Day 243 - Revenge Story

Revenge Story

Matthew Ryan Fischer

Tragedy, pain and loss. One man suffered them all. One man suffered tragedy, another man made opportunity. One man had loss, another man had gain. The man of tragedy and the man that caused it. The world was unfair and unfair things happened all the time.

The man of loss saw his wife bleed, his house ransacked and his life left in ruins. The man of tragedy and loss and the man of death and destruction. The man of loss had no recourse. He was not a strong man. He had no resources. He had no way.

The man of resource watched and listened and learned. The man of resource judged. He made plans. He waited until the time was right. The man of loss was approached by the man of resource and offered a way to make himself useful.

The man of resource took it upon himself to do the deeds that other men could not. He took it upon himself to commit the crimes, to create the punishments, to make other men suffer. The man of resource was a man of vengeance.  He had his own secrets. He had a past, but his past was not what was to be discussed. The man of resources had money and means and a desire to watch people burn. He wanted to make people pay. He wanted to destroy. He told himself he was only after what was right. He wasn’t out to destroy, only to make the people that deserved to pay, pay. The man of resource was on a holy crusade.

The man that caused tragedy was captured, beaten and tortured. The man of resource caused it, took part in it and enjoyed it. He enjoyed it very much.

The man of loss was brought to see. The man of loss was given a chance to participate. The man of loss liked to watch, but he couldn’t bring himself to enjoy anything more.

After it was over, the men discussed their options. The man of resource had the plan and desire to do so much more. There were too many things wrong in the world and he was determined to make them right. The man of loss was caught up in the emotional righteousness and agreed to help.

Many evil men were found and many evil men were killed.

The bloodletting was awesome. It was addictive.

Many evil men died. Many. As part of a righteous crusade. And then eventually just many men. The killing took hold and the killing became the point and the killing became more and more.

One man became anger while another had become sorrow. The anger spilled out and infected the others. One man was a revenge enabler, the other just a susceptible clay to be molded.

One man questioned what they had become. The other wouldn’t let him leave. A gun fired. Then another. But who shot first? And who shot who? Both men slipped to the ground, bleeding. It didn’t matter.

Day 242 - Rat Story

Rat Story

Matthew Ryan Fischer

He had been called many many names, “Ronald the Rat,” “Ratman Ronald,” or “Ron the Rat Man.” Ronald did not enjoy any of them. He took his job seriously and he didn’t appreciate any of the jokes. Everyone knew Ron’s job was serious, but no one could take it too seriously or leave him alone. Ron was in charge of the rats. They were operated on, tested, trained and sent out into the world. Ron realized what his job sounded like – it sounded as if he was a modern day pied piper of sorts. He supposed things could be worse; people could be calling him that or singing one of the many songs and giving him copies of Crispian St. Peters’ music. It was very easy to make jokes. Ronald hated the jokes. It almost made him hate the rats he worked with. Almost.

In the beginning Ronald loved the rats and loved the project. Loved it so much he didn’t mind the jokes and often didn’t even hear them. It was science. Brainwave scans and signals and rebroadcasted thoughts. It was telepathy. Rat telepathy. It was really amazing. Ronald was military, but he had always had a fascination with science fiction. When he first heard about the idea he was hooked. He knew it was something he wanted to be involved in. He fought for the position. He begged and called in favors and was eventually reassigned.

Ronald began by taking care of the rats. He grew quite fond of them. They were his pets. His life. They became his friends. But that wasn’t what they were built for. Their brains had implants to receive signals that could be registered and turned into movement orders. There was a lot of work also being done with Transcranial focused ultrasound, but Ronald trusted the implants to work more reliably, especially over a great distance. The rats were going to be spread out all over the world. The signals needed to be reliable over a great distance.

Ronald trained and found himself in a position to also manage the movements of his rats. They were his thoughts. They were his commands. In a way they were his actions around the world. Spy craft. Espionage. Assassination. The rats did it all. They could get in nearly anywhere. They could find the hardest to find fugitives. Some were equipped with disease. Others with explosives. Ronald saw it all and could control it all. It was a little too easy. It was a little too fun. It was a little like a video game. Ronald killed a lot of people in the name of all that was holy and honorable and right, and yet it was a little too dehumanized and twisted. Ronald didn’t care about what he was doing.

Ronald cared when they took the man out of the equation. It was determined that a computer could do the job better and more efficiently, no human decision-making required.

Ronald made a decision. For some reason it didn’t bother him that he had been sending them to die, somewhat because he was still there, still a part of it, still in control of their fates. Like a madman father, he still cared enough to be a part of their destruction. It really bothered him that he had been removed from the control seat, that they had been stolen from him. It broke his heart a little. So he decided to break the military’s little science experiment. He sent a final signal and set his rats free.

Day 241 - Reap Story

Reap Story

Matthew Ryan Fischer

In life Jonas had never given much thought to the idiom “you reap what you sow.” In death he gave it extended consideration. He certainly had enough time on his hands to give. In life Jonas had walked the walk of evil men. He had lied and cheated and stolen. He was a boozehound and a gambler. He was also a killer. It was the killing that would set the tone for his afterlife. In life he hadn’t given it much thought. He had taken jobs and he had performed them admirably. He didn’t think twice about the ramifications. He didn’t worry about fate or karma or justice or sin. He believed in getting paid a lot of money to do a job and then doing it precisely. He was cold and efficient. He didn’t blink. He didn’t miss. He was a good killer. For that he was rewarded handsomely in life; for that he was rewarded malevolently in the afterlife.

It was called the harvest and for each harvest there was a harvester – the Harvester of the Soul. The Harvester found those that deserved to be punished and dragged them kicking and screaming to be tortured in hell. The rules were different during the harvest. No one needed to die in order to be harvested. It was a feeding frenzy. There was spiritual blood in the water and the Harvester was the shark. They didn’t necessarily take the most evil of evil men or the most depraved of depraved souls. They took tasty souls or souls they could do something with. The harvest wasn’t about justice or retribution. It was a harvest and like any other harvest it was a matter of reaping at the right time.

Jonas was an evil man and had been for most of his life, but his harvest didn’t come until his forty-third year. He hadn’t done anything especially bad that year or that day in particular; it was just his time. The harvest came and Jonas paid the price.

Jonas was sorted, processed and packed away, frozen, held until the next spiritual equinox. There was no hellfire. There were no demons or damnation. No, nothing like that for Jonas. The worst punishment possible was for Jonas to get to do nothing. That was torture in itself. But talent wasted was torture for the man of talent and in a way for the torturer as well. The Harvested hated to see talent go unfulfilled. Jonas was a man of talent and men of talent have their uses, no matter whom or what they were. Jonas was a man of talent and the Harvester knew how to recognize and use talent. Even in the afterlife, men of talent get a chance to use it.

There was no redemption for this wicked, but not all of the wicked wanted to be redeemed. When it was time for hunting season, Jonas would be unlocked and set free to run wild. He was stored, but he would get his chance to hunt and to do what he did – kill and kill precisely. All Jonas had to do was wait his turn. Waiting was the hard part. He had never been a patient man in life. But here he was learning. In life he had profited from his abilities, but here he was truly recognized for being what he was. In many ways he had earned his keep and learned his lesson – that a talent was recognized no matter what the talent was, and that he truly had gotten just exactly what he deserved.

Day 240 - Sunday Story

Sunday Story

Matthew Ryan Fischer

It was Sunday morning. Someone somewhere was in church. There were probably lots of people in churches or temples or mosques or similar such places of worship. Frank didn’t know about that, but he figured a town like Albuquerque would have plenty of good God-fearing types in houses of worship. It was Sunday morning after all. That’s what good people did. Frank was not in church. Not that he considered himself a bad guy, but he knew that maybe he was.

Frank looked at himself in the mirror, shirt unbuttoned and hanging open, revealing his stained tank top from the night before. He hated all the grey that returned his gaze. Grey on his chest. Grey on his cheeks. There even seemed to be grey on his ears and in his eyebrows. He wished he had a pair of tweezers. He would fix some of it. He was glad he didn’t have any tweezers. He would probably end up without eyebrows if he wasn’t careful. He hated his eyebrows. He didn’t know why people had them. Evolution should have taken care of that by now. Women had it lucky. They could shave theirs and draw in anything they wanted.

Out in the hotel room his friend Hank slept, snoring and grunting like a man with a great sickness. Frank wondered how he ever got any sleep when he was with Hank. Frank had not gotten any sleep at all the night before, but that wasn’t because of Hank’s snoring.

Frank and Hank. What an unfortunate pairing of names, but they were best friends. They both liked it when they were in their twenties and wanted to flirt with women. There was something much less appealing and more pathetic about it years later. Frank told himself to tell Hank that they were going to start calling him Henry. Frank was pretty sure he’d forget to remember by the time Hank was awake.

They had been driving all day the day before. Two aging men trying to recapture some sort of youthful glory by hitting the road and driving cross-country. Frank was pretty sure that must seem pretty sad and pathetic too. Young people got to ignore society and it was considered romantic. A middle aged man doing the same meant there was something wrong with them and they never properly grew up. Frank was pretty sure that the imaginary people attending his imaginary churches would agree. They would probably see him as some sort of condemned heathen man-child. Frank didn’t stop to wonder why he was always assuming others would be so quick to judge him.

Earlier that morning as he stumbled back towards his hotel, he had found himself outside of a fast-food restaurant. It couldn’t have been even 6am. The sun was barely up. Frank wondered how the restaurant was open so early. Maybe it was open twenty-four hours. Either way, Frank was able to satisfy his late-night half-drunken craving for greasy food.

It was while he was eating his third sausage and egg sandwich that his brain started to function properly again. That was when he noticed the couple sitting at a booth on the opposite side of the room from him. They were obviously still drunk from the night before. They kissed. Then made out. Then the man reached one hand inside her shirt and the other disappeared beneath the table.  Frank wondered if they realized he was in the room with them. Obviously they didn’t care.

This was when Frank first realized it was Sunday morning and people would be going to church soon. Here he was in a grease pit watching two people attempt to ignore all social niceties and decorum and someone somewhere was getting up and getting ready to go to church. Other people were probably confessing sins, not adding to the list. This didn’t stop Frank from watching for a little too long. It was a very strange sight to see.

Frank had eventually wandered back to the hotel where Hank slept and snored. Frank eventually gave up his bathroom reflections and woke his friend up.

 It was time to hit the road. It was time for the adventure to continue.

“Where were you last night?” asked Hank.

“Around. Things at the bar turned out okay after you left.”

“I guess so. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I just got back about an hour ago.”

“Fuck. So you’re awake and ready to go.”

“Had my coffee and sausage and everything.”

“You think they’re still serving the continental breakfast?”

“In this dump? I don’t think they do that.”

“Fuck.”

“I’ll drive you somewhere on the way out of town. Come on. We want to hit Vegas by night.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Hank slowly rolled out of bed and started to get dressed.

“What about her?”

Frank motioned towards Hank’s bed. Hank looked back, like he had forgotten that she was even there.

“Who, her? Let her sleep. I don’t remember her name anyway.”

Frank and Hank packed their bags and made their way towards the door. It was Sunday and somewhere good people were going about their business doing good upstanding things. Frank tried to put that out of his mind. He had hours ahead of him on the road to think about all the things he had done wrong. He didn’t need to get started quite so soon.

Day 239 - Lonely Story

Lonely Story

Matthew Ryan Fischer

Arnold had a sinkhole where his heart used to be. One day Emily was there, and the next she wasn’t. Nothing was the same after that. It was the defining moment of his existence. There was before the end and there was after the end. That was the only division that mattered. That was the division that determined everything.

The sinkhole formed overnight and it dragged everything down with it – love, happiness, joy, energy, desire and a million other emotions. They all fell into the pit of despair. He was left numb – a state of empty emotion and a state of indifference.

It wasn’t her fault. He knew it wasn’t her fault. He made the sinkhole. He lived in the sinkhole. Those were all choices. He just didn’t know how to undo them.

Arnold loved women. He loved a lot of women. He couldn’t properly remember ‘before,’ but he was fairly certain he had that naïveté all youth possess when they haven’t really known love. They have wild emotional states and it’s dramatic, but it isn’t really love. He had had those mood swings, jealousy, lust, rage and all the rest. He had what in the moment seemed special and unique, but in retrospect is obvious to just be one more commonality amongst the human condition. He knew the ‘after’ pretty well. He was still living the ‘after.’ During the ‘after’ period he continued to physically love women, but forgot all about what the emotion felt like. He had an emotional sinkhole and tried to fill it with strange and random vaginas, the way too many people tried far too often, and had the same limited success.

Arnold was looking for salvation. He was looking for one of them to be his savior. He had a sinkhole where his heart should be and he expected them to somehow fill it for him.

The mornings were lonely. The nights were lonely. Lying in an empty bed was lonely. Lying next to a strange woman was lonely.

Arnold had a dream that seemed like white noise and a serene void that was neither here nor there, but was connected to space and time and all creation. The world was fuzz and crackles like an old TV that couldn’t find a signal or a record with grooves too rough. The dream was a moment. It was a feeling. It was a blur. Arnold woke up and kept an ounce of that serenity. The morning was very Zen. The night was one too many drinks and one too few bad pickup lines. He wandered the streets, drunk, stumbling, barely able to find his way. He was amazed he had found his way home at all. That night he couldn’t remember his dreams. That morning he was rotten and he sank lower than before.

Arnold immediately fixed himself a drink to try to curb the pounding in his head. He sat on his couch and tried to will himself to fill the void. He told himself to do it. He envisioned it. He negotiated and bribed himself. He told himself everything he wanted to hear.

None of it was true. None of it filled the hole.

He lay down on the bed and stayed there for a very long time. He hoped for salvation but didn’t know how to work for it. He hoped the hole would fill on its own. He drank another drink and helped whatever footing had been made to just slide away along with the drunken despair.

The sinkhole got worse, but Arnold slept. The sinkhole consumed him, so he just wept. He didn’t even bother to reach for it. He was comfortable in the hole. He didn’t want to get out. He couldn’t see the top anymore. The darkness was his new home. The darkness was all around him. He just lay there and slept, not knowing what else to do. No one came to find him. No one knew the sinkhole was there or that he was trapped. He hadn’t told anyone. He hadn’t tried. Instead Arnold slept.