Of Lies and Pies

           Playing people is simple, really.  Quite like playing music.  If you've got a lot of natural talent, sometimes you don't even need to practice.
           Of course, that's an arrogant way to think.  If you don't practice, you tend to lose your touch.
           This is a story of conmen and victims, of heists and losses.
           But above all, this is a story of the (alleged) crime of hubris.
***
           Joseph's meeting had not gone well.
           She would be the first to admit that, yes Joseph was an unusual name for a woman.  Yes, she would probably have a much easier time if she changed her name.  No, she would not change it, it was her name, but thank you for your interest now if you will excuse her she has another meeting in twenty minutes.
           Her job had been hard to get.  Keeping it was quite the chore.
           She leaned over the bar, gesturing to Tim.  She'd known Tim for a few years -they'd gone to law school together, in fact- and he was one of her few close friends in this city.
    Unlike the guy beside her.  He’d apparently only caught her first name before deciding to start conversation.
    “You know, Jose-”
    “Fuck off.”
    “Ah, I guess you-”
    “Did I fucking stutter?”
    The mystery man shut up, but did not leave.  Which was fairly typical for them, really.  They all thought they were clever.   Yes, Joseph is an unusual name for a woman now kindly fuck oh for fuck`s sake here comes another one.
    “Excuse me, did you-”
    “YES FOR FUCK’S SAKE.  I AM QUITE AWARE I DO NOT HAVE A FEMININE NAME.”
    The newcomer looked rather baffled.  “I-I’m sorry, ma’am.  I was just going to ask if you’d seen a watch around here somewhere.”
    Joseph blinked.  Polite conversation while she was drinking was somewhat refreshing.  “N-no, I’m afraid I haven’t.”  She blushed.  “Look, I’m sorry about the outburst.  It... It’s a problem.”
    The watch guy grinned.  “I can tell, Miss...?”
    “Wu.  Joseph Wu.”  Joseph stuck her hand out.
    Watch guy took it.  “Matthew Robinson.  Charmed.”  He shook Joseph’s hand enthusiastically.  “You don’t look like the sort who would like being called Joe or Josie.”
    “Oh god, don’t get me started on that.  I grew up with so many Pussycat jokes, you can’t even begin to imagine.”
    Matthew stuck his tongue out.  “I don’t think I’d want to, either.  I never particularly liked Archie comics, really.”
    “Hah!  I’m probably a tad biased, but neither did I.”  Joseph sipped her beer.  “I was the wierd girl, though.  I liked Punisher.”
    “So did I!  I’ll have to admit, though, I’m not fond of much else Garth Ennis has done.”
    “Oh, you don’t know what you’re missing.  Seriously, look at Preacher...”
   
    The night went on like this for some time, topic blending into topic, drink into drink, minutes into hours... until last call arrived, quite unexpectedly.
    They finished their drinks, said their goodbyes... and promptly headed in the same direction.  Several moments of awkwardness resulted, and as they began walking again, it soon became clear that they lived in different buildings of the same complex.
    This awkwardness was mildly heightened when Joseph looked out her kitchen window several minutes later, only to see Matthew taking his shirt off immediately across the road.

***
    A few weeks went by with the two of them hanging out every so often.
    It was Tuesday.
    Tuesday was the day where everything changed.

***

    It started like most others, with Joseph swearing as she ran from the bus stop to her office in the rain.  In her hurry, she bumped into someone, spilling coffee all over him.
    “Oh my god, I’m so sorry sir if you’ll ju-MATTHEW?”
    Matthew stared at her.  “What are you doing here?”
    “I work here!”
    “Funny.  So do I.”  The corners of his mouth twitched up in a grin.  “Hey, want to come over for dinner tonight?  My brother was supposed to come visit, but his wife came down with the flu, so I’ve got a ton of groceries and nobody to cook for.”
    Joseph blinked.  “Uh... sure.  I’m sorry about your jacket, by the way.”
    “Oh, don’t worry.  It’s just a raincoat, it’s not like I’m going to be wearing it around the office.  So, six sound good?”
    “Y-yeah, sure.  I’ll see you then, I guess?”
    Matthew waved over his shoulder in response, already scurrying towards his office.
    “Well... that was abrupt.”

***

    The rest of the day passed fairly uneventfully, with fortunately few run-ins with her manager.
    The commute home was much better than the work commute.  The rain had cleared up, which was good, since at this time of year the tunnels between the buildings tended to get pretty stuffy.  By the time six had rolled around, Joseph was knocking at Matthew’s door, having traded her long work skirt for a pair of jeans.
    Matthew opened the door almost immediately, the smell of baking wafting into the hallway.  “Hey!  How was work?”
    “Oh, you know, boring.”  Joseph stepped into the apartment, noting that all the furniture consisted of reclining couches and .  “God, that smells amazing.  What are we having?”
    “French onion soup, steaks, and apple pie.”  His smile slipped for a moment.  “Shit, I forgot to ask if you’re a vegetarian.”
    “Nope.  Steak’s great.”  Joseph pulled up one of the swivel chairs.  “So, you work legal too, eh?”
    “Consultant, actually.”  Matthew flopped lazily into a recliner.  “I consult on cases regarding conpersons.”
    Joseph cocked an eyebrow.  “Interesting specialty.”
    “Oh, yeah.  I used to be a conman myself, actually.  Loads of first-hand experience.
    Joseph tilted her head.  “And we trust you with sensitive legal information?”
    Matthew leaned back into his chair.  “I’m like the lovechild of Loki and Saruman.”  The corner of his mouth twitched upwards.  “Barring biological and cross-universe impossibilities, of course.”

Wheee, writing!

So, I'm working on... some sort of thing.  Long story short, it's a horror story. This is a work in progress.  I'll be updating it whenever I'm done whatever part I've been working on.
 

Current Title: The Apollo

He stumbled through the kitchen, blood dripping from the jagged cut across his forehead.  Brief snatches of whispers flickered in and out of hearing, none of them persistent enough to make sense of.  His vision blurred, he stumbled sharply into a table, knocking himself to the ground.  He clutched the knife to his chest, panting heavily.  Suddenly, he heard a whimper from the corner of the room.  Tensing up, his breath quickened slightly.  Carefully, he shuffled towards the source of the noise.  He turned around the corner into the living room.

He was greeted by a sharp gasp.  “Oh god please don’t hurt me!”  The voice was familiar, somehow, but it came out in a garbled rush.

Then, it struck.

The plans for the week had been fairly intricate.  Most of the planning had been done by James and Charles.  The group would meet up at Sasha’s house, then proceed to James’ place, where they would stay for the weekend.  Hopefully, due to the relative remoteness his house, as well as a temporary absence of parents, they would remain undisturbed.

“Come on, Elsie, we’ll be late!”  Charles shoved his sister in the direction of the hall closet.  “It’s bad enough that I have to take you with me!  The least you could do is hurry up.”

Elsie stuck her tongue out, but put her coat on without further dissent.  “You know, you could probably leave me here.  Mom and dad would never find out!”

Charles shook his head.  “As irresponsible as taking you to this party is, it’s not as bad as leaving you with nobody here if something happens.”

“You don’t trust me to take care of myself?”  His sister pouted.

“If I were just at James’ place for the night, I wouldn’t have a problem.  But I’m there for the whole weekend, and there’s probably going to be alcohol involved.”  He shrugged.  “So, it’s probably best if you come.”

Elsie raised an eyebrow.  “There’s alcohol involved, so I should come?”

“Something like that.”  Charles jangled his keys.  “Come on, let’s go get James.”

James sat in an armchair, staring pointedly at the fireplace.  His parents had left several hours ago, and now he had nothing to do.  At least until Charles got there.  

Sasha glanced at the clock.  “Jesus.  What’s taking them so long?”

William shrugged.  “Charles said he might get stuck with Elsie for the weekend.”

“Ah.  That’d do it.”  Sasha rolled her eyes.  “And now we’re actually going to have to be somewhat responsible.  Such an inconvenience.”

“So, why are we all meeting up here if we’re going to James’ place?”

“We have to pick up Alessandra and go for pizza first.”

William nodded.  “Ah.  Who is paying for this?”

“James.”  She paused.  “I think Alessandra is getting some beer.”

William grinned.  “This is going to be a good weekend.”

It was a good hour before the group arrived to pick up Alessandra.  She was sitting on the stoop of her house, shivering a bit.  As the car (an elderly Buick Apollo that had once belonged to Charles’ father) pulled up to the curb, she stood up.

James rolled down the window.  “You ready to go?”

Alessandra nodded.  “Totes.”

“Did… did you seriously just say ‘totes?’”  An irritated look flitted briefly across his face.

“Yep!” She sauntered over to the car and planted a kiss on James’ forehead.  “I brought beer, so I guess you’ll have to put up with me!”

James sighed, heaving his shoulders in an over-exaggerated fashion.  “Well, I guess you’d better get in the car, then.”

Sasha spoke up from the back seat.  “Short one goes in the middle.”

Alessandra rolled her eyes.  “Fiiine.”

William opened the door.  “So, short one, you gonna join us?”

“Yep.”  Alessandra shuffled awkwardly past William’s legs.

“Nice skirt.”

Alessandra punched William on the shoulder.  “It’s one you’re not going to get into.”

Charles laughed, and stepped on the gas.

Another hour passed before the battered, dark blue Apollo pulled up in front of James’ house.  A light dusting of snow covered the ground, undisturbed except for the fresh tire tracks from the car.  The back doors opened, William and Sasha spilling out clumsily.  Sasha immediately went for the trunk, removing the case of beer that Alessandra had brought.  “William, get the pizza.”

William helped Alessandra out of the back seat.  “Patience.  I’ll be there in a minute.”

Charles surveyed the landscape.  “Well, looks like Elsie didn’t burn the house down.  I’d say we’re off to a good start.”

James grinned.  “Hopefully she’s not gotten too bored.  That never ends well.”  He sauntered to the front door and rang the doorbell.

Sasha raised an eyebrow.  “You don’t seem too bothered that she’s here.”

“Eh.  There’s worst twelve-year-olds to keep an eye on.”

Alessandra shivered.  “James, don’t you have a key to the door?”

“Yeah, just waiting for you guys.”

“Then... why did you ring the doorbell.”

James shrugged.  “To let Elsie know we’re here.”

It was two in the afternoon.

 [Updated 13/06/2012 23:47 EST]

The worst. Poem. Ever.

A bit of backstory before I get to the poem itself.

In my English class, we are currently studying Hamlet.  Now, I've done Hamlet before, and I love the play.  My teacher is also pretty awesome, although sometimes assignments can be a bit... weird.

Like this one!

Basically, we had to get into groups, and pick one of three lines from Hamlet.  You'll see which one we went with in a second ('You' meaning all, like, one of you who actually reads this), and I can't remember one of the others...

The line we initially picked was "Frailty, thy name is woman"

Now, I have never considered myself any good at writing poetry.  Or songs, for that matter.  I mean, ask me to write music and I'm all over it.  Ask me to write a short story about some subject or another and I'll procrastinate and get around to it eventually.

Ask me to write a poem and I'll laugh slightly harder than if you asked me to draw something.  Or go to sleep.  I'm pretty terrible at those things, too.

Wait.  Hang on.  Forgot where I was going with this.  Give me a moment.  Oh!  Right!  Terrible poetry!

So, yeah, original line.  I initially refused to have anything to with writing the poem, but one of my partners started taking a rather distressingly misogynistic bent for a supposedly comedic poem.

Which is where I stepped in.

Fuelled by massive sleep deprivation and quite possibly that all-night Whose Line is it Anyways marathon I pulled (American version.  Because Colin Freakin' Mochrie and Ryan Stiles!  Also because I don't have the British one on my laptop.), I proceeded to write and revise several absurdly silly sentences based off of taking things literally.

After being told by Teach that we had to, y'know, make the poem about Hamlet, I proceeded to throw in a couple of half-assed metaphors and, well, the second-to-last line.

Now, I should warn you.

What you are about to read (provided you made it through my ramblings) has been described as epic.  Shakespearean.  Cyclopean (Because adjectives that only Lovecraft used need more love, dammit!).  All in a sarcastic fashion.

Brace yourselves, kiddies.  This is going to hurt.

                "Something is rotten in the state of Denmark

                The power went out, or the fridge was unplugged

                The onions have gone off

                The cheese has gone soft

                And the milk has turned into yoghurt

                The bacon and ham have turned on each other

                A familial coup

                A filial soup

                The state is uneasy because the Royals are queasy

                And a delicate miasma is brewing"

And there you have it.  Proof that I have no dignity.

Dignity is overrated, anyways.

Pfff.  Dignity.  Who needs it.

The Investigator

[I’d recommend you read The Painter before you read this.  It can be found here.]

---

It’s been a long night.  We found this one dangling from city hall.  There’s a lot of paperwork to be done.

The papers have a name for them.  They call them “The Painter”.

But we know better.  We know exactly who she is.  We know everything about her.  And we can’t do a damn thing about it.

She doesn’t even try to cover her tracks.  We’ve known who she was since the second killing.

There’s been twelve more since then.  Well, it’s thirteen now.

It… well, I should be saying it’s above your paygrade.  But…

I don’t have control over this “investigation”.  Never really had.  I don’t know what’s so damn important about this girl, but somebody… higher than me wants her to keep on going.

Yeah, it’s messed up.

Complain?  To who?  The boss gave me the orders not to apprehend her directly.  He didn’t look too happy about it either.

Exactly.  It has to be someone pretty high up.

No.  I wouldn’t complain if I knew who it was.  The force is corrupt.

I’d love to quit.  But I can’t exactly do anything about it if I do.  At least here I can help out in some small way.

Here, take a look through the file.  I should warn you, most of it is pretty disturbing stuff.

I don’t know either.  I don’t know how she keeps them so clean.  None of them are the same.

You’ll see that a lot.  It’s her... signature, I suppose you could say.

There’s a bit of a psych profile in there somewhere.  You’d probably find it interesting.

Yeah, have fun with that.

Me?  I’m going to go get myself a drink.

I’ll see you tomorrow.

Rock Is My Life And This Is My Blog Post

As of today, I have been attempting to evade this "reality" thing I've heard so much about for eighteen years.  I could say a few words on how much this (fairly arbitrary, really) date means to me.

I could talk about how various friends have shaped my life.

There are countless other ways that I could make a poignant statement about how I've gotten to where I am.

Instead, I'm going to talk about how a song that is essentially two and a half minutes of double entendres changed my life.

I first heard this song when I was six years old.  I was hooked.  Of course, at this point, I was way too young to understand the song.  I'm fairly certain I didn't get any of the double entendres until I was twelve, but that's not the point.  I got Back in Black for my seventh birthday.  AC/DC was the first band I could be considered to be a fan of, and they would continue to be my favourite band for, well, a long time.

Before that, I really didn't have much interest in music.  Yeah, sure, I'd listen to it, but I didn't really have a good idea of what good music was.  I knew I listened to classical music, and the pop groups that everybody else around me listened to, but I never really figured out what I liked.

When I discovered AC/DC, though, I began to actually take an interest in rock.  My dad had (and still has) a huge knowledge base for this topic.  It was him who got me into The Who.

While Pinball Wizard was probably not the first Who song I listened to, it's definitely the closest I'm going to get to remembering.  While AC/DC was still my favourite, The Who were a very close second.  Eventually, I'd get into other bands, ranging from The Beatles to Queen, most of which my dad was responsible for introducing me to.

Perhaps the major exceptions for this were Iron Maiden and Nirvana.

At this point, we've jumped forward about seven years, to just before high school.  Nirvana and Iron Maiden (particularly Iron Maiden), would proceed to have a huge influence on my tastes since then.  It was at this point where I started getting into bands that were formed after I was born, even though neither of those bands were.

So why is music such a huge influence in my life?  I have absolutely no idea.  I do know that I spend most of my spare time listening to music, and that I have an insane amount of it.  My favourite bands have gone from being AC/DC, the Who, and Steppenwolf to being Rush, Rammstein, and the Protomen.

What song am I listening to right now?

Isn't it obvious?

In conclusion, here is a squirrel with a party hat cunningly (and perhaps comically) photoshopped onto it's head.

The Painter

It’s a nice night, but it could be better.

There is so much not right with the world.  There is so much ugliness.  I fix that, though.

I am an artist, you see.  I might not be the best artist in the world, but I do what I can.  It’s all about getting the right canvas.

Some nights, the canvas is easier to find than others.  Some nights, it just comes right along.

Tonight is a good example of that.  I barely had to do anything to get him to follow me.  Just a couple of drinks, and, well…

I look at him, sitting in the shotgun seat.  “What’s the matter?”

“My lips feel a bit weird.”

I smile.  The canvas is getting prepared.  “Oh, don’t worry, dearie.  That’s just the poison.”

The canvas starts.  He looks around wildly.

“Look, there's no point struggling. It's tetrodotoxin. Just sit still and be a good canvas.”  I haven’t stopped smiling.

The canvas stops struggling after a while.  I try to drag it in.  It’s a bit heavier than most of my usual canvases, but nothing I can’t handle.  This could prove difficult later, though…

The canvas has been inside for a while.  He is a… different specimen from my normal canvases.

But he will do.

I begin to prepare.  He is wearing a simple polo shirt and jeans.  I ponder leaving them on.  I’ve never tried using a canvas that’s got other stuff on it.  Eventually, I decide to prepare the canvas as usual.

Soon, the canvas is blank.  My paint and brushes are laid out neatly along the floor beside it.  I begin my work.

“This might tickle a bit.  I don’t know, though.  I’d imagine the poison would mess with how you feel things.”  I nod, mostly to myself.  I know the canvas is mostly conscious, but still.  Canvases don’t talk back.

I love painting.  The feel of the resistance of the canvas, the way the paint glistens before it dries, the sound of fading breath…

I spend a lot of time on this canvas.  Blues and greens mingle with deep reds and bright oranges.  The room is silent but for the sound of brush on canvas.  Sometimes, when I work, I lose track of time.  It’s always night when I begin to paint, but many times it is day when I finish.  Sometimes it is night, but it is the next night instead of the same.

I care about my work.  Tonight is one of the times where it is the next night.

Mother would be proud.

Mother was a painter too, but she died a long time ago.  Her work was some of the most beautiful I have ever seen.

I back up and look at my work.  It’s my finest yet.

The way the colours mingle.

The way the light strikes the swirls in just the right way.

Nothing is left uncovered.  There is no blank space.

I lean forward, and slowly, but lovingly, carve my signature into the canvas.  The ink may mess up the canvas a bit, but it is the most essential part.

The end result is a blood-red crescent moon.

To me, it is the most beautiful sight in the world.

My work is almost done.  The canvas is painted, the work is signed.  The only thing I am missing is a wall to display it on.  I carefully arrange the painting in the car seat.

I will find a nice, new place to hang this.

The hardest part of the painting is the hanging.  Sometimes, the canvas recovers from the tetrodotoxin by the time I have them where I want them.  Like this one.  I barely get the rope around him before he comes to.

There is a bit of a crack as the rope straightens out.

And with that, the night is just a little bit better.

The Hallway

I come to in a hallway.  I don’t know who I am, or how I got here.  All I know is this hallway.  It stretches down into the horizon.  I feel like I’m staring into infinity.

Suddenly, I realise I’m being watched.  I turn around, ready to fight.  I see a man.  Maybe he looks like me, maybe he doesn’t.  I don’t even know what I look like.  He is dressed fairly casually, wearing jeans and a t-shirt.  Try as I might, I can’t quite figure out what they look like.

He clears his throat, and speaks.  His voice is low, almost gravelly.  “Perhaps… you should open one of the doors?”

I start to say “What doors?”

But then I realise they’ve been there all along.  I don’t know how many of them, but I know that they stretch as far as the hallway.

There must be hundreds.

I look behind where I started, but the hallway doesn’t go that way.  I guess I can only go forward.

I swallow, and put my ear to the first door.  The sounds I hear confuse me.  I look at my companion.  “It… it sounds like someone is skinning a bear.”

He raises an eyebrow.  “You can only find out if you open the door.”

I pause, my hand on the knob.  “What if I were to choose not to open it?”

“Then you shall never know.”

I nod.  This makes sense.  I open the door, and I look inside.

I close the door immediately.

My companion looks smug.  “Well?”

“There is someone skinning a bear in there.  It is another bear.”

“Oh dear.”  He shakes his head.  “Perhaps you should try the next door?”

I nod, and move on to the next door.  It’s not like there’s anything else for me to do.

“This one sounds like someone is attempting to bathe a cat.”  I open the door.

“What is it?”

“It is a cat bathing a person.”

I repeat the process one more time.  “This one sounds like hyenas at a feast.”  I open the door, and find a royal court, laden with food.

All the members of the court are hyenas.

This continues for many more doors.  I grow tired of being right, but at the same time, being wrong.  Eventually, something occurs to me.

“What if I were to open a door without listening first?”

All I get in response is an encouraging nod.

I try again.  This time, I do not listen.  I grab the handle, take a deep breath, and turn the knob.

I see a young boy.  The only thing I can tell about him is that he is blonde.  He is shivering.  The room is clearly much colder than the hallway.  I want to ask my companion if we can take the poor child with us.

He rests his hand on my shoulder.  “We cannot take from the rooms.  We can only close the door and move on.”

I nod, saddened by the knowledge that he is correct.  I begin to wonder why I am seeing these things.  I open the next door, and the next.  I see more children, getting progressively older.  On some level, I know it’s the same boy, but something seems wrong.

I can only see one feature of him at a time, and I cannot remember them from one door to the next.

While I can’t remember his face, or his blonde hair, or his brown eyes, I can remember what he does.  I can remember how I see him go from being a boy huddled in the corner of a frozen room to stealing food from a store.

I see a lot of stealing.

Eventually, something seems… different.  It’s the same boy, but… his hair is black.  I think that’s different, but I cannot remember.  I turn to look at my companion, to ask him what he knows, but all he does is smile and point to the next door.

“Please, continue.  We have many doors, and not much time.

Over time, I see the boy fall in with a gang.  I see him get more and more involved.  He gets older, he get taller.   

Eventually, he stops growing.  I imagine he’s an adult now, so I can’t call him a boy.

The man gets into fights.  It starts off simple enough, just the occasional bout in a bar.

It turns into much more.

I see him pull a knife.

I see him lose an eye.

His face has scars, but I can’t keep track of them.  Some are new, I think.  Sometimes, I think I recognise one of them.

I think he has become a hitman.  A wanted criminal.

I start to panic.  I think what might have happened if we had taken him with us.  I am about to confront my companion when I feel his hand on my shoulder.  The hand is heavy and calloused.

“These are things we cannot change.  It is too late for that.  This is a story, my friend, nothing more.”

“But why can’t I remember any of this story?  Why can’t I remember what he looks like?”

“You simply need to open more doors.”

And so I do.

Oddly enough, I don’t feel time passing.  I merely see it passing.

The man is getting older.  Perhaps he is in his early thirties.

He is successful at what he does.   I don’t know how I know this, because the only one I see is him.

I don’t know how much more of this I can take.  I turn to my companion, to plead with him to let me stop opening these doors, and seeing what has happened to the boy we saw so long ago.

I can see him now.

He is tall.  His hair is jet black, and very clearly dyed.

His face is a network of scars.

His hands are calloused, and have specks of blood on them.  I know that if I asked him, he would call them MacBethian stains.

He is missing one eye.  The remaining eye, now lonely, is brown.

I realise that I have been travelling with the boy all along.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were the boy?”

“Have you ever considered looking at yourself?”

I stop completely.  I never have.

I look down.  I recognise but one thing.

I recognise my hands.

I know that if I had a mirror, I’d recognise my face.

I know who I am.

I sink to my knees, sobbing.  How did my life go so wrong?

And yet, there are two more doors.

Two more deaths.

I open the second-to-last door.

I am not prepared for what I see.

I see myself.  I am lying on the ground, in a pool of my own blood.  I am very clearly about to die.

But this can’t be the end!  There’s one more door!

I reach out, and I fumble with the knob.

I open the door.

There is no room behind it.

I step through.