Wasted Words 02/10/2020 - Fear and Loathing

Title: This Ain’t Hogwarts.

Comments: Yes

“Mae!”

A cold rush of morning air caresses my face, lulling me to not wake up and face that cigarette ravaged voice hollering my name. The cane coming down hard my bare shins shatters that illusion real fast. I pull my knees up to my stomach and yank my bed covers over to protect my abused body.

I glare-squint at my attacker, clad in her favorite fuchsia housecoat with tiny daises hand embroidered on the collar.

“Get you some clothes on, your nephew has up and done it for good.” I manage to get my left eye almost all the way open. The real fear in Mamaw’s eyes kills the smart-ass remark about Jimmy before it leaves my tongue.

“Here,” she hands me her battered tablet mainly used for Mahjong and library e-books.

“I made you breakfast, honey. You’re gonna have to handle this.” Pity now battles with the fear as her gaze bores into mine. I should just go back to sleep, Jimmy’s a twenty-year-old grown ass man and I’m tired of cleaning up his messes. But Mamaw never asks me for anything.

“Mae, read it.” Sweet whispers of magic twirl and dance in circles in the conscious of my mind.

“Perception Holler Man High on Bath Salts Throws Local Woman Off Hotel Balcony.” Below the newspaper headline is a mug shot of Jimmy, tattooed vines snaking around his neck. His pin-straight ginger hair sticking in every direction but down.

“…the man identified at James Smithers was arrested late Tuesday night after witnesses called local authorities. The witnesses, members of the visiting Christian group Women of Joy, state Smithers yelled, “This ain’t Hogwarts you dumb bitch, and you sure as shit ain’t Hermione,” before the woman inexplicably fell off the balcony into lounge chairs below. The witnesses state they didn’t actually see Smithers push the victim, identified as Ariel-Lynn McCarter. However as one woman stated, “it’s not as if the poor girl threw herself.” Ms. McCarter was treated by local EMTs but miraculously didn’t suffer critical harm. Smithers is awaiting bail for aggravated assault…”

“Are you mother fucking kidding me! Papaw is gonna kill him this damn time.” Jimmy has been in and out jail since he was fourteen when he was arrested for stealing paint from Lowes. The cops found him and his dipshit townie friends huffing the aerosol cans not two stores down and behind some dumpsters. He didn’t even have the good sense to leave the crime scene, no matter how petty the crime in question was.

Mamaw shambles out my bedroom door, cane thudding on the old wood floors of our cabin. I drag a hoodie and jeans on before sprinting into the kitchen where Mamaw was dumping an approximate half cup of CoffeMate powder into her mug. The deceptive invitation of the coffee and tangy warning of the chicory as familiar and comforting to me as the bushels of chamomile and sage drying in the racks hanging from the rafters above my head.

“I mean, fuck, could he have picked a worst group of people to slip-up in front of? They are probably writing harshly worded reviews about the hotel and Jimmy on Yelp as week speak.” Laughing, I take a seat at the wobbly kitchen table. The only thing keeping it from falling apart is Mamaw’s daily kitchen spells and some well-placed duct tape.

I mutter a quick a spell of my own under my breath thanking the land for the nourishment before digging into the grits Mamaw sits in front of me. She eases her increasingly substantial weight into the chair across from me. Her face is too pale, already thin lips drawn tight and down. The grits turn to flavorless goo. I set my spoon down.

“Papaw came calling this morning.” She lights a Newport Slim, pulling the intoxicating poison into her lungs.

My chest tightens. She’s not talking about my Papaw Robert and her dead husband, long passed and at peace while waiting for Mamaw to join him in the Eternal.

Papaw only comes calling when he needs us to uphold our promise. He has been the keeper and enforcer of our holler since before I was born.

Perception Holler is a place of magic and of family. But nothing in life is free, you have to take what you want. For years the families in our holler have been doing just that. We are all thieves. Our ancestors could sense the simmering power in these hills. So they stayed, and multiplied. We have been stealing and using the magic that permeates the air and earth for centuries. The only rule being the outside world can never know the true paradise we have. To anyone outside the holler we are uneducated hillbillies living in crude cabins.

This perception is cultivated and is essential for our continued existence in the Eden of our own making. We can't allow any suspicion to attach itself to our holler, and we sure can't allow it to be written about in the local newspaper.

Mamaw slides a white envelope bulging with hundred dollar bills across the table to me.

“Papaw left that for his bail.” She takes one last drag from her cigarette getting the last bit of tobacco from the thing. She immediately lights up another, her hands shaking from far more than her age.

“Go on and get him out of jail, bring him on back to the holler. We need to say our goodbyes, proper.”

Written in crude sprawls across the envelope is, “In a World of Thieves, the Only Final Sin Is Stupidity.”

Midwest Cement

A man screams at the bottom of his soon-to-be tomb. A beep of a truck, a wave of a hand, and the heavy slosh of cement filling a grave mark the end of a life.

Two things lead to the death of Jimmy Bones: he was new in town and he was hungry. Two fatal flaws.

I watch—we all watch, in this life, there’s no turning away—as the concrete fills past his chest. Jimmy claws at the dirt, tries to swim to the surface. Michael fucking Phelps couldn’t swim through concrete with a hundred pounds of blocks tied to his ankles, and Jimmy Bones was no Michael Phelps. Hell, he was barely Jimmy Bones, got the nickname from being so damn skinny.

So how does the hungry new kid in town end up at the footer of Sin City’s newest casino?

He wanted to prove himself. He wanted to earn a place.

A kid with the right look, who knows how to ask the right questions, can find himself standing in front of a handful of powerful scoundrels in this city—four to be exact. Four men, who would gladly whip out their dick just as quick as their checkbooks to prove their superiority over the other three.

Regardless, Jimmy found his way to Piotr Yelchin. The Russian liked to think of himself as a joker of sorts. Always playing dumb gags for laughs, and only getting laughs with the threat of cold blooded murder—and you know how cold it gets in Russia.

“I didn’t know,” Jimmy yelps. The concrete brushes against his chin, forcing him to tilt his head back to keep getting air.

We all watch in silence.

Where was I?

Right. So, Piotr thinks it’d be hilarious to tell Jimmy to knock of some fancy fuck mansion. And Jimmy, he don’t know shit, probably laughed along with the room full of comrades chuckled at the address. Like I said, Jimmy was hungry, apparently they don’t feed those Midwest boys like they claim.

You can probably guess where this is going. Piotr drops Jimmy off at the gate, drives away giggling his vodka soaked ass the whole way home. The kid hops the gate, finds a six car garage open.

Here’s a tip for you kids out there: If a really expensive house and everything is unlocked, it’s because everyone else is smart enough not to fuck with it.

Jimmy, well, Jimmy Bones was not that smart. He hopes behind the wheel of a metallic purple Mercedes—a car that I’d like to note there were only a dozen ever produced, that kind of car. Jimmy drove the doors of that Mercedes. Did a burnout straight to the bottom of his grave.

“Please.” Jimmy’s crying now. I feel bad for a second. We were all young once, all made some youthful trouble.

I glance over my shoulder at the wreckage of a purple supercar. Jimmy’s youthful trouble, it would appear, was a two million dollar mistake.

“Alright,” Frankie says.

Me and two of the guys walk around to the back of the car. The hood is crumpled to hell and three of the tires are blown, but it should still roll with some muscle, and muscle’s all any of us are, ain’t it?

“Kid,” Frankie says down to the hole, “in a world full of thieves, the only final sin is stupidity.”

We take that as our queue and heave. Metal groans as the vehicle inches toward the hole. We get a little momentum behind us. With a final shove, the car drops into the hole, making a wet splosh that silences Jimmy’s scream.

“Good job boys.” Frankie straights his jacket. “Now let’s go pay a visit to a sneaky fucking Russian.”

1. Shotgun County Jail Stacks Thieves Three High

2. DANVILLE, TN: Sheriff Robert L Shirley, his deputies, and Xaeh vom Sequoyah, BiPed trainer rounded up fifty alleged thieves during Sunday morning services.

3. The operation began after an arrest made last week in Evans Hollow, where the Sheriff had been called and found a thief grateful fot release from his Mountain Cur oppressor. It seems the dog had the man's nuts in a vice and he gave up the goods on his colleagues in exchange for a respite in jail.

4. The information spilled in screams echoing through that hollow, laid a path to another hollow near Mechanicsville, where the Sheriff and deputies found an underground warehouse full of goods, from moon pies, plastic ware, to rare cars, trailors, and jewelry, half of which had been identified in recent police reports.

5. Under interrogation coordinated between the Sheriff and Xaeh, the sole occupant of the warehouse stated more goods would be arriving as Sunday services closed. While Shotgun Citizens sat in pews listening to words of the good book, the thieves were out pillaging their cars and homes.

6. The Sunday haul was big, as two waves of thieves arrived, the first as the church doors let spill the pious folks from their pews, and the second as restaurants did the same. They were caught red handed, the loot in their hands, and lined up along a warehouse wall, under threat from Xaeh.

7. With such an efficient Deputy on scene, Sheriff Shirley dispatched his deputies across the county to take reports of stolen goods to match with the loot as it came in. In each district, those deputies passed notes to the pulpit where Pastors finished their sermons with a chiding to check their transportation and abodes closely for missing items, and report it straight away.

8. The thieves and victims were matched up by loot on the scene as each report was called in.

9. Despite accolades by minister and flock, Sheriff Shirley dismissed any brilliance in the sting, stating, "In a world of thieves, the only final sin is stupidity."

10. He pointed out that J C Evans has a reputation for protecting his property, and most know his dog plays a big part in that. "It took a very dumb thief to try to steal a tractor there, in this case, a Nashville denizen, who failed to heed the warning signs posted every other tree."

11. He also credited Xaeh, who used herding skills to keep thieves in line, separated, and quiet except to answer questions by him. He does not discount the visual effects of each newly arrived, of the first one arrested that morning. He had attempted to run, only to be taken down by the trusty K9. Dishoveled and bloody, his clothing was severely torn. https://www.facebook.com/groups/773063583155071/?source_id=105015490942308

Title: The Tiniest Trojan

Comments: Go for it! I’m not feeling my wording on 98% of this, but I cranked out words and that’s a big deal these days. Thanks for reading!

She wouldn't have minded that their table was next to the bathroom, except that she was sitting across from him. The dank symphony of toilet flushes only served as a constant reminder of the turd in front of her.

These working lunches weren't all bad. Free food was, of course, the highlight. Who could argue with free food? And the wildly unproductive time of an extended lunch where “work” was meant to occur made the day pass by quickly. Really, as long as you could avoid sitting near Ted you'd be fine.

Ted was the guy who interrupted everyone to assert his expertise, whether or not he had any. But worse than the Google-search-powered "well, actually…" interruptions were his fast hands. Ted would swipe food off your plate with exactly zero shame. Like a serial killer known for being “such a nice guy,” he would look you dead in the eyes and smile as he grabbed your quesadilla off your plate.

HR didn’t seem to think this behavior was a big deal. HR had never stared into the abyss as he licked the salt off a french fry and then dipped it into your tiny cup of ketchup.

But now, after demoralizing the data specialist as he tried to make his report, Ted took a bite out of the specialist’s burger then put it back on the poor guy’s plate. As she physically shuddered from the painfulness of this whole encounter, she accidentally knocked a couple tater tots on the floor.

Out of habit she leaned over and picked up one of the tots. The perfectly shaped, expertly fried, and seasoned to make the gods weep cylinder of potato had fallen into a “mystery liquid” that emerged from the now fragrant restroom. She froze.

Freshly marinated in acrid public bathroom juices and sporting a couple hairs, this tot was now the most important thing in the world.

It was a tiny trojan horse filled with retribution and it was beautiful. Unwavering, unshaken, she was transcendent. After not even a second of hesitation, the tater tot was installed in a place of honor, reverently arranged on her plate, awaiting its destiny.

Was the hair from a chain smoker’s scraggly beard or was it a pube hair from some dude who didn’t wash his hands? She would never know the name of her savior, but she blessed him nonetheless.

After eviscerating another coworker, Ted caught her eye and his hand went for her plate in slow motion. She met his gaze and didn’t look away, watching as if this moment was the ultimate fulfilling of a great prophecy.

With a grin, he snagged the divine potato and popped it in his mouth. His grin faded slightly and when he turned away to quickly down his glass of water, she smirked.

She knew Ted wouldn’t learn anything from this encounter. He’d be back soon enough with his slippery fingers caressing her chicken nuggets. In a world of thieves, the only final sin is stupidity, but he had far to go before fully mining the depths of stupidity. The least she could do was pass him a shovel.

Author's Note: I bit off a little more than I could chew with this one. Once I realized it, I sped up the pace and rushed to the end. This could easily be expanded into a long form piece, but I still like it how it is. Please let me know what you think! Thanks for reading!

PS- I do not speak German or Japanese, so I blame Google translate for any poor wording.

The Fox and the Thief

by

J. Edward Paul

Akisu dashed from sharp corner to corner, the fox nipping at her heels. It was a slight not red in the way of the Holo--just too bright to be real, but not any other color enough to be fake. Akisu saw the fox, heard the fox, and feared the fox, but did not feel the weight of the fox. She also had no weight in the Holo. However, her Avi still panted and its thighs still burned as she vaulted a low wall at the end of the next hallway and landed in another identical hallway in an adjacent directory.

The fox did not follow, but another would track her shortly should she linger.

“Where the fuck is he keeping it?” Akisu whispered to the void. Her language was the language of this directory and not her own world. She did not understand the translation, but the software jacked into her frontal lobe was doing all the work.

Akisu tip toed along a black not-glass wall. Her low res reflection followed in fits and starts. The glitch wasn’t a good sign. Another user was gobbling bandwidth at an astronomical pace. Likely downloading data and scrubbing the Holo of evidence.

“So much for the element of surprise,” she whispered in German. Soviel zum Uberraschungsmoment. Akisu’s Avi shuddered at the disgusting language.

Two more identical hallways led to three more. Still no fox. Her reflection looked like a 20th century museum piece. Time was running out.

“Warum gibt es keine turen?” Why are there no doors?

“Maybe you’re not looking hard enough,” a voice said from behind her.

Akisu spun. A fox sat patiently at an intersection of Holo directories placed against a backdrop of lazy stars. This one was not-orange. Its fluffy tail wagged along the black tile floor of the directory.

“Three months you’ve tried to obtain the information you seek,” the fox spoke through dangerous teeth, “and yet didn’t ascertain the nature of the directory before stumbling inside?”

Akisu stood in a guarded stance, prepared for the eventual chase, and perhaps a fight.

“The people will know the extent of your crimes, Inari,” Akisu said.

The fox tilted its head back like a man too deep in his bottle of saki and laughed.

“Don’t act so righteous, Akisu. You are nothing more noble than a thief and, “ the fox said, “in a world of thieves, the only final sin is stupidity. Of which you are obviously guilty.”

Akisu anticipated the fox’s attack, turned, and ran. The fox pounced, barely missing her heel.

The paths of the directory all looked the same, black on black not-glass and tile against a field of lethargic stars. Akisu ran frantically, taking turns at random, and hoping for a door that didn’t seem to exist. As she slowed for another turn, the fox pounced again. Akisu yelped involuntarily, but the fox missed and crashed into the wall instead.

The not glass shattered inward revealing a room decorated in ancient filing cabinets and cobwebs. Rust and neglect was the color pallete.

“Sie sind alle turen…” Akisu whispered. They are all doors…

Like all security bots, the fox would be trying to push Akisu further from important information, while attempting to jack her out of the system or, in this case, permanently terminate her Avi. Akisu quickly pivoted and ran back the way she’d come. She thought she knew where the information was stored. It had to be in the hallway where the chase started. She’d gotten too close.

“You think you have it figured out, Akisu.” The fox laughed behind her. “You’re going to die here. You’re not the hero of this story, Akisu!”

The wall in front of Akisu crashed into the hallway, forcing her to turn at the intersection. Another fox joined the chase. As she approached the next intersection, another fox broke free of a hidden room in a spray of not-glass. Three foxes now chased her as she sprinted into another forced turn.

The software was herding her.

“Fuck it,” Akisu cursed.

She threw herself sideways into the wall. Glass bounced harmlessly off her Avi and she emerged into another hallway. Her mapping software painted a neon blue line along the floor. She was on the right track.

If this were the Real, Akisu would have already collapsed from exhaustion. In the Holo it wasn’t air you were breathing. She could still taste the humid air of the Holo-Cafe she was jacked into. If she concentrated hard on remembering where she was, Akisu could even taste the black coffee still lingering on her tongue.

None of that mattered till she found the dirt on Inari.

The foxes had multiplied to five before they jumped through the hole Akisu left behind.

“I’m going to tear your throat out, Akisu! First here and then in the Real,” the lead fox yelled.

Akisu reached the hallway she remembered. It was the same as all the others except the blinking neon dot overlayed on the far end.

“It’s now or never,” Akisu whispered.

She ran straight for the wall. A fox managed to reach her just before the dead end and latched onto her back, its teeth in her Avi’s hair, and its claws in her shoulders. Akisu screamed and dove through the wall.

Suddenly she was plummeting down the side of a building in the open Holo.

She spun in shock and gaped back at a fox grinning at her from the broken window. The fox on her back let go and laughed.

Just before she hit the floor of the Holo, Akisu logged out.

“Chikusho!” she screamed in angry Japanese. Damn it!

Akisu tore off her goggles and yanked the plug from the base of her skull. A barista in too loose denim and a neon pink visor glared at her from behind the counter and pointed not so subtle at the “No Profanity” sign boldly posted above the espresso machine.

Now how would she avenge her brother.

Title: Trace the Lines

Comments: Okay

“In a world of thieves, the only final sin is stupidity. Everything leading up to that is fun.”

David smiled and swirled the Evan Williams in his glass. He tried not to slur his words, but the whiskey was already taking hold.

“What kinda fun were you...were you thinkin about, honey?”

The woman sitting across from him, in the exotic dress with a sort-of throwback, vintage feel to it, complete with the long black gloves and cigarette holder, let out a long sigh.

“I don’t think you’re getting it, Mr. Hilders.”

She felt around in her purse, her hand settling on the cool, reassuring steel.

“Oh, no, please...let me,” Hilders said, waving at the bartender.

Celeste waved the bartender away as she stared into Dr. David Hilders’ eyes.

“David, let’s leave.”

He stood, steadying himself on the bar.

“You don’t have to ask me twice.”

***

Considering that he’d pickled himself before they made it up to his penthouse, all Celeste had to do was “freshen up” for five minutes and sure enough, the waiting laid him out cold.

She dug through her purse and removed three things: a syringe, a scalpel, and a cell phone. First, she picked up the phone and dialled.

“I’m there. He’s out. Room 1406. Fill the cooler and be here in five.” She hung up, and in her mind, the stopwatch started.

Next, she picked up the syringe and injected him. The specific drug was a mystery to her--in fact, most of what she did, she didn’t understand--but it worked. It always worked, even if she couldn’t even pronounce the name on the bottle it came in.

The buttons on his shirt were undone easily, and she felt at home. Undressing men, lowering their guard, getting what she wanted from them...this was where she excelled, where her natural talent was.

You’d have to live quite a privileged life to be an alcoholic and still manage to get a new liver.

She removed the carefully-placed and hidden bandage on his abdomen, just below his ribs. Tight little stitches held the skin closed.

The scalpel felt light in her hand as she popped each one of the sutures, letting the skin pull apart. She didn’t know much about how medicine worked, but she knew that if she just undid everything the surgeon had done, she’d have this liver back in no time. She’d already sold it twice.

Mortality and vice made men stupid, so finding a buyer was always the easiest part.

Jack B. Nimble

The world of thieves is a complicated strata of professions. At the bottom you have your common press gangs, muggers, pickpockets and cutpurse urchins. Not much higher up you’ll find footpads and jackrollers, followed by cattle rustlers and horse thieves. Somewhere in the middle are your common card sharks and confidence tricksters. Also in this strata you may spot the odd biblioklept—a rare find, and not generally given the respect they’re due. Somewhat higher up you will find second-story men, pennyweighters, gentleman brigands, and safecrackers. Above them all are the true confidence men, masters of manipulation, at the top of which, naturally, fall big tent preachers, professional politicians, and bankers.

Jack was an upper-echelon sort of thief, opposed to violence on principal and not much fond of sneaking around in the dark. He had a plain face that was unmemorable, and therefore honest. He spoke softly, but with conviction. When he said something you couldn’t help but want to believe. He had all the makings of a great politician, if only he was incurable lazy or somewhat of an idiot. Jack, fortunately, was neither.

Now thieves, by necessity, are a morally flexible sort, but they do have their own sense of honor, despite what people say. They have a code, as it were. Rules. And the greatest rule in a world of thieves is that the only final sin is stupidity.

Jack had come dangerously close to committing the final sin.

You see, Jack it would seem, had come within spitting distance of developing something absolutely forbidden by the thieve’s code. He had almost done the unthinkably stupid: Jack had very nearly gained a conscience.

Her name was Isabel.

If looks could kill, Isabel might leave you slightly bruised. She dressed simply, but floated through life with the grace and dignity of a dancer. From her father she had inherited a vast fortune, and from her mother a sense of purpose. At the age of twenty-three she had already founded six orphanages, three hospitals, and one fine colony of lepers. She was a women with a mission.

She was also Jack’s target for a long con.

As opposed to a short con, like say perhaps selling your grandmother her own teeth (which Jack had done on at least one occasion), the long con took patience and fortitude. It took commitment. Jack had all three.

When he met Isabel he had been running a rather successful short con in the philanthropy circles. The game was simple: find a charity gala to invite yourself to, flirt with the old ladies and have a brandy with the men, and wiping a tear from you eye explain the plight of the Moldavian miners. The mines of Moldova were infamously dangerous, he would say, and everyone would sagely agree. Hardworking men died by the dozens, and left many widows and orphans. The rich old men and women would nod sadly despite having never heard of any such place, and would write great checks payable to the organization Jack represented.

When he told Isabel of the troubles in Moldova she dabbed at her eyes with a dainty lace handkerchief and took him by the arm.

“Something must be done about the mines,” she said, floating beside him. “It is good to feed and clothe the widows and orphans, but that does nothing to fix the problem.”

Jack frowned. She was not following the script. This was where she was suppose to dig into her purse and bring out her checkbook, not begin digging into root causes.

“What is needed is reform!” She gripped his arm tightly. “We must raise awareness. Petition the government. Form safety committees. Conduct inspections!”

Jack’s mind raced.

“It will be very expensive,” Isabel added, pursing her lips.

“Very,” Jack agreed.

“We shall be partners in reform, you and I,” she said. “You must put me in contact with the proper authorities. I will cover the expenses.”

The furiously spinning wheels in Jack’s mind clicked into place. This woman was rich. Beyond rich. This could be the greatest con of his career—assuming he’s could pull it off. He had no doubts that he could.

Her eyes, flashing, met his, and the first stirrings of something quite alien to him fluttered in his stomach. A doubt began to form. Jack was not given to having doubts. It felt like heartburn.

“What do you think?” she asked, holding his gaze.

He quickly aborted the embryonic doubt, turning his thoughts from Isabel’s sparkling eyes to her glittering wealth. “Partners,” he said.

Isabel smiled and continued to ramble on about petitions and committees and regulations, but Jack’s mind was already skipping four steps ahead.

In bed that evening his mind had skipped six steps ahead, and then suddenly leaped back several steps to Isabel’s eyes. He shook his head and untangled himself from the limbs of the woman beside him, slipped quietly out of bed and into a robe, and went to stand on a balcony overlooking the broad river snaking through the city.

The suite had been furnished by the generous donations of a Mr. and Mrs. Cobbletree of Apple Lane. So had the woman. The room was not overly grand—Jack was not given to extravagance—but it was comfortable, featuring an oversized bed, overstuffed chairs, and an oversized view. The woman was not oversized, but she was certainly comfortable. She sighed softly in her sleep and rolled over, silk sheets falling away from her body.

One of the principal rules of the long con was Do Not Get Attached.

There was definitely a danger here of becoming Very Attached. Jack had never felt like this before. All his life he had been quite happily very much unattached. It was an odd feeling. It felt like gnats in the pit of his stomach. He tried retracing his thoughts, back to The Plan, but all he could see were Isabel’s dark eyes flashing before him.

He clutched the ornate iron handrail and took a deep breath of the warm night air to clear his head. He was a professional, he reminded himself, not some besotted schoolboy. He had conned dozens of women far more alluring than Isabel, hadn’t he? Rich, lonely women with boorish husbands and too much time on their perfectly manicured hands.

Isabel was all the things those women were not.

She was kind and generous, compassionate and fair. Her hands were not manicured, but calloused from serving the poor. She was rich, but not lonely. She was certainly not idle. And she had no husband, he mused, boorish or not.

A new voice whispered in his head. “Partners,” it said. Together they could make a difference in the world. Perhaps not in Moldova, where there were in fact no mines and few orphans, he reminded the voice, but nevertheless it swam unbidden through his mind with images of a life far different than the one he knew.

A new feeling rose inside him, like a knife stabbing into his gut. He couldn’t recognize it, not at first, but then slowly it dawned on him. He was feeling guilt. It made him nauseous.

It was then he noticed the glass of brandy being held in front of him by a slender hand. The woman pressed up against him and kissed his neck. He sipped the drink aimlessly as she slowly moved her hands inside his robe.

Thoughts of Isabel slipped away and he turned to kiss the woman. She led him back to the bed. Back to his familiar world. A world free from attachment, free from guilt. He embraced the woman as she slid under him.

And he tried very hard not to think about how dangerously close he had come to doing something very, very stupid.

I’m afraid between injuring myself and my mother in law coming down for mourning I didn’t have much opportunity to poke at things this week so I’ve got more of a seed than a story, but I didn’t want to skip completely. Saving this to come back to in the future. In a world of thieves, the only final sin is stupidity.

But I still argue it wasn’t stupid to steal your heart. It may have got me caught, trapped here with you, but I still say it was worth it then, and worth everything that comes. And you know, they say the devil can’t resist a good deal, so let me make you one... I think you’ll like it.