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The Gift Of The Magi, East St. Louis Style

02/07
Clayton panicked the night he realized that he would be found out by the law. To add to his woes he hadn’t paid his protection fees to the local enforcer, which meant that he’d soon have visitors. Clayton was in a bit of bind. Vivian, his downstairs neighbor, had a dilemma of her own to contend with, her mother had died in her sleep and for some odd reason, Vivian had let her lay for 5 days. In exchange for disposing of the body Vivian paid Clayton’s debt. Clayton fled town just ahead of the law. Vivian followed after him.
02/08

Vivian found Clayton in East St. Louis, in a town and a neighborhood she’d have normally avoided. A town frayed at the edges, a town that – in Vivian’s estimation – didn’t work anymore. The idea of the social contract for East St. Louis had obviously failed. Nevertheless she followed Clayton there to … to … do what actually? She really hadn’t a clue. He’d done as he’d contracted, fulfilling any obligation he had to her. It was guilt really. Guilt at what she’d done to her mother. And Clayton was her only witness. She had to be sure he wouldn’t tell.

02/09
Clayton had never really disposed of a body before. Oh he’d been the driver on a few deliveries here and there but he’d never had to touch one of the bodies. The old woman’s skin was surprisingly cold. Her dead weight had been difficult to handle. And naturally after five days in bed, she’d begun to rot. When “The Spinster” had come upstairs with her offer, Clayton had jumped at the chance. He didn’t know why The Spinster had neglected her mother’s body for so long and he really didn’t care. All he cared about was getting out of debt.
02/10
Vivian wondered to herself what Clayton saw in “these people.” They were wasters, all of them. Sitting around on their fat butts, leeching off each other. And they drank all the time! She couldn’t figure out how they kept so much alcohol about; they never had 2 dollars between any 4 of them. Clayton was bankrolling them now, with the money he had left after his debt payoff and travel expenses. Vivian wondered what his plans were, if he even had any plans. She didn’t want to be around these people any longer but she couldn’t afford to leave, yet.
02/11
Clayton began to wonder if Vivian maybe had a “thing” for him. She was obviously out of place with his old crowd. But she kept hanging around. Even stayed at some fleabag hotel, coming around the house most every day, buying him meals, chatting him up. She seemed fascinated with tales of his days in “the life.” He’d been a low level operator for sure, but it didn’t stop him from “sexing up” his stories a bit to look good. And then suddenly Clayton realized why “The Spinster” was really hanging about. She didn’t know where he’d stashed the body.
02/12
Vivian had a real problem. Not wanting to know what Clayton did with her mother’s body now left her at a disadvantage. She couldn’t really move on before she knew now could she? And the irony was not lost on her that had she just called for EMS when she discovered her mother’s corpse, she wouldn’t be in this bind. But it was the first moment in her life that she’d made a choice on her own. The first time she’d ever been free. So she left the body alone for 5 days, and went to the movies. Five matinees.
02/13
The Spinster was starting to make Clayton nervous. He’d done her a good turn and she’d paid him for it. There was no way he was going to let her peep his hold card and he wasn’t about to get in deep with her. Complicating matters, his crew had gotten used to begging money off of her. Clayton wasn’t sure, but it even appeared as if The Spinster was beginning to enjoy the attention. This was not good. There would be trouble eventually. And trouble was not what Clayton needed right now. There was still the law to account for.
02/14
Vivian wasn’t sure how the shape of it would be but she had decided to make Clayton’s crew like her best. She had a vague notion of “leverage” which she developed by buying them liquor and food. Simple really. Like plying children with sweets. These men and women were rather like children, eager for more of what made them feel good. And she could supply it in bigger quantities, at better quality and variety, and for much longer than Clayton could. She knew that Clayton had to contend with maintaining his reserves. He needed emergency “get out of town” money.
02/15
Clayton was hearing things now. The Chicago PD knew that he was from East St. Louis. They’d be after him soon. Thankfully – as far as he could tell anyway – they were more concerned with his “other matter” and not the job he’d done for The Spinster. Getting out of town was no problem. He’d even picked his next destination, Arkansas. Ditching The Spinster was another matter entirely. Killing her was not an option – yet. Vivian needed to see his crew for the depraved human beings Clayton knew them to be. Clayton would sponsor a trip to The Bottoms Up Club.
02/16
Vivian had her own pipeline to the happenings back home in Chicago. Mother had few friends, fewer acquaintances. Vivian knew practically no one. Not that it bothered her. Taking care of Mother had been her only real focus since Daddy died decades back. So it took a while for Vivian and Mother’s absence to be noticed. But word was finally getting around. The police had not yet been notified, but it was only matter of time. Vivian took Clayton’s building recalcitrance in stride; a cakewalk compared to Mother’s caustic moods. Besides his friends were slowly turning. She was actually winning!
02/17
The Bottoms Up Strip Club was located on Jefferson Street in Lovejoy, Illinois – though everybody said it was in Brooklyn. Clayton knew it well. Bottoms Up – like many of its contemporaries, The Pink Slip, Mustang Sally’s – propped up the local economy. Not much else did. Not much else around. The dancers at Bottoms Up gave a no frills show at a no frills price. No fancy stage lights or rock star production values, just the old bump and grind to the rawest, loudest music possible. Clayton meant to introduce The Spinster to this tableau on Saturday night, the club’s biggest.
02/18
The night Clayton and his Crew (plus The Spinster) rolled into The Bottoms Up Club, Precious found herself in a quandary – of sorts. She had to decide whether to stay with the show she’d been doing or move on up to more “intimate” fair. Precious had only planned to dance for a little while to pay off some bills. Three months had turned into six and now she wasn’t getting the good tips any longer. The novelty of her being new had worn off and now she would have to “up her game.” She would have to give “private dances.”
02/19
Clayton was feeling pretty good about himself. His plan was bulletproof. Letting The Spinster see his Crew in their natural element would surely run her off. For her part Vivian determinedly hung in there, despite vile lyrics played at an ungodly volume, despite the seedy (and assuredly dangerous) goings on. She would remain calm and see this through. Using her credit card, she opened a tab to keep the Crew happy. She avoided eye contact and nursed her glass of wine (cheap and syrupy as it was). Precious noticed right off that Clayton and his Idiots had a new patron.
02/20
Precious and Clayton grew up on the same block. Precious recalled that he hadn’t been much for brains, though he’d always been kind, and rather shy, following behind his 3 older brothers. Like the rest of them he’d made fun of her buck-teeth and big feet. Like the rest of them he’d tried to get next to her when she grew into them and filled out. She made them all suffer. He’d moved to Chicago eight years ago and Precious forgot about him. Now here he was all loud and brash with his Crew and this strange, mousy little woman.
02/21
The Crew was in rare form, reaching levels of debauchery that Clayton had never before witnessed. And The Spinster was financing it all. She had to be horrified, sitting there, trying to sink in to the floor. Clayton was pleased. He’d be free soon. Able to move on with his life. Precious was sure that Vivian was the perfect candidate for her inaugural private dance. Precious was a good judge of people and this woman would be no trouble when the lights went down. In fact she doubted if the woman would even touch her. Precious approached the table boldly.
02/22
Fixing her eyes directly on Vivian, Precious asked, “Do you want to go somewhere private?”

The Crew let out a collective “Ooooohhhh!”

Precious ignored them. And Vivian, mortified, pretended not to hear.

Precious leaned over the table and – to the delight of Clayton and his crew – nearly out of her costume, such as it was.

“I’m talking to you. Would you like some privacy?”

“Ooooooohhhhhh!!”

Vivian wanted more than privacy. She wanted to die. But if this barely dressed young woman was really offering a moment’s respite, she’d take it.

The lust tinged envy that followed her departure was palpable.
02/23
The Bottoms Up Club private dance was negotiated in complete darkness. Customers were led down a dark corridor, called The Tunnel, at the back of the club. The deeper you went into the tunnel, the darker it got, until at the end, you were in complete darkness. The kind of darkness where you could not see your own hand in front of your face. Add 4 or 5 switchbacks along the way you were completely disoriented at the end of the journey. Strangely this promoted a sense of freedom that allowed for an “anything goes” atmosphere. Vivian was utterly terrified.
02/24
This was not at all what she had in mind when Precious mentioned “privacy.” This was complete isolation. She could hear that awful clangor that passed for music behind her. But she felt utterly cut off. The only apparent evidence available that she was not alone was Precious’ fingers around her wrist. Vivian would have run but she had no idea where the walls were and they had changed direction so many times she wasn’t sure where to run to. How was Precious navigating this maze? Vivian had no idea. Without warning Precious led her to a chair. Vivian sat.
02/25
“Do you like Precious?”

“Huh?”

“You like Precious don’t you?”

“Please… ah… get off… ah…get off… my lap.”

“Precious is getting acquainted. Don’t you want to get acquainted?”

“Get …get off my lap… it’s too dark… I can’t see… please, please, get off my lap. I don’t want … you… ah….you’re too close….”

“You want Precious to leave?”

“No!… no, uhm, …ah.. don’t leave me here. Please don’t leave me here.”

“You’re afraid of Precious?”

“I’m … I’m just afraid… of this place.”

“Then why did you come in here?”

“I came with Clayton and his friends.”

“You mean Stinky?
02/26
“Precious and I had a nice long chat… Stinky.”

“Ooooooooooooh!!!”

Clayton was in trouble and he knew it. Murder was looking like more of a viable option, but only as a last resort. Better to wait and see where The Spinster was going with this.

“She told me about how you got that nickname…. Stinky. She told me a lot of things.”

“Ooooooooooooh!!!”

“Well, Beulah was never known for keeping secrets. Is there a point to all this? Otherwise Beulah – I mean, Precious – can give me a lap dance. That is her job, isn’t it?”

“Ooooooooooooh!!!”

“We have a proposition.
02/27
The problem was simple: Neither party trusted the other. Vivian was afraid that Clayton would reveal that she had paid him to dispose of her mother’s body. Clayton feared that once Vivian knew the location of her mother’s body she would either crack and reveal his involvement, or worse, somehow implicate him in the old woman’s death.

What to do?

Precious had a rather elegant solution: Have a third party dispose of the body in a manner that neither Clayton nor Vivian had any knowledge of.

Precious volunteered for the job. But it meant Clayton would have to tell her.
02/28 Ultimately Clayton bought Precious’ plan, comforted that now she was also implicated. Precious persuaded another man to help her with the body’s second disposal. Precious could get men to do anything she wanted.

Clayton was caught in Arkansas on “the other matter”. He’s doing federal time.

Without her mother telling her what to do, Vivian followed a trail of bad decisions into a meth habit. She’s out there somewhere.

Precious took part of Vivian’s largess and paid her debts, with enough left over to open a nail shop. She is thrilled to have never had to do a “private dance.

The Man In The Birdcage

Toni keeps a man in a birdcage. Nobody believes me when I tell them. But it’s true. And sometimes I take them over to Toni’s to prove it. The birdcage isn’t at Toni’s house though. It’s in a shack in the woods behind Toni’s house. Well not a shack exactly. More like a shed or a barn.
Toni loves the woods. She’s barely home from work each day before she’s out the back door, walking the dogs. She can stay out there for hours.
I have a hard time finding the barn for some reason. I don’t know why. I’ve been there dozens of times. But I can never find it on my own.
So anyway, the window for catching Toni before she’s out to the woods is pretty small (I mean, I work too right?).  And she absolutely will not go back once she’s come in from the woods. It’s like sacrilege or something, so don’t ask her about it.
So most times I take people over on the Saturdays, which can be dicey because Toni makes pancakes for like everybody on Saturdays. No really, everybody. There are kids constantly running in and out the back door carrying paper plates stacked with pancakes and some of the dogs following after the kids waiting for a pancake inevitably to fall and the rest of the dogs licking up the syrup trails leading in and out of the kitchen (I’m not sure how many of ‘em actually belong in that house… the people or the dogs). And there’s butter everywhere and grownups at the kitchen table sometimes having 40’s with their pancakes (at 10:00 in the morning no less) and Toni’s serving up pancakes at the speed of sound with (usually) Bobby Womack blaring out the stereo, and occasionally Boz Skaggs who Toni pretends she doesn’t like.
So like I said, it can get dicey with all this chaos, which can go well into the afternoon. And somehow? Somehow Toni can get her hands on a 40 ounce while your back’s turned, and before you know it, she’s off to the woods, meandering. That’s the only way to describe it; meandering. Not staggering exactly, but not exactly walking in a straight line either. But eventually she winds up at the shed where she keeps the man in a birdcage. But it takes a long time and you have to have patience for it, which a lot of people don’t.
I suppose you’ll surely ask yourself, “How did Toni come to keep a man in a birdcage? And, why does she do it?”
No one really knows though there are plenty of theories. Some say it’s an S&M thing. That the man in the birdcage pays Toni to keep him there and pays her to whip him and torture him and such because he gets off on it.
They’re wrong.
I’ve been there. I know. There are no whips and chains, no implements of torture, no kinky sex thing going on. I’ve been there enough times to know.
Others say that the man in the birdcage is magical, some kind of leprechaun or something. That he brings Toni luck. Well, if that were the case, then she wouldn’t be going to work everyday would she? She would have won the lottery or cashed in her pot of gold or something. Now, it’s possible that Toni hasn’t persuaded the man in the birdcage to change her luck yet, and that’s why she keeps him in the birdcage.
But I don’t think so.
I think she takes care of him for the solitude. Because it’s the one quiet moment in her day. She takes a thermos with her most times for the man in the birdcage; something hot in the winter, cold in the summer. The man in the birdcage always thanks her and then proceeds to savor the contents of the thermos, sipping from it slowly. He often sits back and shuts his eyes. He will even occasionally lick his lips with his sharp little tongue.
They talk a little bit, but not about much. Mostly they just sit and sip, he from his thermos, she form the 40 (which she rarely finishes).
Toni lets him out to stretch his legs and (I imagine) go to the bathroom. That’s the only thing that puzzles me (I mean beyond the obvious oddness of their relationship). I wonder about using the bathroom the rest of the time he’s in that cage. I mean, he could come and go when Toni’s not there, right? But then why come back and wait in a cage for a thermos of soup or whatever?
But as I was sayin’ about Toni. I think she goes out to the barn to sit with the man in the birdcage because he’s the only person that she takes care of who doesn’t raise a ruckus. I mean I think she’s happy with her job and the house full of kids and the dogs and the pancakes.
She’s probably as happy as anybody else.
The difference is the man in the birdcage doesn’t demand her attention, he just needs it. He doesn’t talk real loud (or talk back). He doesn’t interrupt her train of thought or derail  a quiet moment. He’s not in the least bit messy. Taking care of the man in the birdcage is simple, the simplest task in Toni’s life. Taking care of the man in birdcage is the easiest (even if it is the strangest) part of Toni’s day.
As for why the man in the birdcage willingly allows someone to keep him in a birdcage? I intend to find that out one day. If I can ever get him to talk to me.

live nude girls!

We’re great at perfuming the pig in this country.  From the concept of “part of this balanced breakfast” to “money backed guaranteed.”  One of my favorites is the euphemism for titty bars – “Gentlemen’s Clubs.”  An aside here for the skittish and prudish among you.  I will not be using the more popular and less offensive “strip club” in our little excursion my loves.  Because let’s face it, what are the patrons of these establishments looking for?  Why titties of course.  Big, round, freakishly and unnaturally uplifted titties.  Walk into any titty bar and do a quick review of the dancers.  Be they blond, brunette, tall, short or in some cases even plump, they all have one attribute in common.

So let’s call it for what it is.

It amazes me that an owner of one of these establishments could call it a Gentlemen’s Club; as if everyone within its walls was sitting around in big leather chairs smoking cigars and discussing the vagaries of the stock market or plans for the next charity bazaar.

Put it another way.  When you walk into a sushi bar what do you expect?  Sushi.  When you walk into a titty bar, what do you expect?  Titties, not Gentlemen.

Now into this world of expensive watered down beer, blaring music, glaring neon, and oiled and perfumed silicone I sent our visitor from the 19th century.

Why?

Because he asked to see a prime example of modern commerce of course.  I could think of none finer.

So I sent Nat Turner to one of the Trollop Traps down on 8 Mile.  The name is immaterial since they’re all pretty much interchangeable.

Nat entered one of the more popular Trollop Traps last night expecting (his words not mine) “a den of wickedness.” 

What he got was commerce.

I don’t think he could even focus on the dancers for the first twenty minutes.  He says the lights threw him off first.  Flashing neon, laser light shows.  He was totally unprepared for the strobe.  And the noise!  He couldn’t think for the noise.  He couldn’t imagine how anyone could enjoy themselves through that din.

Nat may be a spirit, but he still experiences the physical world through his senses or more accurately the memory of his senses, or some analogue of same.

Once he became accustomed to his surroundings, he took note of the dancers.  Nat had already drawn a bead on our era’s “preoccupation with the flesh.”  He’d seen my Victoria’s Secret Catalogue so he wasn’t totally unprepared to see young women in various states of undress.  What surprised him was the sameness of it all.

The Basic Routine:

Girl dances on stage; looks bored and distracted.
Girl comes off stage for a lap dance.
Girl grinds her crotch into some guys lap, rubs her nipple across his mouth.
Sometimes something embarrassing happens.
Girl gets paid goes and gets cleaned up, freshens her makeup (and if necessary, warns other girls about “the leaker”)
Repeats until closing time.

It was all very bloodless, bland, repeatable commerce.  Where was the shame he wondered?  Where was the heat, the passion?  This was not vice.  This was a business exchange.  Women exchanged a well worn, well practiced fantasy for currency.

Were I the cynical type I would have explained to Nat that many (not myself of course) regard this exchange as full cycle of the mating ritual distilled down to its purest form.  And without the messy distraction of children to boot.

I think he was actually disappointed.

Then he saw Punkin’.  She was one of only a handful black dancers in the establishment.  She was young and tentative and exquisitely vulnerable.  She was all of 19.  “Her skin was perfect,” he said afterward, “smooth and unblemished.”  He was immediately smitten by her.

She wasn’t like the others.  She began her dance haltingly, hesitantly, as if she wasn’t sure she wanted to be there.  Nat Turner fantasized in his little ghost of a mind that perhaps she was under some obligation, that perhaps she was being forced to dance, to pay off an old debt or maybe it was the only way she could put food on the table.

Then something changed.  Punkin’ hit a new gear.

It became evident that Punkin’ was different from the other girls.  She made eye contact from the stage.  She danced like she was aware of the eyes watching her.  Eyes that drank in the (intitial) halting vulnerability of every movement.  And when she descended from the stage for a lap dance she caressed the patron, made him feel special, made him feel loved.  She did that for every man she danced for and every man in the room wanted her, longed for her as Nat did.

When she finished her set, he followed her backstage.  He watched her clean herself up as the other girls did.  Watched her freshen her makeup as the other girls did.  Watched her make fun of the leakers and most of the saps in the audience as the other girls did.  Watched her compare notes on the best prospective tipper as the other girls did.  Watched her count her money and place it in her Gucci hand bag alongside her platinum plated cell phone.

Nat was devastated.  In life he’d summoned the courage and the mania to lead a rebellion.  Had been charismatic enough to get 75 slaves to follow him against incredible odds.  Had even found a way to come back from the grave with his purpose intact.  And here he was broken hearted over the perceived betrayal of a 19 year old stripper.

I tried to tell him that it was all commerce.  That she was probably new to the club and the extra customer service and the faux vulnerability was an act.  She was building her client base.  Once she had built a core group of regulars she would become as distracted and jaded and mechanical as the others.  Were it not for my aforementioned moratorium on cynicism I would have explained to Nat that what I was describing was the perfect distillation of modern love.

Nat was inconsolable.  He’s out and about now moping.  He’s that low moan you hear around the eaves of your house, he’s the dry rattle you hear in the trees.

I sent Nat Turner out to a titty bar and broke his heart.

Providence

She thought perhaps that he’d let it go… eventually. Unfortunately he had worked up a considerable grudge. How could she just cast him aside like that? After all he’d meant to her! After the way he’d taken care of her! Hadn’t he been gentle? And kind? And patient? Well he’d make her pay. Yeah. He was going to show up on her job and let her employers know what kind of lowlife they had representing their company.

Fortunately she knew some people that would do anything for a six-pack and a tank of gas.

They let him keep his teeth.

Suitable Vengence

It would take David weeks to recover from this — assuming he ever would. The fluffy sweet confection, perfectly mated for a tall glass of milk. Buttery smooth icing. Just the right balance of moist and flaky.

David checked the paper plate just in case there were any stray crumbs.

Nothing.

His roommate was sooo clever. So tickled with himself at his crude drawing and caption.

“Cake was here.” Right below the freehand triangle on the paper plate. He’d dismissively flung the plate at David’s desk as he exited with his fellows for a night of debauchery. “Unwinding” they called it.

It wouldn’t be long before he’d be back with his girlfriend and they’d get to pawing at each other on the bed on the other side of the dorm room. She’d wake in the morning and look at David as if he was the interloper.

Fornicators.

They’d been going at it like rabbits since the 2nd week of classes.

David’s only solace for the past week had been the cake his mother had so lovingly wrapped in 6 individual slices for him, and sent all the way from Kentucky. He’d been saving that last piece to celebrate finishing his chemistry mid-term. And now the moment had been taken from him.

David could not let this pass. But what would be suitable recompense for trespass such as this? How could he wound as deeply as he had been wounded? What could he take from his roommate that meant as much as a mother’s love?

David smiled and pulled out the smallest needle from his sewing kit. He went to the drawer where his roommate kept his condoms (“Ribbed For Your Pleasure”). Carefully, and with relish, he began puncturing each package through, careful that each hole was imperceptible to the naked eye.

Only a matter of time now…

Rooster Messiah

Levi was glad it appeared that his 15 minutes of fame were about over since he’d found Jesus, the Rooster. It doesn’t take much to imagine the headlines.

“Man Finds Jesus In Back Alley”

“Jesus Has Returned, And HE LOVES WORMS!”

“Local Man Carries Son Of God Around Town In Trunk”

That last bit was based, in part, in fact. Levi did indeed put Jesus the rooster in his trunk to keep it from defecating on his seats, a second time. Levi knew the family on Cote Brilliant that owned the rooster. Honestly, how many families inside the St. Louis city limits actually owned a live rooster? And how many of them actually came when you whistled for them?

Jesus was something of a family pet. No one could remember how he came to be part of the household. Was he a science project that had gone awry? A practical joke that had gone too far? Failed foray into 4H? Abandoned voodo experiment? No one really knew. And with as many people as lived in that household (25 at last count), they all could have been true.

Levi wasn’t sure how many people actually belonged in that house. Or who owned it. Cote Brilliant had seen better days. Many of the homes were abandoned, a couple had been torched. Most of the remaining residents were elderly or disabled, unwilling or unable to flee for the burbs. The house where Jesus the rooster lived was farily well kept. The grass cut, bushes trimmed. It was loud, but never to where the police had to be called. The kids - 12 of them - were never truant. And the only thing that had ever seemed noticeable to Levi (besides the constant coming and going) was the cooking smells. The house where Jesus the rooster lived always had cooking smells emanating from it. Some of them savory, some not so much. But the aromas were constant. Evidently the kitchen was always open.

Levi had found Jesus about 4 blocks away in an alley behind a house he was considering purchasing for rehab.

When Levi drove up to Jesus the rooster’s house and opened his trunk, the bird hopped out - rather more regally than expected for a bird who had just spent 10 minutes in a trunk - and climbed the front steps of his home. As if he was taking up post.

He offered no thanks. As if standing in his presence were enough.

As Levi drove off he heard a child call out, “Jesus is Home came back! Somebody get his water dish!”

Roger Gets His Afterlife

Roger locked his front door for what he had determined would be the last time and turned to face the day. The stitches in his scalp itched but he refrained from scratching. As if drawing attention to himself meant that he might be noticed by someone who would prevent him from carrying out his suicide plans.

Even when he had his wits about him, Roger was extremely paranoid. But today his usual anxiety was cranked up to something approaching mania. He scoured the park across the street from his row house for signs of anyone that he knew. He spent a full 15 minutes making sure that anyone who passed on the sidewalk in front of his building didn’t double back.

Today Roger was determined to kill himself. No false starts, no losing his nerve, no screwing up the drug dosage, nobody to find him sprawled on his bathroom floor with a gash in his head. Today was the day Roger would die.

He was resolute. For Roger was convinced that he would find greater fulfillment on the “other side.” Roger was sure that a better existence awaited him after his transition. That’s what the Buddhists called it “transition.” Roger had read up and he was ready for the next stage.

He wasn’t sure what that was exactly. Perhaps it was heaven. Perhaps it was reincarnation. Perhaps he’d be converted into “higher energy” and become one with the cosmos. It really didn’t matter. What did matter was that Roger was ready and Roger was sure. So sure that he had left his boss a scathing note, full of invective and every nasty word he could think of. So sure that he’d called his mother moments before leaving his rooms, telling her what he really thought of her, leaving her sobbing on the phone.  So sure that he’d mailed in the books he’d been keeping for a couple of mobbed up friends into the police. So sure that he’d spent the night exposing every secret, every confidence shared by anyone that had ever trusted him on the web.

What did he care? He’d be dead soon, off to his great reward. And even if he was wrong - which he was sure that he wasn’t - he’d still be dead and out of reach.

The drugs Roger had ingested started in just as he reached the overpass a couple of blocks from his home. Roger smiled. He felt giddy. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the bottle of rum he’d laced with rat poison as he stepped over the rail. He took one long drag as he let himself fall off the overpass into rush hour traffic.

Witnesses later said that it appeared Roger actually drifted out over the speeding cars for a moment before falling into the stampede of cars, buoyed no doubt by his own exuberance. The officer who found his broken and bleeding body swore he was smiling.

Unfortunately for Roger, Providence sent him back. Whats-more a “hedge” was placed around him preventing any access to death but not from suffering.

Oh Roger suffers. The made men used to make a game of Roger’s suffering. They all eventually went to jail or got bored.

They say you can find Roger under the viaduct most nights, scarred, broken, near psychotic.

Ask him about the afterlife. He’ll tell you he forgot all about the possibility of hell.