A Rude Awakening

Max sat on the edge of the building and he thought he heard someone call his name. He leaned forward just a bit to get a better view. He was falling. An endless fall, no escape until he hit the ground.

He awoke without a scream, sweat covered his body like an oil. He hadn't had a dream like this since he was a kid. And he wondered why it came back.

"Hope it was a good trip, that was a nice fall?" a voice said from the corner of the room. Max looked around, his gun appeared in his hand like quicksilver.

He noticed the two standing in his room, a fellow and girl; looked like they were in their early 20's. The fellow looked like a corporate bigwig in a power suit, the girl was a throwback from The Who's Mod fans.

"Hello Max," the two chorused as one. "We know you Max. We've been tagging along in your escapades, always one step behind. We took a gamble and made a shortcut."

He lowered the gun and smiled.

Mirror Mirror

"What's happening to me?" Max whispered to his reflection in the mirror. He was unsteady and placed his arms out for support. He had a sense of vertigo, as if he was becoming two-dimensional instead of three.

"Your true path is beginning to emerge," his reflection said back at him.

Max looked up in the mirror. He wondered if he had said that. Maybe he was going crazy, after all. He was covered in sweat and was leaning forward on the sink. He reached up and touched the cool reflected surface. Was he having a momentary lapse of pure unreasoning, his mind wandering, fading in and out like realities on the edge of a match.

"You're not going crazy," his reflection assured him. "You were a volunteer of Project 52. There's something going on, but you are unsure what it is."

He studied himself in the mirror. But he wasn't quite sure if it was him staring back. He could see the image, but it would change in a glimpse. At one moment he saw an actor starring back at him, as if his life was being portrayed as a serial drama, being watched or read by some unseen forces.

"It's much more than that," his reflection told him. "Your journey is being documented in little fragments so that others can see what your paths have led you to."

Manor of Speaking

Angst stared up at the ceiling and marveled at how high it was. "It's like some mini-mall in here, isn't it?" 

She seemed out of place in her cheerleader outfit, holding a glock. She moved, however, as if she was a veteran police officer walking through a crime scene. For a young woman she was well beyond her years in wisdom. Her hand wiped along the bannister of the stairs, picking up years of dust. 

"It's like that house in the first Resident Evil game," Max said as he looked around. "You know when the STAR agents are chased into the mansion by those demonic-looking wolfers." He was scanning the room, his mind keen and sharp, taking in anyplace where anyone could hide and pop out. Paranoia or years of conflict, or both.

Angst looked at Max and smiled. "Everything is a game to you, isn't it?"

Max paused for a moment and then added, "Not at first."

Internetally Speaking

The glass tumbled off the tray and zeroed in on the floor. Before it impacted and shattered, Mags' hand caught it and she placed it on the table. The liquid cargo of the container was lost though, jettisoned.

"So sorry," the waitress said. She had been trying to juggle a few plates and cups in her hands. 

"I know the score," Mags told her. 

The waitress picked up the glass and walked back to the counter. Mags turned her attention back to the laptop sitting before her, fingers dancing across the keyboard like angels in the night.

She was searching the internet. Trying to locate something, some weirdness that was happening around the world. Trying to pinpoint exactly where she might be able to locate the weirdness central.

A dog with two heads in Missouri. A baby that was the spitting image of Elvis born in Canada. Jesus' face appearing on a toaster oven in Mexico. Ninjas attack brothel in Seattle. She scanned each of these items looking for a clue, looking for something to jump right out at her.

"Eureka," she whispered, as she found the something. Elvis spotted at Canadian border. She was heading for Canada. That was two references with Elvis and Canada: she had found the trail.

Can You Tell Me Who I Am

The hobbit didn't know what hit him. His brain felt as if it was on fire and there was nothing he could do to put it out. He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs, to shake the feeling like he was wandering down a long dark tunnel.

He brought his stubby hands to his face; they felt numb, as if he had fallen asleep on them. His brain still felt like some kind of spell was trying to confuse him. Maybe that was what was happening.

The hobbit staggered from the dizziness; he really didn't know what was going on. He thought he had heard a voice whisper in his ear, and since then it felt as if some spellcaster had entrapped him somehow.

"No, that's not it," the voice whispered softly in his ear. 

The voice seemed familiar but he couldn't place it. He figured it was one of his companions playing a trick on him. But they were all in plain sight. Maybe one of them was throwing their voice, so he watched their faces.

"You okay, Virian?" the gentle fighter known as Amber asked.

"Virian. Is that my name?" the hobbit muttered. "Virian. No..."

Am I Virian? the hobbit thought to himself. I think so.

Amber stood beside him. She took out her waterskin and handed it to him. A look of concern crossed her face like a shadow from a tree.

"Thanks, Mags," the hobbit said.

"Amber," the warrior corrected him. "And who is this Mags?"

"I don't know," the hobbit said. A more puzzled look crept across his face. "Am I being played?"

The Coffee at Ling's Lotus Palace

The grungy looking punk with the skateboard sat at a booth by himself. The one thing that looked out of the ordinary was the bible plopped down before him. He had a dinner of chicken fried rice and some sweet and sour ribs on a plate, yet he hardly touched it.

"What you reading?" Max asked the kid. He had emerged from the bathroom, saw the bible and paused to make conversation; he had this feeling that the kid might be involved in something that might be happening.

The punk looked startled at first; he closed the book and looked at the man standing before him. Then he slid the bible back into his trenchcoat, and picked up his chopsticks.

"Ummm," the kid started, trying to figure out what angle this stranger was working. "Just doing some research actually. For a thesis. That's all."

Impressed, Max nodded, turned and took his spot down at the counter. The old woman placed a new cup of coffee before him. Max had left his cigarettes on the counter; he opened them up and took out a smoke.

Three Tongs came through the front door and up to the cash register.

"Bù, nǐ zuótiān lái. Zuótiān nǐ ná qián," the old woman said nervously.

"Ń, zhè shì zuótiān," the leader of the Tongs said with a wicked smile. "Jīntiān shì xīn de yītiān."

"Méiyǒu, yīdàn xīngqí. Xiéyì." The woman sounded desperate.

"Kàn biǎo zi," the leader said angrily. "Wǒ hé nánshēng xiǎng qǔdé yīxiē huà hén. Gěi wǒmen de qián, wǒmen bù huì dǎrǎo nǐ xià zhōu."

"Wǒ méiyǒu qián."

The leader was about to say something, but that's when a huge bald man in a leather jacket stepped up from a nearby table. He held a badge in his hand to show the punks who they were about to deal with. "Is there anything going on here?"

Max glanced at the cop and nodded. That fellow too, he's here for a reason as well, he thought as he sipped his coffee.

"Nothing at all, just mistook this place for something else," the leader said. He looked at the cop with disgust. He knew this one by rep: a real hard-ass honest cop.

"Yeah, something classier," one of his boys added in. They backed out of the store and ran down the street.

The cop turned to the old woman and asked, "How long have they been shaking you down?"

The old woman looked up and shook her head; she was scared.

Years of combat duty and several more years on the force had honed Dexter Washington's reactions. As soon as he heard the squeal of tires he dove behind the counter, taking the old woman down, right before hundreds upon hundreds of rounds came a calling.

The front window imploded and let in a special delivery of hot lead. Everyone was taking cover, ducking under tables.

Max just sat there as bullets destroyed everything they touched. As he reached for his coffee, bullets danced along the counter, and hit the area where Max's coffee had been sitting. He brought the mug to his lips.

Damn, Max thought, that is one good cup of java.

Deep Woods Off

Beyond the horizon, artillery roared. Maggie couldn't stop to yawn, but she was tired. She had been on the go for the past 78 hours and it was starting to take it's toll on her.

With no rest, she had been like a machine. It had been non-stop since the shift had come. Unlike a machine though, she was flesh and blood, and they eventually craved a break.

She leaned up against a tree, catching her breath. From her rucksack a feline head poked up.

"You tired?" Trump asked.

"Yeah," Mags said. "My body is telling me that it's time to cash out for a while."

Trump looked around and he replied, "That seems to be no option at the moment."

Mags nodded. She could hear the sounds of approaching feet as well. "You hold on there, I will get us out of here."

"I know you will, Maggie," the cat said.

She moved forward into the woods, as the shuffling feet of thousands of zombies proceeded to amble towards her.

In a Park on a Lark

The sensation that he was covered with dew was the first inclination that he was outside. The second sensation was that he was naked.

"Now what?" he muttered to himself as he cracked open his eyes into the morning light.

Max awoke in the park; he was lying face up looking at a morning sky. He brought his hands to his face to shield his eyes from the brightness and that's when he noticed that he was covered in tattoos.

He paused. He stared at the tattoos for a bit longer and noticed that they were swirling on his skin. He watched as they moved about, like water on a shore.

"This is new," he whispered. He was fascinated with the dancing patterns on his skin.

Secret Society Part Two

Garner pulled the car over and slid out into the misty urban night, blurred like an electronic Monet print. Black pants and a wide-collar leather coat, thigh-length. Miranda stepped towards him from the diner's vaseline-on-the-lens window, beginning a wave hello then cutting it short, an edit of regret. She was in wine-colored pants, flared from the shin, a cozy cloud-cut jacket, trying to assume a casual but intent posture.

Garner smiled warmly, a relaxing expression, and gestured her into the diner.

"I thought we were just meeting here, to go..." She held the door open for him. Garner's smile shifted into teacher-to-student amusement, slightly patronizing. Miranda checked herself from pouting.

Seated at the counter, Garner ordered a coffee.

Miranda said, "I thought we were supposed to avoid caffeine."

"Different diets for different effects," he responded and she ordered coffee for herself. "Don't take off your jacket," he added, catching her in mid-motion. "We want the appearance of concealing things."

Miranda leaned forward. "Is this fieldwork?" The quiet excitement in her voice. Garner smiled again.

"Not yet. Relax."

As Foggy as Can Be

He was in a world of hurt and he knew it. Looking up from the bottom of the sea, he could see the distant light of the sun shining down upon him. He should be dead, he thought. He knew his bones were broken. He had been thrown from an airplane and had fallen into the sea.

The pain was intense. He thought he was dead as he floated down to the bottom of the sea, but his mind still functioned.

"Test subject 13-56-C is remarkable," he heard a voice say. It sounded like it was coming from a line through a tin can.

Max looked around. He knew that if he opened his mouth and called out a sea of salt would come in and drown him. But he couldn't understand how he was holding his breath for this long...

He was floating there, like a bump on a log. Waiting for death to take him, but why was death taking his time? Why must he suffer like this? Why?

"Reset the program," he heard the faint voice say. "This time add variable pattern Beta."

Max cracked open his left eye; he thought he saw white blobs in front of him. Could they be jellyfish? He chuckled to himself as a Spongebob Squarepants scene entered his mind. The chuckle made him hurt more; he knew his insides were messed up.

"We are getting active brain patterns, Dr. Morganfokker," a voice said.

"Neural wipe, now!" Morganfokker shouted, just as Max's eyes opened in the chamber.

Max saw through the sea and into a clear tube; he was floating like one of those specimens you see in a jar, the ones you see in a school's biology lab. And like a magical dissolve of a camera effect in a movie, Max awoke in a stateroom.

His eyes flickered open and he took in the sights around him. He was lying in his bed, a shaft of light creeping across the floor like a lightsaber. He attempted to sit up but his head was swimming.

His mind was foggy and felt like he had spent the night out, and why shouldn't it? Wasn't he out last night clubbing? He remembered dancing, and the lights. But there was something else... something he should be remembering, but what?

"Morganfokker," Max whispered, as he sat up in the bed. The name had escaped from his lips like a afterthought.

What the fokk is a Morganfokker? he thought.

Platform Shoes

Mags yawned; she was tired and bored. To quote a 20th century poet: 'the waiting was the hardest part'. She stood on the platform looking bored and checked her watch. It was pretty close to 1 AM. She glanced around and realized that she was alone and looked ever the easy mark. 

Two men approached her, looking thuggish. As they walked past her she didn't give them a second glance. She stood there, looking distracted.

"Yo, bitch," one thug said.

Before he had time to bring up the switchblade, Maggie swung around with her leg and gave him a kick. The thug bent over as his family jewels seemed to explode in their package.

The thug's buddy brought up a gun and before he knew it was missing from his hands. He had a weird expression as he realized that his hand was missing along with the gun. He didn't have time to let out a scream as the katana cut him down.

Thug's buddy's jacket fell open and that's when Mags saw the necklace of ears; it made her even more mad. She hated weird cults.

As the Apple Turnover

Max entered the fast food joint and walked up to the counter. He slid a bill on the table and ordered a strawberry milkshake and an apple turnover. He brought the tray over to a corner table. It had been a long while since he had tasted the artificial flavour of strawberries.

The joint was practically empty, except for an old fellow sitting in a booth, reading a newspaper. And the high-school girl that sat by the front counter, her nose hovering over a book.

He bit into the turnover and savored the taste; it was like coming back home and discovering that Ed McMahon had been standing there waiting to give you an over-sized novelty check for the grand prize.

"Maximillianiski," a voice said. Max looked up and saw Pretty George strolling in. "Of all the fucking places to meet. Why here?"

Max held up the apple turnover. "These things are to die for!"

Pretty George shook his head as he slid into the chair opposite Max. "It's been, like, five years man. I thought you'd be dead by now. What you've been doing, man?"

Max took a sip from the milkshake, and cocked an eye at Pretty George. "It's a long story, and I will let you in on it in a while, but first let's get down to business," Max said as he pulled an enevelope from his pants pocket and laid it on the table before Pretty.

Pretty George nodded and dug into his rucksack. He pulled out a huge novel and put it on the table. He slid it over to Max. "That one's a hot commodity."

The Hunt of the Cube

"Just great," Trump said, sitting in the passenger side of the jeep, as he heard thunder rumbling off in the distance. "This really will put her in the mood."

The door to the gas bar opened; Mags stepped out into the warm summer air, her blood red hair flowing behind her. She wore black baggy shorts and a white tank-top.

"West - that is what the old man said," Mags stated as she strolled across the pavement. She hopped into the jeep; Trump sat in the passenger side licking his paws. She pulled out of the gas bar like a bat out of hell. "He's close by, we still have time to find him," she said as the jeep roared onto the highway. She was so close, so close to him.

"Are you positive that this is him?" asked Trump. "It won't be like the last time? Where you ended up putting two slugs in some guy's head?"

"Not this time," Mags said.