COME TO THIS

Dear Alert Power Love Reader,
I'm telling a story at this:

http://2ndstory.com/events/tough-guys-talk-tough-stories-of-image-and-action

How about stopping by and checking it out? HOW ABOUT IT?

LOVE LETTER

Here's what I'd tell you if I had the guts:

I'm sorry for the cruel things I said to you.
If you would let me stand next to you, I'd breathe you in and hold your hand.
I would caress your face and kiss your eyelids.
I would trace my fingertips across your lips.
I would wrap peaceful quiet in a velvet box and leave it for you on your windowsill.
I would stand outside your window and hope.

Dear Alert Power Love Reader,
I'm telling a story at the next two You're Being Ridiculous shows: Saturday, January 26, and Saturday, February 2. It was an excellent and fun, fun, fun show last weekend and the next two weekends will be even more fun because we will be all warmed up and shit. Come on out! Join us! It is fun on a stick and then some!

This is what I have to say about myself: http://yourebeingridiculous.com/blog/13728220

This is what YBR has to say about itself: https://www.facebook.com/events/402824399799653/?ref=ts&fref=ts

GREATNESS ABOUNDS!

Dear Alert Power Love Reader,

I'm performing "Crash Stories," my solo show, at the Fillet of Solo Festival. That's in Rogers Park. At The Heartland Studio. Festival produced by Lifeline Theatre. Look:

Crash Stories

by

Kim Morris

at

Fillet of Solo

The Heartland Studio

7016 N. Glenwood

January 6, 2013, 4:00p

January 11, 2013, 8:30p

January 17, 2013, 8:30p

More info here.

I am promoting this one day before the first show because I am brilliant. Obviously.

HOW TO PROCRASTINATE BY KIM MORRIS

1. Those sunglasses at Walgreens? They're not gonna try on themselves.

2. What was that insightful comment Jeremy Renner said about his uncredited role in “Lords of Dogtown”? Research.

3. Wander aimlessly around your neighborhood shops, stare listlessly into corners. Shop owners will not be alarmed because we are not living in a socially unnerving or stressful time.

4. Snoods are back in! Knit one.

5. Snoods are back in! Crochet one.

6. Are your socks correctly matched and right side out? Check.

7. What is the social and political dynamic between Hamas and Hezbollah? Research.

8. Your toenails are too long. File them. Don’t clip them. File them.

9. Learn every word of “Midnight Rider.” Then learn every intonation of every word of “Midnight Rider,” both the recorded version and the live version.

10. When you are on The Charlie Rose show, he will undoubtedly ask you about your creative process. Consider your response.

GOOD THINGS AFOOT, COME ON OUT

Dear Alert Power Love Reader,
Henceforth and herewith I'll be telling stories at these upcoming events of awesome. It would be joyous if you would join us. Joyous to join us. That sounds cool. I will say it repeatedly. You might want to consider doing the same.

Thursday, December 6
The New Switcheroo

Saturday, December 8
the side project Season XIII Preview

Sunday, December 9--FINAL PERFORMANCE of Breaks & Bikes
(I'm telling a preshow story)(about bikes)
Pavement Group

1ST FRIDAY PHARMACY

The pills are a diluted peach color--like maybe they used to be a rich salmon color, but they faded. Maybe they were left out in the sunlight. Maybe they're the outlet version of the real thing. Outlet stores--where they have similar stuff as the regular stores, but the reds are never that red, the blues never that blue, like the colors just couldn't cut it for regular consumption so they were shipped off to the outlet mall, the one along the highway, the one far enough from the city to be an official road trip, the one where people who actually need reasonably priced clothes shop. These pills are that--the outlet mall pills. They're for outlet mall people, with outlet mall problems.

The pills are in rust-colored plastic containers, three inches high, with white caps. There are stickers lazily placed at various angles, like the person who stuck them on was too busy watching the game to care where they were set. These stickers say what's inside. They're drug names, they look like Latin words. They are humorless and forthright. If they were human, these names would shake your hand firmly, they'd tell you loudly in front of many people that you had food stuck in your front teeth. You wouldn't want to have a beer with them.

The pill bottles are on a shelf. They're lined up with rows and rows of other pill bottles, like an army. They are in marching formation. There are many shelves. The shelves stretch the length of the pharmacy, which seemingly goes on into infinity, though when you're inside, you'll see there are florescent lights at the very far end down there, so there has to be a wall somewhere. The shelves stretch high, reach low. They are separated by rows, but the only way you can access each row is through a narrow tunnel cut into each shelf. You are skinny, but still you'd have to shimmy through the tunnels to get to that next row. The shelves weren't made for the tunnels, that's just something the shadows made, perhaps last month, perhaps the month before. The Feds haven't decided they're a big enough threat to close them off.

The pharmacy is on Michigan Avenue. Adjacent to the river. You used to buy Cokes for $1.69 when this was a Walgreens, $0.99 Ruffles potato chips. You used to drink coffee at the Starbucks that used to be next door. You used to people watch.

Now you wait outside the pharm. It's Fall. It's 5:45pm. It's the first Friday of this month. It's getting dark. The buildings around you stand tall and proud, like landmark buildings should, but their windows are dark and the buildings look like faces with knocked out teeth. The people who don't need the faded pills in the rust-colored bottles marching in rows on endless shelves, they are in the buildings to the west, in the upper floors, where golden lights are on, lit up like warmth and money. Those buildings are smiling. But not for you.

It is 6:00pm. The pharmacy door opens. You hear the shuffling of disciplined boots and the click of methodical guns from dark pockets above you. The Feds are in position. They want to make sure you know they're there, though they're not supposed to do anything for 55 more minutes.

You hear other boots shuffle--but these are the lethargic and disorganized shuffles of need. Desperate shadows with red eyes and one goal. You need to get in there before them. They will take your pills. The next time you get a crack at getting more will be the first Friday of next month. You won't live that long without your pills.

The air smells like halitosis. You see shadows move zombie-like toward the pharm door. You move with them. You suspect you are a zombie-like shadow also, though you haven't looked in a reflective surface since the collapse.

You have a knife tied to your belt. You know how to use it. You have a gun in your waistband. You know how to use it. You think about that ad you once saw on the side of a bus, for Montana--open land, big sky, bison. You will never see Montana.

The pharm is lit so bright you can't see. The shadows are humming. You hear the frustrated toppling over of plastic pill bottles, the grunts of fear coming out of melting mouths, the scabbed hands scratching, searching, searching for the words that look like Latin that tell them this pill bottle is your pill bottle. In an instant, you can see the insides of the shadows--their tumors, their cancer, their blood clots, their hyper beating hearts, their slow moving blood, their chipped bones, crooked spines, drumless ears, detached retinas. They aren't going to make it another month either.

You were given a floor plan. You were told where the narrow tunnels are, how long the rows run, where your Latin pills are located. You find them. You grab them. You stuff them in your pockets like they're air and your pockets are suffocating. Then you lay the wire.

At 55 minutes, the disciplined boots and methodical guns outside will focus their cross hairs on the pharmacy. At 58 minutes they will crouch. At 60 minutes they will shoot. Their goal is to click off as many shadows as possible. The shadows know they only have an hour. It's their responsibility to get out in time. There are rules. The government can't keep stocking this pharmacy forever, you know.

You uncoil the wire along the row, to the side wall, down to where the row ends. There is the tunnel for you to shimmy through, letting out the wire with you like you're unspooling a ribbon. You move carefully around groaning shadows with furious hearts and damaged brains. You slip out the door.

Outside you slink around the exterior of what's left of the Wrigley Building. You stick close to this wall because you used to be in love with this building and its grand arches and its imperial presence among the other skyline buildings. You also keep close to the wall because the disciplined boots and methodical guns are known to take practice shots before 60 minutes and you can't expect them not to, can you? You are, after all, getting free healthcare. How much more do you want, you selfish parasite?

You work your way to the stairs and head down to the river, your wire following dutifully behind you. At the river, you look up at the sky. You remember how your knees used to melt whenever you looked at the skyline, how you loved the smell of french fries floating over the river in Summer, the smell of ominous frost rolling off the lake in Winter. You wish you had your city back.

There is only one match in the matchbook. Make it count. You strike it, set it tenderly to the tip of the wire. You hear the sizzle, remember the way your eyes burned when you pulled the wire out of the gasoline this morning. The flame catches, dances a jig for a millisecond, then rifles along the wire like a starving monster. The thin orange line whips along the sidewalk so quickly the disciplined boots and methodical guns don't have time to register it for what it is. When the thin orange line kisses the pharm exterior, it pauses, slips inside, and, like you knew it would because you followed the directions on your floor plan, the thin orange line blossoms into a burning red bouquet of flames and explosions.

Shadows scream. Tumors explode. Cancer melts. The screams linger in the air, and then it's quiet. A soft, thankful quiet. You squeeze your eyes shut. Above you, crackling radios, nervous clicking of methodical guns, disciplined boots turn indecisive. They don't know what to do. This wasn't part of their plan. This is how you want them.

Inside the pharm, there are hundreds of dead shadows. You knew most of them. You have had heartbreakingly tender conversations with them. You have bandaged their scabs, made them drink water when their lips cracked dry, wiped the sweat off their foreheads when they couldn't move.

You pop one of your Latin pills and focus on the dark pockets where you know the first clump of methodical guns and disciplined boots is hesitating. You pull out your gun and walk, quietly, breathing in the rancid air, buzzing electrically with anticipation and vengeance. Now you've got nothing to lose. Now you'll fight back.

Dear Alert Power Love Reader,
There are things a-happenin'. Which is great. Probably I should've reconsidered firing the marketing staff until after those things were done a-happenin', but had to let them go what with that whole embezzlement thing and also, the gin. God, the gin. Anyhoodle, we're all doing okay now here at Power Love HQ, but we're on our own for publicizing the events so bear with us. And by "us," I really mean me and the voices in my head. Which are fascinating, in case you're wondering.

Please come out to these fabulous events for some excellent storytelling and excellenter humans:

TONIGHT:
2nd Story at Webster's Wine Bar
Info

TOMORROW:
Choosing to Be Here: A Festival of Storytelling
the side project
Info

October 21 & 22
2nd Story remount
Info

October 31
Choosing to Be Here: A Festival of Storytelling
the side project
Info

AHHH...THE IRRESISTABLE FORCE MET THE IMMOVABLE OBJECT

Once upon a time there was a man and a woman. They were in love, they decided. Then she went to the moon. He believed she was taken. She believed she wasn't so much taken as got the fuck out.

So she’s on the moon and he’s in a fairy tale kingdom that involves horses, swords, and chain mail and which is disastrously far from the moon. So he conspires to reunite with the love of his life.

To do this, he gently pulled each bone from his body and, after positioning a few in the correct way, began to climb his bones as though they were a ladder. It was a ladder pointed at the moon. He would extract a bone, place it in front of him, take a step, rest, then repeat. The Earth became small. Stars swam up to him, sniffed, then carried on. For his part, he felt perfectly fine walking through space, very goal-oriented, though at times he was unable to catch his breath, but that never lasted too long.

It was while he was doing the crab walk up his ladder to the moon amongst a cacophony of stars that he was suddenly and painfully struck by a huge bolt of orange hotness. It took him a moment of catching his breath to realize it was the sun. He wanted to rearrange his ladder to avoid the sun, but wherever the ladder went, the sun was already there, and so he just dealt with it.

And dealt with it he did, in a charming and clever way, a way so charming and clever there are no words to describe it accurately, which works out well for the writer of this tale because charming and clever are not really in my bag of tricks.

So anyway, dude was charming and clever, he embarrassed the sun, almost to the point of humiliation, so now the sun only stays out half the day because the other half it just has to go inside and lie down. Or lay down. Whatever. I can never remember that rule.

So then he’s back to cruising along up to the moon on his ladder made of his bones, and who comes flying out of the abyss of galaxy? A crow. A space crow. A space crow who eats heads. Our man is loving space, and also he’s waiting anxiously to see the love of his life, so he’s kinda in that weird space between relaxed and calm and furious with desire, and so a space crow isn’t something he wants to deal with right now. And also, he’s getting closer to the moon (good), but he’s running out of bones (bad).

So he slays the space crow, who imparts no words of wisdom—again, not in my bag of tricks—and before he knows it, he’s on the moon. There’s a tremendous wrought iron gate out of which a sentry leans. The sentry’s wearing Ray Bans and Levis and he carries a large gun that looks like a super soaker water gun. The sentry presents our guy with a riddle: Why don’t Holden Caufield and Oedipus move to the Island of Misfit Toys and continue their whining there?

The answer was obvious, he knew, and when he said it, he tossed his last bone ahead of him, into the city proper and a final step closer to his beloved, and then he jumped! And landed! On his own bone!

And then he summarily fell to a boneless heap on the sidewalk, but not before managing to hail a cab.

Because neither Holden Caufield nor Oedipus has decent navigational skills.

The cab driver drags him into the foyer of the country house. Not his job, he says repeatedly, but can’t help but help. Her place is beautiful—there are the sounds of the kind of laughing that happens only with people you love, the smell of basil and something warm cooking, music (piano and horns and strings), sunlight pouring in like a waterfall.

She says thanks to the cab driver, gives a big tip, then drags the heap of no bones into the den. From there she arranges a soft spot on the oversized armchair in the corner. The sun hits it just right, the cushions are situated pleasingly. From the other room, voices call to her. He listens to the suctiony sponge suck of her flip flops as she walks away.

This train can't be stopped anymore.

YOU MADE THE WINE NOW DRINK A CUP

At this point, she's about to give up, head home, have a drink, watch Season 2 of "Sons of Anarchy." Fuck the mission, she thinks. She's sick of this shit--chasing down the souls of The Entitleds, administering due diligence.

The Entitleds: all big mouths, fat words, hot air. Judging others with the passion that can only come from someone too afraid to look at himself honestly.

The Entitleds, she thinks, are like mosquitoes; for the most part, they're annoying pests, but sometimes they can infect an entire society with a disease that could've been stopped if someone did something early on. She has her bow and arrows strapped to her back. Gun on her belt. Knife at her ankle. The forest is quiet tonight, the moon is bright. She can see very clearly the path that leads to the clearing, though it doesn't really matter. She could walk this route with her eyes closed.

She smells him before she sees him. The Entitled reeks of insecurity and righteousness that have been fermenting for decades, so, basically, like sweat-soaked socks that have been locked in an airtight room for decades. She thinks part of The Repercussion Agreement should include an odor check and she makes a mental note to include this suggestion in her report.

She can hear him breathing. He's wheezing. His breath sounds like he's pulling a nickel through a straw. He had to walk out here himself, it's part of The Repercussion Agreement. And anyway, his driver no longer works for him; quit last week when The Entitled regurgitated shit through his mouth in public. It's embarrassing to be associated with someone like that.

When she reaches the clearing, she walks straight to the middle. Across from her, steamy gusts of hot air are expelling from a large mouth with no teeth. Attached to the mouth, on either side, are two arms, both of them spindly, with fingers that nervously pick at one another. No legs. No torso. No heart. This is The Entitled. Well, this is the soul of The Entitled. His human frame is back out in the real world, behaving like a fool and congratulating himself for it. She reminds herself that this is what she loves about her job--addressing the actual problem, not the shell.

When The Entitled senses she's there, he sneezes. She pulls out her log book, unfolds The Repercussion Agreement, and reads: "Sir Entitled, you have been found guilty of gross misrepresentation and contributing to the advancement of societal moronity. Your soul is here as stipulated by The Repercussion Agreement. Please acknowledge your presence."

The Entitled exhales a plume of air. The clearing suddenly smells of Funyuns and cheeseburgers. "I didn't agree to this," The Entitled says. She folds his paperwork, places it back in her log book, and sets the book on the ground. "We didn't ask for your thoughts on the subject," she says calmly. She looks at the sky. A single star blinks purple, then red, then settles into its traditional white, and she knows the home office has recorded his verbal acknowledgment of his presence here. She's clear to proceed.

"According to The Criminal Document, sir, you have used your gift of speech to slander others, which carries a punishment of three smart arrows. You have also used faulty logic punctuated with self-righteousness, which carries a penalty of two smart arrows. You are aware of this, yes?"

The Entitled looks around, but because he has no eyes, he's really just a pair of lips moving side to side. He reminds her of a clown. She's not fond of clowns. She's not fond of The Entitleds, either, but she's here to do a job. "Is that correct, sir?" She asks again. There is a pause, then The Entitled says, begrudgingly, "Well, yes...I suppose, but it's rather subjective, wouldn't you say, I mean, I am, you know, me..."

"An excellent point," she says. "However, your opportunity to advance your argument has already passed." She pulls out five arrows from the quiver on her back. The Repercussion Agreement calls for compassion, thoughtfulness, empathy, kindness, and logic. She holds the arrow for each of these in her left hand. Together they look like a bouquet. Deftly, because she's done this a million times before, she flips the bow from her shoulder and settles it in front of her.

"I'm not the problem," The Entitled wheezes. She smells seafood in the cloud of smoke that accompanies his words. His fingers are twitching. Usually this is the part where they start yelling, or crying, or screaming profanities. She cocks her head. "You are," The Entitled says. "You and your kind. You're so easily antagonized, we only have to distract you with a few words and you completely lose sight of everything else."

She lets the bow drop to her side. She twirls the bouquet of arrows in her hand like a baton. She considers the names The Entitleds have hurled at her kind. The sleazy suggestions they've made. She thinks about how she's part of 51% of the population, but only 1% of the leadership. She thinks about the importance of action as opposed to words. She remembers last night, at dinner, when The Doctor walked into the dining room, how everyone at the table talked about The Doctor's fake tits and said nothing about The Doctor's razor sharp intelligence or her impeccable character. She recalls how everyone at that table looked like each other, like her, like The Doctor, not a single Entitled among them.

"It's easy to undermine the already undermined," The Entitled says. She thinks he's smirking. But maybe that's gas? She lifts her bow, threads the compassion arrow into it and shoots. She does the same with the empathy arrow. Now The Entitled is nailed to the tree behind him, Christ like. "Comfortable?" She asks. "Very," he says.

She waits a moment for the arrows to seep into him. She threads the thoughtfulness arrow into her bow and says, "We're implementing a new two-tiered process." The thoughtfulness arrow rests snugly for a second in the strings of the bow and she thinks she can hear it sigh. "We'll maintain our current approach, then complement that with our methodical proactive approach." The thoughtfulness arrow knows that she will need to bring this up in council before it can actually be implemented, but she gives the arrow a sharp look and it remains quiet.

She aims and the thoughtfulness arrow lands in the middle of The Entitled's mouth. A plume of noxious gas escapes. The Entitled's have very poor eating habits, she realizes. "We have a plan," she says. She knows there really isn't a plan, per se, but there will be, because she's sick of The Way It Is. She questions who's actually responsible for that.

The arrows are starting to seep into The Entitled. In rapid succession, she shoots the kindness arrow, then the logic arrow. They land in the middle of either bicep and The Entitled exhales, almost restfully. She waits to see how deep the arrows will seep. Sometimes they only hit the superficial layers and by law, she's obligated to kill him if they don't penetrate the deep layers. That's the part of her job she loves the most.

In the pause, she thinks about the time they waste on The Entitleds. How they could use that time to build their collective soul, how she loves her arrows, and The Repercussion Agreements, but how she wishes there were more options. The silence is broken when The Entitled spits out, "Whore."

She pulls the poison arrow from the quiver and threads it into the bow. She's thinking about the mountains she's moved and how many more are out there. She recalls the highways she's built. The families she's created. She places the poison arrow back into the quiver. She will have to include this in her report. "Mercy is for suckers," The Entitled says. She can see the anger and fear dripping off him like melting icicles. She laughs. "Mercy," she says. "That's funny. It implies you're human. Which is funny." She picks up her log book and stuffs it in her back pocket. "You're afraid of your own irrelevance," she tells the mouth. "You're old. You'll be dead soon. There's no need to waste a perfectly good arrow on you."

As she turns and walks out of the clearing, she feels the ground shift, like an earthquake's coming. She knows his shell in the outside world is starting to crumble. She considers the first line of her report. She settles on: The Entitleds are dying. Let them fade. We have mountains to move.

WHAT'S YOUR NAME WHO'S YOUR DADDY IS HE RICH LIKE ME

The Medical Examiner wheels the body in. Body: covered with a white sheet, lying on a silver tray with wheels. It's a long tray. It's an adult body. The Medical Examiner says, "Adult female, brain and limbs intact; heart, liver, and kidneys stable. Requests cremation, ashes scattered over her father's grave." The Medical Examiner's voice catches on this last part. He's new. He doesn't yet know how to turn off the emotion that flares up when hearing about another human's Last Wishes.

The Committee Members laugh. The Medical Examiner isn't sure if they're laughing at the catch in his voice or at the Last Wishes. The Medical Examiner was told to be professional when talking to The Committee Members. The Committee Members make the rules. They do not ask for opinions. They do not welcome questions.

They are lined up, The Committee Members, shoulder to shoulder, at one end of the examination room. Each wears a long black coat and a black, wide-brimmed hat. The only way The Medical Examiner can tell the differences among them is by their name tags: The Representative from the House Ways and Means Committee, The Representative from the Senate Armed Services Committee, The Representative from the Office of Budgetary Concerns, The Representative from the Office of Moral High Ground.

The Committee Members nod at the body in unison. The Medical Examiner thinks of the Rockettes, kicking in unison. He misses the Rockettes and the world they used to be a part of.

"He's new," Ways and Means says.
"I don't give a shit," Armed Services says.
"Give him a break," Budgetary Concerns says.
"Fuck that," Moral High Ground says, then glares at The Medical Examiner. "Where's Igor?" He asks.

Igor is my predecessor, The Medical Examiner tells himself. Igor is no longer here. "He retired," The Medical Examiner tells The Committee Members. He misses when retirement meant a move to a warm place and time to whittle wood statues of squirrels. Like the Rockettes, retirement lives in a world they used to be a part of.

Moral High Ground steps forward and snaps at the body. Then he waits. The Medical Examiner takes a deep breath and removes the white sheet from the body on the tray.

The body is a perfect female body. Every graceful curve in place, every part in perfect proportion to the rest of the parts. She looks perfectly healthy. Except, of course, she's dead.

The Committee Members gather around the tray. Ways and Means stands at the body's left side with Armed Services. Budgetary Concerns stands at the body's right side with Moral High Ground. The Medical Examiner stands at the head. He clears his throat, looks at the chart. "I remind you, gentlemen, the deceased has requested cremation, and that--"
"That's not her decision," Ways and Means says.
"What she wants to do with her body isn't her decision?" The Medical Examiner blurts out.
"Wanted. Past tense," Armed Services says.
"You think she's gonna say something about it now?" Budgetary Concerns laughs.
"You believe in that shit?" Moral High Ground asks The Medical Examiner. "You believe they come back from the dead?"
"You believe in the Devil?"
"Is that what you are? A Devil Worshiper?"
"There are laws against that."
"We enforce the laws."

The Medical Examiner runs his left thumb up the inside of his palm, finds the cool metal of his wedding ring, rubs it. He says nothing.

Ways and Means looks at the body. "I'll take the arms," he says.
"I want the fingers," Armed Services says.
"What are you gonna use the fingers for?"
"What are you gonna use the arms for?"
"We always take the arms. We have a collection. We don't need to use them."
"Enough!" Budgetary Concerns says. "You--take the arms. You--take the fingers."
"Fuck you, Stan. We have a collection, do you not get that?"
"OK, then. You take the toes," Budgetary Concerns tells Armed Services.
"The toes? Are you kidding? We want the fingers."
"Toes. Fingers. What's the difference?" Budgetary Concerns is exasperated.
"OPPOSABLE THUMBS," Armed Services yells.
"Hey, no," Moral High Ground interrupts. "I get the legs and the toes come with me."
Armed Services says, "OK. Fine. But we get the internal organs. Kidney, heart, and liver."
"Fine," Ways and Means says.
"Fine," Armed Services says, louder.
"I'll take the brain," Budgetary Concerns says.
"Who's gonna take the reproductive organs?" Moral High Ground asks.
"They're not worth anything after she's dead," Ways and Means says.
"No longer a threat," Armed Services says.
"We got no use for 'em."
"Who got 'em last time?"
"I did."
"OK, then, it's your turn."
"Ew, no. I don't want them. They're gross."
"Right. But we have to do something with them. You have dogs, right?"
"Well, yeah, but we only serve them high-quality food."
"Right. Purebreds. Forgot."

The Committee Members look at The Medical Examiner. He's pulled up his operating mask, tied it tightly around his head. He was told before he came in not to make any facial expressions. He hopes his eyes aren't giving him away.

"You take them," Moral High Ground says to him.
"Me? What am I gonna do with them?"
"Follow the human's Last Wishes."

The Committee Members chuckle the same chuckle. Armed Services snaps to attention, "But film it," he says. "And write up a press release."
"Show the ones still living that we follow Last Wishes."
"Let 'em see how respectful we are."

The Medical Examiner is quiet.

Ways and Means says, "You'll take care of that today."
"You'll have it on the news tomorrow," Armed Services says.
"Right?" Budgetary Concerns says.

The Committee Members are looking at The Medical Examiner. Armed Services raises an eyebrow. Ways and Means says, "You live in that yellow house by the park. Right?" Budgetary Concerns raises an eyebrow. The Medical Examiner's heart is beating so loudly he can barely hear them. Moral High Ground says, "So. You'll have a press release in tomorrow's news."

The Medical Examiner looks down. At his hands. At his veins. At the blood pumping through his veins. "Of course," he says. "Of course."

WE'RE BLEEDING INTO A CUP WHEN WE'VE GOT ENOUGH WE'LL JUST PAINT THE WALLS

It's called The Waiting Room, the bar. You get a number when you walk in. You can sit anywhere. Order anything. No charge. John's number is 42. The numbers are shown in red LED light on the back wall. They start at 1 each day. Bar's been in existence since they figured out it'd be easier to get rid of the unhealthy people instead of taking care of them. They don't like to show a running count--it freaks people out. Freaked out unhealthy people cause riots, which are expensive to suffocate and a pain in the ass besides. Stuff them with their fantasies and those same people will walk into the execution chamber on their own. Easier all around. Cheaper too.

John sits on the banquette along the wall adjacent to the bar. They already know he prefers naked women to live music so that's why he's here tonight. Tomorrow they'll have a band. The day after, a magic show. They're not merciless, you know, they're not gonna send you to die without first giving you something you like. They're not monsters, after all.

John is wearing a white collared shirt and a blazer, dark wash jeans, wing tips. His hair is combed. He's wearing the subtlest sent of aftershave. His eyes are bright. His skin is clear. To look at him, you wouldn't guess he's unhealthy.

She is all soft curves and sexy coos. She's wearing black lace lingerie with a black sheer dress over it. As she slides over to him, John can feel himself die a little. He loves black lace lingerie, the drape of sheer over a woman's body. They know that, of course. Already he's where they want him.

She's holding a two finger shot of whiskey. Her eyes are almond shaped, but John can't see what color. The lights in the bar are dim and the candlelight throws shadows like confetti. Her lips are parted slightly. He will trace his finger around them. He will slowly kiss the long line of her neck. When he sees the goose bumps erupt from her creamy skin, he'll hold back the tears.

"Single malt?" She says when she's at his table. He gestures to the spot next to him and she sits. She smells like flowers and cucumber body wash. He wants to run his finger up the inside of her thigh. But before he can, she says, "Whatta ya got?" Her voice is like a song so the hardness of the question takes a moment to slap him. "Blood," he says. "Really?" She says. "I thought they got rid of all the bleeders."

She slides her index finger down the side of the whiskey and pushes it towards him. John knows that in the shadows there are other people playing out fantasies, trying to avoid the number in red LED light on the back wall. He is 42. He will know when it's his turn.

She is tracing his ear with her finger. She leans in and waits a second, then traces his ear with her tongue. He watches goose bumps erupt on his skin. He downs the whiskey. Her heavy-lidded eyes are fixed on his throat.

"I didn't need meds until last week," John explains.
She slides her hand over his. "Doctor file the paperwork?"
"Said he wouldn't," he says.
"They get bonuses for filing." She's whispering into his ear. "Did you let him take an x-ray?"
John looks down at the table, at his hands spread out like smashed spiders, at the sensual curve of her fingers over his. He drops his head.
"Bigger bonuses for x-rays," she says.
"I've known him forever," John whispers. "He said he wouldn't--"
"Yeah," she interrupts, "they all say that. But we don't live in that world anymore."

She turns her body toward him, her breasts pressing into his arm, then she slips her leg over his legs and now she's facing him, her hips moving into his, her mouth barely touching his neck. He can feel her breathe. She slides his hands along her hips and places them on the small of her back. The soft silk of her sheer dress. The warm life of her skin. Before he closes his eyes, he sees the red LED light on the back wall. It slides easily from 41 to 42 and the woman on his lap sets the palm of her hand over his face. He can feel the air trapped in his throat. He tries to inhale, but he can't. He wants to fight it but he knows it's useless. Instead, he focuses on the tiny hips that are moving into his, the scent of flowers and cucumber body wash, the letting go of memories. His legs barely kick when the air runs out of him.

And now there is one less unhealthy person in this world. One less nasty job of taking care of someone else.

IS THIS THE TALE OF JOHNNY ROTTEN

What happened was: I was in this really big, ventilated box, chained to a chair, the promise of windows somewhere near but not seen, surrounded by office supplies, and suddenly the whole place morphs into a dragon and I'm plopped down in a vast field, the dragon at one end and me at the other and I'm like, "Shit, now I gotta fight a dragon," which isn't a negative, mind you, it just absorbs a lot of resources, so I send my knights out onto the battlefield ahead of me and some of them get firebombed, which is really annoying because just last week in dragon fighting class we learned how to avoid that exact same tactic but some of these guys--shit--it's like, they've been knighted, right, so they think they know it all, which is why I'm currently sponsoring legislation that would require all knights to go for yearly education certification and there's kinda been a bit of resistance from the knight unions on that but after the dragon battle I just witnessed I think we can all agree that the facts are on my side and so then, some of my knights are still standing but so is the dragon and so obviously I'm going to have to go to battle and my squire insists on putting on my armor, but I hate that shit, it gives me really bad hat hair so I strut out to the middle of the field and I'm like, "Dragon, today is your last day on Planet Kim," and the dragon laughs because it thinks it's big shit now--yesterday it was a location and today it's a dragon but you know what, yesterday I was trapped in a ventilated box and today I'm gonna decapitate a dragon so suck on that dragon breath and this is what I'm about to say when I see that the dragon has its claws out and is advancing rapidly and menacingly and in one hand it has a net and I've seen those nets before, once you're trapped in one it will take you eight years to get out, if you get out at all, and behind me I hear my knights yelling yesterday's dragon fighting lessons and from the Bose speakers in the sky I hear Led Zeppelin's "Kashmir," because I've requested that song to be played during all my battles and my stupid fucking brain freezes and so do my legs and I can't register what my knights are yelling and I can't get my legs to move and my arm goes numb and my sword falls to the ground with a loud CLANG and the dragon advances and it's so close now I can smell its breath and it needs a breath mint desperately and right when the dragon raises its knife-like claw I suddenly remember the gun in my waist band and I pull it out, aim, blow the dragon away and one of my knights yells, "ANACHRONISM!" which makes me happy since we learned about anachronisms in yesterday's film class, which we had after dragon fighting class, so at least one knight is retaining some of the free education he's getting, and perhaps I'm not battling according to the rules of proper engagement but it is a box that's morphed into a dragon, after all, and sometimes survival trumps rules and just at that point the sky turns blue and the sun shines brightly and Led Zeppelin's "Ramble On" blasts out of the Bose speakers in the sky, and all at once, no one is bitching about bringing a gun to a sword fight because they're too busy tanning themselves and finally I can breathe and maybe now it's time to walk away, before the next war starts.

ONCE YOU'RE GONE YOU CAN'T COME BACK

In front of him the tea party spreads out in a promenade of lace and white and silver candlesticks. Tiny cakes dot pretty silver plates. Flowered tea cups hold red punch. The Lions on the wallpaper stand upright on their back legs and keep watch. The Humans love The Lions and The Lions love The Humans. This is a celebration.

The Sleaze is standing in the doorway. He's sucking on what looks like a lollipop. It's actually one of his many daddy issues. His pockets are stuffed with these lollipops. They make it somewhat cumbersome for him to move.

The thing that makes The Humans turn and notice him is the smell. The room has been filled with a pleasant lilac smell, but now the stench of desperation is starting to permeate the air. It smells like broccoli that's been left too long in the fridge. Because The Sleaze has spent his life curling up with his desperation, he thinks it smells clean, like soap, so he's confused when The Humans don't hug him. But he's not surprised. He's spent his life not being hugged.

The Lions on the wallpaper snap their heads and glare at The Sleaze as he shuffles in. They can't stand his smell, or those loud sucking noises, or the sad way his lips curl around those lollipops. But one of The Humans, The Graceful One, looks at the head Lion and gives him a calming smile. The Graceful One believes in giving people second chances. The Lions don't agree, but they admire her for it.

The Sleaze pushes himself to the long table and stares down at a plate of ladyfingers. He wears goggles because he can't see all that well, but they're a really high prescription, so he has trouble distinguishing between people who put up with him and people who'd enjoy nothing more than throwing him down a well. When it comes to The Sleaze, those are the only two kinds of people there are. The Sleaze doesn't realize this. He wishes more than anything that he could be a Human.

But The Humans don't like him because he does things like grab them where they don't want to be grabbed; he whispers sleazy comments into their ears when no one is looking; when The Humans expect him to behave like a human, he says things like, "Don't get skittish on me now." The Sleaze earnestly believes he's suave. He sincerely believes he's charming. He is unaware of his stench.

The Sleaze looks up from the ladyfingers and makes eye contact with The Human on his left. "My dick is bigger than yours," The Sleaze says and he's shocked when The Human laughs at him. Then The Human simply walks away. The Humans turned The Sleaze into a punchline a year ago and since then, they've found him much easier to deal with.

The Sleaze spots the punch bowl across the room and moves towards it, but he trips because it's hard not to when a foot is in your mouth. He stumbles, falls into the table, grabs the edge of the lace tablecloth and pulls it and a tray of charcuterie to the floor with him. The Graceful One walks over and helps him up. He stands in front of her and adjusts his goggles. Once they're settled on his face, he reaches out and grabs her left breast, turns it like a volume dial, and says, "Honk! Honk!" The room goes silent. The Humans are past the point of grace.

The head Lion peels himself off the wallpaper and pads softly over to The Sleaze, who is now laughing at his own joke. The Lion flicks The Sleaze in the forehead and The Sleaze's goggles go flying across the room and into the punch bowl. Red liquid splatters the walls. The room sighs collectively. That used to be really good punch. "We can make more," The Lion says. Then he smashes The Sleaze into the ground, scoops him up, and molds him into a ball, much the way you would a ball of dough. Soon The Sleaze is a perfectly round ball that The Lion holds easily in the flat of his paw. The Lion walks quietly over to the open window and flings the dough ball out into the moat below. He closes the window and turns to the room. "Some simply can't be helped," The Graceful One says. "We need more punch," The Lion replies.