Prologue

What am I going to do now?

It was just another normal day at The Centre. Assuming that you're the type of person who would consider torture, murder, kidnapping, extortion, genetic experiments, and other nasty stuff as normal activities. Well, in The Centre they were as normal as normal could be. Most of the people working there had no idea what The Centre really did, nor was it their place to know. Only those on higher places knew the real truth and those who would accidentally bump into something they weren’t supposed to know shouldn't expect any less than a death penalty. Or something even more permanent.

The Centre was a world organization that exploited people like guinea pigs. (And guinea pigs like people. There was this experiment once and... What? Oh, sorry. I'll get right back to it.) Anyway, some people knew what The Centre was. Others just suspected it. It was a place where evil ruled. A Hell on earth, some people would say. With good furniture, as some would say. (I don't know why. The only piece of good furniture I remember seeing was Mr. Parker's desk. The rest was just standard stuff. Besides, has anyone been to Hell recently? Who's to say they don't have nicer furniture than The Centre these days? All right! I'll tell the story. I was just saying that-- Okay! Okay!)

Even so, despite the terror it inspired, there was one regular event that brought true fear into the hearts of all those who worked there. An event that happened once every month and troubled everyone, from the lowest employee to the chairman himself.

Some people even knew that The Centre's finances were controlled by The Triumvirate, a consortium of three men with their headquarters in South Africa. They were the real power behind The Centre. Or so everyone thought.

The truth was a little different. It was more frightening than The Triumvirate and The Centre put together. Forget about surprise visits from members of The Triumvirate. Forget about law enforcement units walking into The Centre and taking everyone into custody. Those were unexpected events and the unexpected could not be predicted. Sure, there were always procedures to follow, in case something unusual were to happen – like Mr. Raines growing back hair, for example – but not on a situation such as this.

This... moment, however dreadful, was expected, which didn't make its arrival any easier. Quite the contrary. No matter how much they would try to deny it, no matter how much they would pray for it to end, it was useless. It would always happen and there was nothing they could about it.

It was about two p. m. when the doorbell rang. The massive iron doors were opened almost immediately. Everyone looked to the man standing at the door and instantly recognized his face. They quickly got away from off his sight and hid wherever there was a hiding place available.

The man walked through the lobby and went straight to the receptionist desk. He looked at a very frightened secretary and said, “I’m here to collect the rent.”

She swallowed her breath and tried hard to seem calm “I believe the rent has already been paid. We sent you a check.”

“One would believe that,” he began, producing a piece of paper from his his pocket and placing it on her desk, “but I went to my bank this morning to cash this check and they told me that all your bank accounts were depleted.”

“You’ll have to discuss that with Mr. Raines.”

The man grumbled, clearly annoyed. “Fine. Tell him to come down here so that we can clear this out.”

“Certainly, sir.”

She grabbed the phone and dialed to Mr. Raines’ office. From the other side came a recording message. Dance music on the background, with the distinguished wheezing voice of Mr. Raines doing the singing.

“Hey! I’m not here!

But I’ll back! Don’t you fear!

I’ll come back and we’ll sing all day.

And then I’ll dissect your brain.”

BIP!

“Mr. Raines, this is Sarah, from reception. Mr. Stevenson is here. He wants you to come down as soon as you can.” Sarah put the phone down and turned to Mr. Stevenson. “He’s not there.”

“What about Mr. Lyle? Isn’t he the second in command?”

“How do I know that?”

“I used to watch the show.”

“Very well. I’ll call him.”

“You do that.”

Sarah grabbed the phone. “You can take a seat, if you want to.”

“I prefer to stand, thank you.”

She dialed the extension to Mr. Lyle’s office.

He answered quickly, with his mouth full. “What?”

“Mr. Lyle, it’s Sarah from reception. Mr. Stevenson is here.”

Mr. Lyle swallowed. “What the hell does he want?”

“He says he’s here to collect the rent.”

“I thought the rent was already paid.”

“That’s not what he says, Mr. Lyle. According to him, all our bank accounts are empty.”

“What d’you mean empty?! There were more than a hundred million dollars on those accounts!!! Where the hell did all the money go?”

“That I don’t know, Mr. Lyle.”

“Have you talked to Mr. Raines about this?”

“I tried to call his office, but he wasn’t there.”

“OK. I’ll see what I can do. Tell Mr. Stevenson to come up.”

“He says he wants you to come down.”

“Great! Now I have to interrupt lunch! I hate doing that! Okay. Tell him I’ll be down there as soon as I can.”

Sarah heard Mr. Lyle hanging up and put the phone receiver down. “Mr. Lyle will be here shortly.” She said to Mr. Stevenson.

“He better hurry. I’m beginning to get tired of all this waiting.”

“I saw his meal passing by. It was quite petite. I'm sure he won't take too long.” She smiled “Are you sure you don’t want to sit?”

“Yes. I am.”

~*~

A few minutes later, Mr. Lyle showed up, accompanied by Mr. Raines. They shook hands with Mr. Stevenson.

“What can we do for you, Mr. Stevenson?” Mr. Lyle asked with a plastic smile on his face.

“You can start by paying what you owe me.”

“There has to be some sort of mistake, Mr. Stevenson. The Centre always pays its bills on time.” Mr. Raines said.

“Well, I sure would like to know how is that possible with all your bank accounts empty.”

Mr. Raines turned angrily to Mr. Lyle. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

“I...” Lyle swallowed “forgot.”

“You forgot?! One hundred and twenty five million dollars and eighty three,” he took a small paper from his breast pocket, read it and then put the paper back in the pocket, “eighty four cents gone and you forget to mention it?” He was quiet for a few seconds, then something occurred to him “Lyle, tell me something. Have you been ordering mail order brides again?”

“No...”

“Tell me the truth.”

“I may have ordered a few.” He said timidly, and then added quickly, “But they were all very cheap!”

Mr. Raines took a deep breath and began to pull Lyle’s ear. “Didn’t I give you a piggy bank for you to buy your things?”

“Yes!”

“And how many times have I told you not to order any brides without consulting me? How many? Tell me!!!”

Mr. Lyle started to cry. “I’m sorry! It’s just... I feel so alone sometimes. I only want...”

Mr. Raines let go Mr. Lyle’s ear and pulled him to a tight hug. “That’s alright, son. I understand.”

“Look,” Mr. Stevenson interrupted “I don’t give a damn about your brides. All I want is my money. Now, do you have it or not?”

“How much is it?” Mr. Raines asked.

Mr. Stevenson took a small paper from his breast pocket and handed it to Mr. Raines.

Mr. Raines read the paper and wheezed, “What the hell is this?”

“That is what you owe me. This month’s rent. Without interests.”

“Without interests?”

Mr. Lyle took a quick peak at the paper and whistled.

“The rent is not supposed to be this high!” Mr. Raines wheezed.

“And Blue Cove is not supposed to exist. It’s a fictitious land and I own it, along with everything in it. You wanna have your secret complex in my property, that’s fine with me, just as long as you pay what I tell you to pay. If not, you can always pack up your stuff and move to Gotham City or Smallville. It’s your choice.”

“We can’t afford that kind of expense with our bank accounts empty.”

“What’re you talking about? We can’t afford any expense with our bank accounts empty.”

“Shut up, Lyle!”

“I don’t have the time or the patience to wait, gentlemen. If you don’t have the money, I have no choice but to throw you all out.”

“You can’t be serious!”

“You want to test me, Mr. Raines? I strongly advise you not to, or I promise you’ll regret your actions shortly afterward.”

“How shortly?”

“Very.”

Realizing defeat, Mr. Raines sighed and turned to Lyle. “Lyle?”

“Yes, dad?”

“Go tell everyone to clean their desks. We’re leaving.”

“What do I tell them?”

“Tell them that they are all fired.”

Mr. Lyle thought about this for a second before asking “Does that mean that I have to kill all of them?”

“Not this time, son. Not this time.”

Suddenly, Mr. Lyle remembered something “Wait! What about The Triumvirate? Can’t we borrow some money from them?”

Mr. Raines smiled. “Yes... We-”

“Can’t.” Mr. Stevenson concluded.

“Why not?”

“I own their complex too. Their accounts are empty as well.”

“How can that be?” Mr. Lyle questioned.

“If I found out whoever did this, I’m gonna eat him alive!”

“Can I help?”

“It was just an expression, Lyle.”

“Oh... Sorry.”

“Now, hurry up and go tell everyone the news.”

“Sure. I’m just going to finish lunch and then I’ll do it.”

“You can finish your lunch later.”

“But I’m starving!”

“I said you can finish your lunch... later! Now move!”

Mr. Lyle walked away.

Mr. Raines wheezed, “I wonder who’s responsible for this...”

~*~

Yes, who was the person responsible for this? The question floated inside Mr. Lyle and Mr. Raines’ brain and the answer could probably be found with one man.

Jarod.

The man being constantly chased across the country since his escape from The Centre after thirty years imprisoned. A pure genius, as most people called him, but despite his strong intellect, he wasn’t the one responsible for The Centre’s shutdown.

In fact, after spending several years on the run, it was only now that he had finally come up with a perfect plan to stop The Centre once and for all. Better late than never, you could say. It was a very simple plan. So simple that he felt ashamed for not thinking about it earlier.

He was driving his car, listening to some music. The Centre was only a few miles away.

Almost there, he thought.

After a while, a car rode by. He recognized the driver. Miss Parker. His friend, his huntress, his enemy, his... whatever.

That’s strange. She usually doesn’t leave her office before seven p. m. He continued driving, then he remembered something else: Was she smiling?!

~*~

Jarod arrived at The Centre moments later and was surprised with what he saw. Everyone was leaving the place. He got out of his car and scanned the crowd for any known face. He spotted Sydney and walked over to him.

“Sydney!”

“Jarod!”

“What is going on here? Where is everyone going?”

“The Centre is shutting down.”

“What? How?”

“Apparently someone forgot to pay the rent.”

“That’s just great! Now that I had come up with a plan to...”

Suddenly, Jarod heard a voice coming from behind him.

“You!”

Jarod recognized the voice and turned around to see Mr. Raines, with his former henchman Willie standing right next to him.

“You did this!” he turned to Willie “Catch him, Willie!”

“Forget it, bone bag. You’re not my boss anymore. Remember?”

Mr. Raines lost all his... dignity, and started jumping up and down, shrieking like a little girl. “I want my Centre back! I want it! I want it!”

Jarod turned to Sydney, who was shaking his head. They spotted Broots and made their way to him.

“What happened to Miss Parker?” Jarod asked. “I saw her on my way here.”

“She said she was going to take a few weeks off.” Sydney responded.

“That’s good. She deserves some rest.”

“So...” Broots began “I guess this is it.”

“Seems to be.”

“There’s no more it to it than this.”

Yes, The Centre was no more. After years of evil doings, The Centre’s reign of terror had finally come to an end. Everyone was now free from its claws, but there was one question left to answer. Not the identity of the person responsible for the fall, that will only be revealed in the final chapter, but something much more urgent. A common thought that suddenly appeared in the minds of all those connected to The Centre.

What am I going to do now?

I – MR. Lyle

Oriental specialties

When I first considered the prospect of working on a new job, I thought to myself: This is gonna be a piece of cake.

It wasn’t long before I discovered how wrong I was.

It had been two weeks since The Centre’s shut-down and so far the only job I was able to get was distributing advertising pamphlets. Having a father (or fathers) as the Chairman of a worldwide secret company can ease a lot one’s concern regarding his future, but only as long as that worldwide secret company exists. Afterward... not very useful.

I was comfortably standing at the number 2 spot, calmly waiting for the bone-bag known as my father (my third one, I should mention) to either drop or fall from the stairs – accidentally of course; I could never kill my own father, I’d have to hire someone – when it all went caboodle. (Nice word for Scrabble.)

Anyway, the shutting down of The Centre opened up a whole new world of possibilities for me to use. And enjoy. And that was exactly the right word to describe it: enjoyment. I enjoyed having no schedule to keep up, no Jarod to pursuit, no remarks from Miss Parker to ignore. I enjoyed everything. I even enjoyed the fact that I would have to become my own financial supporter. It was interesting at first, then it got annoying and, finally, despairing.

Fortunately for me, as someone once said, nothing ever lasts forever. And one day I was waiting for meal at a Chinese restaurant when all of a sudden there it was. The perfect job for me.

The restaurant was located a few blocks away from my house. It was a nice place, a family place. The food was excellent, the environment relaxing, and the waitresses… Oh my, the waitresses.

I was glancing at a pamphlet about dental hygiene when, out of nowhere, a riot began. Before I knew it, the cook was walking out of the kitchen with the owner of the restaurant yelling at him.

I couldn’t get a word of what they said; my sister is the one that speaks Japanese. I just eat them. Besides, they were probably yelling at each other in Chinese. So, unless she could speak Chinese (which I think she does too), I could only guess what it was they were saying. Of course, I shouldn't not forget the most important thing: the chances of my sister helping me were very slim. Very slim indeed.

However, being unable to comprehend their exact words, did not elude me from understanding the basic meaning of the whole conversation. Their body language spoke plenty: either something had happened and the cook was leaving, or he was being escorted out, because of something he did. But what?

Now, some of the people who know me, know I’m not the gossipy type. I value my privacy too much and, because of that, I try to maintain a low profile as low as I can. However, it only took me a second before I realized something: I was in for a long, long wait until they found themselves a new cook. That is, unless I did something about it. And that’s what I did.

I got up and went straight to the manager. He was a mid-sized man, with broad shoulders and dark brown dyed hair. I could tell the hair was dyed because... Never mind that, I just know, okay? Blame my sister if you want. Or my mother, may she rest in peace. After all, “baldness is inherited from the mother’s side, Jerry.” Nice TV show, by the way.

Back to the point.

I looked at him, the manager, straight in the eyes and said: “Where’s my food?”

No time for niceties. Like I always said, you must always have a tight grip on things. Otherwise, you’ll be the court’s jester. As a response to my question, he proceeded to open his registry book and check on something.

“Name?”

“Lyle.”

He started flipping through the pages and then found what he was looking for. “Here it is. Mr. Lyle, table five.” He paused for a bit, perhaps for emphasizing, before announcing: “Soon.” And then closed he book with a plastered smile on his lips.

“What do you mean soon? I saw the cook walking out of here.”

“Yes, yes. Shin-Lu.”

“Not she, he.”

“He.”

“That’s what I said. What about my food?”

He checked the book again. “Mr. Lyle?”

“Yes,” I said annoyed.

“Soon,” he answered.

Now, if this was a nonsense stories like any other, or a nonsense story per se, I could let this discussion go on for at least three more pages, but I'm not in the mood so I'm putting an end to it now.

“Never mind that, I’ll get it myself.”

I left him there – still breathing, I might add, considering how pissed off I was – and went inside the kitchen. I wasn’t willing to wait that much, but when I entered the kitchen I was surprised with what I saw. It was like a cyclone had passed by, creating a hybrid of havoc and mayhem and food. Lots of food. Almost like one of Broots' shirts with a stain of sauce on it. Not a good comparison, but it’s the best I can do right now.

“Damn it!” was all I could tell, without forcing the author to rate this as an NC-17 story. It took me a while to get back to my senses, but once I did I realized what I had to do and quickly left the kitchen to get someone to help me clean up that mess. (Gee! Talking about long thoughts.)

I snatched one of the waitresses and brought her to the kitchen. I must say that, at first, she wasn’t in the mood of coming. She babbled something to me.. It could be something like “It’s not my job.” or “My mother told me never to go with strangers.”. Or she could have been just insulting me. Fact of the matter was I wouldn’t know either way. Like I said earlier, I don’t understand Chinese. But, when it comes to get the work done, I always have something to use, something I call the universal translator.

In other words: my 9mm. Standard Centre use. Not that I use it that much nowadays. Only in cases like this one. Fortunately, they don’t happen very often.

So, I took my gun out and pointed it at her head. She stopped babbling. Good. And began shrieking. Not good. Not good at all. The customers started to panic. Something was happening. But what? Oh, wait! Maybe it was me. Strangely as it may sound, I forgot that I’m no longer the terrible Mr. Lyle, Vice-Chairman of the powerful The Centre; I’m just... Mr. Lyle from table five.

I also realized that, no matter how much I tried, she wouldn’t come to the kitchen with me. I only had one option left. If she wouldn’t obey anyone except the manager, I’d have to become someone superior to the manager: the owner.

With that in mind I went outside and found the owner still discussing with the cook. I decided to end the conversation right there by putting a bullet on the owner’s head. Actually, I fired three shots but I only hit one. Too much wine, I guess. I asked the cook if he could do me the favor of preparing my meal.

He showed some reluctance at first but after a brief argument he came to his senses and realized how wrong he was. I don't know if it was the bullet that I put on his kneecap or the words “I’ll eat your daughter alive if you don’t go finish my meal now” that did the trick. Whatever it was, it worked. And, from what I discovered later, he didn’t have a daughter. I guess he didn’t remember that at the time.

Having a gun pointed to his head sure helped him to clear this thoughts. I drove him to the kitchen and told him to stay put. Then, I went to the manager and informed him of the recent events.

“Do you know who I am?”

He was still in shock from what had happened previously. Pale as a corpse, yet still breathing. All the customers had left the scene, but he stood there. Like the captain of a sinking ship. I asked again.

“Do you know who I am?”

He checked the registry book. Even though he knew exactly who I was, it was an habit he found difficult to get rid off.

“You’re Mr. Lyle, table five.”

“Wrong. I’m Mr. Lyle, owner of this restaurant and your new boss. Do you understand what that means?”

“Yes sir, Mr. Lyle.”

“Good. Then tell someone to go to the kitchen and help prepare my meal. And tell them no poisons. I’m allergic to death. Understand?”

“Yes sir, Mr. Lyle.”

“Excellent. Now go.”

He told two waitresses to go to the kitchen. He said it in Chinese so I could only suppose that’s what he said. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that twenty minutes later I was granted with a delicious stewed lamb with orange. I always liked orange.

Now, nearly a month after The Centre closed shop, after handling some paperwork and buying the place, I’ve assumed the management of the restaurant. Of course I had to kill a few people in order to accelerate the process but, all things considered, it worked out just fine.

I thought of a few attractions to help bring new customers. I hired two of my former co-workers: one as a comedian, the other as a blues singer and guitar player. They'll each have their own chapter later on, so I've been told.

Tonight was Friday and the comedy show was about to begin. I had just finished enjoying my meal with the also delicious company of one of my waitresses – her name was Sue, a very good looking American of Chinese ascendency – when I noticed the presence of two ex-workers from The Centre: Sydney and Broots. They didn’t see me. Good. It was probably for the best. Broots would probably try to cheap his way out of his bill.

I enjoyed the show very much. I even laughed a few times (although I didn't understand most of the jokes) and applauded at the end. After that, I took a short coffee and a scotch and left with Sue.

“Where are we going?”

“My place. Would you like that?”

“Sounds good.”

It will taste even better, I thought and smiled in delightful anticipation. The meal had been exquisite and the dessert promised to be even better.

THE END

II – MR. RAINES

“Put on some gas, baldie!”

If anyone had asked me ten years ago where did I hope to be today, my answer probably (perhaps hopefully) would have been: “Running The Centre.”

Ten years later, the truth is slightly different. Today, not only am I not running The Centre, there isn’t even a Centre to be run.

One of the most powerful companies in the whole world was now a supermarket. They could at least have turned it into a slaughter-house. You know, have some respect for the place's History.

So much for my pets... My experiments... My achievements. It was all taken away. And all because of I don't know who.

Damn him! Whoever he or she is... To me, that is the hardest part. The not knowing. That and no longer being able to kill a bunch of suspects without having to worry about the law. In the old days, I'd ask Willy to collect some bums from the street and I would fry their brains or something.

Hey! Don't criticize me! Sydney used to trim his bonsais constantly and I don't remember anyone complaining. Plants have feelings too, you know?

Anyway, enough rambling, let's start my story.

Two weeks past that event, and having my bank accounts all dried out (I hadn't realize how expensive these oxygen tanks could be) I was forced to look for a job.

One week later I found something I'm very good at: working at a gas station. Hey, I’ve been dealing with gas for quite some time now. I know the substance. Besides, it’s not such a bad job. I get well paid (already paid the rent at the sleazy motel where I’m staying) and I get to choose my own shift.

The only problem is that it’s a very lonely job. I miss having someone to dissect. Oh well, might as well forget it.

It was my fifth night since I started working there. It was 4 a. m. and apart from me, there was no one else around. Which was good, in a way. My supervisor told me that Saturday nights are usually the most dangerous nights.

“A lot of robberies, some murders. And quite a bit of violence,” he said.

I have to wipe a tear with a scarf every time I remember saying those words. It always brings me back memories from my kindergarten years.

Inside my cabin I felt like a king and the music playing reinforced that statement. “Queen – God Save The Queen.”

Actually, I would prefer if the music was called “God Save The King”. Maybe I should have brought my Freddie Mercury clone and have him sing a new version.

Ahhh! Who am I kidding? I know it wouldn’t have worked. I had Jarod sim it once and he told me the song would only work if the song was called “God Save The Queen”.

So I asked him: “Why?”

And then he said: “Because the song is going to be dedicated to the queen of England.”

“Why don’t they dedicate it to the king of France?”

“Because they’re British and France doesn’t have a king.”

I decided to stop the discussion at that point and electrocuted Jarod for a while. It always made me feel better. That and performing lobotomies on babies.

Suddenly, I got pulled back to reality. The powerful headlights told me that I had a customer. I grabbed my tank and exited the cabin.

“Good evening sir, how may I be of assistance?”

(Man! If anyone knew the trouble I had to memorize this kind of speech. Luckily, I had acting lessons when I was in High School. I also had ballet lessons, but I’m not going to say another word about it.)

“I need some gas,” he began with an arrogant tone.

I think I liked him. Reminded me of mommy.

“And you’re gonna get me some, baldie,” he finished, with an even more arrogant tone.

On second thought, I didn't like people making jokes about my lack of hair. Except from Lyle. And that was only because-- Sorry, I made a promise not to tell.

For a moment I consider saying “I don’t think I like your tone of voice.”

If I had my previous job, that’s what I would say (even though the odds of something like this happening if I was still the chairman of The Centre were very slim). Unfortunately, my supervisor always told me I to be patient with the customer. So instead of what I meant to say, I said:

“Certainly, sir.”

I began to fill up his tank with a smile on my face. The house policy determined we had to smile all the time. It made the clients feel welcomed. It also made us look like complete idiots. Maybe that was the whole point.

“How much will it be, sir?”

“All of it. I want it full.”

And so I did.

Once the tank was full, I turned to him to tell how much it was. It was at that moment that he decided to draw a gun and point it at me.

“I have an even better idea. You give me all your money and I’ll let you live. How's that sound?”

I considered his offer, because I don't like answering questions without thinking about them first. “I’m sorry but I’m not allowed to do that, sir. My supervisor would not appreciate it.”

“Screw your supervisor. If you don’t give me the money, I’m the one who’s gonna screw you.”

I felt like I was at a dead end. There was no one else around to call. What could I do?

Then we heard a sound. A car was approaching. We looked at it at the same time. It was a police car. I thought to myself: Damn! They found me!

The car door opened and – I swear, this is absolutely true – Robocop, exited the vehicle and asked me in his (its?) mechanical voice.

“Dead or alive you’re... Sorry, what story is this?”

“Who forgot to pay the rent?, chapter two.” I answered.

“Oh, sorry about that. Wrong story.” He was about to return to his car when he turned to us again and asked: “Which is the fastest way to Detroit?”

“Follow the yellow brick road,” someone said.

We all looked around but didn’t see anyone. Nevertheless, Robocop returned to the car and drove away.

“Where was I?” The robber asked me.

“You were considering the chance of engaging in sexual intercourse with me.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“But you said...”

“I meant it metaphorically!” He snapped.

“You don’t need to get upset. It was only a misunderstanding.”

“You know what? Forget it, I’m off. This is getting too silly.”

He walked to his bike and started the engine.

“You can’t leave! The story isn’t over yet!”

THE END

“There. There’s your end. Happy now?”

How the hell did you do that? I'm the only one who gets to write THE END.

“Shut up, author! No one asked you!” said the biker.

I handed him a card. “Here’s your bonus card.”

“Thanks, baldie.” He put the card on his pocket and asked “Same time next week?”

“I’ll be here.”

Hey, author! Can I just say that your intervention did nothing but confuse the readers?

Oh, yeah? Well, as soon as I finish the other chapters, I'm going to rewrite this one and describe you as wearing a summer dress.

Just as long as you don't make it beige.

I'll make it beige. And with stripes.

Vertical?

Horizontal.

Nooooooooo!!!

III – MR. PARKER

Little by little

“That will be 18.99,” I told the lady, handing her her bag of groceries.

The lady opened her purse and pulled out twenty dollars.

“Here’s twenty. Keep the change.”

“Thank you ma'am,” I said, trying very hard to hide my satisfaction.

Ever since my return to Blue Cove this had been my most generous tip so far. I was caught by surprised when I arrived to re-assume my position as Chairman of The Centre and found a supermarket instead. The world had definitely changed.

Having no job, and nowhere else to go, I had no choice but to volunteer for a cashier job. Luckily they accepted my power-point resumé and there I was.

I checked my wristwatch. Nearly five minutes to go before my bathroom break.

Soon,I thought.

Although the store was empty, my boss had given very strict instructions regarding schedules. It was one of the rules I didn’t mind following to heart, me being a punctual man myself, with a clockwork bladder. I didn’t like the uniform though. The gray reminded me too much of my former lab-rats. All of them now out there without no one to hold their leashes.

My post was the one closest to the main entrance. It was a privilege to be there. I could see who came, who went. I was such a lucky man.

I am such a lucky man.

Hey! I’ve already said that! You didn't have to write it.

Sorry.

Don't do that. It confuses the reader.

No, it doesn't.

Was that your answer or me thinking?

Your answer.

See? It's difficult to tell one from the other. Go sit in the corner. I'll call you when it's time to write THE END.

I checked my watch again. Four minutes left. I heard the door swishing open and then He came in. My heart increased its pounding.

No! Please tell me it’s not him.

Are you talking to me?

No! Get out of here!

Upon my return to Blue Cove, I had managed to turn every unexpected occurrence in my favor. Getting employed HERE as a cashier was the first step in a larger plan which, if every thing well, would result on me regaining my position as head of The Centre. Or being elected as employee of the month. Either scenario had now been compromised by the arrival of that man.

I turned my back to him, hoping he hadn’t seen me. I wasn’t that lucky. Feeling someone tapping my shoulder, I turned and feigned surprise.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hey! I knew it was you!” Jarod said.

“How did you know?” I asked.

“I saw your car outside. Who else would have a sticker saying: «I jumped off an airplane with a box containing two scrolls and all I got was this stupid sticker»?”

“You caught me.” I said.

“Tell me something, was that a standard sticker or…?”

“Almost standard. The original sticker said: «I jumped off an airplane with a box containing three scrolls and all I got was this stupid sticker». I had to order a new one, just because of that.”

“That’s a shame. Well, I have some shopping to do. I’ll see you later.”

“Sure thing.”

Jarod walked away with his shopping cart and went to the Candy Zone.

Can I just make a small note? It's about the story.

Go ahead.

Hi, I'm the author.

Get to the point! We're all freeze-framed here!

I’ve never been to an American supermarket. I don’t know if there’s a Candy Zone or not. Besides, Blue Cove doesn’t even exist. So quit complaining!

That's it?

Yes.

Very enlightening.

Thank you.

I was being sarcastic.

Turning my attention back to Jarod, I watched in awe as he filled his shopping cart with PEZ-Dispensers.

Is that all he eats? I wondered. I’m surprised he’s not fat. Maybe it’s genetic. I scolded myself. Stop it, Parker! He can endanger everything you’ve worked so hard to achieve it the past three months. You need to get rid of him before he realizes what you’re doing.

I was a patient man, and a practical one as well. I knew I could get The Centre back. All I needed was getting enough money to pay the debt to Mr. Stevenson and I would be back in my office at The Tower.

Of course, before I could go there, I had to pay someone to build a new tower first. How sad I felt when I came here and realized that my beautiful Tower had been dismantled to give place to a restaurant area. The saddest part was that they didn’t have Mexican.

The sub-levels were all still in place, but instead of cells and torture chambers they now had parking spaces.

I opened my personal tip-box and counted the money. I had almost eleven dollars. 10.97 to be accurate. Little by little, tip by tip, I was slowly getting the necessary funds to finance my dream.

Please, don’t let him know.

I looked to where Jarod was, but Jarod was no longer there.

Where the hell did he go?

I took a look around. I was alone.

Maybe it was a dream.

Then, I looked up and saw the surveillance camera pointing at me. I began to sweat. My personal box was still open.

The money! I can’t let them see the money!

I moved as fast as I could to close the box when I felt a strong hand grabbing my arm. I turned. It was Jarod. And my boss was with him.

“Hold it right there, Parker,” my boss said.

“I didn’t do anything!”

“Oh yeah? What’s all this, then?” Jarod asked, referring to the money.

“Those are my tips.”

“Pretty generous tips, wouldn't you say?”

Jarod nodded. “I think he’s been embezzling.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Yes, I think so too.”

“I’m telling you, I haven’t done anything illegal.”

Jarod produced a small digital tape from his pocket.

“This tape proves you stole two cents.”

If I hadn't been so ambitious!

“Parker, you’re fired!”

“This is all your fault, Jarod! You and your stupid pretends.”

“This is not a pretend. I’m the new Security Chief around here. And my name isn’t Jarod, it’s Ebeneezer. I was just pretending to be him so I could approach you easier. Jarod will have his own story at chapter eight. Nine if you count the prologue.”

The boss snapped his fingers and two security-guards, former sweepers, came and grabbed me by the shoulders and dragged me out.

THE END

That was the worst end possible. Why didn't you warn me about Jarod?

That wasn't Jarod.

Oh! You know what I mean!

You told me not to interfere. So I didn't.

Great time to start following the rules.

IV – MR. WHITE

Words for posterity

Being a finder these days isn’t what it used to be anymore. After returning from a three weeks vacation on the Caiman Islands I was caught off guard once I realized I was out of a job. My former employer, Mr. Lyle, had opened up a Chinese restaurant – its slogan 'We serve Chinese' could be quite disturbing if you happened to know what the mean ate – and my contract on Jarod's family was no longer effective.

Actually, it was, but with no one to pay me, I had better things to do with my time. It was true that the disappearance of The Centre had left me without a profitable source of income. Fortunately, I wasn't without the means with which to obtain another form of revenue. All I had to do was go into the right places and talk to some people. The Centre still had many secrets and there were hundreds of newspapers interested in knowing what used to went on in its deepest bowels.

I knew their secrets. Perhaps not all of them, but enough to get paid a lot of cash if I decided to blow the whistle. Although I was at a lower rank than Cox, I had access to things he didn’t. We had both come from South Africa and we were both assigned to work under Lyle’s supervision. The only difference between us was that I had been sent to Blue Cove because of my skills. Cox had been sent there because he had screwed up. Maybe that was why he had killed Mutumbo.

Three years. That’s all it took for me to find Jarod’s family. I still remember the last time I met him, the look in his eyes when I threw the envelope containing his sister’s information into that incinerator. How I wished that I had a camera with me back then. I had no grudge against Jarod – I was just doing my job – but I always knew a good picture when I saw one. The same way a good journalist knew a good story when he heard one.

With that in mind, I really can't say I was surprise when the first journalist contacted me for an interview. Although, I have to say I was very surprised when I found out that the journalist was Jarod’s sister, Emily. That was no coincidence. I was sure of that. What I wasn’t so sure about was what would happen after I told her my story.

I decided to accept her invitation. We met at a coffee shop. It felt awkward to be with her in such a social situation. She took her tape recorder out of her purse and put it on the table.

“I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

“Good.”

She took a small pad and a pen from her purse and then we waited for the waitress to bring us some coffee. I wasn’t sure whether she knew who I really was, so I decided to go for some “casual” conversation.

“So... How long have you been a reporter?”

“Almost eight years.”

“Do you like it?”

“I think so. It’s a bit stressful. It keeps me moving constantly.”

“Yeah. I know what you mean.”

“What’s your connection to The Centre?”

“I was a file clerk.”

She nodded and the look in her eyes told me she had bought it. I was safe from exposure as long as I kept my activities discreet.

The waitress came and brought us two cups of coffee. There was something about her, but I couldn’t tell what it was. A young girl passed by. She had a tattoo on her left arm – some obscene drawing that was catching everyone’s attention.

“That’s disgusting.”

“I like yours better.”

“What did you say?”

I hadn’t realized I had spoken out loud. Damn!

“I said she’s probably eager... for attention, you know?”

“Right... Let's get started, shall we?”

We took a sip. Emily pressed the red button and the tape began to roll.

“This is Emily Russell, for the Daily-zine, the day is February 10th,2003, and I’m interviewing Larry White, a former employee from the corporation known as The Centre.” She looked me in the eye. Is it okay if I call you Larry?”

“Sure. Larry is as good as any other alias.”

“Good. Tell me Larry, how did you begin to work at The Centre?”

“The Centre hired my services fifteen years ago. At the time they needed someone to manage their storage file. A friend of mine gave me the tip and I decided to apply for the job.”

“Do you have a degree in Public Administration?”

“Yes, I have. I finished my course in 1978. Top of my class.”

“Interesting. You were working at a storage file and you had contact with all sorts of information. Wasn’t that boring sometimes?”

“Not really. Like you said, I had access to all sorts of information and I had to read most of the files in order to file them properly. Besides I had other hobbies to entertain myself with.”

“Such as?”

“Photographs. Every once in a while I like to grab my camera and just go out hunting.”

“I see. About those files, what can you tell me about them?”

“Everything. What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

I pointed to the tape recorder. “This is going to take a while.”

“Don’t worry,” she replied, “I have plenty of tapes.”

She took a sip from her coffee. I did the same and began talking.

“The Centre was what you call a think-tank. Its research was sold worldwide. Their most ambitious and profitable project ever was something called The Pretender Project. Its planning was initiated in 1958, although the first subject wasn’t brought in until 1963…”

Emily listened attentively while I told her everything I knew. Or so she believed. Occasionally I would stop to take a sip. At those times she would also stop to take a sip or to scribble something on her note-pad.

“...hen, a few weeks ago, when I came back from my vacations, The Centre had been turned into a supermarket. And that’s it.”

“Really? That’s all you have to tell me?”

“Were you listening for the past two hours?”

“Look, Jarod and Kyle are my brothers, so I already know most of what you told me. And what I didn’t know isn’t enough to pay you the amount you asked me for.”

“You must be joking!”

“I’m not. If I was joking I would say: What is the main difference between Lyle and Cox?”

“I don't know? What is it?”

“One is missing a thumb, the other is missing an eye. Get it? It's a taxidermy joke”

“I don't get it.”

“Never mind. So, unless you tell me more, I will have no choice but to consider this information irrelevant.”

She became silent. And so did I. I had no intention of telling her anything else – I had already told her everything I could without compromising myself – but I had to tell her something, otherwise I wouldn't get any money and this would all be just a waste of time.

“Well?”

I considered my options. I had to choose very carefully what I was about to say. And once I decided, I began.

“My real name is Mister White. I'm not joking. My first name really is Mister. I was part of a covert team assigned to do specific projects.”

“What sort of projects?”

“Everything from kidnapping, to extortion, some times murder. I’m afraid I can’t give you all the specifics right now because it is too much information. What I can tell you is that those assignments came directly from The Triumvirate.”

“That’s the consortium that owned The Centre, right?”

“They didn’t own it, they were more like a sponsor. The Triumvirate funded most of The Centre’s official research. All The Centre had to do was keep up with the deadlines.”

“Enough talking! FBI, you’re under arrest.”

I felt the barrel of a gun against the back of my skull.

“Don’t even think about turning your head.”

I didn’t have to turn back to know who it was – it was the waitress. Emily smiled. She sure had me fooled. I had deliberately signed my own death certificate. But I couldn’t let it go that easily. I wouldn’t.

“I knew you weren’t a waitress right from the start.”

“Is that so? What give it away?”

“You have your bullet proof vest over your uniform.”

That caught her off guard.

“Damn! Now I’m gonna have to shoot you.”

I heard the trigger being squeezed and then my head exploded into bits of meat and blood. Hints of blood hit Emily’s white silk shirt and she got up from her chair furiously.

“Look what you’ve done!”

“He started it!”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

All right! Stop it, you two.

“She started it.”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

“Did not!”

That’s enough! (sigh) See what you’ve done? I was trying to write something serious for once and you had to ruin it, didn’t you?

“It wasn’t my fault,” said the FBI agent.

I don’t care whose fault it was. You blew it.

“Hey! You can’t talk to me like that. I am an FBI Agent!”

You don’t exist. And neither does she.

“Oh yeah? In that case why are you talking to us?”

Damn! I forgot to take my medication!

“See?” said the FBI Agent to Emily. “I told you he was crazy.”

I’m not crazy! I have a condition…

“That’s what they all say.”

THE END

V – Broots

Getting back to normal

I never thought THIS day would ever come. I mean, I dreamed about it and everything; even told Syd in one of our sessions, although I don’t think he was paying that much attention back then, with all the twins with electrodes, running around, slapping each other senseless. Seriously, what was his deal with THAT? Anyway, who would have thought that one day The Centre would finally close and all it took was someone not paying the rent? I always assumed they had more than enough with all those experiments and contracts and stuff. Guess not.

So here, I am, about to start my third week at my new job. I get paid less, I work more hours, but at least I don’t need to worry about being killed if, for some reason, I decide to resign. Retirement no longer being synonym to death was a nice adjustment – it doesn't compensate for the poor selection in the vending machine, but still...

I now work as a program designer. It’s not that different from what I used to do, but it's okay, I guess. After spending years keeping up with probably the most intelligent man in the world, some things tend to feel just a little boring.

Not that I miss running from one corner of the country to the next. I only the geeky and techyside of things . Jarod was a true challenge and I don’t expect to find anyone like him any time soon.

Oh, and by the way, before I forget, since we’re on the subject of computers, let me just say this: I have never, EVER, downloaded porn. At least, not on a Centre computer. That was someone else, not me. If you ask me, I think it was Mr. Raines – that afternoon I spent under his desk several years ago while he… Anyway, I’m not gonna be the one pointing the finger. And even if I did, what’s the point of doing it now?

These days I don't have to worry about getting dragged out of bed or while taking a shower to face a T-Board because Raines forgot where he put his toupee. (It only lasted for a week, anyway. Like anyone would confuse that birds nest of his with hair.) Nowadays, I get up and go to work and the only thing I care about is getting a good parking space.

I'm very good at a job, a lot more than I let my bosses know. The last thing I want is giving them good reasons to increase my workload WITHOUT raising my salary. This is kindergarten stuff, actually. At least it is from my personal point of view, although I have admit it: I would never be this good if it weren’t for The Centre and Jarod. Being one step before him was not an easy task, so I guess it’s okay if choose to minimize my skills in order to keep a low profile. I have a quiet life now and I would like to keep it that way, thank you very much.

The week had gone by without anything worth mention happening. It had been a month since the prologue, sorry, since the day everything everything changed and I decided to celebrate the event by going out to this new place everyone was talking about for a meal and a drink.

To tell you the truth, if it weren't for the reviews I would never set foot on a place like that. Imagine the concept! Comedy club AND Chinese restaurant all in the same room. Makes as much sense as putting a butcher and a hair salon together.

What an idiot that guy must be…

~*~

I need to learn how to keep my big mouth shut. I had a feeling it was a bad idea coming here, but now that I know that Lyle’s the owner I AM SURE of it. I know WHAT Lyle eats and the fact that he’s running a restaurant – Chinese, on top of all things – leaves me just a little bit uncomfortable.

The place is full, I have to admit it. Lyle must be a good manager. Either that or he threatened to kill everyone here if they went some place else. He didn’t threat me, but I’ve known Lyle for a long time. He doesn’t have to.

But, anyway, I was considering going somewhere else, when he spotted me near the door. Before I could turn and leave he was already by my side with his hand on my shoulder.

“I thought it was you!” Lyle said, smiling. “How are you?”

“F…fine, Mr. Lyle.”

“Don’t mister me. I am your humble servant.”

“You’re my what?”

“Me casa es su casa.”

“No, thank you. I don’t wanna go back there.”

“Whatever you say, sir. Can I get you a table?”

“Hum… yes, yes, sure.”

“I have just the perfect place for you. It’s near the window. Will that be satisfactory?”

“Well… OK… I guess.”

“Will you stop babbling and start talking like a man?!”

I froze immediately. The Lyle I knew was back. What was going to happen? What sordid reaction did I cause with my immature behavior?

“I’m sorry, sir.”

What?

“I lost my temper. Terribly sorry. I shall go and lock myself in the shed.”

“That’s fine, really. You don’t have to do that.”

“Of course, I do. I was rude and I deserve the correct punishment.”

“Well, if you must. But can you take me to my table first?”

“Of course. Please follow me.”

I follow Lyle across the restaurant to a table near the window. I notice that there is a man sitting there. He's dressed like a retired man living in a condo in Florida, but I can't tell it’s Sydney.

“I believe you two know each other.”

“Hello, Broots.”

“Hi, Syd.” I sit down. “Nice shirt.”

“We have only two choices available”, said Lyle. “Numbers 69 and 13. What will it be?”

“Let me see.” I grab the menu and check what the meals are. It doesn’t take long before I make up my mind. “I think I’m in for the 69.”

“You sure of it? It’s very spicy.”

“I love spicy food.”

“Really, really spicy!

“Yes! I wanna try it. I never tried it before.”

“As you wish.” Lyle grabs the menu. “Would you like anything to drink?”

“A beer, please.”

Lyle nods and walks away.

“How have you been doing, Broots?”

“Me? Fine, just fine. I’m working as a program designer. It’s really boring, y’know? After six years on the pursuit of Jorod, always trying to be one step behind him, things now are just—

“Broots!”

“What?”

“It was only a rhetorical question.”

“Oh. Sorry about that.”

“No problem.”

“What about you? What have you been doing?”

“You'll read my story in next chapter.”

“Can I just have a small preview?”

“If you must know, I started writing psychology themed books for infants.”

“You mean, children?”

“Some use that term, yes.”

“What’s it about?”

“Well, I pick up random fairy-tales and analyze what influence they may wield on modern society via the currently existing stimuli. You see—”

“Syd!”

“Rhetorical?”

I nod.

“Sorry about that.”

Before we could proceed, Lyle came with a tray with our meals and drinks on it.

“Enjoy your meals”, he said before leaving.

“What’s your 69?” Sydney asked.

“Kung Pao Spicy Chicken. What number is yours?”

“23. Sesame Beef.”

“That’s funny.”

“Is that peanuts over there?”

“Yeah. Want some?”

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

“The more, the better.”

We ate our meals and continued with a surprisingly normal chit chat. You know who I saw the other day? sort of thing. Never thought I could ever enjoy a moment like this, but then again I never thought I’d live to hear Lyle say to me I'm your humble servant.

“Lyle told me one of our former colleagues is going to perform here tonight,” said Sydney.

“Did he say who?”

“No. He only told me it’s a stand-up comedy act.”

“On a comedy club… What are the odds?”

“Shall we go?”

~*~

Twenty minutes later we’re sitting at the table nearest to the stage. The lights go out and the curtain opens. I simply cannot believe who the comedian is.

THE END

VI – SYDNEY

Psychology 101

I’m nearly 68 years old and it is only at this late stage in life that I begin to feel at least not embarrassed with what I do for a living – working at The Centre not being the worst, if you dare believe me.

It's true I stood by and did nothing while they did unspeakable things – I even had an active hand on some of those activities (Karaoke Wednesday Night on SL-16 was my idea) – but nothing will ever shame me as much as that first month after college, when I had to work as a mascot for the Blue Cove Balds. The name was supposed to be “Bolds” but whoever filled the form spelled the name wrong. As if that wasn't ridiculous enough, their idea of a bold mascot was a Cheshire cat. To this day I can't watch Inspector Gadget without getting the chills.

For many years, research and psychology have been two of my favorite subjects, not to mention writing and tutoring infants. Despite the dire aspects some of those things could imply, I have to say I enjoyed working at a place like The Centre. Scientifically speaking, it was Heaven; morally, it was Purgatory. (We all deemed Hell as the day when Mr. Parker tried to cook Thanksgiving Dinner for everyone at The Centre. Fortunately, the loonies on SL-18 would eat just about anything without complaining.)

I also could have live without the pressure of having to know all the secrets and lies. Who the hell wants to know all that? If we were only talking about The Centre here, sure, why not? I have a very good memory. But it's ALL the secrets and lies. Everyone's. Including people not related to The Centre.

I know Mitch Silva from Ohio, Portuguese descendant, is planning to go to Atlantic City for a week of gambling and that he intends to tell his wife Mary that he'll be going on a business trip. She will accept this with some reluctance, but not much. After all, she is having an affair with the next door neighbor.

Do you think I know who these people are? No idea. Yet, I know everything that is to know about them. Pretty neat thing if I was in the extortion business – it could save a lot of time – but I'm not. Even as a psychiatrist it does more harm than good. Knowing what your patient's problem is BEFORE he's even lying down will make you look uninterested and thus do very little to stimulate him or her into telling you what's wrong.

I spent more than forty years at The Centre, always waiting for a chance to do something different, always believing that to be something unreachable. But, if there’s one thing I learned in all my years of living is that impossible can be a highly overestimated term. The Centre being shut down because someone forgot to pay the rent (whether or not it is a plausible plot for a story) is a good example to that.

One of the advantages of working for The Centre was the income. They paid quite well. Blood money, no doubt, but money nonetheless. Every employee sold his soul to work there, so they had to compensate somehow. And when you felt like retiring or in need of a raise, they had a good way to make you change your mind.

Right now I have enough money on my bank account to spend the last years of my life enjoying the fruits of my labor. However, I know how much pain my labor has caused and I realize I have a professional and social, not to mention moral, obligation of doing something to redeem myself.

Jarod was my protegé for more than thirty years. His life was stolen from the very beginning and I was one of the key figures to that devious plot. He’s out there now--

Can I just say something here?

You imbecile! You cut me off in the middle of a sentence!

Sorry. I didn't want to miss this opportunity.

Opportunity for what?

If this story was being rewritten as taken place in 2013, you could know if Jarod was out there RIGHT now by following his social status.

Does this story takes place in 2013?

Uh... No.

Then, what is the point of your reference?

I just thoug--

There. Now back to me.

trying to make a difference, therefore it is only logical that I try to do the same. And what exactly, you wonder, did I decide to do?

I decided to write psychology books for infants.

For those of you who were too lazy to read the previous chapter, here’s how it works: I pick up random fairy-tales and analyze what influence they may wield on modern society via the currently existing stimuli. Take «The Girl With the Diminished Scarlet Cap» – also known as «Little Red Riding Hood» –, for example.

In modern versions of the tale, the little girl is portrayed as being afraid of the big bad wolf. My version derives a bit from the original but sets a new thought pattern which, supported with a serious case of distressed paranoia, takes us to the assumption that the child has had a severe traumatic experience with a savage dog of considerable dimensions.

That’s only the basic aspect of it. I think you get the picture.

Also, there’s one other thing I do from time to time – being a contest on Quiz-Shows. It's not that I need the money, I just enjoy showing off my massive knowledge on the TV. Oh, you may call me arrogant, but I always donate every dime I win in those contests to charitable organizations, so there you have it.

My sense of humor has reached new levels of development. I finally know how to take a good joke and how to tell one, but I still have the habit – bad one, they say – of analyzing the contents of every joke I hear. I try to help it but I can’t. You’re no fun anymore, they tell me and perhaps they’re right.

Lyle opened up a Chinese restaurant, Raines is working at a gas station, Mr. Parker got a job as a cashier in the supermarket where The Centre used to be. All is different now and though this chapter is even less funny than the one dedicated to Mr. White at least I know how many Centre inmates does it takes to change a light bulb.

THE END

How many?

You again? Want do you want?

How many Centre inmates does it take to change a light bulb?

I don't know.

But you just said...

It's five, all right? The answer is five.

Why five? That seems made up.

BLING! Someone's at the door. I have to go answer it.

That wasn't the door. That was you doing BLING!

They're ringing again. Bye now.

VII – Mr. Cox

Something to ease the pain

Pain is liberating. Once you learn how to support it, you’ll learn how to control it and then there will be no limits to what you can accomplish.

I used to have that sort of power when I worked at The Centre. My background as a medical doctor – Chief-Surgeon in Nairobi Hospital until I was arrested for performing experiments on pregnant women – matched the Centre’s interests. (I was also a wonderful acquisition to The Centre's Curling Team. I killed at the Annual Curling Secret Organizations Tournament.)

Werner Krieg was the one responsible for my release from prison. He came to pay me a visit, although I’m still a bit confused about that, since most of the visitors came in for free. (I may be frightening, but I'm also funny. You should see me doing improv.)

Anyway, at first, I thought he was my aunt from Germany, but then I remembered her beard wasn’t that short.

“We need your services, doctor Cox,” he said.

“Listen pal, I heard that kind of talk before around here. You’re not getting lucky with me.”

“We know about your experiments on pregnant women.”

“So? Everyone who went to my trial knows that. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn't for it.”

“Actually, you were convicted because what you did was illegal, not because people found out about it.”

“Banana shamana.”

He sighed, annoyed. “Does your stupidity equal your skills?”

“People say I’m very skilful, yes.”

“That's not what I was asking, but all right.”

My real life began at that moment. The Centre rescued me from life in prison and took me to The Triumvirate headquarters where I received a job as Head of the Bio-Medical Department.

Climbing the stairwell of power was not a difficult task for a man of my fibber. Of course, I had to make sacrifices along the way, like giving up my macrame lessons. It was a great loss for the world of needlecraft, but a huge benefit for the world of science. Especially if it involved scientific experiments on human guinea pigs.

Lucky for me, those sacrifices paid off.

Unlucky for me, it has all come to an end.

The Centre and The Triumvirate were put out of business and I was forced to look for a job.

After spending almost a month checking ads in the newspapers I found something good enough for my qualifications – drugstore clerk.

I went to an interview and after making it clear to the owner that I would extract his eyes with my bare hands unless he didn’t give me the job, he was quite happy to accept me.

“I have one condition only,” he said.

“What?”

“You’ll have to wear a tag with your full name printed on it.”

“Can’t we stick simply to Mr. Cox?”

“No. It’s part of my policy. Full name or no job.”

I insisted. But he was firm in his decision, even after I pulled one of his eyes out. (Tough guy, I'll give him that.) I had no choice but to accept it.

I don’t like my name. People make fun of it.

Edgar W. Cox. The “W” stands for Wheeny and I have killed everyone who laughed at it.

My job requirements didn’t differ much from what I did at The Centre. One thing was different, though. This time, I had to be… nice to people. Mind you, I’m not rude – as a matter of fact, I consider myself to be an extremely well-educated man – but to demonstrate genuine sympathy to every disgusting slob that came here to get its prescription was pushing the limits a bit too far.

Not a night goes by that I don't cry and apologize to my ancestors for betraying their memory. They were polite, but apathetic and cold-blooded. I know that the circumstances that lead me to this situation were not of my control, but I can’t help but feel ashamed.

Saturday was usually a quiet day. It was after lunch time and, even though I hadn’t taken a nap, I felt pretty relaxed. So far, it had been a quiet day. Only a couple of customers to attend. People were either too healthy or decided that curing a cold wasn't as important as avoiding me. I may no longer be Mr. Cox, but it was nice to know I could still inspire fear.

However, that moment of peacefulness was about to end. I was thinking about how good it would feel to fill out the wrong prescription to a customer. I often thought about doing stuff like that, but never got the nerve to actually do it. Not because of remorse or regret, but because I have a job to keep. I have to say I am a bit disappointed about this professional class’ sense of humor.

Suddenly, the bell rang announcing a new customer. I pasted my fake smile and prepared myself to attend this… person. He was in his early forties and his face looked familiar. I was fairly certain I knew that man. But from where?

“Hello, Dr. Cox,” he said. You work here now?”

No, I just like to be behind the counter. It's higher on this side.

“Do I know you?”

“It's Ted. I used to work at The Centre. I was guarding your office that time when Jarod came in through the vents and redecorated it.”

“Yes, you did a good job that time,” Cox replied sarcastically. “What will it be, then?”

“Don’t you wanna talk about the old times, doc?”

Doc?! You son of a—

“I can’t right now.”

“That’s a shame. Hey! You look taller!”

“It’s this step.” I wanna kill you so much. “How can I help you?”

“I’ve been having stomach aches since last night. I think it was that Chinese food. Did you went? Big opening last night. I tell you this: Lyle may be a good manager, but as a chef, he’s a total failure. I knew I should have said no when he said he was going to personally assist the confection of my meal.”

Serves you right, bonehead.

Then, he noticed the name tag and things simply collapsed.

“Wheeny? That’s your name?”

And he began laughing. I almost lost my nerve, but I managed to keep it cool and returned a smile. A real one.

“I’ve got just what you need.”

I went to a cabinet and took out a box of tablets. Some very special tablets.

“This will take care of your stomach aches.”

“It will end them for good?”

“It sure will.”

“Gee! Thanks, Wheeny!”

“My pleasure.”

He paid and left.

The next Monday, when I arrived at the store, I had some people waiting for me. Apparently, Ted had met his doctor during the weekend and showed him the tablets I’d sold him. The doctor didn’t like my choice and my boss wasn’t happy about it either.

“What do you have to say in your defense, Cox?”

“He said he was feeling stomach aches. That takes care of it.”

“It also would take care of his life,” the doctor said. “I analyzed one of this pills and they’re not approved by the FDA.”

“Maybe you should have analyzed another pill.”

“I did. But the point is, they’re not legal.”

“Not yet.”

“One of these pills can cause a cardiac arrest on a person suffering from stomach aches. Were you aware of this?”

“I should be. I made them myself.”

“You knew this would cause a cardiac arrest on my patient, didn’t you?”

“Where are you getting at?”

“I’m saying you deliberately gave these pills to my patient.”

“Not deliberately. I had other options to choose from.”

“So you gave him these pills...”

“I didn't give him anything. I sold them. Then he paid for it and left. End of story.”

“No, not end of story. It could have got him killed.”

“Look, he complained about stomach aches. If he had taken them as I told him to, would he continue to feel those aches?”

“If he had taken them, he would have died.”

“You’re avoiding the issue here.”

“You tried to kill him. Admit it!”

“I did what I thought was best. I can’t be concerned with every single aspect.”

“Cox?”

“Yes, Mr. Peterson?”

“You’re fired.”

THE END

VIII – JAROD

Pretending to pretend

Finally! Here’s my story. I have to tell you guys something. I’m very disappointed with the way things are happening. I really am. I mean, I’m the main character on this show (supposedly), everything revolves around me and all of a sudden I’m cast out to… here. Eight stories before mine. Eight! For a main character – THE main character is more like it – it’s an unexpected turn off.

Look, I read all the other stories before mine. I enjoyed most of them, they were funny, unusual, but they were all about secondary characters. Miss Parker and I, we’re the main ones. Hero and villain, man and woman, lovers, nemesis. Come on!

I wonder if this happened because I told once that eight is my favorite number. Could it be? If so, I’m glad I lied for, in fact, my favorite number is 1317. I’m really glad I lied. Imagine that: writing one thousand, three hundred and sixteen stories before mine. They would have to create new characters. And that would happen only after they write a story about every sweeper, cleaner, secretary, clerk and janitor at The Centre.

In 2013 Steve and Craig brought the show back to life with new characters. There's Zane, and Kaj, and Daphne, and O'Quinn, and Nathalie, and...

Are those really new characters' names or are you just pulling out names from a book of names or something?

That's not fair. Some of the new characters sound pretty interesting. Especially that guy with the eyes in a box.

His own eyes? That is interesting.

No. Not HIS own eyes. Other people's.

How remarkable. Cox used to carry a pair of glass eyes in his pocket. I wonder what else they forgot?

You sound grumpy.

I am. After all, I was promised a good story and all I'm getting is this silly nonsense dialogue with you that does absolutely nothing to push the story forward.

But look how eloquent you sound.

You are not the first author who make me sound eloquent. Including fanfic authors.

I know that. But how many allowed YOU to realize that?

Hmm. Maybe this was worth the wait.

See?

I said maybe.

Well, enough stalling, since I can do anything, what would be the perfect job for me now that I no longer have The Centre constantly chasing me?

Insurance salesman?

No. Instead of The Centre, I would have an entire country chasing me. Something else.

Body guard?

No, I’m too friendly for that.

What I need is something that fits my personality. Hence, I need to ask myself a very important question.

What do I like?

Pez, ice cream, candy.

Something in pastry, maybe?

Better not. Probably would eat the entire stock. I still remember that time I pretended to be an ice-cream salesman. Fortunately, I used the money from The Centre to pay my debt.

Toying with Miss Parker, stealing from The Centre, ridiculing Lyle… Oh, wait a minute! Pretending…

That’s it! I'm good at pretending!

Now, new question, what kind of job shall I get?

If only there was a job where I could pretend to be someone else…

Like being an actor?

Actor! That's it! I’m gonna be an actor! I already know everything about pretending, all I need to do now is going to a casting and find myself the perfect role for my capacities.

“Number 77!”

That’s you.

“Over here.”

“Hurry up, then. We haven’t got all day.”

The impatient one was someone with a double digit IQ and a triple digit income, to quote the great G. Carlin. I followed him to an office where three men sat behind a wood desk; director, producer and casting director. Actually, there was only one guy there but he had a multiple personality disorder.

Hey! Quick question: if you suffer from multiple personality disorder, how many forms do you have to fill out when applying for a job?

Ask Dannie/Enid that.

“Good afternoon, Mr.…”

“You can call me Jarod.”

“Jarod. Do you have any experience acting?”

“Yes, I do.”

“In what capacity?”

“I'm good at pretending.”

“Oh no. Not another one.”

“Excuse me?”

“Thank you for coming. Next!”

“Wait a minute! I just told you I can pretend.”

“That’s the thing. We don’t want someone who can pretend, we want someone who can act.”

“Isn’t it the same thing?”

“No.”

“Sorry, I’m confused here.”

“You don’t look confused.”

I took the hint and faked confusion.

“What about now?”

“Hmm… Are you pretending or are you acting?”

“Acting.”

“You’re very talented.”

“Thank you!”

“Was that enthusiasm genuine or fake?”

“Fake?”

“You’re hired.”

“Oh, great! So, what’s the role?”

“We’re gonna do a TV show about a man who can be anything he wants to be. He’s captured as a child and is raised by a secret company who uses his talents to make lots and lots of money. Then one day he —”

“Escapes the company and they assign a retrieval team lead by his childhood friend and lover to bring him back?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head at the absurdity of such plot. “He asks for a better pay check.”

“Oh… And what role will I be playing?”

“You’ll be the geek who wears stupid shirts.”

“The geek…?”

“Yes. We've seen that video of yours on Youtube.”

What is Youtube?

Oh, it's this thing where people post videos with talking cats and old footage like you on a TV show-contest with curly hair.

That's not me. That's the actor who played me.

Doesn't matter.

I wonder who devised such a devious concept. It was probably The Centre.

You would think so, but actually, it wasn't.

Unbelievable.

Uh, Jarod? You should get back to the story.

“You don’t like it?”

“Excuse me?”

“Playing the geek. You have a problem with that?”

“Actually… I love it!”

I’m getting good at this acting thing.

“Good. We begin shooting next Monday. Ask Judith at reception for a gun, I mean, a script and be here at 9 am sharp.”

“Will do.”

“By the way, that idea of a childhood lover is not bad at all; if you know anyone who’s good for the part, let us know, will ya?”

“Don’t worry.”

So, that’s it, folks. I’m gonna do a TV show and I’m gonna play Broots. I hope this won’t be the highlight of my new acting career. Either way, it was fun playing this story, despite all the silliness. I hope you’ve enjoyed it. ‘Till next time...

THE END

Dedicated to Steve and Craig. Because.

IX – SAM

One man stand

From behind the curtain, I could see the people on the tables were busy with their drinks and private conversations. Probably too busy to pay any attention to me. That was probably for the better. It was my first time on stage and I was nervous enough already without having every face in the audience staring at me.

The lights in the room dimmed down and a spotlight was instantly aimed at the rather small stage. I noticed that the murmur of conversation decreased almost immediately. It looked as if they were more interested in me than I had first thought.. Either that or Lyle had probably threatened them some way.

Speaking of the Boogie-Man, I saw him climbing up to the stage and prayed that he would call the show off, but of course he didn't. Why would he? I hadn't told him anything about my discomfort. And even if I had, he probably would have just patted me on the back and told me to go out there.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Lyle, grabbing the microphone, “thank you all for being here... on your own free will... most of you...” He made a pause, expecting some laughs, but he only received silent stares. “Er... Well, aren't you a tough crowd. It looks like you don't want to know where your loved ones are buried.” The audience broke out laughing. “Now, without any further ado, it gives me great pleasure to announce a man who is as good in sweeping as he is in cleaning, even though he's not a janitor or a germophobic. Ladies and gentlemen, Sam Atlee!”

Lyle stepped aside and joined the audience at the welcome clapping as I entered the stage and placed myself under the spotlight, feeling like I had a sniper aiming at me.

I took another step forward and grabbed the microphone. I gazed at the crowd, trying to locate some vacant spot to where I could speak to, and noticed the dumbstruck faces of Sydney and Broots staring at me. I swallowed hard and nodded at them. They nodded back, which did nothing to calm my nerves.

Here you go, Sammy boy.

“Hi, everyone. I'm sorry I didn't get here on time. The traffic was a goat. I'm watching my language here, otherwise the author will have to change the rating.

“I don't know if you can tell it just by looking at me, but I'm feeling a little nervous. Which is not typical with me. Usually, I'm a very calm and collected individual. Just so you have an idea, when I was about 11 or 12 years old, I was run over by a car and an interesting thing happened. Not the run-over, that wasn't interesting at all. For a moment there I was afraid I would have to use a cone around my neck like my dog Henzo.”

Some people at the audience chuckled a bit. I saw it as a good sign and continued.

“Anyway, as I was lying on the floor, withering in pain, the driver stopped his car and ran to me. He knelt down to see how much I was hurt. I could tell he was really worried, but all I could think about was that he'd left his taillights on.”

That got me some laughs and some sympathy looks. There were also some pleading looks – most likely from people who had loved ones buried alive somewhere – but I couldn't afford to worry about them right then. I had a show to perform.

Hey! Could you make me not so insensitive? The readers will think I'm a monster!

It wasn't my intention, sorry.

“I see we have a full house tonight. This may be my first time on stage, but I think I should talk to my manager about charging tickets. Don’t get me wrong. It's great being here, you all seem to be truly wonderful people but I don't think I'm getting the compensation I deserve.

“I tried to renegotiate my contract with Mr. Lyle, but the man used to manage a top secret organization – I'll get to that –, while I... did not. To make a long story short, he tried to push me a new deal: seventy percent in cash, and the rest in leftovers. I said to him: No thank you, Mr. Lyle. I’m starting a new diet now. Doctor’s orders: no Asians for you, señor Atlee.”

Lyle laughed a lot, but he was the only one. Sydney and Broots, on the other hand, looked quite uncomfortable with the veiled reference to cannibalism,

It wasn't that veiled.

while the rest of the audience simply didn't get it.

“And now, what you all have been waiting for: the news!” I drew a sheet of paper from my breast pocket and put on my best TV anchor impersonation.

“The IRS arrested a homeless man for suspicions of tax evasion. Apparently, someone gave him a coin and he forgot to declare it. Turns out, he found the coin by accident. Once he paid the tax for unnecessary processing he was released.

“A woman in Nowheresville – I don't know if this is made up or not – is complaining for being the single woman in her village who hasn't been a victim of abuse. She plans to sue for discrimination. Or bad performance. Whichever comes first.

“Money laundering companies are looking for a new detergent to wash the bills. Finally! I don't know about you, but I'm glad I'll finally be able to hold a dollar bill without wearing latex gloves.

“A man fell from the fiftieth floor while washing the window. He died.”

The crowd tried to disguise it, but I could see some people laughing.

“It was a quick death,” I added.

“A group of culinary scientists, more commonly known as cooks, discovered that junk food is not really made of junk. Also, another group discovered that people who don't breathe can die.” After folding the paper back into my breast pocket, I continued.

“I don't know what's going on lately with scientific research these days. Don't these people have anything else to study? It's like ever since The Centre shut down, there's no one out there doing any kind research worth mentioning.

“You remember The Centre, right? For those who've been hiding under a hole for the last month,” I noticed some troubled faces among the crowd, “no pun intended, The Centre used to be a think-tank on the outskirts of Delaware, in a little town called Blue Cove. Don't bother look it up on a map: it doesn't exist.

“Anyway, The Centre has been on the spotlight ever since they closed. No one knows what caused it yet – I heard someone commenting they probably forgot to pay their rent – but I know what kind of work they did there, so it's probably a good thing it's not around anymore.

“Speaking about secret companies, let me ask you this: how secret are they? Let's use The Centre as an example again. They were in the open market, they had businesses with the government and other legal entities, they had a public headquarters. Where's the secrecy?

“If we're talking about secret as something few people are aware of, then perhaps secret is not the best word; maybe we ought to call it poorly advertised.

“Secret companies can not be secret. Not totally. For one thing, the people who work there know they exist. The people who design the buildings where those companies operate know they exist; the people who build the buildings where those companies operate know they exist.

“And now some of you are probably thinking: Well, they are a secret to people outside the company.

“People outside the company. Hmm. Okay. That means everyone who’s not employed there, right? So my question to you is: how do they hire?

“You can’t hire someone to work at a secret company without divulging the company’s existence. Unless, they do it like this.”

I cleared my throat a bit. This was the part where I did voices.

“Well, Mr. Harris, we have read your resumé and I have to say we are very interested in hiring you for a job at our company.

“That’s very nice. But... I still don’t know the company’s name.

“I’m afraid you can't be privy to that information.

“Okay… So, where’s it located?

“You’re not clear to know that yet.

“Can I least know what will my job consist of?

“No, you can’t. In fact, if you mention this conversation to anyone, including me, I will kill you.

“I promise I won’t tell.

“Then a big smile. Welcome to the company! And both men shake hands.

“It’s all about advertising. Most of these companies have a bad reputation but, like everything else in life, not every secret company has evil purposes behind their actions. Some have noble or at least not so evil purposes to achieve. They’re just ridiculous from a sane man’s point of view. Like building an airfield for the return of the cosmic gods or gathering a million people across the globe to jump all together at the same place, at the same time, to save the world from global warming; or something even crazier than that.

“Unfortunately, most of them have criminal intents to guide their actions. Which is really not that bad, if you think about it.

“The truth is, and this may shock some of you, crime is necessary. Really. What would the cops do without crimes to solve? Sit around and do nothing? Help old ladies cross the road?

“And what would happen if crime happened to be completely removed from society? Have you ever think about this? Probably sounds like a good thing, right? No more murder, no more stealing, no more kidnapping, no more reality shows...

“Now think about this headline: «Entire family slaughtered in cold blood. Police has no clues». Who are the victims here?

“The family? The family is dead. All of them. It's sad, but that means more job vacancies, less pensions; perhaps a new car to the undersecretary’s daughter, who knows?

“The police? Until they find the person who's responsible for the murder – if there is one – they have something to keep themselves occupied with.

“Most people only see the negative aspects of a body dump, an arson or a gang-rape. I see it as a justification. If we pay taxes to finance the police, then we should see some leg-work. Even if they're not, they should always look busy.

“I know, I know. Some of you probably consider this to be of extremely poor taste. Speaking of which, have you tried Lyle's souffle? No? Then don't. Back to the point, I understand that point of view. I do. And I think it's stupid. I don't mean it as an offense. It’s just that I think it’s easier to refuse an idea rather than proposing an alternative.

“That’s the problem with people these days. Everyone has complaints, but very few have ideas or solutions. And I admit some of my ideas may sound stupid and ineffective, but at least I’m not afraid to tell them. I prefer to let others decide for themselves instead of censuring myself and not uttering a word.

“You know where stupidity could be very useful? Court sessions. Imagine the defendant’s lawyer. One of the most common defenses used is what is known as temporary insanity.

Your honor, my client was not himself at the time. Still can’t understand how this works if an actor shoots a colleague during a rehearsal. Who committed the crime? The actor or the character?

“Anyway, back to my idea. We have temporary insanity. What I propose is temporary stupidity.

“Something like this:

Your honor, my client was stupid.

And the judge would go:

What about now, is he still stupid?

No, now he’s just dumb.

Okay, he can go home then.

“It's a stupid idea, I know it is. But it’s mine. And I can express it. I can say what’s on my mind, anywhere and anytime I want. Well, not exactly. There are some places where language is still under watch. Movies, music, etc. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you? That Parental Advisory seal. Explicit Lyrics. They do it to prevent minors from being in contact with that sort of contents.

“You remember Adam and Eve? Adam and Eve lived in Paradise and God told them: Do not eat the apple! What did they do? They ate the apple.

“It’s human nature. Kids will watch violent movies and some times the only reason they do that is because of a stupid sticker that was put there because at some point someone says Crap!.

“So I wonder; if the idea is to warn people about bad, deceiving, immoral language, why not put on a sign every time we see a politician speaking on the television? Or every time we open a newspaper and read something about the government’s agreement with an oil company? Anything that makes us wonder about what their real intentions are should have the seal: Political Advisory – Implicit Crap!

“That’s all for tonight, folks! Thank you so much for coming!”

I bowed a few times and stepped away from the stage.

That was good, Sam.

You think?

Let's wait for the reviews. But I think I'm seeing Carnegie Hall just up ahead.

That's a lamppost.

I meant figuratively.

Oh.

THE END

X – miss parker

I call this my moment of Zen

“Rule number one: don’t try to be funny.

Rule number two: don’t try to be cute.

Rule number three: never forget rules number one and two.”

in Miss Parker's Book of Rules

For the sake of both our mental healths (although I’m not quite sure about the condition of mine after so many years at The Centre – probably why I accepted to be a part of this) I’ll try to get right to the point. One thing I’ve always hated was wasting time. Like Jarod or Sydney would say, A good deed doesn’t go unnoticed. Well, sometimes it goes. Like that time when I let Lyle know he was using his toupee the wrong way. Did he thank me for sparing him some humiliation? You wish! That sleazy, low-life, scumbag... And his smell! I know he likes to jog and he's very well fit, but has no one ever told him about deodorant? For Pete's sake! Jarod probably invented the airspray! Or at least someone at The Centre did. My nose has nightmares every time I remember the decade he and I spent locked inside that shipping container. I know it was just an episode, so you see my point. Anyway, I decided to give Fate a chance and--

Oh, my God! I just realized something! I’ve been stalling all this time! And yesterday, I found a hair in my hairbrush! Dear Lord, I'm becoming Broots! OK, let’s not panic. Tomorrow, I'll make an appointment to see a Hair Doctor, but for now I’ll just get to the point.

All right. So you want to know what happened in my life after the shutdown of The Centre, right? I figured you would; otherwise, why would you be reading this? Well, being on a top position in The Centre’s hierarchy, I had to chase a pretender – other employees had to chase rats and bugs – which got me a good pay-check at the end of each month, which means I had (still have, as a matter of fact) a very nice bank account.

I wanted to get as far away from Blue Cove as I possibly could and go to a place where I could truly be myself: Milwaukee.

Gotcha! Never expected to hear me say this, did you? I also bet you’d never expected to hear me say gotcha. There’s a first time for everything, folks. I like first things, first times. And I like trying to revive them. That’s why I returned to Japan.

Uh, Miss Parker?

What?

I know I should know better than correcting you, but don't you think it's strange that all the other characters before you had to find new jobs and you decided to go on a trip?

Your point?

I think you should have look for a job instead.

Are you saying I'm irresponsible?

It's probably best to continue this some other time. I'll just type THE END at the bottom of the page and--

You do that and I'll show you what color's your stomach.

On second thought, who cares if you decided to go on a trip? You deserved to have some time off.

That's better.

Do you see what I was telling you earlier about the preservation of my mental health? Not much left to preserve, is there?

Some of you remember Tommy Tanaka. He was my first lover, son of a Yakuza leader. (Check out Season 2, episode Past Sim, if you don’t remember him.) Things had gone well the first time, but after what happened the last time he saw me, I wasn’t sure if he was going to be too happy to see me. Because of that I spent three months in Japan without giving him so much as a phone call.

Or a tweet.

What am I? A bird?

No. It's this thing called Tweeter. It will be the hype of 2013. Along with Facebook and Instragram and Tumblr.

You're speaking gibberish. But I could use a tumbler, right now.

It's not tumbler, it's tumblr.

Oh, I thought you spelled it wrong. In that case, forget it.

Spending three months all by myself, did not bother me. After all, my goal was to relax and find a new path. Not to get reacquainted with a former lover. I spent three months meditating, relaxing, expelling the ghosts from my mind. I had the peace of mind to finally put the past aside and so I did. I was ready to get back and start a new life as a karate instructor.

What better way to relax then teaching others how to kick ass? (Plus, it would save me some money in punching bags.) Let’s face it. When you know martial arts, you become more relaxed when troubles arrive. So, it’s not a question of looking for trouble, but more like being prepared for it.

Don’t try to look for a funny meaning in all of this. There isn’t one.

And so I returned to Blue Cove, did some checking, signed some papers, threatened some people (becoming the main dish at Lyle’s restaurant, having Cox prescribe some medication, listening to the CD of Christmas Carols recorded by Sydney and Raines, that sort of thing) and a few weeks later I was opening my own dojo.

This really messes with my time-table. I was supposed to show what happened to you all one month after The Centre's shut-down. Not four months later.

I'll pretend to care.

You don't understand. Readers will criticize me for this discrepancy. I already had one reader complaining about the implausibility of the whole plot.

That's not my concern. Now, can I return to my story or do I have to shoot you?

I won't bother you again.

See that you don't.

To be honest, I wasn’t expecting many students on the first day, so it didn’t surprise me when only one person signed up for class. What did surprise me was who it was.

“I come here to learn.”

He spoke so fluently, with such a clarity of speech, that I was completely amazed. Those who hadn’t known him before, would not be surprised of hearing him speaking like that, but I wasn't one of them.

“Angelo?”

“Surprised?”

I could not help but stating the obvious.

“You’re… talking.”

He didn’t look the least bit surprised.

“So are you.”

Is this your work?

No. It's all him.

“But you didn’t… I don’t understand.”

Oh, my God, I hate this!

I really have nothing to do with it.

“That’s why you were number eight and I was number three on the Pretender Project Ranking.”

Wow! That was a ranking? Damn it! Wait until I get my hands on my father! Whoever he is. OK, Parker, let’s put that aside for now.

“I thought you had a… problem… with your voice.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my voice, or else I’d be a mute. I did have a slight speech impediment.”

“Slight? You used to speak like a retard.”

He grinned. Oh! How I hate it when they grin.

“A retard that still managed to outscore you.”

That's it!

“Look. Let’s get one thing straight here. This is my story. I make the funny remarks, not you. Are we clear?”

“Yes, princess.”

“And by the way, I don’t think the writer is doing a good job with your character. You sound like Sydney and Jarod put together on a blender.”

I told you I had nothing to with--

BANG!

“Who did you shoot?”

“No one important.”

“Did Lyle tell you that joke?”

“No, that was MY funny remark.”

“It was a very nice one. A bit gory, but funny nonetheless.”

“Thank you.” I smiled. “Lucky for you I’m in a good mood or you’d be eating dust by now.”

“No doubt it would be better than Broots’ cooking.”

“I’ll let that one pass. For now.”

THE END

“Feel free to pop on my story, if you want to.”

“Thanks Angelo, I'll try.”

XI – WILLY

Repent!

You may not believe me, but I’m a different man now. In the old days I was mean, I was evil – a merciless lackey always ready to perform every devious task Mr. Raines told me to. However, like it always happens to every man of good judgment, repent came to me. I, my fellow reader, saw the light. It touched me. It saved me.

I still remember those odd months at The Centre, when Mr. Raines suddenly turned into the town’s Sheppard, and I feel kind of awkward that I’m acting the exact same way now. With one exception: unlike Mr. Raines, I am the best singer at my choir. (He invited me to one of his concerts once and if it wasn't for the fact that he was my boss and I had to take orders from him, I would have pierced my eardrums right then.)

Of course I had to beat everybody up to get to the top, but when it comes to pleasing God, I don’t joke around. The Lord acts in mysterious ways and I’m just a pawn in His game.

Back to Mr. Raines (but just for a little while; this is supposed to be my story after all), his sudden revelation was not as sudden as some people actually believed – those henceforward referred as idiots! – but a well thought up plan to make The Triumvirate believe that he was a good guy. I, on the other hand, am not faking my feelings, my beliefs. I HAVE been touched by the light. Or, at least, blinded by it.

It happened on the fifteenth day after the shutting down of The Centre. The preceding two weeks had been spent in the pursuit of a job. Unfortunately, it was too fast for me and I lost track of it. (Just a lame joke, sorry.) Two weeks and so far I got nothing.

Although, I have to admit, being an ex-criminal who died of a heart attack while serving life at a maximum security prison a few days before joining The Centre can be an obstacle hard to get by. Not the kind of thing you would see on a normal resumé, but not the most odd either.

At the time I had not yet found my faith, my salvation; I was just a presumed dead man, with no job, no money, no papers, living inside an abandoned car. (To tell you the truth, the owner was still inside the trunk, but unless he came back from the dead, the chances of him claiming his vehicle as stolen were practically none.) A man can lose his hope of a better life if fate doesn’t show up from time to time with a good announcement. Often it comes in the form of an angel. In my case, it came in the form of a fat police officer.

As soon as it began to happen, I tried to establish a parallel between that moment and something already reported on sacred texts. There wasn’t. Even better. It would make this moment even more special.

The fat officer pointed his flashlight at me and knocked on the window glass with his baton.

(Let me just say this before I proceed, I'm not using the term fatwith the purpose of offend or diminish his abilities; it’s just to distinguish this officer from any other officers that might come along during this story.)

Back to the fat officer, he asked me for my documents. I handed them over. No sweat. He studied my driver's license. It was fake, but it looked legit. Then, he asked me to exit the car. I did as he asked and as soon as I was out he hit me in the gut with his baton.

“What the hell was that for?!”

“Shut up! I remember you… Willy.”

He knows my name? But how? Who the hell is this guy? Probably some guard at the prison I was being held. Yeah, that’s got to be it. I’ll ask him.

But before I had a chance, he said, “You always stole my lunch. Now it’s payback time.”

Lunch? Is it possible? Could it really be…?

“Fat Frankie? Is that you?”

“Don’t call me that! I hate it when people call me that!”

“But you ARE fat and your name IS Frank.”

“Yes, not Frankie.”

“So that’s it? You don’t like being called—”

“No, I don’t. And if you say it again I will put a bullet through your head.”

I had to laugh. “You don’t have the guts to do that.”

“You think?”

“I know.”

“I guess YOU can, right?”

“I know I can.”

“Prove it.” He drew his gun and handed it over. “Shoot me. If you think you’re—”

BANG!

“See? What did I tell you? Who’s the man?”

No answer. Some people just can’t admit to anything.

It was then that I experienced my unexpected moment of revelation. I had killed a person and I felt bad about it. (Is this what they call regrets?) How do I know this? Well, for starters, I’m using the term person instead of something. And finally, let’s see… there’s not really much else to tell.

Anyway, after experiencing these feelings, I did what any normal person would do on a situation like this: I went to the nearest drugstore to buy some regret medicine. Then I found out that it Cox was working there and decided to go to the second nearest drugstore.

I quickly discovered that there was no such as regret medicine, so I decided to take another course of action. I went to my brother’s house and asked for guidance. He was shocked to see me (Apparently I had forgotten to tell him about my fake death. Ups!) but after some talking he took me under his wing and I joined his band as a back singer.

My brother is the best piano player I’ve ever met. In fact, my brother is the only piano player I’ve ever met. So maybe he’s not the best. Maybe he’s just good.

Standard.

Tolerable.

Alright, he sucks.

He is so untalented. No match for my voicing skills.

And I soon got tired of being at the back.

I’m a spotlight man. I belong at the front.

So I said goodbye. I thanked him for his help and joined a gospel choir. My brother may be a crappy piano player but he guided me through some rough times. Yes. He showed me a purpose and that purpose is to sing. Sing! Sing!

I’m ready to go on my own now. I’m ready to spread the word, to bring repent and guidance to those who sin. I am a singing avenging angel with a flaming sword to bring judgment upon the unfaithful ones.

Repent, all you sinners!

Repent!

Or I will kick your ass.

Message received, Willy.

Good.

THE END

XII – ETHAN

Madness consulting

Being on a constant run from The Centre never gave me enough time to simply stop and enjoy the world around me; to get to know people other than the ones who were running by my side. Nowadays everything's changed. Thanks to 'I don't know who or what', The Centre now poses a threat less dangerous than a disgruntled postal-worker sending out some bombs.

Ethan, there's something I need to tell you.

Are you one of the voices?

Uh... No, I'm the author. I've been doing this for almost every chapter. Hadn't you noticed me yet?

I didn't bother to check the other chapters. They all looked too silly.

I hate to tell you this, but yours will not be that much different.

I don't want a silly chapter! People already think I'm crazy when I start talking to my mom!

There you have it. The reader already expects silliness. We can't deny him that. Besides, this chapter is already written – this is just a revision.

I am not happy with this, but all right. What is it you needed to tell me?

Oh, right! You shouldn't do jokes about bombs, much less involving postal-workers.

I see. But it's perfectly all right to have Sam making jokes about cannibalism and kidnapped people.

No. It's different... He was... Carry on, please.

Anyway, like my brother Jarod and everyone else whose lives were organized according to The Centre's caprices, I also had to look for a new purpose in life. More specifically, a place where I could finally settle down and get a job.

One thing you need to know about us, the Charles family, is that we don't need money. Or, better yet, we don't need to work. We have plenty of money in our bank accounts. Plenty enough so we don't have to work unless we want to or if mom and dad cut our allowances. Having three geniuses at the house, playing at the stock-market sure has its advantages. (I'm putting my sister Emily out of the loop on this one; she is gifted on many things, but stock broking isn't one of them. On the other hand, I suck at making chocolate fudge. Can't be good at everything, right?)

The reason why we all chose to find new jobs, despite all the wealth we possessed, was so that we could prove to ourselves that The Centre hadn't take our lives, our will to live as normal people do, as undoubtedly was their wish. Our lives needed some purpose, something to make them more meaningful.

You're not being silly enough, Ethan.

Shut up! I'm not listening to you!

But you are, Ethan... You are...

12345678910123456789101234567891012345678910

Is that you ignoring me?

Having the gift I have, and now being able to almost control it perfectly, I quickly found out what my logic career of choice would be.

What is it? What? What? What?

Stop that! You're running a perfectly good story!

You're right. You're being completely childish.

No! You are!

You are!

You are!

You are!

You are!

You are!

Are you happy now?

Yes. I'm gonna take a break for a while.

No more interruptions?

No.

Using some of the money at my disposal, I opened up a small office. The sign at the entrance of the building read 'MADNESS CONSULTING'. I chose not to give any more details as a way to influence people to go there motivated by sheer curiosity. Nevertheless, in order to give the thing a professional look, I put the word 'specialist' under the job title.

I opened up almost a week ago and the flow of people coming in to see 'what's it all about' has surprised me to a great level. Most of them came back a second and a third time with friends and relatives. Probably they heard about what I did and, doubting such claims, wanted to check it out for themselves.

No problem with that. The more, the better.

Here's what I did: people came in and talked to me about what was bothering them. Now, you're probably thinking: Hey! That's kinda like what shrinks do. Kinda yes, but clearly not the same. Far from it. Shrinks and psychologists base their evaluations on logic, not to mention scientific and behavioral observation. They act according to a scientific method, while I, on the other hand, used the Voices and their craving to pry on people's lives to guide me.

An interesting fact about the dead, that most spiritualists never really acknowledge – probably because they're all just a bunch of hacks – is that they feed on gossip. True fact. Rumor and hearsay is to them what food and beverage is to us. I've been hearing the Voices ever since I was a kid, but I only found out about this during my second day of practice.

At the time, I was with Mr. Edwards, a man who had some issues (we specialists don't like to use the term 'problem' when referring to a patient) with his business associate, and two of the Voices kept telling me to ask him about that week in Bangkok..

They helped me most of the times, but every once in a while, I had to put a stop to it. This was one of those times. So, I tried to change the subject.

“I hear you have a problem with women.”

“Who told you that?”

Tricky question. One that I always had trouble answering. For one thing, I didn't like lying to the people I was trying to help. On the other hand, telling the truth on this subject would the same as stamping 'LOONEY' on my forehead.

I considered what to answer when a more careful observation of my patient's look and body position told me that we was asking a rhetorical question. The best thing I could do was to behave like a professional.

“I can't divulge that. It would be a breech of doctor-patient relationship.”

“You're no doctor,” he said.

“Okay, I'm a specialist. So?”

“And you were the first to break that vow.”

“I did not!”

“Did too!”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

Ask him about that week in Bangkok, ask him about that week in Bangkok, the Voices insisted.

Like a player at a poker game with a bad hand, I decided to use that card. “I'm telling you I didn't. And if you say I did one more time, I will tell everyone about that week in Bangkok.” That hit him, I could see that. “Now, pay your bill and get out.”

Mr. Edwards pulled a twenty from his wallet and handed it over. “Same time, next week?” he asked.

“I look forward to it.”

He grabbed his coat and walked to the door.

“Before you go, one last thing, Mr. Edwards.”

“Yes?”

“Don't let people tell you what to do. You're your own man.”

“I'll try,” he said.

“Don't try. Do. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.”

Mr. Edwards nodded once before leaving the office and closing the door behind him.

I know I was a little harsh on him, but it was for his own good. Ah...! Feels good to help people.

THE END

XIII – ANGELO

Keep on talking

One would assume that of all the major characters related to this TV show, I would be the one with most difficulties in getting a job. My speaking skills would definitely constitute a handicap, even though I'm only two spots away from Jarod. It's true they didn't use me that often to perform simulations, but I can be almost as good as Jarod or Alex. The trouble was that in order to keep a low profile, I had to fake speaking like a retard. The same same way Lyle faked having hair, only with talent instead of a toupee.

Leaving The Centre for the second time in more than thirty years has been great now that I don't have the need nor the obligation to get back there. Sydney invited me to stay in his place. Since I had no place of my own to go to, or money to spend, I accepted his offer.

After not even a week of his cooking and his singing, I said to him: “Look, I think it's probably for the best if I leave. No offense Sydney, but your casserole sucks and your singing makes me want to perform self-enhancement electroshock therapy.”

I don't think I'll ever forget the look of disbelief on his face. Neither will he. That's what happens when you take others' disadvantages for granted.

Finally breaking free from my old persona, I let go of everything that connected me to The Centre. But I still needed a place to stay and money to buy food. I could contact Jarod or even Miss Parker, but the prospect of having to eat pop-tarts and PEZ juice at every meal was not an appealing one. Plus, I had already made a short appearance on Miss Parker's story, a few chapters ago. She's supposed to come here by choice, not by having me summoning her.

Enough about my past, let's talk about my present! Ups! It's gone! You didn't get that? Never mind. It's obvious you have no sense of humor.

As to what I'm currently doing for a job, I'll get to that soon.

It all started on the very same afternoon after leaving Sydney's house with nothing in my pockets but a packet of CJ and a twenty dollar bill.

Before I continue, allow me to elaborate a little on the subject of Cracker-Jacks. Is it really that difficult to bribe me with something else? Seriously. How cheap are these people? Why not bribe me with lobster? Or veal? Not even a steak, for crying out loud! Do you know how many cavities I have? I'm surprised I still have any teeth left. Don't get me wrong. I like Cracker-Jacks, but I also need meat and vegetables every once in a while. Some cigar and booze would have been nice too.

Anyway, I didn't have enough money to rent a room, so I roamed for a while until I found a shady bar, at the outskirts of Blue Cove. I went in and asked to join a group of men playing poker. They assumed I was an easy catch because of the way I spoke and I didn't do anything to contradict them.

Suffice to say, when I left the bar a few hours later, not only did I have almost five grand, I also had the keys to a car and an apartment. I had to get the hell out of there fast because some people don't appreciate to loose. Especially when they think the person who's winning is somehow cheating. Well, I don't cheat. I'm just good at reading faces.

I decided to use part of the money to rent a small shop at an old mall. The place wasn't exactly top class – all right, it was a dump – but I had the perfect idea for a business and, if all worked out as I planned, I soon would move to a better location.

The previous occupant had left the counter and an empty register. When I asked the author why, he told me he was on his break. “You're on your own,” he said. The arrogant creep.

You're lucky I need you to be coherent in this story!

I was just curious about why would he leave the register behind.

Who cares?

It's a perfectly good register. I don't see anything wron

It has a curse, all right? Who ever takes the register from this shop... dies or something.

How did it get here?

How... Look! There's your first customer!

I don't see anyo

A man entered the store.

Hey! That's not fair. You're making it up as you go!

The man was wearing a large trench-coat and a black sock to cover his head. I figured he was just shy and decided to treat him with the utmost respect.

“Good morning, sir. How may I help you?”

Suddenly, he pulled a gun and aimed it at me.

I didn't mean to criticize the author's research or anything, but if he knew how to write me properly, he'd know I would feel the threat before it actually presented itself. I'm just saying.

“This is a wobbewy!” he said.

“A robbery?”

“That's wight! A wobbewy!”

“What's white? The counter?”

“Not white, wight! Open the wegistew!”

“No no no. Re-gis-ter. Repeat after me.”

“I'm gonna shoot you!”

Another customer entered the store. It looked incredibly like Mr. Raines, but with breasts. That vision was so disturbing that for a moment I forgot all about my other client. Then I recognized her.

“Weren't you in another story?”

“Yesh. I was shaved by Jarod. Is he here?”

“Sorry. This is not his story.”

“Get the hell out!” the man yelled.

“Shorry. My mishtake,” she siad, before leaving the store.

I turned back to my wanna-be-wobber. “My apologies. You were saying?”

“I. Am. Wobbing. You,” he said slowly.

Points for the effort, but it still wasn't good.

“Robbing. Robbing. Rrrrrrrrrrrrr...”

For a moment it looked like he was about to snap. He trained his gun on me, aimed it straight at my head. He squeezed the trigger, but before he could shoot, a powerful kick from behind knocked him out cold.

I smiled at Miss Parker. “I almost thought you wouldn't come.”

“I almost didn't make it. The author only asked me a few pages ago.”

“He's a bit lazy, isn't he?”

“Yes, he is. Have you noticed how many years have passed since he wrote a chapter?”

All right! It's time to end this!

You just can't accept a criti

THE END

XIV - MAJOR CHARLES

The mission

I saw a movie the other day. It was called “The Muted Heart”.

That's not a real movie. It's a Seinfeld made-up flick.

Then what the hell did I watch? Doesn't matter. What matters is what it taught me.

Which was?

Will you shut up and let me tell the story?!

Shutting up.

Anyway, the lesson it taught me was that we should cease the day.

Carpe diem.

Bless you. So, I decided it was about time to do something about The Centre once and for all.

Charles, I don't know if you know this, but-

Didn't I tell you to shut up?

Yes, but...

Then, shut up. Or are you so dumb that you can't even understand such a simple request?

As you wish. Please continue. I won't interrupt again, unless you ask me.

That's all I want. As I was saying, I decided to travel to Blue Cove and put an end to The Centre for good. It was a crazy mission, probably suicidal, but I wasn't getting any younger and I preferred to die trying to stop those evil bastards than sit around and do nothing.

I left Andrew a note telling I probably would be late for supper. I was an hour and a half away from Blue Cove, so it would be a quick trip.

Excuse me. I didn't mean to interrupt.

Yet you did. What?

I thought you and Andrew were in Greenville, North Dakota.

North Dakota? Why the hell would I be there (no-offense-to-any-North-Dakotan-who-might-be-reading-this)? I'm in Delaware!

Oh dear...

What? What have you done?

I kinda miscalculated your starting point.

Damn it! How long till I get to Blue Cove then?

About thirty hours. Give or take.

Who taught you how to plan a trip?!

No one. I went to Google Maps and--

What's that?

It's a computer program that helps you calculate itineraries, traveling distances, etc. It's quite useful if you know how to use it.

Which you, clearly, don't.

I made a mistake, all right? Besides, who in his right mind would hide from The Centre at the same place where it's located?

It's a strategy that has been used for centuries!

Well, excuse meee for not knowing the obvious!

HOOOOONK!!!!!!!!!!

Jesus Christ! What was that?

That was the guy behind you honking. You're jamming the traffic.

I didn't know we already traveling! For God's sake! Were we discussing all that WHILE I was driving? I could have killed someone!

But you didn't.

From now on please don't distract me.

I started the car and drove off. As I looked around, and failed to recognize the place, I was forced to ask: Where are we now?

Let me check. This is... Kandiyohi, Minnesota.

From North Dakota to Minnesota? That's like a three hour driving!

More like four.

I can't believe you were this reckless!

I was watching, okay?

(Sigh) Listen, why don't we just stop with this stupid arguing and try to make this a nice story?

A funny story?

Yes, sure, a funny story. I would love to be in a funny story!

~*~

After so many seasons

The Centre's doors are finally shut

All it took was a visit from Stevenson

And a kick in the butt

Now Lyle is serving lo mein

While Sam is telling jokes,

Willy sings Amen!

And Cox sells pills that cause strokes.

The landlord came

And to hell it all went!

No one knows the name

Of who didn't pay the rent!

Ah! This so much fun!

It is, isn't it? Put on the silly hat now!

No. That will only make this story ridiculous.

Desmancha-prazeres...

What was that?

I just complimented you.

Didn't sound like a compliment. What language was that?

Australasian.

That's not a language, that's a region.

Fine. Australasianese.

Where are we now?

We just passed through Clayton, Iowa.

How much time till we get to Blue Cove?

I only made calculations as far as Dover. I figured that since Blue Cove doesn't exist we could take whatever time we like to get there.

That's the first reasonable decision you made since this story started. How much time to Dover, then?

About twenty hours.

What?! I can't drive all those hours non-stop!

Potty-break?

Obviously, but not just that. I also need to eat and sleep.

I don't think the readers care too much for reading about those things. But I agree: you need to do that.

Do you have something in mind?

I think I might.

~*~

After a good night sleep and a very nourishing breakfast, I was once again behind the wheel.

That was quite good! Thank you!

No problem.

I was passing through LaPorte, Indiana, when all of a sudden--

What happened to Whiteside, Illinois?

You don't expect me to mention every single town we pass by, do you?

No. Just the ones on the list I gave you. Or I can just go back and turn the first sentence in this section to something like: After a night without sleeping and a lousy breakfast, I was once again behind the wheel. You wouldn't want that, would you?

No, I wouldn't.

Okay then.

A few hours after passing through Whiteside, Illinois, I was about to enter LaPorte, Indiana, when all of a sudden...

No, no, no. What's this 'all of a sudden' thing?

I'm trying to add danger to this story! It's too dull and boring!

Don't. I'm building up for the grand finale.

That only justifies if you keep the readers interested. Otherwise, they'll stop right here. If they haven't already.

You're wrong. Readers will love this.

Judging from the amount of reviews, I don't think so.

I only got good reviews so far.

If you say so.

All right!!! You want danger? I'll give you danger!

~*~

A few hours after passing through Whiteside, Illinois, I was about to enter LaPorte, Indiana, when all of a sudden an alien fleet appeared, aiming their plasma cannons and lasers at me.

Wait a second! What are you doing?!

You wanted danger, didn't you?

Probable, believable danger. Not THIS. Those ships look like they're made up of carton.

I borrowed them from my Alphabet Series.

It's the second time you mention some story other story of yours.

Well, no one is doing it for me, so...

You know what? I quit! Let the aliens shoot me! See if I care!

That won't be necessary.

~*~

A few hours after passing through Whiteside, Illinois, I was about to enter LaPorte, Indiana, when all of a sudden a Centre helicopter appeared before me. I couldn't tell who was piloting the damn thing, but I recognized the sweeper who was aiming his sniper riffle at me as the same one who had asked me about Jarod while I was taking Emily in an ambulance at the season four finale.

That would have been a lot shorter if you had simply said it was Willy.

I would have, if you had bothered to brief me about the scene first.

That would take the edge off of it.

Distracted by the conversation, I was alerted to the imminent danger when a bullet hit my windshield. I lost control of the vehicle for a moment, but managed to get a hold of it

Willy aimed again and fired another shot, which landed on the front left tire, causing me to catapult and fall down the ravine.

When the spinning stopped, I felt pain all over my body. That meant, for one thing, that I was still alive; on the other hand, being unable to escape, I was in some serious trouble. I tried to remove my belt-buckle, but it was stuck. Then I heard them:

“He's down there! Let's get him!”

I wondered what were they going to do to me.

They'll torture you. A lot. Then they'll kill you, bring you back to life, torture you some more until you're dead again, and so on.

I prepared myself for what was to come.

Doesn't matter. They can torture me all they want. I will not tell them anything.

That's all right. They're not interested in what you have to say. They simply want to torture you for the fun of it.

You mean, even if I resist heroically to their attempts to break me, that won't constitute a noble effort?

Not really, no.

In that case, could you get me out of here?

Sure.

~*~

After a very long trip, I was finally in Blue Cove. A few more minutes and I would be at The Centre. It was a Sunday, so they were probably short on staff, which made my mission a little less than practically impossible.

I had ditched my car and traded it for an exterminator van. The idea was to announce myself as a rat exterminator in order to get everyone out and then deal with Mr. Raines. Personally, I thought that was a really stupid plan.

Like yours was any better. Hacking into the system and began a lockdown! What a joke!

It worked on “Toy Surprise”.

All the more reason not to use it. I'm trying to be original here.

I guess that's the whole point of writing fanfiction.

We're here.

I stopped the car, took a long look at the enormous building before me and swallowed dry. This was it: the moment of reckoning. I turned off the engine and left the vehicle, careful not to let anyone see my face before I put my helmet on. Then I grabbed the spray-cannon and climbed the marble steps.

I was about to press the doorbell when the doors swooshed open and I found myself inside a convenience store.

This wasn't The Centre I remember...

“Hello, sir. Welcome to...”

I turned around and sprayed the sonofabitch without checking who it was.

“My eyes! My eyes!”

“Dear Lord! Jarod?”

“No! For the last time, I'm not Jarod! Why do you insist on calling me that? I'm Ebenezer!”

What's going on? What happened here?

Oh, right! Funny story: about a month ago, the landlord came and shut The Centre down for not paying the rent.

And you're telling me that now?

I tried to tell you at the beginning of the story, but you told me to shut up, so I did.

You could have insisted. Or tried again later on.

I did! We even sang about it, remember?

I wasn't paying much attention to the lyrics.

Besides, Andrew told you all about it as soon as it happened.

He said we didn't need to worry about The Centre anymore. The same way we didn't need to worry about fixing stuff around the house, buying groceries, cooking... How was I supposed to know that he wasn't being lazy for once?

I don't know.

This whole trip was just a waste of time....

Not necessarily. See Mr. Parker over there?

That--

He just got fired. How about you add up to his crappy day and punch him in the face? Would that help?

It's a start.

The End

XV – EMILY

The second try, so to speak

Some people just don't have any respect for other people's privacy! Okay, I'm well aware how ironic a line like that sounds, especially coming from a reporter, of all people. But that doesn't mean I don't have a right to complain, you know?

First of all, before I tell you what happened to me after The Centre and The Triumvirate went bye-bye, let me clear you on something: that Emily you saw in the chapter with Mr. White was not me. I don't know who the hell that person was – probably some bimbo the author made up when I told him I had better things to do than to be a part of this mockery – but I can assure you it wasn't me. I'll admit she played her part well, very in consonance with what you know about me. But what in fact do you know? All you have seen of me so far was:

me sitting at a limo with mom, eating Ferrero Rocher, while Jarod was chased by sweepers (the camera shot missed the chocolates)

me lying down on the sidewalk after being thrown out a window by Lyle (just seconds before asking him for a cup of coffee)

me lying in bed, being nurse by dad and Jarod

So, in sum, you know nothing about me. Therefore, you would have no way to realize that that person pretending to be me was being too soft on that bastard.

I can let you take your part in that story and rewrite it here.

“No! I want something fresh for me, something original. I don't want a repetition!”

I'll let you kick his ass for snapping those pictures of your--

“Why does everyone keeps telling that? I don't have a tattoo! Not there, not anywhere!”

Really? But Mr. White told--

“Yeah. Like he isn't a liar or anything. You don't believe me? All right! I'll show you!”

That's not necessary. I'll take your word for it. Not that it matters much anyway, but I still need to know what you want to do with your story.

I thought about that for a moment and then I knew what I wanted.

“I want to interview him, but I don't want a rewrite. I want a new interview, under my terms, on a location of my choosing. And I want some assistance.”

You want someone else there with you? Why?

“I need someone that can keep Mr. White on his toes.”

That can be arranged. Who did you have in mind? Miss Parker? Mr. Lyle? They're already done with their stories so they have time to--

“No. I was thinking maybe Dara or Natalie. Maybe Zane.”

I'm sorry, Emily. I'm not bringing the new characters into this series. It'll mess things up.

“No more than they already are. Besides, you opened up a precedent when you mentioned a couple of them during Jarod's story.”

Fine! Let's just get this over with! Bloody pretenders! You think you're all so damned smart!

“Good. Here's what I want...”

~*~

I waited a few seconds for the man tied to the chair to wake up. After almost ten, I got tired of waiting and slapped him hard.

“What the hell, mom!” he said, as he jerked up.

“Sorry, mom I'm not.”

“You? What the hell do you want?”

“I want to interview you.”

“Again? Doesn't this author have any appearance of originality left in him?”

“Shut up!” I said and slapped him again.

“Hmm... Feisty... I like that.”

I was about to hit him one more time, when I noticed he was not afraid of it. In fact, he was smiling – almost as if we was expecting it. No, not expecting, welcoming it. So, instead of slapping him, I caressed his cheek. Which rattled him quite a bit.

“W-what are you doing?”

“What do you think I'm doing? I'm being friendly with you.”

“Why? I mean, I'm one of the villains...”

“Yeah... And you're so hot! Wow! Someone is blushing! I better stop calling you Mr. Red instead of Mr. White.”

“Stop that! Anything but that!”

“Why not, Reddie? Little Mr. Red?”

All of a sudden, he leaned his forward and started to convulse.

Is he...?

“Are you crying?”

“No...” he said, with a full nose.

“God damn it! Why is he like this? Did you do this?”

Prison can change a man. I figured that he--

“Unbelievable! Just fricking unbelievable! What am I supposed to do with him now?”

I thought you wanted to re-interview him.

“And how am I supposed to do that? If I try to torture him, he most likely will enjoy it; if I try a subtler approach, he turns into a basket case. What options do I have left?”

I don't know...

“You're really awful, you know that?”

Hey! I busted my ass to get you everything you asked and this is the thanks I get? I got you the location you wanted and you made no attempt to mention the place, much less describe--

“Fine!”

We were in a small room, on the former SL-27, now the final level of the parking structure that was built und--

It's too late for that now! Not to mention the new character you wanted so badly. And for what? You put him behind Mr. White and made no reference to him whatsoever! Why did you wanted it if you had no intention of using it?

“I wanted to have the op--”

THE END

“Hey! You can't cut me off me like that! You hear me? Ah!!! I could slap someone right about now!”

“Don't forget about me, honey.”

“Shut up, White.”

XVI – THE TRIUMVIRATE

A minor set back

We are The Triumvirate! Times may have changed, yet we are still The Triumvirate! Yes, we have suffered a tremendous attack on our inner structure, but that is just a minor set back. Soon, very soon, we'll be able to regain the power that once was ours! The power that made our opponents tremble with

“Clean up on aisle 3!”

We'll finish our motivational speech later. For now we must go mop the floor because some clumsy customer has dropped something. Again.

We will continue our story on the way. Come.

We are no longer in Africa, in case you haven't noticed. Like every other character in this silly series, we are also in Blue Cove. There are several good reasons for this to be. The first, not being the most important, is that since Blue Cove doesn't exist, it excludes the author from doing a very thorough research (on that matter we must say we objected very firmly against this whole idea, not because it isn't funny, but because it is silly and we don't appreciate silliness); the second is that, like The Centre, we were also kicked out from our place.

We stop momentarily, clenching our fists tightly around our mop, and vow to exact revenge on those responsible for this predicament. Being the head of a secret criminal organization, we had more pressing matters to attend than worrying about the bills.

Needless to say, when the time came to ask for a responsibility, no one was to blame. Before we had a chance to interview our subordinates more thoroughly by way of torture, we were on our way to America.

We better hurry or the boss will not be pleased.

We are doing our beast to keep a low profile. Now that we no longer possess the strength we used to have, it is unwise to start a battle. Best to do now is wait.

Mr. Parker is here as well. We were already here when he told you his story. Probably the only reason why he didn't mention us was he because we doesn't know who we are. We took charge when he was presumed dead. In fact, since no official presentation was made when we assumed power, no one at The Centre knows about us. Which is excellent. We are too tired of The Centre and all the trouble it has caused us.

~*~

We arrive at aisle 3 and sigh. We understand that some could see the beheading of ones' enemies as a violent action. And it is. It is violent, but it is also a matter of retribution and justice. We cut off their heads, they skin us alive – it is savage and ruthless, but it has a valid point.

Spilling an entire row of olive oil bottles doesn't have any purpose. It is people being mean for the sake of being mean. Of all the liquids that could have been spilled! This disrespect will be dealt with fiercely!

“Are you done with that?”

We turn around and see the store manager. “We are almost done, sir.”

“What's taking so long?” he asks impatiently.

“It's the olive oil, sir.”

“Get moving. I need you to go to the complaints department.”

He leaves without waiting for us to acquiesce his request. What an insolence! He should be skinned alive AND beheaded!

Not being in a position to refuse doing what we are told to do is becoming more and more frustrating. We had never been assigned to the complaints department, but we had heard disturbing accounts from some of our colleagues.

The concept of allowing the clients to complain about the items they've purchased does not make any sense to us. People should learn from their mistakes, not be allowed to complain about it. The whole thing sounds so unreasonable it is probably another stupid idea from the author. Like the rainbow bridge or the flamingos wearing green tuxedos. You can thank us for not seeing those, although we regret to admit that the idea of the waitress wearing the vest over her uniform, in Mr. White's story, was ours. We apologize for that.

~*~

We expect the so-called unhappy customers to place their complaints in a calm and civilized manner. We soon discover that will not be the case.

Our first complainer is a short man with a hat made of hair.

It's a wig. And you're not supposed to stare.

We apologize. We are not familiar with such items.

Back to the client, he remind us of aunt Kanene, minus the mustache, which the client doesn't have.

“I wanna complain!”

“May we ask what is the reason of your complaint?”

“I bought of pack of batteries here yesterday and they all out of juice!”

“Excuse me! I need to cash this coupon!” says an old lady with a mole shaped like Jupiter and almost as big.

We turn to her and say: “Just a second, please.” Back to the customer. “Have you used the batteries?”

“Yeah! Yesterday! All day long, and now they don't work!”

“We are sorry for your misfortune, but there is nothing we can do. Next, please!”

“I want to cash this coupon,” says the old lady once more.

“You need to go to the coupons department, miss,” we answer, pointing at the correct direction. “It's right over there. Next!”

“That's too far away!” she complains.

“We understand, but we are unable to do otherwise.”

A tall, slender woman approaches us. “Miss Parker! What a surprise!”

“I'm not her, I'm her double.”

“Our apologies. How may we help you?”

“Who's that “we” you're talking?” she asks.

“Hey! What about my batteries?”

“I don't understand why you won't cash my coupon.”

“Miss, we...”

“Can I get some service here or not?”

“We'll be right there, Miss Pa- Sorry, Miss Double.”

“There's that “we” again.”

“Shut up! Shut up! All of you just shut up!”

~*~

“I have here a list of complaints,” says our boss with a not happy face. “All of them with your name on it.” He deposits the thick stack on his desk and waits for a response from us.

Now he waits.

“You told us to go to the complaints department and we did.”

“To deal with complaints, not cause them!” he says, punching the stack. Taking a long breath, he reclines on his chair. “I have no choice but to let you go.”

“All three of us, sir?”

“What are you talking about? I only see one of you. Wait a second! Was that an attempt to invoke that Monty Python joke about the mountaineering expedition or are you just so arrogant that you refer to yourself in the first person of the plural?”

“We do not understand the question.”

“Oh, you're no fun anymore! Please leave.”

“We ask you to reconsider.”

“This is not a democracy!” he yells out, pounding on his desk.

“Our predecessor used to say that.”

“I know. I googled him. Now, get the hell out!”

Just another set back. We must be patient and wait for the tides to

“Hey! I told you to get the hell out, not to stand there and reminisce about future plans!”

“Sorry, sir!” we reply, before leaving the office.

THE END

XVII – GEMINI

One of a kind

Hi. My name is Andrew, but most of you know me as Gemini. I know, I know. Most of the authors in this fandom usually name me Jack, Jordan, Jay, Jake, Justin or any other name beginning with J. I'm just glad I'm not Kyle's clone or I could be Kevin, Ken, Kelly or Kurt. I think there was even one author who actually thought it was a good idea to call me Jarod Jr., or Jarod the Second, I don't know. How ficking original! Who the hell came up with that idea?

Living on the run with Major Charles was not as frantic as most of you seem to think. I say “was” because we're not together anymore. (If you read the Major's story a few chapters ago, you should already know this.) True, we had to get up at unbelievable hours and move to another location every time he heard a car approaching – or, more often than not, thought he heard one – but that wasn't the bad part. Compared to the Major's snoring and Emily's staring (having an older brother who looks younger than you can be quite freaking), the constant running was almost pleasant.

Emily returned to her job as a reporter not even a week after the movie The Pretender 2001. She liked her job, but that wasn't the main reason as I soon realized. Nonetheless, even if I did know, I had to stick around. Where else would I go? Besides, the Major was a nice guy. A bit harsh sometimes, always living by military standards, but he was cool. For the most part.

It took me a while to get used to getting up at four a.m. to do some drill exercises. I especially detested sentry duty, although the worst part was his surprise inspections to my bedroom. Mr. Raines used to beat the crap out of me every time I didn't have a clean space, but the look of disappointment on the Major's face when he looked at what I thought to be complete pristine cleanliness was... troubling, to say the least.

No wonder Jarod is taking so long to “find” his parents. Yes, I used quotation marks. Do you honestly think Jarod wouldn't be able to find his entire family like this (I just snapped my fingers, by the way) if he really wanted to? After spending decades imprisoned at The Centre, I think it will be a while before he willingly accepts to join the military life here at home.

If you I think I'm exaggerating let me clue you in on something: the Major's full name. Care to guess what it is? It's Charles M. Charles. You think that's weird? Do you know what the M stands for? Major. That's right. The man was born a Major; he has the military genes in his blood. One more thing: what kind of parents name their son Charles when the child's last name is already Charles?

Sorry about the rambling. Sometimes I let myself get carried away. Back to the story.

Once The Centre was no longer a threat, I finally gathered enough courage to have a talk with the Major. Here's how it went:

“Now that we don't have to worry about The Centre anymore, I need my own space,” I said.

“You have your bedroom.”

“I need a place of my own! I need to find something useful to do.”

“The toilet's clogging and the kitchen door is squeegee. You can get yourself useful with that.”

“You're not getting it!”

“Well, excuse me if I'm not as smart as Mr. Knowseverything!”

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I'm sorry, Andrew. I...”

“Not you, him.”

“Who? The author?”

Okay... Here we go again. What was this time? The characters are not believable? Is it too silly? It's a nonsense story! What did you expect?

“I expected at least some faint resemblance to the original stuff.”

All right. I think it'll be better if we just push this forward to the part where you're at the employment office to apply for a job.

“What about our conversat

~*~

Andrew was at the employment office to apply for a job.

You said that already!

I'm setting the scene.

Hey! Wait a second! Don't you think readers will get confused with your narration and my thinking?

I don't understand the question.

“I was wondering... Never mind. Let's go on with the scene.”

Andrew sat at a chair. Before him, a woman wearing plastic green glasses and too much make-up for a living person analyzed his resume. The fact that he didn't have one was the reason the analysis only took sixty minutes.

“What are your qualifications?” she asked, without looking at

Oh! I see it now. It is confusing.

How about we try this again?

The whole thing?

No, just the last line.

“What are your qualifications?” she asked, without looking at me.

“I can be everything I want to be!” I answered without a semblance of pride in my voice, for it was the truth. Well, almost everything. I wanted to be someplace else and instead...

“That's good for you. How would you like to work at a call-center?”

That's your way of getting back at me, isn't it?

You should be thankful for being able to get a job. Do you know how the job market is?

This is a story! You could make me a TV star, a doctor or something...!

Right... Like people would buy that.

They did it with Doogie Houser.

They also bought ALF and Small Wonder. So, what's your point? It's not believable.

Too late to start worrying about that now.

~*~

“Sweeping and cleaning hot line. You stain, soil, grime, mess, smudge, foul, defile or sully, we clean it up. This is Andrew. How may I help you?”

“Good morning. I seemed to have spilled some coff...”

“Sydney! Is that you?”

“My God! Jarod?”

“No, it's Andrew.”

“Sorry. Wrong number.”

Click.

RING!

“Sweeping and cleaning hot line. You stain, soil, grime, mess, smudge, foul, defile or sully, we clean it up. This is Andrew. How may I help you?”

“I'm calling... (wheeze) to inquire about... (wheeze) the best way to remove... (wheeze) brain matter from... (wheeze) my shoe.”

“Hello... Mr. Raines.”

“Gemini! Did you just give me a “Hello Newman”? I mean, Raines who?”

“Too late. I know it's you.”

“No, I'm not. I mean, it's not.”

CLICK.

What the hell is going on here! Can't you write a decent piece of dialogue?

I'm trying! They're not helping!

This has got to be the most pointless story in this entire series.

I think everyone else can call dibs to that.

RING!

“Sweeping and cleaning hot line. You stain, soil, grime, mess, smudge, foul, defile or sully, we clean it up. This is Andrew. How may I help you?”

“Andrew, it's Margaret, honey.”

“Oh! Hi! How can I help you?”

“I'm organizing a celebration dinner for all the main characters of the show and I would really like if you came along.”

“But I'm not a main character.”

“You're close enough.”

“Sure. When is it?”

“Next story. Just flip the page or click next.”

Not you, Andrew. She meant the reader.

Then why... I give up.

Not you, Andrew. She meant the reader.

Then why... I give up.

XVIII – MARGARET

Family dinner

I never wanted to be a mother. I don't know why. Perhaps it was because I always found children to be a nuisance. Or maybe it was the look on that creepy guy from NuGenesis, always staring at me like I was the mother of the Savior or something. When Jarod was born, the amount of labor pains and the nights without sleep didn't do much to change my perspective on that matter. Then I got used to it. I had to. Jarod had grown on me – not just in me.

Charles was so happy with his son that he thought it was a good idea to give him a brother. Oh, sure! Easy for him to say! It's not as if he'd be the one who had to endure all the pain of carrying and giving birth to a child. The candy bars they offered at NuGenesis were not enough compensation.

Kyle came along and I prepared myself for another batch of sleepless nights.

After years of living as a regular family, just when I was getting used to being a mom, someone took my sons away and I remember thinking to myself: Maybe now I can get some sleep.

Then, the worrying came. Would they be all right? Would they be safe? And most of all: would they be away long enough for me to get at least one good night sleep? The answer to that last question was yes. Oh, I wished them well and all that, but now that I had plenty of time to sleep like a rock, I intended to use it.

And then came Emily.

Damn you, Charles! And damn me for letting you talking me into doing it in the barn!

And so, nearly forty years after our family got separated because of The Centre, we were all back together again. Which was kind of awkward, especially once I realized that Jarod was behind me reading what I just wrote.

“Mom... What is that?”

“This? Oh, this is nothing. Just some silly story I'm writing,” I answered, minimizing the window.

“You mention my name there.”

“That's because I like your name, sweetie.”

“You also mention Kyle and Emily and dad.”

“I like their names too,” I said, trying very hard to disguise my emerging annoyance.

“Don't you love me, mommy?”

God! He's acting like a four year old!

“Of course I love you!” I got up and kissed his forehead. “Now, be a good son and go buy the groceries I asked you to. We have a big dinner tonight, remember?”

“Can I bring some pop-tarts for dessert?”

“No. There's plenty of fruit in the refrigerator.”

“But I like pop-tarts! They contain...”

“Eleven essential vitamins and proteins. Yes, I know. You said that plenty of times. The answer is still no.”

He straightened up and stared at me. “I'm old enough to buy them if I want t--”

I smacked his butt once and shook my head as his lips began to tremble. “Don't. Or I'll call your dad.”

He sniffed loudly, then turned around and ran away. He stopped by the door and yelled between sobs: “I hate you! You're mean!”

“Bring some paprika!” I added, just before he left.

~*~

I was just finishing the salad when Emily came barging in through the kitchen door. Well, not exactly through the door itself.

“Mom! Mom! Jarod is making fun of me!”

“Am not!” he yelled from the living room.

“Is too!” said Ethan, entering the kitchen.

“Tell-tale!” said Jarod, also entering the kitchen and pushing Ethan.

“Says who?” asked Ethan, pushing Jarod back.

“Quiet, all of you!” said me.

“You're not my real mom!” said Ethan.

“Do you want me to call your father?”

The three bowed their heads. “No...” they said.

“Then go back to the living room and watch your cartoons until dinner is ready.”

Everyone left, except Ethan, who walked over to me shied.

“Margaret?”

“Didn't I tell you to go to the living room?”

“Is my sister coming too?”

“That harlot who spent years chasing after your brother?”

I had yet to find a good reason to like that woman.

“She said your hair is very pretty.”

Found one.

“Did she? Then of course she can come. It wouldn't be polite not to have her here tonight, right?”

“What about Lyle?”

That one was trickier. I knew about Lyle, but he was also Ethan's brother and he had that look... Oh, damn that look!

“He can come, as long as he doesn't mind eating in the playroom Jarod built for him.”

“That's a shed, not a playroom.”

“Potato, potato. As long as he has fun, that's what counts. Do you know if he plans on bringing company?”

“Probably something Asian for dessert.”

“Good. One less mouth to worry about.”

“Margaret?”

“Yes, Ethan?”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't worry about it. Go on now, go play with your brothers.”

Ethan ran off and I resumed my chores. Funny how all my children are gifted, but here they're acting like children. Do you know why that is?

Are you talking to me?

Is anyone else here besides the two of us?

I thought you were just wondering to yourself.

I was. But now I'm asking you. So?

I don't know. It could be a glitch in the story's mainframe.

Well, can you check it out?

I really wasn't supposed to be on this story. Or anymore stories, for that matter. Readers are starting to complain about these interferences.

Let them. Can you do something about their behavior or not?

Maybe. Can I get back to you later?

Fine, but hurry up.

~*~

We set the table for ten – my husband, Jarod, Emily, Ethan, Miss Parker, Lyle (who would be seating inside his portable shed), baby “no name yet” Parker, Zoe and Andrew. However, there were some unexpected guests.

“What are they doing here?” I asked.

The they in question was Sydney, Broots and Mr. Raines.

“I invited them,” said Charles.

“Why?!”

“You said it was a family and friends dinner.”

“I didn't say to invite the people who spent years trying to destroy our family!”

“I resent that,” said Mr. Raines. “After all, I was the one who helped Catherine gave birth to Ethan.”

“Yeah, you did! Right before you shot her!” Miss Parker retorted. “Gas-breath!”

“Ice Queen!”

“Bone-bag!”

“Uh... Ice Queen!”

“Ah! You already said that one! You lose!”

Margaret? Is this a bad time?

“No, go ahead.”

“Who are you talking to, honey?”

“She can hear the Voices too?” Sydney asked.

“Mooooom!!! I´m hungry!” said Emily.

“Miss Charles! Jarod is pretending to have no thumb to make fun of me!” complained Lyle.

“Shut up!!! All of you just shut the-hell-up!” That got their attention. They all became quiet and stared at me. “Jarod, Lyle is a guest in this house. You know better.”

“But he killed Kyle,” Jarod argued. “And I hate him!”

“All right, then. You can beat the crap out of him after we finish dinner.”

“Hey! That's not fair!” said Lyle.

“Quiet! I can't hear myself think! Yes? You were saying?”

Huh... right, yes, I've been checking the system and it looks like I got some of the characters ages wrong.

“Wrong how?”

Well... According to what I have here, Emily is six, Jarod is four, Sydney is eighteen...

That explains that pat he gave me. Belgian Hi! my ass, that little weasel!

“How many are like that?”

You're not.

“So this why everyone is acting like children...”

“Am not!” said all in unison.

“Can you fix it?”

Not unless you want to restart the whole thing. Right from the prologue.

“Heavens, no!”

Anyway, the epilogue will not have any of you, so you can all get some rest. All you really have left is dinner. That's easy.”

“Easy for you to say.” I took a long breath and prepared myself. “All right everyone! Who's ready for some dinner?”

They all clapped their hand and cheered happily. I smiled and began serving the food.

“What's that?” Jarod asked.

“Pork chops with mashed potatoes.”

They all dug in as if they were all truly hungry or as if my cooking had become good all of a sudden.

“Mommy?” Jarod asked between bites.

“Yes, Jarod?”

“Why did you run away from me when you saw me at the island?”

Yikes! I was hoping he didn't remember that. Might as well tell him the truth.

“I was late for an appointment at the beauty salon,” I admitted. Seeing Jarod's stunned look, I reached for the potato salad. “More potato, anyone?”

“I want a beer!” said Charles

“I don't think you're old enough to have a beer in this story.”

“Do you have pop-tarts, Miss Charles?” asked Broots.

“No,” said Jarod. “She didn't let me buy them.”

He thought I wasn't looking, but I saw him wink. Little misfit!

“You two! Stop talking and eat your dinner.”

“Can I have the green stuff instead?” Jarod asked.

“No. If you want green, you have your peas and your salad.”

“I want the green stuff too!” cried Emily.

“I said no! Eat your meat.”

“You're mean!” said Ethan. “I wish my mommy was here!”

“Me too!” said Miss Parker.

“And I wish Kyle was here too!” said Jarod.

And the voices of the children were so pure and innocent that their wishes were granted and, in a blink of an eye, a missing mother and a lost brother were now sitting at the table. (I added chairs too.) And everyone was screaming.

Margaret, why is everyone screaming?

“You really don't know?” I asked, with no attempt to hide my irritation.

No. I made their wishes come true. I thought everyone would be happy. I brought your son and your best friend back.

“Yeah, you did. But you forgot to bring them back to life, you idiot! Now I have two corpses sitting at my table!”

At least, Cox isn't here.

“That's not funny.”

It's a bit funny. From a certain point of view.

“Look, I'm tired of all of this. I'm going out,” I said and got up.

What about the story?

“You said it was easy. You finish it.”

I waved at everyone sitting at the table and left the kitchen.

All right. I can do this.

Everyone! Hey! May I have your attention?

They were all still screaming because of the two corpses sitting at the table. So maybe that wasn't my smartest move, but it wasn't the stupidest one either.

Listen up!

No use. Let's just skip to the epilogue and end this.

Epilogue

A simple case of mistaken accounts

One month ago...

It was just a normal day at Piggy-Bank Dover. Or it would be if all went well. For now the doors were still closed to the public. There were some people already inside, mostly janitorial staff and clerks doing flick-flacks and other stuff they didn't normally did in front of clients. Amongst them – the janitorial, not the clerks, though no doubt he thought himself to be more than qualified for that job – was a man. He'll be of some importance later on, for now his identity is unimportant. Plus, revealing it would ruin the surprise.

Enter Raphael Baker, account-manager to every bank account belonging to The Centre and The Triumvirate. The question of why would two multi-national criminal secret organizations deposit all their savings in one place, when the majority of people knows better than that is another question easily answerable: it facilitates this whole story. If not for this convenience it would be hard for this whole plot to be feasible.

(Yes, it's a bad premise, but it's all I got.)

Every morning, except on weekends, he would be at his desk at 7:15 sharp with a cup of coffee and a keen resolve to sort through his daily affairs. His position earned him the right to an assistant and a personal secretary, but he preferred to do the work himself. He didn't mind asking for help when he needed it, he simply didn't see the point of paying someone to do what he was already being paid to do.

“You're one of a kind, Raphi” his colleagues would say, all of them with their personal assistants. He didn't care. He liked it that way.

That Monday, Raphael was pissed totally and utterly pissed off. Not only had his alarm clock failed to wake him up, due to a power outage the previous evening, someone had stolen his personal mug. After spending almost ten minutes looking for it, he finally gave up the search and decided he had had enough.

At 7:23 he reentered his office and a smile was born instantly. His mug had been returned and was waiting for him on his desk, next to a box of muffins.

Raphael sat down, all the anger evaporating as he grabbed the mug. He took a sip and spat it out, appalled. “Salt? What the hell kind of sick prank is that?”

It was at that moment that he noticed a small card taped to the box of muffins. He read it out loud: “«A good day to you, Mr. Baker, signed»” He couldn't read the signature. “Orville? Angus?” It did not matter. He would find out who that person was and he would make him pay.

~*~

It was the first day of his second week at Piggy-Bank Dover and he wanted to make a good impression on his superiors. He had moved across the continent to be closer to the people who had given his life meaning. So far he hadn't had the guts to contact any of them. He needed – he wanted – to settle down first.

All very noble goals, but Life and his cousin Luck usually had a way of kicking him in the nuts no matter how noble his goals were. Probably it had more to do with the choices he made to get there than with the goals themselves.

That was why he was treading lightly, thinking carefully before doing anything. Unfortunately, no amount of careful thinking could prevent the inevitable from happening, it only postponed it.

During the weekend he had thought about ways to enhance his popularity among his superiors. When he came in the next day, he collected every manager's, every director's and every associate's mug and prepared coffee for all of them. Because he was taking this matter seriously, he had collected a detailed report of the particular tastes of every caffeine aficionado and prepared all the beverages accordingly. Black, cream, two sugars, cinnamon, honey, milk, etc. He got everything right.

What he didn't know was that the person who normally was in charge of preparing coffee – the person who would only get there in thirty minutes - had snitched about a colleague using the Xerox machine in an inappropriate way; that colleague had taken his revenge by replacing those substances with other not so nice, or better yet, not so adequate.

If he had taken the time to taste them, he would quickly realize something was wrong. Then again, since coffee was not among his list of favorite drinks, maybe not.

He saved Mr. Baker's mug for last. He didn't know why – it just felt right. Careful not to spill anything, he put the mug on the desk, followed by the box of muffins with a personal note taped to it. Mr. Baker would surely appreciate his effort. He smiled.

Then the inevitable happened.

As he was about to turn around to leave, his hand bumped against the full mug and spilled some coffee on a few papers that were neatly arranged on the desk.

“Oh, my God! Oh, my God! I'm gonna get so fired! Oh man...” He took a couple of deep breaths. “Okay, calm down. You can still save this.”

He collected the stained sheets, examined them carefully and determined that it would be within his skills to replace that document with a copy almost as good as the original. Provided he had the time and the necessary tools.

Since that wasn't the case, he printed a blank form and copied all the data from the stained document to the clean one. Once he was done, he wiped all evidence of his presence there and left the cabinet, confident that his actions would soon be acknowledged. Even though he didn't know what “acknowledged” meant.

And that was how all the money from The Centre and The Triumvirate was transferred to an unknown location.

THE END

“That's it?”

What else is there to tell? I just told what happened.

“In the worst possible, less interesting, way. Who am I, for starters?”

I didn't say your name? Oh crap...

“I told you were delaying that revelation for too long.”

When did you say that?

“Just now. Two lines ago.”

It doesn't matter, anyway. I'm sure every smart reader already figured out who you are.

“I'm not so sure. I can be quite unique.”

Yes, yes. You're one of a kind, Argyle.

“No!!! Not like that! You ruined the moment!”

Typical. I'm assuming you're also going to complain about the way I portrayed you, and how silly your story was and--

“Actually, compared to the rest of the stories in this series, I think mine was probably the seriest of them all.”

That's not a real word. Actually, forget it. What's on your mind?

“Well, personally, I think me spilling coffee on some papers and then copying them wrong is a lame justification and very poorly thought up. Plus, it makes me look dyslexic, which I'm not.”

And how would you suggest I'd done it?

“May I?”

What?

“Retell that part.”

Okay...

~*~

I used the lock-pick to enter the office. Once inside, I closed the door quietly behind me, turned on my flashlight and walked over to the desk. After a quick search I discovered what I was looking for. I then proceeded to collect all the documents I wanted and replace them with almost identical copies, except on a few details that wouldn't be detected unless someone was looking for them.

Once that was done, I left the office, locking the door behind me. Soon, very soon, The Centre and The Triumvirate would be finished and all their money would go out to help all the people they'd hurt. Minus my share, of course.

Argyle saves the day!

THE END

That's your version.

“What? You didn't like it? What is that? Whatta you doing?”

I'm shrugging. Can't you tell?

“I can, but the readers probably don't.”

Okay, let's wrap this up. Let me just check my list to see if I got anyone.

“Do I have to wait?”

No, you can go. Close the door on your way out, please. Let's see... Oh no! I forgot about her. Hum... How awkward would be for a new chapter to appear after the epilogue?

XIX – CATHERINE PARKER

A new purpose

You know you're not getting enough value when your story comes up AFTER the epilogue. It's like they forgot all about you, which was exactly what this author did. He has done many lousy things in this series, taking too much creative liberties, twisting character personalities, exaggerating small traits, but THIS outdoes it all.

What about putting you and Kyle in corpse form at Margaret's family dinner?

Go away! I told you: you are not to appear in this story! I don't want this to be like the rest!

I'm going! I'm going!

The lights in the room dimmed to a mid-glow and I waited for my cue to get into action. Madame Luane was performing the necessary theatrics before “summoning” the spirits, aka, me.

Like so many, if not all, of the characters in this show, my life has always revolved around The Centre. I really thought that after death I would get some rest. And I did... until my daughter discovered her inner sense. Soon after that I was sending signals and messages and stuff like that.

I know what you're going to ask: What about Ethan? He has heard me his entire life, right? Yes, along with hundreds of others. It was quite easy to stay back, in a matter of speaking, and let somebody else do the talking. That's probably why the kid was such a mess.

When he met Jarod on that subway train and Jarod told him that he should listen to my voice, he wasn't really listening to me. Lucky for them, whoever it was, it was a good influence.

Of course the big question now is why the need for an occupation if I'm not alive? For one thing, dead does not mean devoid of purpose. But more importantly, I spent decades hanging around these people because of The Centre; now that it's gone, I need to know if I can make it on my own.

Being a fan of technology, I thought about becoming one of those spirits that possess domestic appliances. I tried being a voice on a GPS, but I soon reached the conclusion that most of my indications were either being ignored or misinterpreted.

“Your destiny is just ahead.”

“Should I turn left or right?”

“Follow your heart.”

“Left or right, damnit?!”

So, here I am.

“If you are here, come forth!” said Madame Luanne.

That's my cue. By the way, I wasn't stalling. She really takes this long to summon me. It's part of the show.

“What?” I asked in a sharp tone. My daughter got that from me.

“Spirits of the deceased... are you there?”

“Yes! Let's get this over, already!”

Eternity has not taught me how to be patient. It should have, but it hasn't.

“This is Humming Bird Bull...”

“Humming...” I tried to repeat the name, but I wasn't able to stop chuckling. “What kind of a name is that?”

“He wants to give one message to his father.”

“What's his name?”

“Jonathan.”

“That sure narrows it down.”

“Jonathan Bull.”

“I know who he is. Gimme a second.”

As I instantly traveled through the spirit realm, Madame Luanne tried to make small talk about the weather. Since the traveling took only an instant, she barely managed to utter a simple “So...” before I was able to find Jonathan Bull.

Hey, Joe!

Cathy! What's up?

Your son wants a word with you.

Again? Can't I have some peace?

Don't be like that. He says it's the last time.

He always says that. It never is. Besides, I don't think I'm his real father. Can't you tell him I'm no longer here?

What d'you mean? That you “passed over” or something?

I'm sure he would fall for it. He's that gullible.

I'm not very comfortable with lying.

Only delivering half truths, right?

I said nothing.

Fine... Take me to him.

And so I did.

While the son delivers his final message to his father, allow me to offer some comment on the lack of physical descriptions, both in terms of characters and of space. We are spirits without form, only voice, wandering in an endless white world. It's dull. But it saves us a lot of time with decorating and cleaning and picking out what to wear.

Sounds disappointing? Now you know why I stayed around so much, although I didn't have much of a spiritual participation until the end of season 4. I'd been one of the voices since I died. The third time, I mean. 1975, if I'm not mistaken. Raines' bullet got lodged in my brain, turned me into a vegetable, but it did not kill me. (The same thing happened to Mr. Parker, so it's not unheard of.)

Surprisingly enough, I died of natural causes. Of course, none of this matters – just stuff that would have been revealed if seasons 5 and 6 ever got made. Here's another revelation: Mr. Parker's mustache? It's fake. How trustworthy can a man with a fake mustache be?

Cathy! I'm all done!

Be with you in a minute, Joe!

I have to go now. Sorry for the lack of excitement in my story, but it's difficult to build danger with nothing but emptiness and silence. At least, now we can rest assured that The Centre is finally go--

XX – THE CENTRE

From art-deco to *#@!

A long time ago I used to be a building, now I'm a pile of bricks. My shape remains the same, but my guts are all twisted. Ever since the day that landlord came to shut me down that I have dreams about a wrecking ball hitting me until there's nothing left but rubble.

I housed the most powerful secret criminal organization in the world for nearly a century! Now I have aisles with lady's accessories, detergents, a kid's section and a butcher's corner. It's a drop off! I used to have a sort of a butcher's corner and a kid's sections, but not like this. The first was the place where Raines or Cox played with their victims; the other was where they stored the kids. You know, for the experiments.

Ah... I can still feel the sound of their cries of pain and fear trapped inside my walls. Of course, all those walls were brought down and replaced with plaster, so all I can feel right now is as real as Lyle's hair. I almost preferred to be a public toilet instead of this.

How I wish someone would just blow me out of my misery...

FINITO