“It works like this. You’re selling but you’re also recruiting. The people who recruit give you a percentage of their sales. If you recruit enough sales people, eventually you can just live off their commissions. But even if it’s just you, this stuff sells itself. You’ve just got to have faith in yourself. It’s working out great.” Gary said

“Are you sure this isn’t a multilevel marketing scheme?” I asked

“Multilevel….? Listen, multilevel marketing is like Tupperware and lululemon and stuff like that. This is oxycontin we’re talking about here. Everyone loves oxy.”

“I don’t know. I thought you had to get that through a doctor. The news seems to think it’s bad”

“Hey, you can’t trust the news these days. They’re just pain pills. Like Tylenol. Do you have a problem with Tylenol?”

“No, I guess not.”

“Of course you don’t. And you don’t have a problem with those little heating pads you get from the drug store. You always said those were good for your back.”

“That’s true, I have always said that.”

“Well, this is just like a back pad, but it’s a pill. It’s a pill that helps people. My friend Ricky Is just trying to help out people who are hurting.”

“And who is Ricky again?’

“It’s this guy I met a cockfighting”

“I didn’t think cockfighting was legal in this country.”

“Well, that’s one on the things Ricky is trying to change. How can we allow chickens to be factory farmed, and yet not allow them the chance to die as proud warriors? It’s a damn disgrace, that’s what it is.”

“I don’t know about this, dear.”

“Anyway, that’s not what’s important right now. What I need you to do is go into the drugstore in Jenkintown with a prescription from Ricky.”

“Wait, Ricky’s a doctor?”

“Yeah, didn’t I mention that? Then, you’re going to go to the one in Hatboro. Then the one in Fort Washington. I just need you to get the pills.”

“I still don’t understand why Ricky can’t give people Tylenol? And why am I picking up prescriptions? I don’t think I understand this.”

“I just need you to get the pills and take them home. Then I’m going to send some friends your way. You’re going to sell them the pills, and give me the cash. You can keep 10 percent for yourself.”

“That’s so sweet of you. You’re always thinking of me.”

“Don’t let anyone try trade you something for the pills. White Joey’s always trying to give me Walkmans and Sega Dreamcasts for Oxy. Tell him if he does that Ricky will knock his teeth out with a hammer.”

“What’s a Dreamcast?”

“Never mind. I’m going to be there in half an hour with the prescriptions. I’m going to drive you to the drug stores. Can you be ready?”

“I suppose so. Is this really legal?”

“Of course it’s legal. Wouldn’t be doing it if it wasn’t. I just need you to do this for me for a little while. My neighbors are starting to complain about the traffic.”

“OK, I guess I can help out. Oh, I made those muffins you like.”

“The ones with the raisins?”

“Of course.”

“We’ll take the muffins with us. Just make sure you’re ready. I owe Ricky some money.”

Some time later, I got another call. I wasn’t going to pick it up, but it kept ringing and ringing.

“What the hell did you do?” asked Gary.

“What do you mean?”

“What…what do I mean? I just caught in a crossfire between some cartel hitmen and a SWAT team. I only let them take me in because I didn’t want to get castrated by Diego. I need you to bail me out.

“Oh, dear, oh dear, oh dear. I’m sorry. I don’t think I can do that.”

“What do you mean! You have to!”

“I don’t think I do dear. I talked to Ricky, and he said I should let you rot.”

“But…”

“Sweetie, you were right. All I had to do have faith in yourself, and you make money. But you know what else helps? Caring about the customers.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Have you even gotten to know White Joey? Or Jimmy the Cripple? They’re not just oxy users, they’re people too.

“Get me out of jail! Get me out of jail!” shrieked Gary. He was always so high strung, even when he was a little boy.

“Well, you should try being nicer to them. The nicer you are, the more they’re willing to by from you. I let White Joey trade me a Dreamcast for oxy, and guess what? Now I’m selling to his kids.”

“What the hell is going on?”

“I really need to thank you. I was living on a fixed income. All I had to do was believe I could sell oxycontin, and I did. Ricky is so proud of me. He calls me abuela diabolica.”

“You don’t even know Ricky! Please, I can’t stay in here!”

“He wanted to get in touch with me after he saw how much money I was bringing in. We got to talking and figured out you’ve been skimming money. The cartel is not a big fan of that.”

“Jesus!”

“I’m sorry, I can’t bail you out. It’s just business. Nothing personal.”

“You can’t leave me! You’re my grandmother!”

“Sorry dear, have to go.”

I hung up the phone. I couldn’t waste my time on Gary. Not when I had a pie in the oven and Ricky coming over to show me his cockfighting DVDs.

All his life he had been told to be a good boy and keep his head down in the scripture, ancient words allegedly derived from the birther of all creation; that if he simply did everything he was told, that he would be rewarded with the most divine of vacations. He had been promised knowledge and guidance in the words that were present on the pages before him, words at his young age he was too naive to understand; nevertheless, he obeyed, because mommy and daddy know best; just have faith.

Then one day, the little boy had grown up and found himself starting high school; fear over the new unknown had consumed him to the point of almost ditching his first day, but once again he had been reassured that everything would be fine, so long as he obeyed the script he had studied since childhood. The young man was now revitalized with courage, the fear that had once enthralled him now nonexistant; his head firmly on his shoulders, the young man set off for his exciting first day of high school for he simply had faith.

His home away from home, the church, was for all intents and purposes his candy store; at least, that had been the very notions his parents had been telling him. It was here that he found more indivudials to call friends and family, all of them just like mom and dad in both spirit and wisdom. "Such a good young man." they told him "Paradise awaits you one day.". The boy truly believed every word, that he could do no long so long as he had faith.

Everything had been going according to plan, the young man finding great success in his studies with not a single issue with his folks at home; it was all thanks to the script he knew at this point like the back of his hand. One day, however, mere moments after arriving at school, the young man bore witness to two young women holding hands down the hallway; the young man found himself perplexed by this observation, for it went against everything that the words on the page had told him to uphold. "Fear not." his beloved parents assured him, "they won't be rewarded with the vacation you long for."

In time, the young man would find himself as a college freshman, where he eagerly began to enroll in several classes in the field of science. It was here that his professors, men and women who's life experience combined tripled that of him and his parents, bestowed upon him the truth of the universe, though it was not the truth he had been waiting for. "There was no creator" they told him, "Are life is meaningless in the grand scale of the universe.". Needless to say, the young man, still struggling to find his own path while staying true to the wisdom of his family both at home and at church, began to question everything. His parents, worried now that their beloved son would lose his one way ticket to eternal paradise, sternly reminded him of the script he had been handed at such a young age; but the young man, try as he might, could not help but riddle his family and friends with a neverending barrage of "why?"s; he hadn't had faith.

Soon enough, he was now simply a man, ready to face the world and all its hardships thanks to the neverending wisdom of his family and friends; but the man couldn't bring it upon himself to listen to it any further, he deduced it was time for him to live life the way his heart told him to live for the heart can never truly lie. It was not long after that he took the full plundge into the unknown and begun to live his life by his own creed; he didn't use his faith.

Many years later, the now elderly man found himself on his death bed, mind happily wandering back in time through all the memories he had made over the decades; the men he had kissed, his beloved children who were by his side until the very end, even his parents who had disavowed him years prior came to mind. When the time had past and he drew his final breath, the man found nothing waiting for him on the other side, he had realized the answer to the biggest question he had his entire life; faith was nothing but lies, his hypothesis finally proven to be correct.

“They know it was him, they just didn’t know he was yours. I can’t believe you got him in there, I nearly turned white when I saw him. I tried to distance myself as much as possible but then, next thing I know, the Crown Prince is dead, and I’m in custody,” I heard the journalist say as I stood guard outside the tent in the desert sun.

“An unfortunate coincidence certainly. I appreciate you staying tight-lipped through that,” replied the Lieutenant.

“Yeah, I’ve been through worse. They had no reason to believe I was involved since I wasn’t and most likely they still think it was the Iranians. Much of their questioning led that direction. Though, no doubt, if they would have found any piece of my background, I would have been done for.”

“Why do you think I requested to oversee your transfer after your release. I wouldn’t want the wrong people getting their hands on you,” the Lieutenant said.

“Is that why we’re in this makeshift camp?” he asked.

“Something like that.”

“Jessica, I have to go public with this. I’m only giving you warning because of our… history. I’ll give you 48 hours to pass the word along if need be,” he said.

He called her by her first name? No one calls her by her first name. Whatever history he had with the Lieutenant must have been more personal than the interviews I had been around for.

“There’s no way I can get to my people in 48 hours,” came the Lieutenant’s growling response. “This will compromise years of work and endanger tens of thousands of people. It’ll be impossible to anticipate their response going forward.”

“The truth will out. It’s only a matter of time before they find we’re responsible, even if they can’t prove it.”

“They’re guessing. Putting this out there would blow the cover off our operations. Everyone, everything we’re trying to protect would be put at risk.”

“Our citizens need to know about this. The government can’t go around killing whoever they deem a significant threat. He hasn’t committed any crimes.”

“He was planning the largest terrorist attack in history!”

“So arrest him. Notify the other nations of his plans. Anything but assassinate him.”

“Arrest the Crown Prince? Do you want us to start a war?”

“You don’t think this will start a war? They will respond, even if it isn’t overt. This was wrong.”

“Thousands would be dead, and we would end up at war anyhow. It’s wrong to save thousands of lives?“

“If it means murdering someone who hasn’t committed a crime, yes!” he said, growing louder.

I could tell this wasn’t going well. There was a pause of several seconds.

“So you’ve made your mind up then, there’s no swaying you?” the Lieutenant asked eventually.

“Jessica, this isn’t an attack on you or your people, I know you’re just following orders. I don’t know who made this call but, once the public finds out about it, there’ll be an investigation and, if what you say is true, I’m sure no one will blame you.”

“What if I made the call, would it make any difference?” the Lieutenant asked.

“You? Why would you make the call?” I could hear a new tension in his voice as it had gone higher. “Assassinating a Crown Prince is far above a lieutenant’s clearance. Besides, you wouldn’t, you wouldn’t have a man killed for a crime he didn’t commit.”

“The politicians have to keep their hands clean, and someone has to ensure the safety of our people, so it was left up to me.”

“I know you wouldn’t kill an innocent man,” he said.

“You know I believe in justice. You know I believe in protecting the innocent. I’m sorry, Mike, protecting the innocent is much more complicated than that. I need to know if you’re with us or not?”

There was silence for quite a few seconds, maybe a minute. “I’m with you,” he said finally.

“I want to believe that Mike, but you never were a good liar.”

“No,” came his startled yelp, cut off by two shots ringing out.

I stepped into the tent after I heard the shots. The Lieutenant was standing, her sidearm in hand. The journalist lay on the opposite side of the table in the sand, bleeding out, two holes in his chest, his chair toppled over next to him.

The Lieutenant took a deep breath looking at the journalist for a moment and shaking her head.

“I’m sorry Ma’am. I take it you knew him well,” I said.

Without turning to look at me, she said, “Once, I did. It’s unfortunate he happened to be there, a thousand other journalists would have had no clue. But, he made his choice long ago, idealism over protecting reality. We were never close since.”

I stood there, dumbfounded. Perhaps the Lieutenant, once, had been human.

“Have the men get the shovels. Once it’s cleaned up, take the tent down and return to camp," she said coldly, then checked her watch. "Quickly, only another two hours outside of satellite coverage, you need to be on the road by then.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I replied, stepping aside and saluting her as she walked out.

As she passed, I noticed a wet streak down her cheek.

When I opened my eyes there was no sun warming the left side of my face, No hungry cat pawing at my shoulder. The air conditioner wasn’t humming quietly in the corner of the room, and when I wiggled my toes the sheet was not carefully tucked under them. My eyes flickered into my eyelids as I cringed at the peeling paint of the cieling with words like "Pendejo" and "Chulay Cinco" scrawled across it. A sickening dread began to fill the pit of my stomach like gasoline to an empty tank. Sitting up too quickly, I whimpered at the nasusea that rushed through my limbs and desperately tried to recall the events of the previous night. My lungs scraped in chunks of spiced air, there was a bitterly acidic taste on my tongue that brougt the bile to my throat. To my left there was a lamp with a ripped shade, 4 mini bottles of Tequila, a ticket stub for a night club called La Reina and my passport.

And I see them from a distance. And she grabs his hand and pulls him in. The music pulsing through them both in whirlwind beats. Noise exploding around them. The crowd moving to the energy. And the song that she said always makes her cry is pounding across the floor and the stage and the walls and their skin in heaving waves. And with their eyes locked on each other I can finally see who that song belonged to. And I shut my eyes to block them out. Because I’ve realized it’s not my eyes she’s searching for even when she’s lost deep in their shadowed depths. She’s only drowning in him. Always drowning in him. And she lets him pull her in his undertow.

I was fallin’ down to Earth at a gawd-awful speed through the clear blue skies of Zephyrhills, having made my peace with Jesus, knowing – finally – how the universe began and how it would end:

“Helluva lot of good that’ll do me now,” I thought.

A six-pack of things crossed my mind, including: who would get my Frank Sinatra album collection, where did I park my car, would my sainted Mother have to ID my crushed body, how would my Nets, Mets, and Jets do next year, would anybody miss me when I was gone, and, most importantly: “Whatever happened to Arch Deal?”

Why Deal?

In June, 1975, Tampa Bay TV newsman Arch Deal jumped out of a small airplane at 3,000 feet over nearby Cypress Gardens and his main chute didn’t open. At 2,000 feet, his reserve chute failed to deploy. At zero feet, he hit the ground – yet managed to survive, except for his broken neck, six broken ribs, separated pelvis and hundreds of contusions, lacerations, and bruises.

I was in a similar situation – but without the chute.

Would I survive?

The spinning, churning, and turning was taking its toll. I was fadin’ in and out. I’d managed not to look down by keeping my eyes closed as long as I could. When I finally opened them (wide) and stared at Mother Earth, I saw (floating in the sky) what looked like a large, eerily thin, crown of thorns.

A sign from God?

Then the crown slowly transformed; first, to a winking eye; then, to a butterfly.

My last sane thought was of the card game that dealt me this death drop.

“Never play poker in an airplane when you’re out of money,” I thought. “Never.”

Wish somebody had told me that sooner.

The rushin’ wind, like an old train, was blastin’ (unmercifully) through the dark, moist caverns my brain. The last functional thought I had was a joke I heard as a kid. The punch line:

“It’s not the drop that kills ya . . . it’s the sudden stop.”

The air leaves me breathless. The light, blind. My senses, over extended. My bones crack under pressure. My hair, whipping like wild fire. Fed by the oxygen and thriving out of control. And everything is ending. And I think that as I fall I will leave you behind. But you fall with me. And you are the wind under my skin. You are the gravity breaking my insides to splinters. The stars behind my eyes. You are the rupture of my lungs. The bursting of my heart, too full. The enveloping waves, crashing through my last thoughts. You are the cement rushing at me. The ground, ready to catch me. And I think I’ll leave you behind. But I’m only diving to meet you. I’m only careening into your arms one last time. And I still feel you in the end.

I have always been enamoured with the endless blue of a summer sky, the white cotton puffs of clouds, the blinding white sun. So it seems fitting that these will be the last things I'll see as I fall with my back to the endless earth, my unshielded eyes forced open by wind.

I suppose that now I should be praying to some sort of God, but I can’t seem to move onto the next thought- I’m past Panic Mode and onto some sort of paralyzing indifference- the sky seems to be holding me fast in this one, infinite moment.

I close my eyes

.

I am a child again running through the woods and the trees don’t end I am staring straight up instead of down at my feet where roots trip me but nothing can stop me I’m invincible I cannot fall I cannot die it’s nothing but me and the lines of trees and the sky the sky the sky and now for an instance I am everything I am the sun and the moon and the stars and gravity cannot hold me any longer I am not falling but flying

.

I open my eyes. The sky is so beautiful so beautiful so beauti

At first it seemed the Germans would pull their old trick of timing their attack right when the Little Friends turned for home, but they held back. We led the low squadron, usually the first and hardest hit. I watched as a dozen 110s flew up to meet us. They stayed well out of range. I made out the tubes slung beneath their wings just as they began firing long-range rockets.

The lead plane in the middle squadron was hit amidships, a blossom of flame like a blowtorch, but it kept flying as though nothing had happened. More rockets flashed past us. I wondered if our pilot would break formation in panic, but he stuck with it. This was the second time we’d attacked this target, and if we fucked this one up they’d probably send us back for number three.

Then it was over. Most of the bombers seemed to have escaped the rocket attack, but I could see the ominous specks of enemy fighters climbing to meet us. It looked like there were hundreds.  We flew on in the tight box formation, the tail of the nearest plane bobbing sixty feet from my face. I could see the tail gunner’s wide eyes as he searched the sky.

The Section Eight shook as the ball turret opened fire. “Cut that out,” the co-pilot said over the intercom. “Wait until you can hit them.”

“Sorry,” said the ball gunner. He sounded like he was twelve.

I saw a 109 peel off and head toward me, its wing guns flickering, the tracers tearing toward me like phosphorescent fingers. I fired the big fifties, swinging the chin turrent around to track him as he screamed past. My guns were amazingly loud even in the tremendous din of the aircraft. Another 109 appeared from nowhere, head-on and firing. A huge hammering sound and I saw holes appear in the metal skin by my knee.

All around us the other bombers poured on defensive fire. We kept going and the attacks thinned out. There and gone, just like always. The oxygen in my mask was rank-smelling, the rubber frozen to my face. Thirty-below wind whistled through the jagged holes, but I was drenched with sweat, heart pounding like I’d run up a flight of stairs. My flak jacket and helmet felt like they weighed a hundred pounds.

The navigator slapped my arm and pointed down. I leaned into the Norden and looked through the lens, recognized the landmark twenty thousand feet down. “IP acquired,” I said into the intercom.

“Roger that,” said the co-pilot. “Transferring control.”

The B-17 just ahead of us opened his bomb bay doors. I reached down and pulled the lever, opening ours. “Bomb bay doors open,” I said into my mask, and looked into my bombsight as I’d done twenty-one times before. All around us now were the explosions of flak, yellow flashes and greasy puffs of smoke that hung there a long time afterward.

The factories of Schweinfurt looked the same as the last time I’d seen them. Whatever damage we’d done seemed to have been repaired. The flak bursts buffeted us as the gunners got the range. It sounded like kids throwing gravel on a barn roof. More holes appeared in the plane’s skin, smoke and dust motes illuminated in the slanting beams.

I toggled in the airspeed and twisted the dials as I stared into the scope, drifted the crosshairs onto the biggest building and reached down to throw the switch. “Commencing bomb run,” I said. I sat back and waited.

This was the worst part, flying straight and level until the bombsight’s computer automatically dropped the bombs. The rattle of shrapnel grew more intense. There was a bang and the navigator screamed. He fell forward, his face covered with blood.

I got up and knelt over him. He had a large gash on his forehead, messy but not serious. I reached over and opened the first aid kit, unwrapped a compress and handed it to him. I pulled him over and yelled in his ear. “It’s not bad! Stick this to the wound. It will freeze to it in a couple seconds.”

The plane shot upward as the bombs were released. The engines screamed as the pilot dove out and away from the murderous flak. I looked around and saw a sky filled with burning aircraft. It seemed every plane in the squadron had been hit. Smoke rose from the exploding bombs below, adding to the chaos.

Our right wingtip exploded, ripping off the outer edge. The plane twisted violently and the navigator flew backward, a gaping tear in his neck that jetted an arc of bright blood across the cabin. His gloved hands tore at the wound as I knelt in the gore and tried to loosen his oxygen mask. The blood spurted, then oozed. His white face froze in a rictus of terror as he died in front of me.

I grabbed my throat mic. “Bombardier to crew. Navigator is dead. Somebody check the bomb bay.”

Silence.

I saw my intercom wires ripped out of their jacks. The plane crabbed in a sharp diving turn, the broken wing burning, the engine pouring smoke. 

I hooked up to a portable oxygen bottle, staggered back through the passage into the area aft the flight deck. The pilot struggled to control the dive, trying to extinguish the burning engine with the suction. I staggered back to the bomb bay. Bitter wind screamed through the open bay doors as we dove. Two of the thousand-pound HE bombs still hung in the rack, their noses pointing down, the plunger fuses were completely extended. The bombs were armed and the slightest touch of those fuses would set them off.

Terror flooded through me. I swore, stepped back. The plane rocked sickeningly for a few seconds, then leveled off. One of the bay doors was shot to hell, flapping in the slipstream. The bombs clanked together like church bells, the severed release cables tangled around their tails and pinning them to the bay. I had to get back to where the cables were tethered to cut them free.

I searched around for the massive box containing the engineer’s tools. It was usually bolted to the deck, but it was gone. Through the bay doors I saw the fighters had returned, swarming in among the planes, attacking the stragglers.

The top turret spun round and round, the machine guns firing, a rain of brass casings rattling down on me. The deck bucked like a ship in a storm and three sharp explosions blasted the rear of the plane, likely 20mm cannon fire from a fighter. It seemed every gun in our plane was going off.

The tool box was lying on its side near the front, riddled with holes. I pounced on it, wrenched it open and grabbed the big yellow-handled bolt cutters. Another terrific bang and the plane jolted sharply downward and filled with white smoke.

Over the immense noise I heard a high keening shriek. The engineer lay beneath the jagged wreck of the turret, both of his arms gone. His head was a bloody pulp, his open mouth moving like a hideous fish. 

I staggered back to the bomb bay to release the bombs before we blew up in midair. I gathered my strength and vaulted between the bombs, the gaping void below me, skidding on the ice and almost falling. I steadied myself, thrust the head of the cutters into the slot that housed the cable anchors, frozen wind shrieking all around me. 

I cut first one, then the other, using the roll of the ship to time it so the bombs wouldn’t smash into each other as they fell. As they cleared the bomb bay, we lunged upward. I fell back on my ass. Behind me the radio compartment been hit by cannon, a huge rip in the wall where the operator had sat. I hadn’t even known his name.

Just behind, both waist gunners squatted back to back, swinging their guns and firing nonstop at the attacking fighters. I tried to get their attention. “Bail out!” I shouted. They ignored me and kept shooting.

I had to tell the pilot to give the bail out order. I skidded back across the catwalk and the plane yawed hard to the left, throwing me against the dead engineer lying stiff in a pool of frozen blood.

I stepped over him and crawled up to the flight deck. A huge thump and blinding warmth lifted me backwards, slammed me into the remains of the turret as the plane pitched violently downward in a howling dive. 

The cockpit was engulfed in flame, the copilot’s body torn in half. The pilot lunged toward me, his leather jacket smoldering, half his face a blackened rag of burnt flesh. His smoldering parachute dangled by its straps. He leapt at me, knocked me back over the engineer’s body.

The plane began to spin, engines wailing, flames billowing back from the cockpit like an angry dragon’s mouth.  The pilot grabbed me, his knife slashing at my arm, slicing my jacket. He got the blade under a strap of my parachute, pulled up and sliced through.

I kicked at his head, caught him in the burned side of his face. He yelled and skidded backward into the burning nose.  I crawled up the blood-slick deck toward the bomb bay. The plane spun faster and faster, plummeting toward the ground in a howling rage.

The pilot crawled toward me again and reached out. I kicked him again, using the kick to propel myself out through the bomb bay. I smashed against the flapping door and flew out into the howling noise. 

Silence. I watched as the Section Eight spiraled slowly down in a trail of smoke and flame. I extended my arms to stabilize myself. My parachute smacked against my face, one strap cut clean through by the pilot’s knife. No helping it. I grabbed the ripcord and pulled. 

The nylon chute tumbled out and caught the wind with a tremendous jolt, cracking my body like a whip. I cried out with the shock, spinning crazily beneath the canopy, falling too fast.

I reached up to grasp the shrouds and try to steady myself when the ground rushed up. I smashed into a tree and felt my left leg twist.

Red fog of pain. 

Blackness.