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.

Connection: Chapter 4

Consciousness returned slowly, imperceptibly. A dull throbbing headache kept syncopation with his pulse. The wind tickled his face. He lifted his head an inch and then relaxed the neck muscles again. The back of his head was wet. He reached to touch it, but his arms refused the signal from his brain. Somehow he was still alive. He urged his unwilling body to move. No luck. He opened his eyes. The voluminous dark sky was visible through the heavy snow. A flake went in his eye. Snow! The snow saved my life. But how? Even snow couldn't cushion a drop from that distance. He summoned his strength and succeeded in rolling sideways. All around him banks of white sloped upwards. Although pain crisscrossed his lower back in intricate patterns he sat up. What in the name of...? A narrow strip of snow ended in black nothingness on both sides. When he raised himself further, he understood. He had fallen directly onto the slab roof of the skywalk, six stories above ground.

Exposure to the icy weather was taking its toll. The main priority was to get back inside the building. It struck him as mildly ironic that he was in danger of both burning and freezing to death. He stood up. His eye caught a shiny plate almost in the middle of the bridge. Maybe it's a service hatch or something. He trudged towards it and knocked off the snow. It was his laptop, apparently undamaged. Continuing in the direction of the South Tower, he found himself in front of a glass window on the seventh floor. He had sacrificed his laptop in the heat of the moment, but he would not do it again. Stuck seventy feet up, he jogged back to the small crater his impact had made and picked up the severed fire hose. His legs ached as he ran. With one end firmly in his hand, he whirled the solid steel tip over his body like a cowboy and hurled it through the dark window.

Connection: Chapter 3

The temperature differential nearly sent him to his death. He was instantly freezing. The wind tore through his clothes and chilled every nerve. Don't look down. Focus. With his eyes closed and gripping the hose tightly, he scraped his foot a few inches along the thin ledge. He positioned his body like a mountain climber rappelling on a cliff. The hose was ramrod straight in his hands, with a few feet hanging loose by his side. His breath crystallized in front of his face.

Clumsily, he lowered his hands and body until he was in a froglike stance. Twisting so that his side was against the building, he kicked away with his feet. For a moment he thought he had let go, but then he slammed back against the concrete with crushing force. His gloved fingers slipped down the hose and stopped just above the steel nozzle. He dangled helplessly. The hose was not long enough. He was trapped between the eighth and ninth floors. His feet touched glass, but there was no way he could manage to break it.

Above him, the flames from the wrecked door licked the hose stretched tightly across the room. The edge of the rough cloth blackened.

Robert kicked violently on the glass below him, hoping to attract attention. He had no way of knowing if the occupant was asleep or had evacuated the room. With each jerk, the hose vibrated dangerously. His hands were already numb with cold through the gloves. Snowflakes landed on his hat and coat and vanished. He figured he could hang on for about a minute longer.

In his room, a burning Black Eyed Peas poster peeled off the wall and landed on the hose.

Robert's arms ached from supporting his weight. He resumed kicking the eighth-floor window in desperation. The added strain on the hose caused a small rip in the wall fixture. Slightly further down the hose, the flames burnt a tiny expanding hole. Outside, the snow grew heavier and stung Robert's face. A gust of wind lifted his coat briefly. He paused in his exertions. He thought he felt the hose give slightly. Slowly and with fear in his heart, he looked up. He could hear the wind swirling around him and faintly, the roar of the fire above. Then with a horrible snap, he fell.

Connection: Chapter 2

Robert woke with an acrid smell in his nostrils. The blood rushed back into his hands. The clock read two in the morning. Something slimy was on his chest. Groggily, he looked down and realized his shirt was soaked. Drops of water dotted the keyboard. He was suddenly aware of sweat pouring down his face. Why in the dickens is it so hot?, he wondered looking around. He tried to take a deep breath. A fit of coughing overtook him. Then he identified the smell. Gasoline. Smoke. Fire!

Immediately his heart rate went up. He quickly moved to the door and the heat increased dramatically. The trench coat. He grabbed it and put it on, the sleeves and sides hugging him tightly. He flipped up the wide collar to minimize the exposure. As an afterthought, he reached for his fedora. Bracing himself, he turned the doorknob. A sharp jolt of pain shot up his arm and reflexively he yanked it away. He bit his lip to prevent a corrosive outburst. The surface of his palm was red and tender. He considered getting ice from the fridge but decided time was too valuable. His eyes frantically searched the room and spotted the gloves on the desk. Tentatively this time, he reached for the metal knob and cracked the door.

A wave of intense heat blasted his face through the space. He shut the door. Shit. He looked at the plate-glass window across the room and grimaced. Nine stories was unquestionable suicide. Impossible. There was only one way out of the room and it was through this door. With each passing moment, breathing became more difficult and with it, the ability to think clearly. He had to get out. His damp white washrag hung on a hook inside the closet. He wrapped it around his nose and mouth. Willing his body to calm down, he pulled the door wide open.

Robert almost fainted from the combined sensory assault of the image and the heat. White-hot flames lapped at the doorway. The carpet in the hallway was purportedly fire-retardant but was certainly on fire now. He stepped into the corridor and looked towards the exit, the same stairs he had ascended earlier. Ceiling tiles had collapsed and created small pockets of safety, but he would surely be incinerated before he got to the emergency door. Already he was severely weakened from smoke inhalation. The tip of the trench coat caught on fire and he dove back into the room and flapped it out. Coughing, he closed the door. He was in trouble.

Lying on the floor of his one-room apartment, Robert closed his eyes and fought panic. The room was now visibly cloudy. I'm going to die, he thought. Twenty-one years old, and I'm going to die. His eyes watered, whether from the smoke or from an upsurge of emotion he wasn't sure. The cordless phone was a few feet away. But he had no one to call. An only child, his parents had drowned in a boating accident. His ex-girlfriend had migrated to some godforsaken hole in Canada. He could call 911, but in his gut he knew they could not reach in time to help him. He had to save himself.

He tried to stand up and failed. Time was running out. Moving on automatic, he snatched his bath towel and stuffed it under the door to block the smoke and fumes. To prevent college suicides, the windows in the Foust Towers did not open. The building was air-conditioned and heated to regulate the temperature. But the closed window was about to kill Robert. Grasping his chair and pulling himself to a kneeling position, he groped on the desk for something heavy. His fingers caught the laptop. He snapped the two halves together and stood unsteadily. With a enormous effort, he heaved the electronic ten-pound brick straight at the glass sheet.

The laptop smashed through the glass, leaving a gaping hole. Large ungainly shards clung to the metal frame. The night air rushed into the room, and Robert breathed in the heavenly gift. He removed the rag from his face and moved to the phone to call the brigade. As his hand touched the receiver, the door crashed inward with a roar. The flames had eaten the wooden door to the hinges. Fueled by the fresh oxygen flowing through the window, the fire swelled menacingly. Robert fell backwards onto the bed. Sparks ignited his bathrobe, and a few seconds later, his entire wardrobe was burning. Jesus Christ. Robert wasn't a religious man, but he needed a miracle now.

And there, through the wall of fire, he saw his one chance. The fire hose. There were no pipes connected to it anymore, he knew that. But it just might be long enough to save his life. He wrapped the coat tightly around his stomach, adjusted the fedora, clenched his gloved fists and went for it. He ran over the fiery door into the hall and grabbed the huge nozzle at one end. Despite the danger, the blazing inferno arrested his movement momentarily. It looked like the entrance to the gates of hell. Turning away, he ran back inside.

The fire had spread to his shelves and books. Soon the whole room would be engulfed. He had to act now. He attempted a rudimentary harness with the hose, but the cloth pulled taut at the other end. He would need more slack. Using his foot, he knocked out most of the remaining glass from the window. He took his thick comforter and hung it over the frame to soften the jagged edge. A lump appeared in his throat. This is crazy. He twisted the hose around his wrist and held on with both hands. The sprinkler system finally triggered and a fine drizzle of water coated the room ineffectually. He eased one foot through the window and rested it on the thin parapet below. The flames smothered most of the room except his desk. He winced as the computer sizzled, the liquid spray soaking its innards. With a final look at the room, he swung his other foot outside.

Connection: Chapter 1

The twin structures of the Foust Towers stood impassive to the brutal onslaught of wind and snow whipping through the cold January night. Fifteen floors high and thirty yards apart, they were the only interruptions in the flat suburban landscape. Ten years ago, college freshmen filled the Towers with life and liquor from dusk until dawn. When Westwood College relocated further upstate, it sold the property to a local company who then resold it to a local businessman. The new manager did no managing, which translated to cheap rent and cheap neighbors. Now, with the temperature below zero and dropping, a few squares of light betrayed the nocturnal residents. Thick fresh snow capped the roofs and blurred the contours of the cars in the parking lot below. Suspended six floors up, an enclosed concrete and glass skywalk connected the two apartment buildings. Anyone watching tonight from outside would spot the lone movement, a solitary figure walking from the South Tower to the North Tower through the lit skywalk.

Robert Warren popped the Mountain Dew can and put it to his lips. The carbonated liquid burned on the way down, bringing his body back to life. He took off a glove and let his fingers feel the cool metal. Glancing outside, he took in the bleak weather and white carpet far below. Although the skywalk was not heated, it was still noticeably warmer than the sidewalk Robert had exited minutes earlier. The length of the winter was his main complaint with New York State. Otherwise, he liked the people, the prices and the pay. He went through the double glass doors into North Tower and passed the elevators and the broken vending machine. Ever since he discovered how many pounds his penchant for donuts had added to his firm waist, he started using the stairs. Taking them two at a time now and sipping his soda, he felt wide awake. He stepped over the large number nine painted on the emergency stairwell floor and entered the hallway.

He rested the can on the fire hose housing jutting off the wall and opened his studio door. Originally designed as a single dorm the room was small even by studio standards, but Robert did not need more space. A twin bed rested by the picture window, a few shelves held whatever fell off the bed. Drawers and a closet for his clothes. Short stacks of recordable CDs and DVDs littered the floor. Robert stepped through the organized chaos and removed his retro trench coat. His clothes were wrinkled, but with a night under the mattress they could be worn tomorrow. He stuck the can in the mini-fridge, laid the gloves on the desk and sat down.

The gleaming Falcon Northwest tower hummed under its custom-designed case. The intricate crimson and black exterior was stuffed with a bleeding-edge processor, expansive memory, dual graphics cards, a dual-layer recordable optical drive and massive dual hard drives. A crossover Ethernet cable snaked from its rear across the table where it plugged into a fire-red laptop. The Velocity Micro notebook sported comparable specifications inside its sleek yet heavy frame. The widescreen laptop and double liquid-crystal monitors sparked to life as Robert moved his hand over the wireless trackball. All told he had poured a cool $13,000 into the array of equipment. Robert Warren was a cyberathlete.

Booting up the machines, he grabbed a CD from its translucent case and stuck it in the laptop. He logged into the online multiplayer game under his requisite alias and was soon lost in the complex world of mercenaries and assassins. His fingers danced, communicating with other players from around the globe. His alter ego wreaked digital carnage as he traversed the map. Kill after kill piled up. After an hour, the short-lived effects of the caffeine wore off, the hands and reflexes slowed. He nodded off to sleep, his head coming to rest on the keys.

Blood is Sicker than Thieves

The blindingly bright flames of the bonfire cast long, ominous shadows behind the four men surrounding it. It was mid-January, the coldest time of the year, but the huge blaze was obviously for more than warmth. One man tossed an empty beer into the fire, and it crackled as if welcoming the bottle. Another took a stack of newspaper off the roof of a beat-up sedan with no plates, and threw it around the base. The fire roared and rose even higher, cutting into the midnight darkness. One of them raised his beer above his head, and shouted something that was muffled by the sounds of the inferno. The other men yelled their apparent agreement, and they started to move around the fire, constantly making noise. Their pace quickened until they were all jogging in a circle, and then, as one, they suddenly stopped. Eight fists flew into the air, and their loud cry rang into the otherwise silent night, and the fire ascended higher still.

-----

Ken Kesey swung open the door, and walked lazily to the counter. He unbuttoned the heavy winter coat, and took off the insulated shoulder bag with ‘Pizza Palace’ written in bold lettering. He leaned over the scrubbed counter.

“Hey Maurice, anything else for tonight?”
“One more, Ken, just one. You ain’t gonna like me.”
“And why’s that, may I ask?”
“Coz it’s in the Crumbs.”
“Darn it! I wanted to catch a TV show at seven,” Ken complained.
“Yeah well, them’s the breaks, kid.”
“Man. Right at the end of the day.”

Ken shoved the large pizza box into his shoulder bag, and made his way out. As he opened the door, a gust of frigid air took away his breath. He pulled the hood of the coat over his head and swung his leg over a dirty blue Honda motorcycle. The tired engine coughed into action, Ken eased the old bike onto the road, and drove off. As he turned onto another road, he grumbled to himself about where he was going.

The Crumbs was the unofficial name for an ever-expanding trailer park on the city limits. It was the seediest of neighbourhoods in a seedy town, and was mostly populated by past and present criminals, drunkards and prostitutes. Ken, just like everyone else, usually steered far clear of the place, but a pizza delivery boy couldn’t choose his deliveries. This job was the only one available to Ken when he arrived in town, so he took it. He had moved across the city about a year ago, after two life-threatening events. He manoeuvred the bike onto the highway, and picked up speed.

His old home had only been a few miles away from the Crumbs. He used to work at a convenience store, but a robbery there made him quit. The robber had actually tried to bump him off afterwards, but Ken survived and killed him instead. Then while Ken was in the hospital a few weeks later, the guy’s brother came on a vendetta mission. Ken managed to kill him, too. But the attempts on his life had taken their toll, so he packed up and came here, to Lanford. He looked in the side mirror and switched lanes. It had taken him four months to recover from his injuries, which included a broken kneecap and a gunshot wound in his shoulder. He was fully recovered now, except for scars on his hands and shoulder. Night was just beginning to fall, and Ken could see a long line of traffic moving in the opposite direction. Everybody going home. He sighed. Whoever ordered this pizza better be a good tipper.

Now, he had a new home, a new job, a new life. He was glad that he didn’t have to be afraid to go out, or even to stay home. The Turpin brothers were dead and gone, and even their drug-addict mother had passed away. After hearing of her sons’ death, she had overdosed on amphetamines. He had nothing to worry about…except this stupid delivery.

Ken geared down the motorcycle, and turned off the highway. Road quickly gave way to dirt paths, and he knew he was in the right place. A stench pervaded the area, a steady aura of garbage and human despair. He wanted to turn back, but he was too close now. The Honda winded its way around refuse and people, and Ken searched for the right trailer. He finally spotted it around a bend, a particularly filthy trailer. His eyes fell on the old car in front of it, with no license plates. He climbed off the bike and shuffled up to the makeshift door. Jingling the change in his pocket, he rapped twice.

“Who’s it?” A gruff, male voice came through the door.
“Pizza,” Ken replied.
“Ugh…the door’s op’n.”

Ken turned the grimy handle and the door creaked open. He had taken only one step when a coarse hand grabbed his shirt and hauled him inside. He fell to the floor and instantly a huge pair of hands closed around his neck. Gasping for breath, he looked up and saw four men over him, evil sneers on their faces. The hands tightened, and Ken could not breathe. He kicked his legs and flailed his free arm wildly, but to no avail. The hands were like a vise, there was no escape. His other hand was still in his pocket, pinned by the weight of the man on top of him. Ken closed his fingers around a quarter, and slowly, painfully, tried to pull his hand out of the pocket. His lungs were burning for air. Consciousness was beginning to fade. With enormous effort, he concentrated on pulling his hand out. The world was getting black, his eyes were closing…And then his hand was free, with his last ounce of strength he swung at the man, he heard a howl of pain, and felt the weight leave his body. He had to get up, he just had to. Groggily, he stumbled to his feet. It was as if he were looking through a fog. He saw through blurred vision, the man on the ground, hands over his face, and the other three trying to help him. He began to run to the door, but his legs seemed to be made of jelly. One of the men noticed Ken as he staggered through the open door, and pulled out a Beretta 9000S. He raised the pistol, and laughed wickedly.

Ken dropped to the ground quickly, and the shot flew over his head. With speed born out of sheer terror, he jumped onto his bike, spun it around, and gunned the engine. The cycle tore up the path, leaving the faint odour of burnt rubber. Careening through the community, Ken racked his brains as to who these people were. The crisp night air made him instantly alert. There was no possible connection between them and the Turpin brothers, Ken told himself. The entire family was dead. This must be something else, but what?

A roar from behind made him look back. The car that had been parked outside the trailer was gaining on him like a charging bull. Women and children dove out of the way as the vehicle accelerated blindly towards Ken. Headlights glaring, the sedan looked menacing as it ate up the distance between them. Ken leaned low over his bike, put it in third gear, and picked up the pace. He screeched onto the highway with the car twenty feet behind him. The traffic had cleared to the point where the vehicles were now moving at highway speeds. Ken’s nose and ears were frozen from the biting wind. His heart pounded. The rear windows of the old Pontiac slid down and two Berettas came into view. Bullets splattered the asphalt beside Ken’s bike. He swerved into another lane, almost crashing into a minivan. The Pontiac also shifted lanes three cars behind him, and a bullet smashed the window of the minivan. Ken could see the look of horror on the driver’s face. The thug driving the Pontiac now went into the emergency lane and floored the accelerator. Ken had nowhere to go as the vehicle steadily covered the distance between them. The Beretta sticking out the window fired again, and a hole appeared in Ken’s shoulder bag. It was a matter of time before a bullet hit him. Suddenly, Ken had an idea.

He pulled in-between lanes, and yanked upwards on the handlebars. The bike’s front wheel lifted off the ground, and Ken wheelied straight up the highway. Passing inches from the vehicles on both sides, Ken risked a look back at the Pontiac, and saw it still speeding up the side lane. Moments later, both vehicles were parallel one lane apart, a station wagon separating them. The two men in the back fired recklessly through the station wagon, and one shot hit the driver in the head. His head slumped onto the steering column, and the vehicle slowed down. The Pontiac quickly slid sideways into the lane. Cold sweat covering his face, Ken looked to his right and stared down the barrel of a shotgun.

Without thinking, he jerked the handlebar to the right, and slammed down on the front wheel brake. The wheel locked, and the back of the bike skidded in a semi-circle. Before the men realized what had happened, Ken had turned his bike around to face the traffic. Ken revved his engine and headed straight for the oncoming vehicles. Meanwhile, the Pontiac was hopelessly far behind. Ken heard a series of screeches and the horrible sound of metal on metal. No time to glance behind, Ken zigzagged up the road. His bike and the traffic were hurtling towards each other at a combined speed of more than 150 mph. The headlights blocked his vision, and many times he only just managed to veer out of the way. He lined himself in the middle of two lanes, and craned his neck to see the horrible accident that he had heard. What met his eyes almost made him faint. The Pontiac, severely damaged with both headlights and the windshield shattered, was still following him!

The vehicle was riding the middle of the same two lanes as Ken, in the most reckless nature possible. Every automobile that passed got dented and scraped. Drivers swung their cars to either side to avoid the madmen. It was total chaos. Ken urged his motorcyle onwards, and tried not to think about his impending death. All his manoeuvres had failed, and now he was going to die. He had only one hope. He looked across the highway, and his eyes fell on a road sign: Waterton, Next Exit.

Frantically, Ken searched for the turn-off. And then, he spotted it. There was only one small problem. He was on the wrong side of the highway. A bullet whizzing past his head inspired resourcefulness, however. Quickly, he drove sideways across lanes, across the island, across four more lanes, missing a vehicle by a split second, and hit the off-ramp. He cruised down the ramp, sure that there was no way the Pontiac could have pulled this one. A swift look behind him confirmed his view. He settled in the seat of the bike and slowed down. He had done it.

The turn-off led to a old road covered with potholes. As he slowly made his way down, Ken realized that he was at the waterfront. On the right, boarded-up warehouses lined the road, and on the left was a series of wooden piers, each roughly twenty feet from the next. He could hear the soft crashing of the waves against the poles of the piers, and the water was pitch-black. Everywhere were piles of crates, and the road was damp from the occasional spray of seawater. Light came from two lampposts close to the warehouses. Ken was alone, and as the cycle sputtered along, his mind returned to the question of the identity of these four men. What could he have done to warrant this kind of determination to kill him? he wondered. He reasoned that, as improbable as it sounded, these men had to be connected to the Turpin brothers. He had reached the end of the road. He turned the bike around and started up the road. Could it be that the mother had hired them? No, she was dead, Ken remembered. Maybe they were part…

That thought was interrupted by the low grumble of a car muffler. As Ken squinted in the semi-darkness, the beat-up Pontiac crunched onto the road. Ken cursed himself for not hiding. Of course they’d come down here. Why hadn’t he hid? He could still hide if he could get inside one of the warehouses. He spotted an open one roughly fifty feet from his current position. He kicked the motorbike into life, and gunfire rang out. Then, as if they realized what he was trying to do, the sedan made a beeline for Ken’s bike. Twenty feet away, Ken realized he was not going to reach in time. He turned sharply to his right, but not soon enough. The car hit the back wheel of the bike, sending it and Ken spinning. His right leg scraped along the ground as he skidded, tearing through his blue jeans and cutting into his flesh. The motorbike hit the curb, and Ken was tossed into a pile of crates, where the back of his head split open on a plank.

He stood up unsteadily, and ran limping down the nearest pier. Had his head not been bleeding freely, Ken might have appreciated how stupid that was. The Pontiac reversed, and stopped at the beginning of the wooden dock. Ken realized, with a sickening feeling, that they were going to run him over. He could only jump into the freezing, below-zero water and wait for them to shoot him. To the men in the car, Ken Kesey was a pathetic sight. Standing at the edge of the water, with a bloody head and leg, his jeans, coat and bag all torn, it was too easy. The engine announced its intention, and Ken swallowed. To his left, an abandoned cargo crane was rusting away. Its pulley was positioned so that the cable and hook hung ten feet in the air, exactly halfway down the pier. It creaked with the breeze, as if laughing at Ken. He took off the bag and held it in his hand. Then a deep voice pierced the gloom.

“There’s nowhere to go, Kenny boy,” it boomed.
Weakly, Ken stared at the car through half-closed eyes, and shouted, “Tell me one thing, though.”
“What?”
“Who the f--- are you?”
“Who are we? Kenny boy, you of all people should know who we are. Don’t you read the news? It was all over the papers that both the Turpin brothers had died. Did you stop reading then, Ken? Didn’t you read that both leaders o’ the Turpin gang were dead? Yes, Kenny boy. We are what’s left o’ the Turpin gang, the Turpin gang that started a crime wave a year and a half ago. Your pathetic corner store was part o’ that wave. Then you offed both of ‘em, you asshole. This here’s your fault. And now, you’s gonna pay for it.”

The Pontiac screamed, and accelerated towards Ken. Instead of diving into the water, Ken sprinted directly towards the car. Both were heading towards each other at their top speeds. Ken’s breath came in ragged gasps as he continued into an apparent suicide. The vehicle was almost upon him, and Ken could see the malicious grin on the driver’s face. Ken felt the anger boiling up within him. At the last possible moment, he leapt high into the air with the bag over his head. The strap snagged in the hook of the crane, and as Ken lifted his feet up and held on for dear life, the Pontiac shot underneath him, inches from his back. In slow motion, Ken saw the car brake frantically, but the saltwater on the pier made for a slippery surface, and it skidded along, unable to stop. The sedan drove straight off the pier, and a moment later, splashed horribly into the water. Ken heard the muffled screams of the men as they tried to open their doors, but the pressure was too great, and the vehicle was gradually consumed by the sea. He slumped onto the dock, breathing heavily, as the cries of the dying men faded into the soft crashing of the waves on the piers.