Current Transmissions:



I am who I am.

The fall of Saigon was nothing compared to this. His head swimming with a current of alcohol. He wasn't sure what was going on but he knew that his mind was quiet and foggy like a pre-dawn London.

Max lay in the motel room, naked and sweating, watching the ceiling fan rotating around and around and around and around. He felt like Martin Sheen filming his part in a Francis Ford Coppola movie before the big bug out.

Am I mad?

His attention diverted as an naked woman strolled from the other room. Max looked up at the ceiling fan again.

This must be hell.

In the other room he could hear the sounds of lust emanating from a half-open door. Some girl was telling some guy that she loved it like that. Max closed his eyes, his mind drifting millions of realities away.

"Yo Max."

Max's eyes flickered open. Momentarily lost in the void, he was laying on a couch with the remote in hand.

"Yes?" Max questioned Frank.

"I'm going out to grab a java, wanted to know if you wanted one?" Frank asked. He was slipping into his loafers.

"Java?" Max said; he was still trying to grasp the scene change. "How long was I here?"

"All night bud," Frank replied; he stood up and grabbed his jacket. "You want anything?"

"Ummm," Max began, he swung his feet onto the floor. "I'll think I'll tag along."