some sleep," he said, and a wave of fatigue engulfed him as he spoke.

"Well, I'm guessing your place needs to cool off a bit, so..." She left the thought hanging between them.

"Sure. As long as I don't have to sleep on broken glass," he mumbled.

By the time they got to Li's apartment, it had stopped snowing and the horizon was beginning to lighten. The fire had been extinguished and the brigade long gone. Li undressed and took a shower. Robert was sound asleep on the carpet when she finished and climbed into bed. She whispered goodnight to the motionless figure. The jagged window whistled a lullaby until her eyes closed.

Connection: Chapter 10

"I don't know," Robert joked, "I think it's pretty bad."

"Why did they choose the name Kapitol?" she asked.

"Apparently some of the founding members of the team went to Capitol College in Maryland together. They changed the spelling because they thought it was cooler."

"And you believed that?"

Robert shrugged. "Why not?"

"I'll tell you why not." Li smoothed her hair with her fingers and assumed a scholarly air. "I majored in history and linguistics in college. The Latin root of capitol is caput, which has two interpretations. It means chief or leader, and in some translations includes the idea of the apex or summit. The city of Capitoline was the exact center of ancient Rome, the repository of power. What are the Romans known for?"

"The Roman Empire," Robert said.

"True, but in our modern world, what piece of the Roman Empire remains?"

"The Colosseum in Rome."

"Exactly. The Roman Empire, through its geographical expansion across Europe, connected its citizens in a primitive network. And the citizens of the Empire gathered in Rome for one reason: games.

"The Romans held games frequently, bloodthirsty events where killing was sport. And not just at the Colosseum. The Capitoline Games were held in honor of Capitoline Jove, the king of gods. See any parallels yet?"

"Dear God."

"There's more. At the centre of Capitoline, at the exact apex of the Roman Empire, there was a temple built for the Capitoline Triad. The Triad was the perfect union of three deities: Jove, Minerva and Juno Regina. Jove was the king of gods. Juno was the protector of warriors. And Minerva," she hesitated, "was the goddess of crafts and war."

Robert looked out the windshield at the deserted street. "These men are demented. Do you mean to tell me that they believe themselves protected by these gods?"

"I don't know. But there are far too many connections to be coincidence. Look at it. Fatality's quick rise to power. Both he and clan Kapitol are the best in their fields. The Latin connection with an ancient society obsessed with games. Violent games. The goddess of crafts and war. The protector of warriors. And one final bit I didn't mention."

Robert waited.

"The second interpretation of the root caput. In English, it translates to human skull."

Connection: Chapter 9

They arrived at their destination safely, the bumper detaching only twice. Li was still reeling from the evening's events. She half expected to wake up in her bedroom, the alcohol having gone to her head. She felt an inexorable attraction to the man in her car. Slim, tall, at once gentle and aggressive. Her mind wandered to the bedroom for an entirely different reason.

Meanwhile, Robert had uploaded the snapshot to the laptop and done some minor image editing. He looked outside and saw the familiar double-curve symbol scrawled in white chalk, indicating an open network. He typed a keyword into the online search engine and scanned the results. After a couple unpromising sites, he confirmed his suspicions. Dear God, he thought. This is sick. Sick and twisted, but perfectly logical.

"Li, I can tell you who really lit the match tonight, although he was not even there," he said staring at the screen. "Li?"

"Hmm? Oh, sorry. Lost in my own thoughts. Who's behind what now?"

He smiled. "You must be exhausted. Do you still want to know?"

"Of course," she exclaimed. "This car didn't have a scratch on it until you got your hands on it." And me, she added silently.

Robert's countenance darkened. "When we left your building, remember we saw the SUV zoom out the parking lot?" Li nodded. "I thought I knew the logo on the side, but in the confusion and snow I couldn't be positive. Got a slightly better look when I pulled beside them, enough to want to stop them in any case. Turns out my hunch was correct." He turned the laptop to her. On one half of the screen was the picture, rotated ninety degrees anticlockwise. On the other was a black-and-white logo lifted from a website. The two were identical.

"This is the official insignia of one Johnathan Wendel. Known in computer gaming circles as Fatality." He paused. "The deadliest gamer in the world."

A prolonged burst of laughter filled the car. Li said, "You're not serious? A gamer? You mean, video games? Some loser who built his own Playstation set fire to the Faust Towers?" She erupted again. "Robert, tell me you're pulling my leg."

"I am very serious," he replied. "You may think playing video games is a trivial pursuit. Most people do. The reality is that a virtual reality can be a full-time profession. And at the highest level, a very lucrative one." Li sobered quickly.

"There is an immense worldwide gaming population. This has been true for the last two decades. Since personal computers took off, there have been games, and there have been gamers. With the advent of the online multiplayer game in the mid-nineties, this population became an interlinked community. Players were now playing against other players from around the globe. Distance ceased to be a limiting factor.

"Tech companies have always loved gamers, since we are the early adopters of their new technology. It didn't take long for the leaders in the industry to sponsor organized competitions. From there, it was a small step to offer monetary prizes. The activity of gaming could now support itself financially. "

Skeptical, Li listened as Robert warmed to his task. "At least for the top players. Similar to poker tournaments, most of the participants go home losers. Cyberathletes like myself spend hours each day, honing our craft. We have to be as disciplined as athletes in any sport. Practice makes perfect."

Li asked, "But how do you earn real money?"

"By winning major tournaments. Cyberathletes from seventy countries converge for the largest competitions, hoping to bag upwards of $100,000. And here's where it gets interesting. Mr Wendel had bits and bytes in his bloodstream. In fact, he was so addicted to the original 1992 Mortal Kombat fighting game, he took its concluding line as his alias, Fatality. At eighteen, he entered his first tourney and placed third. His performance was so impressive he represented the United States a fortnight later in Stockholm. He emerged undefeated.

"And undefeatable. Since then, he has decimated opponents on all five continents. Sweden, Australia, Korea, Germany, Brazil, Russia, you name it, he's beat there, done that. He has won the championship match of the Cyberathlete Professional League three years in a row. Here's the punchline to the gut: he makes $60,000 a year."

"That's twice what I make," Li sputtered.

"From zero to number one in no time at all. Almost total domination for a few years. Then he started losing about twelve months ago. Like any sport, there's always someone ready to take your place. Guess who was a rising star."

Li mused, "So he tried to remove a potential threat to his future income."

"Bingo. But of course he couldn't dirty his valuable hands. So he sent those two kids, and I'll bet the server farm they're in his clan."

"His clan?"

"Most games are an individual battle, but there are some, like Counter-Strike, that facilitate group warfare. So gamers form elite squads that compete as a unit. Fatality is a member of such a team: clan Kapitol. They're at the top of their game, literally."

Li jerked to attention. "Robert," she intoned, "this is much worse than you think."

Connection: Chapter 8

The Ford Explorer was on its side, the mangled undercarriage facing Robert and Li as they approached. They moved in a wide arc. The roof and back had collapsed, turning the vehicle into a giant sardine can. Robert squatted and peered through the dangling windshield. The driver was unquestionably dead. Beside him, partially obscured, a young man lay comatose. His breathing was laboured. Robert felt no compassion. He moved to the car's rear.

Li took one look at the man and dialed the emergency hotline. She spoke in hushed tones with the operator, uncertain of Robert's reaction if he saw her. After relaying the basic information, she hung up. Meanwhile, Robert had climbed on top of the twisted metal so that he could examine the doors. I was right. Dead right.

"Give me the phone," he yelled. Li tossed it to him. The ambulance was on its way anyway. Robert scrolled through the phone's menu system and found what he wanted. Holding the instrument at arm's length, he snapped a photo with the built-in digital camera. Li clambered up beside him. All she saw was a dull decorative sticker plastered on the rear door.

"There's your proof," he said, smacking the metal. Li was unconvinced. Back inside the Beetle, Robert grabbed the laptop and sat in the passenger seat. He brought up a database of addresses on the screen.

"Do you know how to get to the corner of Green and Columbia?" he asked.

Li fingered the keys and controlled her voice. "Yes, but there's nothing on that corner but a coffee shop. A coffee shop that sure as sunrise won't be open when we get there. I've got the keys. I'm in the driver's seat. I'm in my car, a car you just wrecked. Totaled. You killed some kid, and it'll probably be two. You say they tried to kill you. You say they set a building on fire tonight. Now, I want some answers and I'm gonna get them. I'm not moving an inch until you explain exactly what tonight is all about. Starting with breaking into my room and ending with why you want me to drive to a locked café at three in the morning!"

Her chest heaved with the effort. Robert sighed.

"You're right. You deserve a full explanation. I'm sorry I dragged you into this, but I'm not even sure how I am involved or why this is happening. I do have a strong hunch, however, and the key to turning it into proof is outside the coffee shop at Green. Do you know what warchalking is?"

Li shook her head. "In the thirties during the Great Depression, unemployment was high and thousands found themselves poor and homeless. Many of these hobos hid on freight trains and crisscrossed the country looking for food and work. Because these commodities were so scarce, a language, or more accurately, a symbology emerged amongst the hobo community. When one hobo found safe harbor somewhere, he would take a small piece of chalk and leave a symbol on a wall or the sidewalk. Soon these warchalking symbols proliferated all around America.

"After the Depression ended, the symbols disappeared. But recently, they've popped up again. This time, it's not hobos who are employing the secret language, but tech geeks and gamers. Whenever one of us discovers a wireless hotspot, we leave a chalk mark on the sidewalk. In the last couple of years it's died down a bit, but some of us still do it. And I happen to know that there's a mark near Green and Columbia, near to the coffee shop."

Li interrupted him. "But so what? Why are we trying to find wireless Internet access at this ungodly hour?"

"Because it's the closest access point, and I want to figure out who tried to kill me tonight."

"You said those boys tried to kill you."

"Yes, but I want to know who they work for. I've never seen them before in my life."

Diffused red and blue flashed across the Beetle.

"We have to leave now," Robert said. "If those paramedics or police stop us, it'll be hours before they let us go. The accident looks like the kids were drunk and speeding. I need to know the truth about tonight. And from the look on your face, so do you."

They could hear the sirens now. Li made a decision. When the ambulance pulled onto the shoulder moments later, the road was empty except for an overturned brown Ford Explorer.

Connection: Chapter 7

The SUV rammed over the Beetle's rear half and launched into a spectacular flip. After a brief midair flight, the vehicle smashed into the road and somersaulted repeatedly until it scraped to a halt in the distance. Inside the Beetle, dual front and front-side airbags deployed and deflated, protecting their bodies. The rear crush zone absorbed the initial impact while the curved high-strength roof pillars, designed for rollovers, remained intact and acted as a ramp.

Li tracked the other vehicle's trajectory in horror. There was no movement inside the crumpled wreckage. She snapped out of her reverie when Robert exited the car. He inspected the damage to the Beetle. He's a murderer, she thought. He killed those kids. Disgust washed over her. Li realized her vulnerability. He could kill me and get away with it. She had to escape.

The keys were still in the ignition. Opening the glove compartment, she retrieved her cell phone. She glanced behind. He had disappeared. She turned to pull her belt and found herself an inch from Robert's face outside the glass. "Come outside," his muffled voice said. Reluctantly, she complied. Tread carefully, she told herself.

Robert saw fear in Li's face. Understandable under the circumstances. The crash was more frightening than he expected. The collision physics in his racing games had given him wildly unrealistic images, he now appreciated. He put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Li recoiled.

"Get away from me," she said, backing away. So much for treading carefully.

"I know you're frightened," he said, confused. "I was too."

"Stay away." The voice was aggressive. "I'm calling the police."

Despite his confusion, Robert knew how official intervention would end. "Li, wait. Those men tried to kill me earlier tonight." Her finger paused over the keypad. He continued. "The fire in the North Tower was no accident. It was an attempt to kill me. For what reason, I don't know yet."

Li sensed the sincerity in his words. She lowered the phone. "Prove it," she said. To her surprise, Robert nodded.

"Okay, give me the phone."

"I'm not that stupid, Robert. Try again."

"Fine. Let's go to the vehicle then," he said, already striding off. Li hesitated, then hurried after him.

Connection: Chapter 6

Instinct took over. Robert wrenched the wheel to the right and slammed on the accelerator. Li braced for the collision. The car shot into the right lane as the fire truck screamed past, missing them by inches. Robert frantically sought out the dividing yellow line. Killing themselves would only serve the purposes of the people he was trying to pursue. Eyes on the road. He knew Li was scowling at him.

"Sorry. That was stupid," he said. She remained silent. He scanned the distance for the outline of a vehicle, but saw nothing. The winding road they were descending had no branches or major intersections for another mile. He would have to drive a lot faster to catch up to the SUV. He opened his mouth, but Li interrupted him.

"I know," she said, "we'll never find them driving like this. Hit the gas."

Moving into third gear, the Beetle picked up speed. He set the windshield wipers to their maximum oscillation, the blades working overtime to clear a field of vision. The salt sprinkled on the asphalt was melting most of the fallen snow, but the danger of losing traction remained. The speedometer crept to forty miles an hour. Lucky there's no traffic, he thought.

He pushed the car onward. Fifty miles an hour. The conditions paralleled Robert's frustration playing a driving simulation on an inexpensive computer last month. Unable to render the landscape far enough in advance, the machine displayed obstacles moments before they needed to be dodged. Except this time, the threat was real. Life doesn't give you second chances. Still, countless hours behind his arcade racing wheel were paying off now. With the delicate touch of an experienced driver, he maneuvered the hardtop around the gentle curves.

"There!" Li pointed further ahead. Robert followed her finger and spotted taillights. His jaw tightened. "Go! Go!" Li yelled. I'm going, he thought. Any faster and it's suicide. Almost against his will, he increased pressure on the pedal. Sixty. They were closing the gap rapidly. Robert's mind raced.

"They don't know we're behind them, do they?" asked Li.

"No," he said, "and there must be a way to use that."

A hundred yards away, he cut the high-beam lights. Straight empty road separated the two vehicles, the heavy snow acting like a fog. No need to advertise their arrival. How many people were in that vehicle? Two? Three? Four? Robert realized he didn't really have a plan. Fifty yards away. The SUV was traveling about forty, forty-five. The narrow miss with the truck flashed in his mind. Talk about an insane idea. It just might work with this car. He floored the pedal. The needle rounded seventy.

"What kind of insurance do you have on this car?" he asked.

"Comprehensive," Li replied cautiously, unsure of the motivation. The scenery was a blur on both sides. Ten yards away. Li felt her heart thumping in her chest. Five. She turned to Robert.

"Why?" No reply. The Beetle swerved left and came alongside the Ford. Li saw the driver examining the car. A worried-looking pimply-faced college kid. What was Robert doing?

They hurtled past the sport utility. "It's just a kid in his father's new car," Li said. "Robert, what's going on? Slow down!"

Both vehicles raced down the slick road in quick succession, the Beetle ten yards ahead. This is it. Robert switched off the lights completely and swung the car back into the right lane. He was driving blind.

"What the hell are you doing? Turn on the lights! We're gonna--"

Robert hit the gear stick into neutral and jammed both feet on the brake. Anti-lock brakes engaged. Robert fought the wheel as the tires shed rubber.

"Crash?" he finished. His expression was lethal as he glanced in the mirror. "Incoming," he said.

Connection: Chapter 5

Li Anger's eyes flew open. She had the inexplicable certainty that she was not alone. She pulled the covers tight and listened. The darkness heightened her fear and seemed to blanket her ears. Out of the corner of her vision she sensed movement. Stealthily, her hand slipped under the sheets for the hardcover book she fell asleep reading. The floor creaked softly. In one fluid motion, she spun off the bed and flicked the wall switch, the book held menacingly above her head.

The intruder was caught unawares, blinded by the rush of light and movement. Quickly, Li sailed the book at his head and simultaneously sent a bare foot into his groin. The man doubled over and fell to the ground. Li bounded over the bed and found a five-pound barbell. She was about to put it to use when the man groaned something unintelligible.

"What was that?" she snapped.

"Please, I'm not a burglar. I'm not here to hurt you."

The gentility of the voice stopped her, and the adrenaline ebbed. Still holding the weight, she approached the man cautiously.

"Listen to me. The North Tower is on fire. I live on the ninth floor. I was just trying to get away," Robert said, rubbing his groin. Li moved to the broken window, sidestepping the shards on the carpet. The chilled breeze penetrated her nightgown and her body responded. It is on fire, she realized. Dropping the barbell on the bed, she turned back to the man and took in his appearance anew. He was dressed in a knee-length close-fitting trench coat. She noticed the edge was burnt. The close cut and felt hat accentuated his slim frame. He looked more like a Mafia hitman than a thief.

On the carpet, Robert read the title of the weapon used against him - Landmarks in Linguistic Thought: The Western Tradition from Socrates to Saussure. He faced his attacker by the window. She was about five-eight with a dancer's lithe body. He could see her pert breasts peeking through the nightgown. He forced his gaze higher. A pair of intense black eyes returned his stare. Her face was an appealing mix of Eastern and Western features framed by shoulder-length black hair. He held out a gloved hand.

"Robert Warren," he offered.

She took a step towards him and met his hand. "Li," she said. "I'm sorry I kicked you."

Given the length of her gown and his low vantage point, it took a moment for her words to register.

He said, "That's okay. I'll be fine, I hope." She smiled then, a beautiful smile that transformed her face. Robert swallowed. "We've got to get out of the building. The fire might spread."

Li understood. She grabbed her keys from the dresser with one hand and Robert's arm with the other. "Let's go," she said. Robert followed her out the room to the elevator. The lights above the doors indicated the eleventh floor.

"C'mon," he said. "We'll take the stairs. Faster." The layout was identical to the North Tower, so he led her into the stairway and down the floors. The sound of their feet, one booted and one bare, echoed upwards in a strange percussive blend. Hurrying behind him, Li was abruptly cognizant of her lack of clothing. She considered going back, at least for a brassiere or shoes, but decided against it. A part of her secretly enjoyed the risqué situation. He is kinda cute.

Now that the immediate peril had passed, Robert was starting to piece together information. The only gasoline in the building would be in the ground floor kitchens. There was no plausible reason for gasoline to be on the ninth floor unless the fire was deliberately set. This was no accident. This was arson. It could have been an illusion, but Robert thought that the fire was most intense right outside his room. He also remembered the carpet was wet, presumably with the fuel. Was someone trying to kill me? He dismissed the idea. No one wanted him dead. The very notion was ridiculous. Still, the last thing he glimpsed on the laptop before he projected it through the window nagged at him.

They hit the ground floor running. As they headed for the exit, Li jabbed her elbow onto a red button. A loud intermittent klaxon blared through the building. Robert looked at her.

"Good thinking," he said. He took in the grace with which she ran easily beside him. He slipped off his coat and placed it around her shoulders. She gave him a wink. They burst outside the building. The weather had worsened. The snow slapped their faces. Li snuggled inside the trench coat. She kept lifting her feet. Robert could barely see, but it was the sound that made him spin around. Ten feet away, a tan SUV flicked on its fog lamps as it roared out of the parking lot. Robert squinted to make out the oversized decal emblazoned on its side. Tires squealing, the vehicle disappeared. Were his eyes playing tricks? It couldn't be. He had to know.

"Li, do you have a car?" he asked. She tore her eyes from the blazing building.

"Yeah, over there," she indicated. "Why?"

"I need to follow the SUV that just drove off."

Her mind knew it was crazy, but she started moving towards her car. What am I doing? I don't even know this man. Her feet slipped in the snow and she lost her balance. Firm hands caught her midsection. Warm hands. She slowly removed them and turned. "Thanks," she said. "You better drive. I barely have anything on."

I noticed, Robert thought. He took the keys from her and pressed the alarm. A lime green Beetle came to life in front of them. Unlike the adjacent mounds of white, this car was lightly dusted with snow. Li read his expression and said, "I came home late." Robert nodded. They got in the car and closed the doors. He tossed the laptop on the backseat. The cocoon of warmth was a welcome respite. Li grinned.

"You're lucky I had only been asleep for a half hour, or I would never have woken up. I'm a very deep sleeper."

"I'm lucky?" he asked incredulously. "You conked me on the head and kicked me in the nuts."

"Well I'm not gonna kiss it better," she said. "You shouldn't have been sneaking into a young lady's room."

With a wry smile, he gunned the engine. His hand went for the transmission. Manual. Sliding into reverse, he backed neatly into the snowy lot. He shifted into first, and the Beetle responded eagerly. It hugged the asphalt as he turned onto the road. Snow tires. Li leaned over and flicked on the wipers. Robert snuck a look down her gown. A whiff of her shampoo drifted toward him. He shook his head clear and peered through the windshield. Visibility was abbreviated to about five yards. He changed into second.

Li tensed as she saw the scenery appear and disappear in the snow. Maybe it was a stupid idea to let him drive. But, she reasoned, if I drove and the police stopped us, we'd be in trouble. The lingerie made her feel very feminine and sexy. Combined with their present danger inside the car, excitement coursed through her body. She looked at Robert, his features set in concentration. There was strength behind the eyes. He sensed her gaze and turned, softening his expression. She really had an entrancing beauty.

The deafening blast of a horn jerked his attention back to the road. Headlights glaring, a truck materialized out of nowhere and barreled towards them. There was no time to think.