With the orange striped bobber surfing small ripples on the amber painted pond just below two pairs of dangling feet, the towheaded youngster held the cork handled pole in the hollows of his hands and squinted through the setting rays up towards the wrinkly face of the man sitting next to him on the pier.

"What was the gowaitest thing in your whife, Gwampy?" the chap calmly asked.

The old man humbly smiled, gingerly removed the floppy, lure-littered hat off his bald head with his thick, crooked fingers and delicately held it near his lap like he had just entered the doors of a church. The Korean War hero was slightly taken aback that a four year old, freckle-faced boy had the astuteness to start a conversation that didn't revolve around toys or firefighters and that he asked such a powerful question on top of it.

Looking around at the fading sun and the autumn's burnt leaves, the old man muddled his teeth around in his mouth and pondered the question.

"This", he replied seconds later, with crumbs of chocolate chip cookies falling out of his mouth.

"You, sitting right here beside me has made my life complete." he said, as he softly ruffled the boys floppy hair with tears taking the corners of his eyes prisoner.

The lights dimming--dimmer now--until only a circular glow in the bulb frizzles on the fritz. This is a baby step for the man only called John by an enabler, his mother, his only friend. "Junior Mint" stood in front of a full-length, full-width mirror, facing himself. Those classmates were vicious little fuckers, but damn it were they honest and they had the hindsight to predicted this predicament so long ago. Childhood unforgotten, but placed on the back-burner for now--not to dare spoil this monumental moment. A moment as huge as his size and one he wanted never to forget. For years he neglected his own eye-contact, like a dog caught in the act of chewing his master's slippers. There he was now, boxed in, when he would've heaped over the edges if there were only more glass. He searched above the stretched-out collar of his ripped, mustard stained 5XL t-shirt and just below his jiggly, second chin. But his puffy fingers found no zipper. There would be no unzipping this suit of flesh. No wiggling it down until it reached his swollen feet and then crashed to the floor in a bouncy thump, just seconds before his true self could jump out and shout "Voilà!" No, it wasn't going to be that simple. He was going to have to earn the transformationon and he couldn't wait to start.

The white linen captured the musky funk of the young couple's morning romp like a Ziplock bag sealed in freshness. With stiff, hotel pillows wedged in between loose flesh and the squeaky headboard, a petite hand immerged from the downy wonderland. The strawberry-blonde girl giggled, sat up and then pulled the sheet over her wild bed-head in a blissful swoop. If there were two holes cut in the fabric, she would've seen her ghostly reflection in the mirrior across the room and winked at it. Getting him to fall in love with her was tougher than a Wal-mart steak, but now, in all that's wrong with the infidelity; she felt so right. 

CONT'D 

...Milo was on the cusp of greatness, if that meant becoming a madman. He plunged the key into the lock of the smooth wooden crate and gave it a swift crank. The cigar box sized box opened with a cracking sound that took his memory back to the first home run he ever hit in little league. He slowly erected the oak lid like he was opening the tomb of the most treasured Egyptian king. But the glow that reflected in his glazed over eyes wasn't from gold. It was from a piece of cold steel that he would use to start his rampage.

As he held the pistol in his plump, blood stained hand, he thought how timely it was it of 'him' to pull into the driveway to help her move out her belongings. His verson of welcoming a guest into his home was going to be quite different than a smiley handshake.

Milo Masterson was just as livid as he was devastated. He stormed out of the hallway where her bags were packed and into the two car garage; the only piece of land she didn’t conquer in his country. He rested his portly hands on the fat that occupied the spot where his boney hips once protruded and looked at various sections of drywall, perplexed.

"How could she do this to me?" he muttered for only a fly on the wall to hear.

In a fit of rage, he wobbled over to a tool chest that was located along the back wall and produced a silver key from the top drawer. He looked the key over in his palm and then clentched his fingers tightly around it until it began to dig into his flesh.

As he stood there, befuddled and bleeding, he never realized he was only moments away from opening Pandora's box.

She closed the storm door behind her with an encouraging shove and sarcastically smiled at him with a spec of pepper wedged in between the two front teeth of her dentures. He had a hard time deliberating on what to shy away from, the pepper or the smugged stain of cranberry sauce on her orange Cashmere sweater. 

As she stood there glaring at him; huge, fluffy snowflakes started collecting in her curly platinum hair and he hardily noticed the contrast of white on white. She looked down at him with discouragement sneaking past her two gray cataracts and muttered in her smokers voice "Next year, why don't you bring your ex-wife. I think she's what I like the best about you."

She hobbled back into the red brick home, leaving her son alone at the end of the concrete steps. He rubbed his stubbly chin with his stained red fingers and wondered if that meant that he wasn't going to be invited to Christmas next month.

A haze covered the desolate field near the old red barn. But it wasn't smoke or fog. It was the kind of muggy morning where you could actually see the humidity in Wichita. That's where Rory was tending to over 10,000 honey bee's when the phone began to vibrate in his pocket. He walked away from the white square boxes that colonized the hardest workers on the planet and set the smoke canister down next to his tattered boots. He righted himself and pulled the sheer veil net away from his face before removing the yellow bee hat off his wavy, auburn hair. The cell continued to pulsate as sweat beaded across his forehead like a Slurpee cup left on a dashboard. He wiped his brow with a sleave of flannel and the dense fabric soaked up the sweat like a paper towel erased spills. He had gotten so use to the random stings on his arms that he abandoned the protective suit a long time ago. But none of them could've prepaired him for the sting he was about to recieve when he answered this sad call.

It took over two packs of menthol cigarettes and all the daylight April 14th could provide for Rory Shannahan to figure it all out. With the deadbolt locked and all the cheap, nicotine stained curtains in his stuffy apartment hiding him from the world, he wrote the last few lines of his suicide letter...

the Zolfoft superheroI've becomesleep my life awayjust another stupid daythe telephone is ringing off the walltoo far down the hallcouldn't care who calls

...As he re-read his words on the tear spattered paper, he thought they had the makings of a good chorus if there was a funky enough baseline strolling behind it. He knew his mother wouldn't hear the music when she pulls the note free of his lifeless grip and gives it a read, and it made him smile devilishly.