Flash Fiction - Cheerleaders vs. Dragons

Wow, not only has it been nearly three full years since I put anything here.  I didn't even realize it was gonna be dragons twice in a row.  I don't really have anything else to add, just that this is another fiction prompt from over on Terribleminds, to pick two options and have them fight.  Granted the Cheerleader vs. Dragon happens off-screen, but I had fun playing with this.

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The hallway fell silent as the last of the ogres collapsed to the floor.

Jason lowered his sword, the ogre’s protective football gear having done little to protect them from his blows.  Sheathing the blade he felt the balance of the weapon shifting.

‘I’ll have to take it to Metal Shop soon for repairs,’ Jason thought.

Heading down the hall he picked his way past debris, backpacks and books mixed with building rubble.  A locker hung open, the door listing lazily on one hinge, a faded poster of a boy band still clung to the inside, the lipstick kiss faded to a muddy brown.

Out of the gloom an intersection loomed and Jason paused his journey.

To the left lay the Chem lab, the goblins within mixing a fresh batch of acid if the smell was any indication.  To the right was the A/V lounge, the illusionists within able to ensnare those with a weak mind.

Moving slowly, Jason crouched low and slipped through the crossway as stealthily as he could manage, careful to keep his armor, courtesy of the Drama Club, from rattling.

Getting through the pass he let out a sigh and straighten up, resuming his trek.

Until a crunch under his foot caused the hallway to fill with noise.

“BABY, BABY, BABY!!”

Jason looked down and saw the remains of an iphone under his boot, the cracked screen flickering but doing nothing to lower the volume.

A crash from the intersection was all the motivation Jason needed to bolt down the hall.

‘God damn classic rock!’ He cursed.

Charging ahead, heedless of direction Jason focused on keeping distance between himself and the goblins and wizards pursuing him.

He ignored the classrooms, in this part of the building they were too much of a risk.  Rounding a corner, he took a chance and ducked into a closet, quickly closing the door and ducking down out of sight.

Jason heard the horde thunder past, he waited a few minutes longer before relaxing.  Letting out the breath he’d been holding he took a look around his shelter.

It was a janitor’s closet.

And a well-stocked one at that.  Cartons of supplies, jugs of cleaners lined the shelves.  The mop still had a functional head and there was not a speck of dust in sight.

There was only one place in the building he could be.

The Prince preferred his office to be kept completely spotless after all.

Peeking out into the hall Jason did not see any adversaries in either direction.

Slipping back out of the closet he made his way down the hall, away from where the horde had run.

He was nearing his goal, after all these months, nothing was going to stop him now.

Ahead, the hall opened out into a foyer.

Jason crept as close as he dared to the gap and took a look.

At the far end, he could make out the door to the Prince’s office, shattered wood still clung to the frame.

And filling the open space, patrolling the foyer, was the Jani-troll.

Knuckles scraping the floor, the troll lumbered back and forth as much as the limited space allowed.  Dragging a broken broom in one hand and a crushed bottle of cleaner in the other, he occasionally reached up and fumbled with the clasps of his overalls, only for them to fall loose again.

‘No way I can fight him,’ Jason thought.

Looking around the hall for something, anything, that might help, he spied an open locker.  Carefully sneaking over to it he peeked inside.

And found a skateboard.

Jason pulled it out and examined his find.  One of the wheels was wobbly and the paint had long since faded, but it was more than enough for what he needed.

Waiting until the troll turned his back, Jason rushed out into the foyer.  Charging straight at the door to the Prince’s office..

The troll turned at the sound and spotting Jason, raised his club and slammed down at him.

Jason waited until the last possible moment before throwing himself forward onto the skateboard, riding it with his body just above the ground he sped between the troll’s legs and launched himself into the office.

Rolling to his feet Jason drew his sword and called out.

“Prince!” he shouted, “Release her!”

“I’m fine dude, chill.” Tiffany said.

Dumbfounded, Jason took in the sight before him.

Prince lay dead on the floor, the corpse of the massive dragon taking up nearly all the space in the office.  Once pom-pom jammed up it’s nose, the other buried deep in it’s eye.

Tiffany lounged contentedly in the ridges of the beast’s head, not a fold of her cheerleading uniform out of place, calmly filing her nails with a discarded dragon scale.

“Tiffany?” Jason stammered, “You… You killed a dragon?”

She glanced up at Jason before going back to her nails, switching to her other hand.

“What?  Like it’s hard?”

Parentis Draconis

As I was still in a bit of a fantasy mood, I decided to take the challenge about 'Bad Parents' in kind of a fun direction.  Actually my first thought was of a wizard and a succubus, but as I was roughing that out I came up with this instead, and I think this idea works better anyway.

Not much else to say on this one, I think the flow might be a little rough for some of the descriptions, but I couldn't come up with another way of saying it that I liked.  So here it is.

Parentis Draconis

            Lord Renos the Malefic stepped back to admire his work.

            The circle of power all but glowed in the light of the moon, the symbols carved into the earth in front of the mountain.  The mouth of the cavern loomed before him, leading deep into the rock.  In the center of the circle was the virgin sacrifice, slumped against the ropes that bound her tightly to a sturdy post.

            Renos brushed the grime from his robes and lit the torches set around the circle.

            “Unn Koh Eeay Rah,” he chanted.  “Unn Koh Eeay Rah.  Come forward dragon, Beast of Chaos and Pain.”

            Within moments a red glow rose from the depths of the cavern, and a massive gout of flame roared out of the mouth of the cave and into the night sky.

            The head of the great dragon followed, smoke trailing from its nostrils as its horns scraped sparks off the roof of the cave.  Coming forward enough that its shoulders cleared the cavern entrance the beast sat and lowered its head to observe Renos with one massive eye.

            “Really Reginald, are the theatrics necessary?”  She asked.  “This is why you only get custody of Tara every other weekend.”

            “My name is Lord Renos the Malefic,” Reginald huffed.  “I don’t see why that’s so difficult for you to remember, Catryn.”

            “Of course dear,” Catryn said as she ignored him, sweeping her head around to examine the ‘sacrifice’.

            Sniffing she nudged the girl with her beak, “Did you drug her again?”  She asked incredulously, glaring at Reginald.

            He crossed him arms and turned away, “She was being uncooperative, she gets that from you, you know.”

            A hot gust of wind blew his cloak around him.

            “Haven’t I told you,” Catryn’s voice loomed like smoke behind him, “Don’t turn your back on an angry dragon.”

            “Oh my God!” a groan came from the circle.  “Will you two please quit it?”

            Both man and dragon turned to the sound to see Tara struggling against the ropes that held her.

            “Dad!  Stop tying me up, it’s creepy.”  She cursed, shaking dark hair from her face, “And mom, either eat him or roast him, I don’t care which, but stop goading him!”

            “Oh dear,” Catryn raised a claw, “let me help you out of those ropes.”

            “You’ll do no such thing foul beast!” A voice boomed across the valley.

            The family turned to see the source of the shout, and bore witness to a fully-equipped rider bearing down on them.  Lance held high his gleaming plate mail reflected the moonlight and made him stand out in sharp contrast to the shadowed valley.

            “Oh god, not this again.” Tara muttered.

            The rider lowered his lance and charged at both Reginald and Catryn, as much as one can charge a fully grown dragon, both of whom lazily moved out of his path.

            “Ha ha!  Too right!”  The knight cheered as he rode up to Tara, “A moment, fair lady.  I shall set you free so we may ride into the sunset together.”

            “It’s midnight, asshat.”  Tara spat.  “Now go away.”

            The knight seemed taken aback and lifted his visor as his horse pawed nervously at the ground, clearly not enjoying being so near a dragon large enough to eat it whole.

            “But…My Lady,” the knight said, “I’ve come to aid you in your time of need.”

            “What I need,” Tara hissed, “is for helmet brained imbeciles like you to piss off!”

            With her exclamation Tara roared out a blast of fire which, while not nearly as sizable as her mother’s, was more than enough to startle the horse into bucking its rider into the dirt.

            The knight fought to his feet as his horse galloped away, dragging his lance with it.  Undeterred he drew his sword.

            “Clearly this foul sorcerer has cursed you with the essence of his beast.  Fear not, for I shall set you free.”

            Even as he readied his sword to cut the ropes Tara breathed out another stream of flame, burning away the ropes as she directed the fire at the ground beneath the man’s feet.

            As the knight hopped from foot to foot Tara stepped out of the ash and glared at the man, smoke still leaking out from between her teeth in thick wisps.

            “Per- Perhaps I should go retrieve my horse?”  The knight asked, lowering his sword.

            With no answer came beyond the amused huff of the giant dragon the knight turned and fled the circle at what he thought was a controlled march, but came off more as a whimpering scamper.

            Tara blew out a smoke ring, “You two sort your crap out, I’m going to my room.”

            “There’s some leftover cattle in the grotto if you’re hungry dear.”  Catryn called out as Tara disappeared into the darkness of the cave.

            “Thanks mom, good night dad.”

            The parents turned back to each other.

            “You know she’ll never meet a nice boy at this rate.”  Catryn said.

            “Good, no boy is good enough for her.” Reginald said.

            They stood in silence for a moment, listening to the distant sound of the knight calling for his horse.

            “So,” Reginald coughed, “See you in two weeks?”

            “Only because the court ordered it.” Catryn said as she ducked back inside the cave.

            Renos straightened his robes as he walked out into the valley.  His tower was a good distance away and he knew just which horse to steal.

            And just which knight to curse into a toad on the way.

The Rusty Nail

Aaaaand we're back.  I had a few weeks where things were a bit too busy, then a week where I simply fell off the wagon with my writing.

That being said, I'm back!  Pretty simple premise this week, the challenge was to mash together two fiction genres, I took a look at the list and thought back to this group and decided it would be fun to use them again.  (As always, please read that first if you aren't familiar with this cast...and totally not to boost my page views.)

This is actually the product of two weeks worth of pecking at the keyboard...again, kinda fell out of practice.

The Rusty Nail

The tavern’s sign swung in the rain, water sheeting off the wood.  A cloaked figure ducked inside, shutting the door behind them.

Tossing back the hood revealed a young woman who shook off the rain before making her way through the room.

She wove a quick path between the tables, avoiding the roaring hearth where a few patrons were huddled over their drinks.  She settled into a seat in a shadowed corner where a group of four waited.

A rugged man with the scruff of a beard shadowing his face.  A young woman who sat with a noble posture despite the plain cut of her robes.  A man with his head pillowed in his arms, moaning occasionally.  And a young man leaning back in his chair, tuning the strings of his lute.

“It’s quiet,” Sera said as she took the steaming mug Flynt passed her.  “Not many are out in this rain but everyone is gossiping about the death of the queen, no offence my Lady.”

Queen Valentina, or now simply ‘Tina’, acknowledged Sera’s apology with a nod.  Her golden hair darkened to a dirty brown and tied back in a loose braid doing a great deal to disguise her, she motioned Sera to continue.

“There are no rumors then that we have entered the city?”  She asked.

“No my Lady, but we should be careful,“ Sera said.  "Getting close to Duke Weston will be its own challenge."

"Indeed, you're still rather recognizable Tina," Flynt grinned.  "What do you remember of the Weston’s manor?"

Valentina frowned at Flynt's tone, "Not much of value I fear.  I did not have reason to study his security.  I know the layout of the building, but not much else."

"I can go watch the guards, find out their routine?”  Sera suggested, “It’ll take time but-."

Gibson looked up from the table, "I know their routine."

"How do you know their routine?"  Sera asked.

"I was drinking with them last night," Gibson winced at the light.  "We were playing dice and I got them talking about the manor."

"You're terrible at dice." Sera said.

"Which is exactly why they kept talking, and drinking," Gibson smirked.  "They were complaining about having to take extra shifts, seems the Duke is getting paranoid."

"That'll make sneaking in difficult," Flynt frowned.  "We could try scaling the wall during a shift change.  But with five of us-."

Tristan interrupted with the strum of a low chord, "I believe we're overthinking this."  He turned towards Valentina, "Tell me Majesty, how's your singing voice?"

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"This is a terrible plan."  Sera muttered as she crept through the halls of the manor.

"So you've said, repeatedly.  Now be quiet."  Flynt whispered.

They made their way down the halls until they found set of double doors marked with a gold inlay around the frame.

“This is it,” Flynt said as he pulled on the latch but the doors didn’t move.

“Move aside,” Sera tugged a pair of picks from her sleeve.  “Keep an eye out.”

Flynt stepped back to give her space, sweeping his gaze back and forth in the shadowed hallway.  “Make it quick, we’re on a schedule here.” He whispered.

Sera ignored him, twisting the lockpicks around the tumblers until she was met with a satisfying click.  Sliding the doors open she ducked inside, pulling Flynt along behind her.

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“Sera and Flynt will sneak in to the manor through the back gardens,” Tristan pointed at the rough sketch Valentina and Sera had produced.  “Lady Valentina and I will provide a distraction here, in the courtyard.  Gibson, once you hear the signal you’ll stage the ‘attack’.”

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            Gibson knelt in the shadows of a nearby alley, keeping the manor wall in view as he finished readying his arsenal.

            Tying the last of the sulfur and saltpeter packets to his arrows, he lit a small candle and hid the light behind a barrel, shielding it from the view of any patrolling guards.

            When Queen Valentina’s voice began drifting across the night breeze, Gibson lit the first of the fuses and shot the arrow into the dark sky.

            The bright explosion of color was almost as satisfying as the clamor of alarm bells.

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            “Once the Duke thinks he’s under attack he’ll retreat to his chambers.  Gibson will keep the guards busy with more distractions, while you and I sneak away in the confusion.”

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            The moment the first arrow detonated in a burst of light that cast the courtyard in sharp relief, Tristan dropped his lute, letting it swing back behind him.  He grabbed Valentina’s hand as the guards all ran to secure the manor gates.

            “Come Majesty, we don’t have much time.”

            Valentina fell into step beside him as they ran to an unmanned doorway.  Ducking inside they found themselves in the servant’s quarters.

            “This way.”  Valentina took the lead, “The kitchen should be down this hall.”

            As they ran down the hall Sera stepped out from behind a corner, “Come on, quick!”

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            “Flynt will secure the Duke’s chambers while Sera comes and leads us back.”

---------

            Flynt stood in a corner of the room, hidden behind the door as the Duke stumbled inside.

            “Find them!” He shouted.  “We’re under attack you fools!  Get out there and do your jobs!”

            The portly man slammed the door and turned the lock, as he turned away Flynt slid out from the shadows and grabbed hold of him.  Locking the man’s arms to keep him still and pressing a handkerchief over the Duke’s mouth to keep him silent.

            “Just relax, your Lordship, we’re not going to hurt you.”  Flynt said, turning the man to face the back of the room.

            The not-so-secret servant door slid open, revealing Sera, Tristan and Valentina.  Valentina had donned her crown and looked down her nose at the Duke.

            “Duke Emrys of Westboro, I am disappointed you did not recognize me in the courtyard.”  She settled herself in the chair at the Duke’s desk, lacing her fingers in her lap she leaned forward and said, “I believe we need to have a discussion about your allegiance to the crown.”

Weekly writings

That's right!  I got the story done early again.  As I've said, I'm really just loving having the challenges from Terribleminds.  They're a great way to prompt myself to write more consistently, and it's getting easier the more I do it.

The week the challenge was to take five characters from a list of FIFTY!  I used a random number generator to pick some lists, then mixed & matched those until I ended up with something I liked.  I don't know how much it matters, but the five I ended up using are; The friendly musician, the silent wanderer, the unpredictable hunter who is considered the worst at their job, the aggravated thief in need of a friend, and the mysterious and heroic outlaw.

While I was writing this the first draft was much blander than the final result, I wrote the main structure but then went back in and played with the narrative voice.  I also started thinking about how different tenses can affect the genre.  Anyway, enough rambling.  Here's the story.

Band of Five

A calm stillness filled the forest, broken by the quiet strumming of lute strings.  Tristan let his horse set a steady pace as he tuned the instrument.

“So tell me friend,” he asked his companion, “where are we headed?”

His fellow traveler shrugged, a gloved hand tugging their hood tighter, the dark material of the cloak shrouding their figure and blending with the black stallion.

“Ah, where so ever the road takes us, an excellent way to travel.”

Plucking a few more strings Tristan decided his lute was as tuned as he’d be able to make it for now.  Noting that one of the strings would need replacing soon, he began to strum a casual melody.

“I’m Tristan, by the way, might I at least learn your name, if not the name of our destination?”

His companion kept their silence.

“Perhaps a song then, to pass the time?”

He switched to a jauntier tune.

‘Oh, I once met a girl, she was so sweet.

I met a girl, she swept me off my feet.’

It was a common song, used at many village festivals.

‘I met a girl, she was so fair.

I met a girl, with golden hair.’

Tristan paused, silently prompting his companion for the next verse.

‘We kissed without a care.” A voice floated through the trees.

Tristan stopped playing as they rounded a turn in the path, seeing the source of the voice.  The man in a simple green tunic and tan breeches wasn’t out of the ordinary.

What was unexpected was that he was hanging upside-down, swinging gently in the breeze.

“Hello there.  I don’t suppose you could help me down?” He turned in a slow circle, facing away from them.  “Or at least keep playing?  It’s rather boring up here.”

“Well met friend,” Tristan pulled his horse alongside the hanging man.

He took hold and turned the fellow around putting them, somewhat, eye-to-eye.  The leather strip with the sigil of the Hunter’s Guild not currently necessary to keep the man’s long brown hair out of his eyes.

“Tell me,” Tristan asked, “how does a Hunter fall prey to his own snare?”

“Funny you should ask.  I wasn’t catching much in the woods, so when my friend suggested I try the road I figured it couldn’t hurt.”

“Your friend… told you to put a trap in the road?” Tristan arched a brow.

“Yes,” the man pointed, setting himself turning again, “she’s right behind those bushes.”

“Dammit Gibson!”

Tristan turned to see a small figure stumble from the bushes, her short cloak getting caught in the brambles.  As she pulled free her hood fell back revealing dark hair framing a young face.

 "Hello there friend,” Tristan waved.  “My name is Tristan, travelling musician and performer."  With a short bow he gestured to the other rider, "My friend in the cloak prefers to keep their own counsel.  May I ask who you are?"

"I'm the one robbing you."  She said, drawing a hand crossbow.

She took aim at Tristan as Gibson spoke, "She's Sera."

"God dammit Gibson!"

Sera raised the crossbow a bit higher and fired a bolt into the trees, severing the snare and dropping Gibson, who let out a sharp yelp of surprise.  Tristan tried to support the hunter but the man's flailing dragged them both to the ground.

Standing up Tristan dusted himself off and tried to help Gibson to his feet, but the man had somehow become tangled in his own rope.

"Now then," Sera said as she nocked another bolt. "I believe I was robbing you all."

"My dear lady," Tristan said with a flourish of his cloak that hid the palming of a throwing knife, "I am all I said, a humble musician.  I have nothing worth taking."

"And what about your friend there?" Sera asked, taking aim at the silent rider.  "Don't think I can't see your jewels under that hood."

Tristan glanced back at his companion, still sitting unmoving on their horse, and gave a start when the figure spoke.

"Sera the Wayfarer?"  They asked in a cultured voice.

Sera smirked, "So you've heard of me."

If derision could cut, Tristan wouldn’t need his knife.  "Your reputation is by association only.  I seek your master."

Sera's smirk turned to a snarl and her grip tightened on the crossbow, "I don't-" she was interrupted as Gibson finally stumbled to his feet.

"Oh you mean Flynt."  He said, still shaking himself free of the ropes.

Sera pinched her eyes closed with a grimace, "God.  Dammit.  Gibson!" She ground through clenched teeth.

Taking the opportunity, Tristan let fly the knife.  The blade drove into the body of the crossbow and knocked it from the hand of the distracted thief.

Pleased with himself, Tristan turned to his no longer silent companion.  But his grin slid off his face when Sera pulled out a second crossbow, nocked and ready to fire.

"I don't have a 'master'."  She snarled.

"Indeed!" a deep voice boomed out from the forest canopy.

From the trees a man swung down, letting go of his rope well before the ground he flipped through the air and landed in a kneeling crouch in front of the cloaked rider, his arms spread wide kept his cape flaring dramatically.

"Master is such an ordinary title, I like to think of myself as the brave and heroic leader."  He rose only long enough to perform a swooping bow.  "Flynt of the Forest Steel, at your service."

            The quiet rider reached up and pulled back the hood of the cloak, revealing a woman young of years and yet aged with wisdom and responsibility.  The crest of her circlet identified her as clearly as her long golden hair.

"Sir Francis of Stonewall," she said, "your Queen requires your services as a knight once more."

Flynt, or Francis, chuckled softly.  "So, the rumors are true.  The royal family has been usurped."

"Indeed," said Queen Valentina.  "Although reports of my death are somewhat premature."

Flynt stood straighter, his flamboyancy dropping away as his shoulders settled with responsibility.  It suited him, like a favorite cloak being worn again after a long time.

"Sera, Gibson," Francis called over his shoulder, "go alert the others.  We have ourselves a new patron."

Sera lowered her crossbow in stunned awe while Gibson tripped over the ropes and fell again.

Tristan's fingers twitched for his lute, 'This is going to make an epic ballad.'

Metafiction

Metafiction is a tricky beast.  Any form of meta-artwork is supposed to draw attention to itself as art while using the styles of that art.

Spider-man making a joke about superheroes isn't meta.  Deadpool is meta because he knows he's fiction and takes every chance to break the fourth wall using comic book narration boxes and even grabbing the frames on the page.

But moving on; yes, it's Friday.  And that means a short story!  Last week the challenge over at Terribleminds was to write the last line of a story.  This week Chuck took ten of those lines and challenged his auidence to use them as the opening to a story.

It ended up being extremely short, but I kinda like how it flows.  As always, I hope you enjoy.

MetaQuest

            Once upon a time, there was a story so short, it was only a single line.
            This is not that story.
            This is not the story where the strapping young Hero saves the girl and wins the kingdom, and it’s not the story where he saves the kingdom and wins the girl.
            This is the story of the Hero who does not know he is.
            In this story the Hero still goes on his Quest.  In this story the Hero’s family dies in front of him, forcing him out of his humble beginnings and into a Legend beyond his comprehension.
            But in this story there is no Loyal Companion, no Wise Mentor to advise our Hero and instruct him in the old ways.
            The Hero is left to fend for himself, to find his own way in a world that he was never prepared to experience.
            Somehow, against the odds, the Hero still finds himself allies.  The Rouge, the Rival, the Redeemed.  He finds these allies and learns to rely on them for support, to help find his way as their skills complement his own.
            They make their way together in the Hero’s adventure, sometimes managing to resolve their own stories along the way, sometimes not.  The Hero trusts them with his life, with his hope.
            Only to eventually lose his allies, his friends.
            The Rival is first to fall, taking a blow meant to slay the Hero, using his sacrifice to prove himself the better of the two.
            The Redeemed soon gives his life as well, facing his own past and falling as he slays the demons of his own creation.
            The Rouge, if only by virtue of his skill, stays with the Hero the longest.  Finally leaving this world in the dead of night, the true cause of his death as mysterious as he was.
            The Hero blames himself each time.  “If only I was stronger.  If only I was better.”
            “If only I was a Hero.”
            The Hero grows in skill and stature, in myth and legend.  Eventually coming to understand his destiny, driving himself ever forward.  Shouldering his losses, embracing his burdens, accepting his fate.
            The Hero faces foes and fiends, men and monsters.  Pressing onward he begins to see the end of his journey.
           The path of his life, beginning to end, is laid before him.  The Hero sees the truth of this, and steps forward to face the end.
            Because this is not the story of the glory of the Hero.
            This is the story where the Villain wins.
            This is my story.
            Let’s begin.

My Less Than Humble Return

Ok.  So I've been off the radar for awhile...again.  While I have an excuse this time, in that I was away at Basic Training, that really only covers two of the six months since my last blog post.  Rather than dwelling on my inability to maintain a committment, let's just move on shall we?

One of the first things I did when I got my computer back after Basic was to catch up on all the sites I follow, when I got around to checking out Chuck Wendig's Terribleminds blog (It's awesome, read it, now, that's an order http://terribleminds.com/ramble/blog/) I saw his latest Friday Flash Fiction Challenge and decided to partake.

This week the challenge was to pick one of a list of twenty psychic powers.  Like I usually do I hem'ed and haw'ed until finally biting the bullet...and letting a random number generator pick for me.  Anyways, I ended up with the power Bilocation - the ability to be in two places at once.

I'm actually somewhat pleased with myself on this one, I had fun sitting down and brainstorming an idea map before finally coming up with this story.  I'm particularly fond of the pronouns, that came to me halfway through and I reworked everything to fit the new style.  So all that said, here's my entry.

Disposable

            Cloning hurts.

            Well, cloning by itself doesn’t really hurt.  The process is pretty quick and mostly painless, I just concentrate for a bit, sorta like stretching a muscle just past where you’re supposed to until it pops.  Then there I am, standing right next to myself.

            And it’s not really cloning either, but I don’t know what else to call duplicating myself and splitting into two bodies.  ‘Mass cellular replication’ I heard once or some bullshit.

            No, what really hurts is when I go and die on me.

            You see I know I’ll only last the day, twenty-four hours on the dot actually.  I timed it once.  I made a clone and I just stayed in my apartment all day while I went to work, drinking and watching the game until I had a heart attack and keeled over…waste of good beer.

            I know I’m working against the clock, so I really don’t give a shit and just do what I’ve got to do.  Say I see like…a fire.  I see a building on fire right?  It’s pretty easy for me to agree with myself that the people in there need saving and when I don’t see the fire department in sight right?  So I’ll drop a clone and I’ll run in there to haul people out while I watch from the alley until the fire burns me to a crisp.

            So great, I saved the day.  Rescued all the little kids and their teddy bears and shit.  Too bad I can feel everything that happens to me.

            You ever been burned alive?  I have, sucks worse than being shot.  Not as bad as drowning though.  My favorite is probably falling.

            How do I know what drowning feels like?  Well that’s a funny story too.  See some of the local underground don’t like me too much.  They think my trick would be a great work-around for some laws and most common security.  They’d be right too.  A decoy guaranteed to die before due process even begins?  Why the hell not?

            You see I tried the hero thing at first.  I ran into flaming buildings and got burned.  I stopped muggings and robberies and got shot.  Eventually some thugs realized they were shooting the same guy every few nights and told their bosses.  The bosses decided to track me down.  Didn’t take them long either since I did a lousy job disguising myself.

            Clothes don’t clone.

            Most of the times I’ve died?  They were thanks to the mob.  They didn’t like that I didn’t want to be their gopher, and they made that clear.

            After that first meeting I stopped leaving my apartment alone.  I’d usually drop a clone and I’d either leave together or I’d head in the opposite direction that I went.  Then when they caught on to that I’d stay behind whenever I left so I wouldn’t be at risk when I got caught and killed…again.

            Then yesterday my family called about some people who were asking around about me.

            So why am I telling you all this Detective?  Because I want those assholes gone.  That packet I gave you?  It’s amazing what people will say and do when they’re about to kill you.  I’ve been tortured and killed so often and in so many places I probably know more about their operation than they do.

            And as for why I don’t want witness protection?  That’s because right about now I should be stepping out the window of my apartment, I live thirty-seven floors up.  I told you that falling is my favorite way to die.

            Gives you time to think.