Of

The expected glow of a computer screen conspicuously absent. In its place the shallow hues of old Christmas lights stapled to the walls, so he sits, a basement stoner, on the corpse of a couch, at least as old as he is, in the dull orange light, smoke tendriling up through the hot summer air trapped in the room, deprived of the freedom of midnight breezes, the smoke now pollinating the air, tickling the gentle hairs in the nostrils of those with noses for such things, like the addition of cheese to a burger, that little extra ingredient that makes the whole meal better, or so he tells me, or tries to tell me, but his speech is too slow, too stunted to decipher properly so all I hear is a string of ums and likes and totallys , the true language of those types, sadly content with inferior communicative abilities, unable even to deliver the most basic indication of coherent thought, whereas I have vastly superior skills and a functioning knowledge of human emotion, like the perfect cyborg assassin, programmed with just information to complete the mission, whatever that may be.

Chapter Two

My first contribution to the project. It will be interesting to see how the different writing styles mesh together, if they do at all. I think I can see the plot developing, or at least there are some elements available for plot development now. Or something like that...regardless, I'm eagerly awaiting Chris D.'s chapter.

II

Moments earlier, on the other side of town, in a similar diner (it does, in fact, belong to the same chain of diners as the one in which Derek’s bloody fork will be thrown shortly) similarly occupied, Henry Herman was sitting on a toilet. Specifically, he was sitting on the toilet in the women’s restroom. Henry always used the women’s restroom at this particular diner, not out of some strange fetished programming, but rather because he felt it was cleaner than the masculine equivalent.
So Henry sat, on the toilet, avoiding the return to his booth as best he could. He figured he had about three and a half minutes more before his booth-mates grew too suspicious of his absence. At his booth: Holly (sister), Roland (her husband), and Peter (relationship unknown). Henry despised Roland, largely due to his being in Henry’s class every year of elementary school. Also due to the time in sixth grade when Roland knocked Henry’s fresh-off-the-grill hamburger out if his hand and onto the dirt at Henry’s Backyard Birthday Bash. Mostly due to that time in sixth grade.
When the fork hits Lenny’s chest at the other diner, Henry emerges from the restroom. He walks to his booth, his mind made up: he was leaving.
Hey guys, I’m sorry but I gotta go. Work called. They need me downtown.
You took a phone call while on the shitter? Roland asks.
I never said I had to shit.
Well, you were in there so long. I just assumed.
Thanks, Roland.
You still answered your phone in the bathroom. That’s so gross. Holly frowns, disapprovingly.
Thanks, Holly. Look, I’ve got to go. He tosses a crumpled up ten dollar bill onto the table and walks towards the door.
Don’t forget your sidewalk chalk, Picasso! Roland shouts after him. Henry pretends not to hear and exits the diner. He flips the hood of his sweatshirt over his head and steps out into the rain. A few steps later and he’s fumbling for the keys to his ’96 Honda Civic. A few more steps and he’s at the driver’s side door. He slides the key into the lock and with his knee presses on the door while turning the key and engaging the handle, a ritual necessary to open the antiquated door.
On his way home Henry gets a non-fake business call.
Henry. We need you. 14th and Exeter. Double homicide. Pretty messy.
I’ll be there in five. Henry flips closed his phone, turns the red Civic around and points at the desired intersection.
Four and a half minutes later Henry arrives on the scene. He parks a block away, grabs his pack out of the trunk and heads toward the mass of police officers and medical personnel gathered in the street. His arrival is unnoticed.
Sir. Excuse me, sir. Is detective Lantz here? Henry pulls at the shoulder of a uniformed officer.
Huh? Oh, it’s you. Hey, Lantz, you’re boy’s here. The officer motions at a small group of policemen. Detective Lantz looks back at them.
Hey, Henry, over here.
Henry walks over to the curb where the officers are standing and sets his pack down. The policemen return to their duties, oblivious to Henry’s presence. He opens his pack and extracts the necessary equipment for the task at hand.
What do you think, cyan or cerulean for the pants? he says out loud to no one. He decides to go with the cyan and takes the corresponding stick of chalk out of the large box of multi-colored chalks.
Yes, cyan was the right choice, he says when he finishes tracing around the victim’s tee shirt. Now, is this blood maroon or wine? Or perhaps a combination? When he’s done, Detective Lantz ambles over to check his work.
Christ, Henry, we just need an outline, not a fucking mural.
Yes, sir, but I thought mustard was a good match for victim number two’s shirt.
Keep that shit in art school, son.
Yes, sir.
Alright, then. Thanks for coming out.
Henry replaces his things in his pack and walks back to the Civic.

Teamwork / Chapter One

After much talk between myself and two fellow fictors, a multi-author novel project is now underway. Tentatively titled Check, Please, we're alternating chapters and smashing them together, hopefully with stupendous results. Eric W. stepped up to the plate in the leadoff position, and his contribution, the first chapter, is included below. We'll see how this works out...

I

You heard the man, give him your wallet.
That's not what he said at all.
Two grimaces. The man's skin is pinched at the neck and jawline.
Of course it is, you nit, now give him your wallet.
That's not what I heard you say, is that what you said?
No. I said wallet. Just wallet. A short man, galoshes. An umbrella. The rain, always the rain.
I can't believe this shit. Indignation is hard on most faces, no exception here.
The first man is Derek Unger. He was born in a hospital in Brussels, but only because his father was stationed there in the war. He's bored and his face is pockmarked. He spent years in front of the mirror perfecting a smile that has worked its way into any number of women's pants.
The second is Lush. That's what he tells people when he meets them. He has a pipe that his grandfather gave him from after the same war that Derek's father fought in. The two men have no idea they have this connection. Right now, their concern is with Derek's wallet.
Wallet. The short man repeats himself. His hand is like a badgers paw, maybe a raccoon. Perhaps a badger when it's dry. A raccoon's timidity, in this downpour, it's understandable.
Why would I give you my wallet, will you answer that? Lush's lips smack as he says this. His breath is hot, and there's a hint of chili that makes him feel like the bile is rising in the back of his throat. This doesn't really happen until there's a gun in his mouth. Later.
He doesn't need to explain anything to you, man. Give him your wallet.
Just shut the fuck up, man! I'm asking this guy questions and you keep answering. What do you have to do with this anyway?
Wallet, Derek.
Derek had no idea the short man knew his name. He's visibly surprised. Shaken more than he would have been if the man hadn't know. That's obvious, perhaps, but it works. He hands over his wallet. The shorter man keeps his hands under the protective circle of his umbrella's shade.
Lush has a piece of pipe, of the metal variety, tucked in his jacket, which he brings to bear against Derek’s skull at the completion of the request.
Yeah?
Yeah it's here. The shorter man re-folds a piece of paper he's just finished examining from Derek’s wallet. He drops it into the pocket of his rain jacket.
---
What'll it be gentlemen?
Two eggs, over easy. Grits, hold the hash browns.
How do you want your toast?
Held as well.
No toast?
No toast. Thank you.
And you?
Lush sets his menu back between the ketchup and the mustard. The shorter man orders a coffee and a side of cottage cheese. Lush hates cottage cheese, shakes his head.
And your friend? He doesn't look too hungry. Aspirin?
Yeah, four aspirin. A second glass of water would be nice too. Oh, actually, cranberry juice. Lush loves cranberry juice.
Alright, back in a moment, gentlemen.
Derek’s head droops. He's got a spot of drool at the corner of his mouth. His hood has been forcefully held up to cover the purplish egg rising on his shaved head.
So. Lenny.
The short man is Lenny. Shit-Eating Grin Lenny is what his cousin's called him when they used to play rough at the farm his grandparents owned.
So. Lenny.
Lenny is clearly not paying attention to Derek. He's staring at the spot of drool on Derek’s face.
Clean that off, Lush.
What?
Clean that off. That spot of drool.
Lush checks his lips. Lenny isn't pointed at Derek, and Lush is self-conscious. This is fairly typical. Lenny points at Derek, who's mouth is starting to gape open a bit.
What? Oh. No thanks, man.
Do it.
Fuck you.
Lenny slams his fork into Lush’s hand. Lush yells.
This is a good opportunity to take a gander at the rest of the diner. There are four other patrons, none at the same table. The waitress, Miranda, has her hair in a bun. She loves eating the frosting off of cinnamon rolls and her husband of three years left her for a job in another state. Chasing the dream is how he referenced it when he left her. She's staring at the men’s ticket. Hard.
The three men are now all wide awake (though Lenny remains stone-faced). Derek rips the fork out of his hand and throws it, in a slightly offhand manner, at Lenny who dodges it. Hard to do in a small space. The fork thuds into his chest, and then falls softly onto the padding of Lenny's side of the booth.
It has blood on tips of the prongs.

Avocado

And I kind of hate her now, probably due to the innumerable cold shoulders thrust into my advances, but then she stifles a quiet laugh and instantly I’ve forgotten and forgiven any trespasses and when she bites her lower lip and scrunches her nose I melt a little, content with the scene I’m seeing in my head of the two of us hand in hand exploring a long, bright grocery aisle, a small black basket in my free hand and an avocado in hers as she meticulous inspects the green orb, but by the time she’s done the real her, the one I hated moments ago, is already out the door, down the hallway and off into a world unknown and untouched by even my imagination, and I guess that's fine, for I am much more enamored by the infinite possibilities of the her that is still holding a ripe avocado than the her that just left.