War is a simple solution for simple minds. It’s easy to wage war against something you despise, an act as impulsive as crossing an item off a to-do list. As a society, we treat war like a convenient tool, wielding it against anything that displeases us.

War on drugs. War on crime. War on hunger. War on terror. War on the Left. War on the Right. War on fascists. War on socialists. We will eventually run out of enemies to fight, yet still find reasons to declare new wars.

When everything is a threat, no one is safe. Living in perpetual fear isn’t survival, it’s a slow descent into paranoia. And a life ruled by paranoia … is not a life worth living.

Here is the main baddie from my first novel. *And the Tide Turns* it takes places in an alternate history where the Cold War lingers on longer, and the United States is on the brink of a second Civil War:

Gernot:

In the year 2054, the world stood fractured. The once-mighty United States teetered on the brink of collapse, torn apart by ideological warfare between its Red and Blue states. Its people, exhausted and bitter, had retreated into their echo chambers, while its leaders squabbled over the scraps of a once-united vision. Meanwhile, in the frozen expanse of a starving and embittered Russia, the seeds of a bold plan had taken root.

Gernot was born in 2029 in a dilapidated Moscow tenement. His childhood was a bleak tableau of scarcity, where breadlines snaked endlessly through the city’s icy streets, and whispers of the “great betrayal” filled every home.

For the Russians, the post-Cold War promises of prosperity had long faded, replaced by a grim new reality: an America-dominated global economy that had left them in the dust.

Gernot’s parents, once loyal citizens, grew increasingly radicalized, filling his mind with stories of how the West had strangled Russia’s future.

By the time Gernot turned 20, his parents were gone—his father to cirrhosis and his mother to malnutrition during a particularly harsh winter. With nothing left to lose, he joined the remnants of Russia’s intelligence apparatus. It was there that his brilliance for strategy, languages, and psychological manipulation was recognized, and he was given command of his own private group called The Red Hand that operated in the shadows of the Kremlin.

Gernot comes into some old journal written by an Australian scientist who was a good friend of Nikolai Tesla. In these entries Gernot and his crew were able to figure out how to travel into the past, however it was traveling into the future that Gernot was interested in. why conquer the past and change his future so that he does not exist? He wished to learn from the scientist the method to travel into the future and bring back with him weapons and intelligence to win a war in his current era.

Gernot’s Perspective:

For Gernot, the mission was more than duty; it was salvation. He had seen the hunger in his sister’s sunken cheeks, the desperation in his neighbors’ eyes as they burned furniture to keep warm, and the hopelessness of a nation trapped in the shadow of its former glory. To him, America wasn’t just a rival—it was the architect of his people’s suffering.

“They preach freedom while they hoard the world’s wealth,” his handler once said, and Gernot believed every word. The Red Hand taught him to see the United States as a decadent empire, too absorbed in its own internal squabbles to notice the havoc it had wrought on the rest of the world.

But Gernot wasn’t blind to the dangers. Time travel was a Pandora’s box, and each mission into the past came with greater risks of destabilizing the future. Yet he pressed on, even as whispers spread of unforeseen consequences—vanishing agents, ripples in the timeline that erased entire villages, and strange anomalies that hinted at something darker beneath the fabric of time itself.

I could go on and on about Gernot and his motivations but I’d love for you to read them yourselves. And the Tide Turns is available on Amazon. If time travel is not your thing, check out On the Hit List. A roaring comedic story in the vein of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off meets Super Bad meets The Hangover. And if that doesn’t tickle thy pickle. My latest a semi-police procedural character drama about a real life LAPD detective called In the Hunt is available too.

The streets of London shimmered with mist, the gaslights casting halos against the cobblestones. Eleanor waited by the wrought-iron gate of the square, her gloved fingers brushing and adjusting the satin hem of her gown. Though the velvet cloak draped around her shoulders spoke of elegance, and grace instead of the simpleton “Lady of the Night” that she was.

Seven pence, she thought. Just enough to see her through another week.

When William approached, she straightened, her practiced smile softening her features. He was taller than most, his coat finely tailored, his stride confident yet unhurried. A gentleman, Eleanor knew, and the air between them hummed with unspoken intent.

Should he offer the seven, she’d take him to heaven.

“Good evening, sir,” she said, her voice smooth and warm in contrast to the chilly night.

His gaze lingered on hers. “Eleanor, isn’t it?” he asked, the richness of his voice sending a shiver down her spine. “I’ve heard whispers of your … talents.”

She inclined her head, the flicker of a smile on her lips. “You’ve heard correctly. Seven pence for an evening you won’t soon forget.”

Without another word, he extended his hand, and she took it, allowing him to lead her into a nearby alley.

It was dark and cold, but their bodies would keep them warm and fight off the chill. The gas lamp’s flickering firelight playing across the face of Eleanor as she unbuttoned her petticoat.

Eleanor pushed the dress to the side with the grace of a queen, William’s eyes darkened as he stepped closer, his gloved fingers brushing the bare skin of her collarbone.

“You deserve more than seven pence,” he murmured, his voice low.

“And yet, seven is all I ask,” she replied, her lips curving into a smirk.

He moved with deliberate care, unbuttoning his coat as though unveiling something sacred. When he leaned in to kiss her, his lips were warm and searching, a curious mix of hunger and restraint. She allowed herself to respond, her hands sliding to his shoulders, feeling the strength beneath the fabric.

As his touch deepened, trailing over her arm and down her side, she felt her professional poise slip, replaced by a surprising warmth. When he lowered himself to taste his prize. He murmured under his breath about beautiful and delicate rose petals. His hands moved with reverence, exploring her curves as though she were a rare and precious artifact.

For a moment, Eleanor forgot about her price, the dreary streets, and the heavy weight of her reality. Here, in this fleeting moment, she was not a lady of the night but a woman cherished, her body and soul ignited by his touch.

The moments passed in whispers and sighs, her practiced art meeting his genuine anticipation.

After the milk had been added and mixed with her honey, he stood, buttoned his trousers and withdrew and placed the coins in her palm. But as moved toward the entrance to the alley, William paused, his fingers brushing her cheek.

“Perhaps next time, it will be more than seven pence,” he said softly, before disappearing into the morning mist.

Eleanor stared back, her lips tingling and her heart inexplicably lighter. It had been seven pence well earned. Now she was starving and with the seven pence in hand she would go in search for a different type of sausage. One to fill her belly rather than the area betwixt her nethers.

(Cross posting this from a challenge I created and entered yesterday)

The dim, smoky glow of the tavern lanterns cast wavering shadows against the wooden walls. The oaken surfaces stained from years of spilt ale and drawn blood from drunken brawls.

The warm, yeasty scent of beer mingled with the tang of sweat and the faint note of rusty blades and daggers. Patrons spoke in hushed voices, keeping one eye on their drinks and if they were lucky enough to have a second, on whoever staggered in through the battered oak door.

I sat at my usual corner, back to the wall, nursing a tankard of bitter soured ale and shuffling a deck of Gwent cards that had seen better days. Each frayed at the edges and crease marks running their surfaces.

My reputation unfortunately preceded me, a trickster with nimble fingers and the sharpness of a knife hidden in the smile. Dagnar is the name and separating patrons from their coin the game.

A ripple of unease whispered through the room as the door creaked open on its half broken hinges. The cold forced itself in on a gust of frigid wind like a wicked omen. A precursor of a bad night on the dark horizon. He walked in, tall and pale, dressed in all black and silver, with the kind of presence that sucked the air from the lungs leaving one speechless. Scars crisscrossed his face, each line a history of violence. And surely a horrid tale that went hand in hand with its presence.

His eyes, those damned eyes, glowed like embers from the depths of a dying fire. A fire that didn’t need much prodding to become adequately stoked. I didn't need a name to know who this man was. A Witcher.

The chatter died down as he strode past tables of farmers and soldiers, boots thudding with the cadence of a death march. He halted by the hearth, the flicker of flames licking at his silhouette, and let his gaze sweep the room like the precision surgeon’s blade. For a moment, I held my breath, fingers tightening on the edge of my cards.

“I’m looking for someone,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, the kind of tone that could cleave stone. I caught the bartender’s eyes shifting nervously, but no one answered.

The Witcher sighed, more weary than frustrated, and turned to face me, as if he had known where I was the whole time.

“You there,” he said. My grin was automatic, masking the twist of anxiety and fear burbling in my gut. I felt the sudden rush telling me to run for the outhouse. “Aye, Witcher. What brings you to our humble corner of Novigrad?” I raised my tankard in a mocking toast.

“Yennifer. I’m told she was seen passing through,” he said, eyes narrowing. “Have you heard of her whereabouts?”

“Ah, the sorceress,” I drawled, pretending to think while I shuffled the deck. The cards slapping against the table buying me time to phrase my thoughts. “Perhaps we could make this interesting? A simple game of Gwent. I win, you share a drink, a tale, and toss me a copper. You win, and I’ll tell you what I know.” Another ploy to buy me time.

The room collectively exhaled, tension slipping from their postures and they resumed their duties and conversation. The Witcher’s lip twitched, half amusement, half disdain.

“Fine,” he said in his voice that sounded like raking stones. He pulled up a chair and sat across from me. He dropped a pouch on the table; the heavy clink of coin echoed. “Deal.”

I set the cards, fingers moving deftly, sliding in a marked one just so. A dangerous move on my part, but my hope that his hands weren’t as well versed in cards as they were with his weapons. A few rounds passed in tense silence. Outside, the wind howled like a starving wolf. Inside, soldiers whispered about Nilfgaard’s relentless push north, about the battered Redanian defenses and whispers of a rebellion brewing in Skellige. The war may be drawing to a close. Gods be praised. But here at our table, there was only the game, and the Witcher’s unsettling gaze catching every flinch, every tell.

“You’re sweating,” he noted, laying down a biting frost card that turned the tide.

“Just the heat,” I replied smoothly. But my stomach churned as I watched my carefully laid strategy fall apart. My siege troops no longer holding their position on the table they once had. I played the Mysterious Elf card and a knowing smile crossed my face.

He stared in disappointment at the layout of cards upon the table, then seeing his defeat pushed the cards into a pile for reshuffling. “Strange,” The pale Witcher said, glancing at my deck. His golden eyes met mine with a knowing glint. “Your cards … they’re heavier than they should be.”

I feigned a chuckle, a sound as thin as parchment and attempted to change the course of conversation. “You never said your name, your accent? Is it Rivian?” I tried to snatch the cards back, but his hand shot out, iron-hard fingers closing around my wrist.

“Cheaters don’t deserve mercy,” he growled.

Time slowed to a heartbeat, then splintered into chaos. I reached for the knife at my belt, but he was faster. His chair clattered to the floor as he drew his steel sword in a flash of silver. The blade caught the firelight as it swung toward me; I stumbled back, drawing my knife too late.

A roar erupted as patrons scrambled for the exits, tables overturned and tankards spilled, beer slicking the floor. He advanced upon me, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. I lunged, aiming for the gap beneath his ribs, but he sidestepped with the grace of predator on the hunt.

“Igni,” he intoned, and flames roared to life from his outstretched hand. I cried out, throwing up an arm to shield my face. The heat seared, blistering skin in an instant.

“Damn you to the nine Hells!” I spat, desperation clawing at my throat. I swung wildly, the blade catching nothing but air. His foot slammed into my chest, sending me sprawling into an upturned table. Pain shot up my spine as I crashed to the ground, the room spinning.

“You know where she is,” he said, sword tip pressing against my throat, cold as a winter's kiss. I gasped for air, vision spotting.

“Sod off,” I managed, defiance trembling in my voice.

A second of silence, then the blade sank in, swift and merciless. My world shrank to a pinpoint of pain before slipping into blackness. Over the din, I heard him mutter, half to himself, “I’ll find you, Yen.”

The last thing I saw as my eyes began to lose their focus was the Witcher’s unyielding expression as he pulled his sword free.

The dim, smoky glow of the tavern lanterns cast wavering shadows against the wooden walls. The oaken surfaces stained from years of spilt ale and drawn blood from drunken brawls.

The warm, yeasty scent of beer mingled with the tang of sweat and the faint note of rusty blades and daggers. Patrons spoke in hushed voices, keeping one eye on their drinks and if they were lucky enough to have a second, on whoever staggered in through the battered oak door.

I sat at my usual corner, back to the wall, nursing a tankard of bitter soured ale and shuffling a deck of Gwent cards that had seen better days. Each frayed at the edges and crease marks running their surfaces.

My reputation unfortunately preceded me, a trickster with nimble fingers and the sharpness of a knife hidden in the smile. Dagnar the name and separating patrons from their coin the game.

A ripple of unease whispered through the room as the door creaked open on its half broken hinges. The cold forced itself in on a gust of frigid wind like a wicked omen. A precursor of a bad night on the dark horizon. He walked in, tall and pale, dressed in all black and silver, with the kind of presence that sucked the air from the lungs leaving one speechless. Scars crisscrossed his face, each line a history of violence. And surely a horrid tale that went hand in hand with its presence.

His eyes, those damned eyes, glowed like embers from the depths of a dying fire. A fire that didn’t need much prodding to become adequately stoked. I didn't need a name to know who this man was. A Witcher.

The chatter died as he strode past tables of farmers and soldiers, boots thudding with the cadence of a death march. He halted by the hearth, the flicker of flames licking at his silhouette, and let his gaze sweep the room like the precision surgeon’s blade. For a moment, I held my breath, fingers tightening on the edge of my cards.

“I’m looking for someone,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, the kind of tone that could cleave stone. I caught the bartender’s eyes shifting nervously, but no one answered.

The Witcher sighed, more weary than frustrated, and turned to face me, as if he had known where I was the whole time.

“You there,” he said. My grin was automatic, masking the twist of anxiety and fear burbling in my gut.

“Aye, Witcher. What brings you to our humble corner of Novigrad?” I raised my tankard in a mocking toast.

“Yennifer. I’m told she was seen passing through,” he said, eyes narrowing. “Have you heard of her whereabouts?”

“Ah, the sorceress,” I drawled, pretending to think while I shuffled the deck. The cards slapping against the table buying me time to phrase my thoughts. “Perhaps we could make this interesting? A simple game of Gwent. I win, you share a drink, a tale, and toss me a copper. You win, and I’ll tell you what I know.” Another ploy to buy me time.

The room collectively exhaled, tension slipping from their postures and they resumed their duties and conversation. The Witcher’s lip twitched, half amusement, half disdain.

“Fine,” he said in his voice that sounded like raking stones. He pulled up a chair and sat across from me. He dropped a pouch on the table; the heavy clink of coin echoed. “Deal.”

I set the cards, fingers moving deftly, sliding in a marked one just so. A dangerous move on my part, but my hope that his hands weren’t as well versed in cards as they were with his weapons. A few rounds passed in tense silence. Outside, the wind howled like a starving wolf. Inside, soldiers whispered about Nilfgaard’s relentless push north, about the battered Redanian defenses and whispers of a rebellion brewing in Skellige. The war may be drawing to a close. Gods be praised. But here at our table, there was only the game, and the Witcher’s unsettling gaze catching every flinch, every tell.

“You’re sweating,” he noted, laying down a biting frost card that turned the tide.

“Just the heat,” I replied smoothly. But my stomach churned as I watched my carefully laid strategy fall apart. My siege troops no longer holding their position on the table they once had.

“Strange,” The pale Witcher said, glancing at my deck. His golden eyes met mine with a knowing glint. “Your cards … they’re heavier than they should be.”

I feigned a chuckle, a sound as thin as parchment and attempted to change the course of conversation. “You never said your name, your accent? Is it Rivian?” I tried to snatch the cards back, but his hand shot out, iron-hard fingers closing around my wrist.

“Cheaters don’t deserve mercy,” he growled.

Time slowed to a heartbeat, then splintered into chaos. I reached for the knife at my belt, but he was faster. His chair clattered to the floor as he drew his steel sword in a flash of silver. The blade caught the firelight as it swung toward me; I stumbled back, drawing my knife too late.

A roar erupted as patrons scrambled for the exits, tables overturned and tankards spilled, beer slicking the floor. He advanced upon me, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. I lunged, aiming for the gap beneath his ribs, but he sidestepped with the grace of predator on the hunt.

“Igni,” he intoned, and flames roared to life from his outstretched hand. I cried out, throwing up an arm to shield my face. The heat seared, blistering skin in an instant.

“Damn you to the nine Hells!” I spat, desperation clawing at my throat. I swung wildly, the blade catching nothing but air. His foot slammed into my chest, sending me sprawling into an upturned table. Pain shot up my spine as I crashed to the ground, the room spinning.

“You know where she is,” he said, sword tip pressing against my throat, cold as a winter's kiss. I gasped for air, vision spotting.

“Sod off,” I managed, defiance trembling in my voice.

A second of silence, then the blade sank in, swift and merciless. My world shrank to a pinpoint of pain before slipping into blackness. Over the din, I heard him mutter, half to himself, “I’ll find you, Yen.”

The last thing I saw as my eyes began to lose their focus was the Witcher’s unyielding expression as he pulled his sword free.

PROLOGUE

Adam Lambert exhaled a weary sigh as he tossed the monkey wrench to the dirt, followed closely by the car jack. “I knew something like this would happen,” he muttered as the spare tire thudded against the ground.

“Come on, Adam. This is all part of the experience,” Connie said through the open window of their Honda, her tone light despite the sweltering heat.

“It’s hot as fresh dog shit, Mom. Turn the engine back on,” Marcie grumbled from the back seat.

“Marcie, watch your mouth,” Adam shot back, unable to suppress a short laugh.

“It’s true, though,” Marcie sighed, leaning her head against the seat in exasperation.

“Just hang tight. We’ll be out of here soon.” Adam positioned the jack under the car and started cranking it up, sweat dripping down his temple in the unforgiving New Mexico sun.

“Adam, maybe it’s the heat, but I don’t feel very good,” Connie said, her voice tight and strained. Adam barely registered her words; a strange sensation had begun to gnaw at him too.

Within moments, he had the car lifted, and the blown tire was off. When he threw it aside, he blinked in surprise it flew much farther than expected. He reached for the spare and slid it into place, pausing as he half-tightened the first bolt. His eyes flicked back to the old tire that by his estimation was thirty feet from the car, a smirk forming. Impressive, he thought.

As he twisted the second bolt with the wrench, a sudden, loud crack shattered the air. The bolt exploded, and Adam fell backward onto his ass, momentarily startled.

“What was that?” Connie’s voice reached him, sounding distorted, like a radio signal breaking up.

“I don’t know... The bolt just burst,” Adam replied, staring at the damaged spare in disbelief. A hole gaped in the rim where the wrench had torn through.

Marcie leaned out the window, eyes wide with confusion.

Pushing himself up, Adam rushed to the driver’s side, expecting to see Connie’s shared shock. But when he looked at her, the world seemed to tilt. Her skin was slipping, melting like candle wax.

“Connie!” he shouted, panic tightening his chest. He dashed around the car, dust flying as he skidded to her side. His breath caught in his chest, her arm, once draped out the window, now lay limp on the dirt, stretched and warped like warm taffy.

Marcie’s eyes darted to her father, reading the horror in his face. A shiver of dread passed through her. She glanced at her hands, where tiny, flickering flames danced across her fingertips. Her scream pierced the thick air, and in an instant, her body erupted into a searing blaze.

Adam watched, frozen, as Marcie stumbled away from the car before collapsing, rolling in futile attempts to douse the flames. Her screams faded, replaced by a silence that echoed in his ears.

Connie’s voice, a feeble, desperate whisper, reached him. “Help... me...”

How? The question circled in his mind, paralyzing him. With a roar of frustration, he slammed his palm against the hood, leaving a crater-like dent. His eyes locked on Marcie’s lifeless, smoldering form. He moved toward her and dropped to his knees, the heat inexplicably absent as he cradled her head against his chest. As the flames licked his shirt, he felt nothing, only the hollow ache of a world upended.

IN 2028 THE FRACKSTONE GROUP BROKE GROUND IN TIERRA AMARILLO, NEW MEXICO.

IN 2033 THEY FOUND THE UNEXPECTED.

IN 2037 THE WALL BETWEEN MEXICO AND THE UNITED STATES BECOMES AN AFTERTHOUGHT.

WITH THE INABILITY TO STABILIZE THE HOT ZONE THE GOVERNMENT ATTEMPTS TO QUARANTINE THE AREA.

THEY ARE UNSUCCESSFUL.

WITH DETERORATION OF THE ENFORCEMENT OF LAW IN TIERRA AMARILLO, THE CITY IS REFERRED TO AS THE NEW WEST.

THE POLITICAL GOAL SHIFTS AS THE FEDERAL ARMY NOW FOCUSES ON RESTRICTING ANYONE FROM ENTERING. AND GOD FORBID SOMETHING SHOULD MAKE IT OUT...

Chapter 1

The black checker was lifted and moved to the opposite side of the board, neatly capturing the last red piece. Patricia King had just beaten her grandfather for the sixth game in a row. She glanced at her watch—half past nine. The sun had set hours ago, and the weariness of the day settled heavily on her.

“Well, I think that about wraps it up for today,” she said, her voice soft as she looked into her grandfather’s misty eyes.

“Hold on, Missy. What’s the score? Who’s ahead?” His voice was raspy but carried a sweetness that had always been difficult for her to describe.

Patricia met his gaze, the familiar pang of guilt rising in her chest. She had spoken this lie to him many times in recent months. “It’s tied up,” she said, the words slipping out easily.

For a moment, her grandfather studied her with a look that suggested he knew the truth. Then, a sly smile crept across his lips. “I think we ought to play one more, don’t ya think? Can't rest on a tie.”

Another glance at her watch told her it was getting late. She had a long day ahead of her, but the gentle pleading in his eyes made it impossible to refuse. Sighing, she reset the board.

Chapter 2

As she drove home, Patricia’s thoughts lingered on her grandfather’s condition. Alzheimer’s was taking him from her piece by piece, and the slow, inevitable mental decline of the only family she had left haunted her.

He had been a strong man in his youth, but life had not been kind. His mother had died giving birth, and his father had taken his own life soon after. His first marriage had ended in heartbreak. After being drafted into World War II, he came home to find his wife gone, unable to withstand the loneliness. The second marriage to Amelia had been no better, though not for lack of love. Darnell Wilson, the local drunk, had recklessly stolen their happiness when he ran a red light, taking Amelia’s life in an instant.

Then there was Patricia, his only granddaughter, a product of rape and raised by a mother who had never stood a chance after the attack. After Patricia’s birth, her mother had been committed, eventually overdosing on painkillers in a desperate end to her own suffering.

Angel’s Arms Convalescence Home had done its best for her grandfather, but Patricia had made a promise to herself: if things didn’t work out with her job in the coming year, she would sacrifice her career, leave it behind and bring him back to her home to care for him, no matter what it cost.

”Lokes” came into our lives at a time we needed him most. After experiencing a brutal and heartbreaking miscarriage, my wife found herself in a bad place.

Then came Loki, our little man sold under the false pretense of being a labradoodle. He was a ball of fur and boundless energy. Unknown to him, he helped stitch our hearts back together. Our little white fluff isn’t just a dog, he’s a symbol of healing. A year later, my wife was pregnant again and we had our son. All these years later, although getting older he still has that boundless energy.

Bert, the carpenter, stood with arms crossed, squinting up at the dripping mess of the gingerbread gable above him. The syrupy runoff dripped lazily down into a rainbow puddle at his feet, what was once-pristine candy cobblestones now was nothing more than a sickly, sticky mass of gumdrops and sugarcane.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, pulling out his pencil to make notes on his clipboard. He’d been called to strange jobs before, but this, well this took the cake. Literally.

“What’s ridiculous?” came a voice behind him, smooth and sharp as a shard of peppermint. He didn’t need to turn to know it was Mathilda, the owner of the sweet, chaotic, candied house.

“The gutters are clogged again,” Bert said, tapping the clipboard with his pencil for emphasis. “I told you last year, Miss Mathilda, those licorice ropes can’t handle the seasonal rains. And the sugar lattice just isn’t holding up.”

Mathilda, draped in her layers of dark, velvety robes with a hint of powdered sugar dusting her cuffs, sighed theatrically. “But Bert, you must understand, the aesthetic …”

“The aesthetic!” Bert cut her off, exasperation curling his words. “The beams holding up your entire east wing are made of chocolate. Chocolate! Do you know what happens to chocolate in the summer?”

Mathilda’s eyes narrowed, the green irises glinting like boiled sweets. “Yes, Bert. I am well aware of the properties of chocolate. I work with it quite often.“

“Then why …” Bert continued, waving his pencil as if it were a sword in the war against impractical architecture, “… do you insist on using it as a support structure? You could use oak, or spruce, or pine. You live in a damn haunted forest. There is wood everywhere.”

“Oak and spruce aren’t nearly as enticing,” Mathilda said, her voice dropping to a honeyed whisper.

“Enticing?” Bert’s brow furrowed.

“Enticing to whom? Birds? Bees?” He glanced at a nearby window where a curious sparrow pecked at a sugar-crusted sill.

Mathilda folded her arms, her smile as brittle as the spun sugar that decorated her front porch. Before she could answer, the contractor, a burly man named Hugo who had the unfortunate job of overseeing this confectionery construction, stomped over. He shook his head, bits of frosting flecking his bushy beard.

“The marzipan columns won’t last another storm,” Hugo, Bert’s foreman, said while glancing at Bert with an unspoken shrug that meant, Good luck reasoning with her.

“I told her that,” Bert muttered, scribbling more notes.

“Oh, Hugo,” Mathilda cooed, sidling up to the contractor. “Think of the magic! The charm! What would the forest creatures say if this house were made of something so dull as plain old wood?”

“They’d probably say, ‘Thanks for not snaring us in your caramel,’” Bert grumbled.

Mathilda shot him a look, the glimmer of mischief replaced momentarily by something colder. Bert shivered, the air around him suddenly sweet with tension.

“You just don’t understand. If you think you’re not up to the task just say so. How does the expression go? A crappy worker will always blame his tools. ” Mathilda said, her voice tight. “The candy is necessary.”

He didn’t bother correcting her that the tools were not the issue. It was the concoction of candy materials that held the blame.

“Necessary for what?” Hugo asked, his brow lifting. “The local kids don’t come near this place unless they’re dared. And even then,” Bert added, “they leave a trail of breadcrumbs to find their way back out.” He chuckled at his own joke, but Mathilda did not join in.

She exhaled slowly, the frost in her gaze thawing just a little. “It’s … it’s for my customers. They expect a certain… ambiance.”

Bert and Hugo exchanged skeptical looks.

“Customers?” Bert echoed.

“Yes,” Mathilda snapped, then softened her tone with a thin smile. “Travelers, wanderers… people looking for a taste of something different. I told you that you wouldn’t understand.”

“Try us,” Hugo said, crossing his arms over his chest.

Mathilda hesitated, eyes darting to the candy cane columns, the frosted eaves, the gumdrop-studded shutters. The house stood as a monument of to the whimsical or the mad, depending on who you asked. Finally, she sighed and gestured around her.

“If I build with wood, with stone, it’s just another house,” she said, voice low and almost wistful. “But with candy, it’s a promise. A whisper of enchantment. Something that sparks curiosity.”

Bert’s pencil stilled. For a moment, he almost believed her. Almost. Then he glanced at the sagging chocolate beams and the honeycomb rafters that were teeming with ants.

“Well, Mathilda,” he said, rolling his shoulders, “if we’re going to keep up your… ambiance, you’ll need to reinforce this entire structure. And I mean with something stronger than caramel cement.”

“But Bert,” Mathilda said, leaning in conspiratorially, “where’s the magic in that?”

“Right now,” Hugo said, pointing to the sagging porch, “the only magic happening is this place not collapsing while we’re talking.”

Mathilda pursed her lips, eyes narrowing as she weighed her options. Finally, she relented with a wave of her hand. “Fine. Reinforce the beams. But the chocolate facade stays.”

“And the gutters?” Bert asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Replace them with something sturdier,” Mathilda said. “Maybe—sugar-glazed iron.”

Bert’s sigh was heavy, but he nodded. It was a start. He glanced at Hugo, who simply shrugged for the second time today.

“Welcome to the witch’s house,” Hugo said with a grin. “Where logic comes to die.”

Mathilda smirked, the glint of a secret dancing in her eyes as she turned back to her candy kingdom.

Bert couldn’t shake the feeling that no matter how many beams he reinforced, some mysteries were better left unsolved. He finished the rest of his estimate for the bill for repairs and held them out to Mathilda.

She glanced at the cost then at Bert. “You wouldn’t happen to accept peppermints as payment would you?”

He gave her a stern look. “No.”

“How about a considerable donation of children’s cloths?”

“Children’s clothes?!?” Bert stammered. “You know what, whatever. We’ll load them up in the truck, the sooner I’m out of this damned forest the better. We will start the work next week when the materials arrive.”

As Bert pulled away, he glanced at the melting cottage in his rearview mirror. He couldn’t help but wonder what it was that Mathilda did for work and why she happened to have almost a metric ton of kid’s clothing, but work was work and he’d take on any job as long as he could make a small profit.

They say you can trace a monumental event in your life back to an exact point in time. And I would say that is true. For example, my uncle said that moment for him was in 1987. He was sitting in a grimy pub when the song “Hungry Eyes” began playing from a semi-functional jukebox. According to his telling, at that instant he locked eyes with the most gorgeous woman he’d ever seen. Truth be told, my uncle must have been half-blind because I’m not too sure how the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on transformed into the woman I would later know as Aunt Carol. Or maybe his eyes were just famished.

Anyway, back to those shining moments that stick out like a jammed finger after a four-on-four Shirts vs. Skins basketball session with the boys at the local Y. As I said, we all have (or will have) that moment, but I never would have thought mine is the phrase, “I’d like the Philly Cheese Steak, heavy on the bread.”

All I ever wanted was a fair shake at life, but I usually end up with an arm bar. I’m just an unlucky guy, and I’m alright with that I guess. Sometimes you just have to deal with what gets tossed your way, even though it can be a tough road. For me every superstitious fear can’t hold a candle to what follows me around. Or maybe my good friends are just bad influences – but as a general rule, I count on the bad and expect the worst.

So let’s back up for a second. My name is Ellis DeAngelo. Or as my friends call me, Ellis D’ – more easily pronounced, ‘LSD’. I know it’s stupid, and I have stupid friends, but they make the rocking – or rotten – world go round.* (Queen says fat-bottomed women do, but I digress.)

I’m basically your average Joe, except like I said my name is Ellis. I’m a self-proclaimed karaoke master, I love books and video games, and I consider myself a history and big-time movie buff. I like most genres too: adventure, mystery, sci-fi, comedy, drama, dramedy, and every other hybrid wannabe mashup. I do, however, skip on romances quite often. The point is: if it’s action-packed, I most definitely saw it; if it made a killing at the box office, I 100% made it to the theater; if it was nominated for 3+ categories at the Oscars, I’ve probably never heard of it. And that is just the way it goes.

Anyway, as I was saying before I got sidetracked, I’m 19 years old and working on a business degree at Duke University while putting myself through college with little help from my parents.* (Not because they don’t love me; finances are the issue here.) Shortly after starting my freshman year, I began working at Sammy & Sam’s Sub Shop to help fund my degree.

This is where I met the proprietor of this lovely establishment.* (This is not a lovely establishment, unless it’s Opposite Day.)

So after meeting the unscrupulous owner, a fellow by the name of Sam Nesbo, it will occur to me about three months later that he wants me dead.* (Literally dead.)

So there I am, creating the most delicious tuna sub and slicing up a block of Swiss cheese when the phone for Sammy and Sam’s Sub Shop rings. To make things easier, in the future I will refer to it as ‘SSSS’. No, strike that, way too many S’s. Okay, whatever, it will be called ‘The Sub Shop’ instead. There, that sounds better. As per usual, I pick up the phone and say, “Sammy and Sam’s Sub Shop.”* (Shit. Okay. I promise that’s the last time, I swear.)

I hear a gruff voice speaking to me through what sounds like a mouth full of Jasmine rice and a Big Mac, “I’d like the Philly Cheese Steak, heavy on the bread.”

This is the weirdest request I’ve heard, aside from an old lady last month who wanted seared ahi tuna and fried eggplant. I know it doesn’t seem like that long ago, but remember I just started working at this nice restaurant.* (It’s really a shithole, and to me it feels like it has been ages).

Before I continue, I feel a pressing need to explain the comments in parentheses that are scattered through the telling of this tale. These are my most precious thoughts, monologues, internal musings, foreshadowings, or simple statements of fact – or loosely based on facts – in general. I also happen to have these moments quite frequently because I get distracted very easily. That’s just how my mind works. It’s everywhere generally and nowhere in particular, and since I am telling the story you get to experience everything in all its glory; what I’m thinking, when I’m thinking it. One doctor said I had ADHD or something along those lines, but I wasn’t really paying attention to him … which reminds me, I need new headphones for my iPod.

Anyway, where was I? Oh right – as I was saying, if you feel these little tidbits of information are boring, or you just don’t like reading too many words, or perhaps you feel they are an invasion of my privacy, then please feel free to skip over them as soon as you see the first parentheses – or is it parenthesi when singular? You know what, it doesn’t matter. You just do what you do. I won’t judge.

So let’s get back to the story.

As I consider hanging the phone up and pretending the man with the gravelly voice dialed the wrong number, I am reminded that I answered indicating it was indeed The Sub Shop. Then I contemplate disconnecting by making sounds with my mouth that the call is about to drop. I do neither. I’m in college – remember? – I need this job.

I press the phone against my shirt, which appears to have a pink stain on it from a tomato or one of the deli meats. Then I think back and it dawns on me that it was the pink lemonade I had at lunch from Taco Bell. I know what you might be thinking, and yes, I could get free food here, but I also know how I handle the food here.

“Hey, Sam, some guy wants a Philly Cheese Steak … ” Before I can finish he’s yelling at me like he always does.

“What are you? Some kinda schmuck? Make ‘em a Philly Cheese Steak ya’ dumb bastard.”

I ignore his insults due to a thick skin I’ve developed over the years. Who are you kidding, Ellis? It stings right down to my core. I’m not dumb. I’m going to college for Christ’s sake, but all the same I bury it deep down and hope it doesn’t affect my adulthood.

“He says he wants it heavy on the bread.” I pause. “Whatever the hell that means.”

The fat body of Sam Nesbo moves from the back office faster than I thought his chunky ass could move, snatches the phone from my hands, and fixes me with a quick stare down.

“Hey, Tony!” he bellows, but each word is drawn out for at least two seconds apiece.

I shrug, happy to be relieved of the strange call and go back to the masterpiece of a pastrami sandwich I was making. Dammit. I stare at the sub. I was supposed to be making a tuna on rye. I must have gotten distracted again. I really hate this job, but nothing else is close to the campus – which is good for me because of my dorm room. And then there are the hot chicks that roll in every minute, on the minute, during the lunch hour. This also happens to be good for me. If I forgot to mention it, I’m a bachelor.

Right now I’m stoked because Liz Jenkins from my Biology 201 class came in today and we made plans to watch some snowboarding documentary called The Art of Flight. I’ve never seen it, but I’m sure I’ll love it.* (Snowboarding is kinda my thing.)

Liz is super-hot – at least that’s what I’ll be telling everyone later. But in all seriousness she’s a 7 in my book, maybe even edging toward an 8 if she wore just a touch less mascara. Remember ladies, don’t over-apply; you can go from cute to scary real quick if not careful.

So Nesbo is still yammering on the phone with strange order guy, and it might just be me, but for some reason he is starting to sound more and more Sicilian by the minute. I’m not really interested in that, though; my eyes are looking at the clock. If Sam doesn’t conclude his conversation in two minutes, I get to punch out and head to my dorm to shower without making the Philly.

Then it happens. The receiver is down and that fat fuck is coming right over to me. And I know exactly where my next conversation is going.

CHAPTER 2: OT And the Delivery

Something is amiss already. I can feel it in my sternum, chest, gut or what have you. As anxious as Nesbo is for me to deliver the Philly Cheese Steak, he doesn’t allow me to make it. Which in and of itself sets off alarm bells in my brain, and all I hear is a loud beeping noise.

“Turn dat shit off,” Nesbo says.

I look down and see my super deluxe and expensive Casio* watch alarm is buzzing, telling me my shift is over, but as of now – thanks to this mysterious delivery – it’s not. (Just to clarify, my watch is actually a cheap junker of a timepiece that never remains lost for too long.) Looks like I will be getting some overtime today. Fun fact about myself: I’ve only gotten OT a few times in my life and never once been able to get a little dose of that deuce-juice.

So Nesbo hands me the brick that is the Philly Cheese and says I need to deliver somewhere near William B. Umstead State Park. Here’s another fact for you: The Sub Shop is located on West Main Street in Durham. Now, I’m no mathematician, but having a delivery scope beyond a diameter of close to twenty-five miles seems excessive. This drive will be over thirty miles round trip. Nesbo gives me the address, which indicates that the location is just east of the Research Triangle Park.* (Called RTP by some, or pretty much everyone in the state of North Carolina.)

“You gotta get it there quick, son,” Nesbo says, clearly forgetting it’s rush hour and the freeways are going to suck the big one. “There is a little something extra in it for you, if everything goes okay,” he adds.

Goes okay? It’s just a stinking delivery, you fat shit. But I say, “Really?” I mean, this could be good for me. Money’s been tight lately; extra cash is always a welcome addition to my life.

“Yeah, ya’ get to keep your job.”

“Thanks,” I say. What. A. Prick!

Now, I’m not too inclined to get a ticket just to hand-deliver a sub, but at the same time I’m thinking that if I can get there and back, I just might forgo my shower and maybe I can still catch up with Liz Jenkins for that movie. Also on that list of hopefuls is that she won’t mind me smelling like salami and pickles.

I mean, after all she’s a 9 in my book.* (It’s been awhile since my last romantic interlude, and in my mind she’s looking better to me every passing moment.)

Twenty-three minutes later I’m making my way as dangerously as I can manage, maneuvering through the parked cars on Interstate 40, when a particularly nasty slide makes me lose control of my vehicle, and I almost crash into the center divider. If I had collided, the forces of nature would have commanded that both the east and westbound traffic come to an even worse halt than they already are. It’s simple science.

However, remembering everything I had seen from The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift, with calm effectiveness I pull myself from the skid and miss the concrete wall separating the rip-roaring traffic.* (The movement looks very uncool in my Datsun that has billowing steam emitting from the radiator, I’m actually shrieking like a schoolgirl, and as a secondary reminder, traffic is not really flowing.)

This second event that happens is the ‘why’ component of how the precursory phone call from earlier changed my life. The Philly Cheese Steak which was ‘heavy on the bread’ scoots right out of the brown bag and onto the passenger floorboard. I’m just pulling off the freeway, because I think I see a cop trying to catch me and I really don’t need more of a delay in my schedule right now. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. I couldn’t lose anyone if I tried to make a getaway; the black cloud of smoke that shoots from the muffler marks my route pretty clear, like a jet leaves a contrail.

When I regain my breathing and bearings, I make sure I’m in a safe area and reach over to grab the fallen sandwich. Nesbo had wrapped and taped the thing up well, so no juice had stained my seat or carpeting. To be fair, though, it would not have changed the aesthetics much.

I grab the cheese steak and this is when that earlier feeling of amissness* solidifies in my left testicle. (I don’t think amissness is a real word, but I’m sticking with it; mainly because I don’t like to be corrected.) Okay, as I’m holding the sandwich, I notice it doesn’t feel like a sandwich. And I should know because I handle them almost every afternoon. What it does feel like is a one-foot-long brick. My earlier feeling that Nesbo – the cheap bastard – had been gracious by adding extra meat for his friend Tony evaporates. Now, I must explain: I did not sustain any head injuries, but I did have a very close brush with death just seconds prior, which must have affected my better judgment. With foolish catlike curiosity, I open the nicely wrapped cheese steak.

I shouldn’t really have to divulge what I find, but let’s just say it’s not the Lost Ark or the right hand of Jimmy Hoffa. So for the slower people reading my memoirs, I will spell it out: it was eight stacks of one hundred dollar bills.

I’m going to take this little sidebar to point out another obvious. Just because I’m telling this story doesn’t mean I’m going to make it out alive. There are at least half a dozen scenarios that could happen that all end with me no longer breathing.

It could be that I’m being tortured at this very moment, and I’m simply flashbacking these events in my brain – because as they say, your life flashes before your eyes before you die.* (For me it won’t take too long because I’ve only lived nineteen years, and for the first half of that time I didn’t do much that seems important enough to recall; the last half was porn and video games.)

Then again, I could be strapped to the driver’s seat of my Datsun, a real brick being placed on the gas pedal and off I go into Falls Lake or the Neuse River. My body will of course be found days later, partially decomposed and swollen with water. Some nice family out for a boating trip will be treated to a horrible surprise when the catching of that trophy bass doesn’t end the way they envisioned.

Or I could be in a nursing home at age eighty-nine, and I’m rattling off my thoughts to a decent looking nurse who is injecting me with vitamins, pills, and life liquid prolonging my degrading existence, where I just shit myself for the third time today.* (Excessive drinking can really wreak havoc on a body with some unfortunate side effects. The Surgeon General is right!)

What I like to imagine is that I’m now twenty years old, sipping a martini in Bora Bora, and somehow the eighty grand I found in a sandwich bag will be able to last until my golden years.

To sum up, all of what I imagine is not what happens.

I used to think about where my life was going, and I had such a positive outlook and a feeling that things could always get better. But as I look at the heavy stacks of cash I have a darkening thought in my soul that now it will only get worse. I mean, I was going to be a lawyer and reenact scenes from Law & Order in the style of Sam Waterston.* (This is not true; I’m going for a business management degree, just in case you aren’t following the bouncing ball.)

So what do I do, you might be asking? Well it sure as hell isn’t take the money and run, and I’ll tell you why. I begin thinking of Nesbo and his conversation with Tony on the phone, his Sicilian accent giving me the strong impression that either Nesbo is in the Mafia or works closely with the Mafia, and that this Tony Soprano (or whatever his last name is) most definitely does and is a made man of some kind.* (I have watched Goodfellas and that being my most basic compendium of Mafioso knowledge, I know I have reason to worry.)

I wrap the money back up and pretend none of this ever happened.* (It doesn’t erase my memory though. It did happen, it isn’t over, and now I am scared shitless.)

Ten minutes later I’m on the front stoop waiting for Tony or whoever to answer the door. The guy answers and invites me in. I don’t want to go inside; it’s the last place I want to be.* (This isn’t true either; Hell reserves that spot.)

I walk in and try not to look at his face, but it’s hard not to. It’s crazy – he looks exactly like Robert De Niro. I’m lying again. He’s heavyset, and not at all dressed like what the stereotypes suggest regarding mob guys. He’s wearing a tank top and sweatpants, and from what I garner I don’t think he has underwear on.

Tony the mobster takes the ‘money sub’ from me and tosses it on his couch. From around the corner walks a fake blonde with super-oversized fake boobs. How do I know? Well, she’s topless and they sit funny on her chest. You know, the way a pair of enormous fake tits do; as if they have this strange otherworldly power, and that force of nature thing Sir Isaac Newton is famous for has no effect on them. Being weighed down by those giant magumbos doesn’t seem to bother her much. Plus, she’s obviously high. Anyway, they’re gross. I’ve always been a fan of the small and sporty, and I’m aiming to keep it that way. The blonde has a smearing of white powder on her nose and upper lip, and she’s walking unsteadily on her bright purple heels.

I want to leave now, and it takes all my willpower and control not to fly out the door and call the cops. What stops me is my Datsun; turning her engine over isn’t always easy – and now I’m cursing myself for not leaving it running. You dumb son of a bitch!* (Please don’t be offended I’m talking to myself here.)

Sweat pants/semi boner is walking back over to me and he hands me another brown sandwich bag. “Give this to Sam as payment. I seem … to have lost my wallet.”

I don’t mention he has a huge wad of cash in the bag I just gave him. I can’t think of one reason to take the package from Tony, except one. Life. You see, I have this strange fascination with still being alive after this chance meeting, and I’d like to keep doing that.

“Sure,” I say nonchalantly as I feel beads of sweat shoot from my forehead at Tony like a shower of sparks.

“You a good kid,” Tony is able to say over the torrential downpour cascading down his face.* (I’m exaggerating. I’m not sweating as bad as that, but it sure feels like it.)

I’m almost to the door when Tony hollers at me. I feel an extra wide load of poop drop into my lower colon, threatening to present itself to the world.

“Hey, before you go. Take dis.”

His fat hand holds a small folded set of bills.

“Oh, is that for the Philly? ’Cause it’s only ten ninety-five.”

“What? Oh, right. Ha! – the Philly. No kid, dis is for you.” He offers a slow wink, and I barely contain the aforementioned dookie within my body.

In the next span of nanoseconds* (which are like really fast seconds), I’m thinking very long and very hard about what happens next. By taking the money, I’m accepting a life of crime, in a sense. If I don’t accept the bought silence, I might be in serious danger. I can’t stop my brain from showing me the possible outcome of being stuffed into a garbage bag, my body cut into sections and fed to a wood chipper – or dogs. Either way, it’s not a good look for me.

Disregarding that imagery I say, “It’s okay. I don’t take tips. Sam doesn’t like it.” I cannot have sounded more stupid if I tried. It comes out high-pitched and nervous, and Tony gives me a slow, quiet stare. The solidified turd I had earlier is gone, because my bowels turn to water and give a gurgle I hope only I can hear. And now I’m sweating more than before, and it feels like El Niño lives in my ass crack. “But what Sam don’t know, right?” I say, recovering.

Tony gives me another wink. I’m not sure, but this second one feels like it holds a perverted twinkle to it too, and that just sickens me. I mean, come on. His girlfriend is sitting – or should I say collapsed? – right there on the couch.

So an accessory to crime it is. I grab the money from Tony’s palm, feeling like I’m so far into the thick of it I might as well visit Buck-A-Tattz* (a local tattoo parlor), and get two matching Russian stars on my chest tomorrow.

Getting inside my Datsun and starting it up, I’m thinking two things. One, thank God I didn’t make a run for it because it takes four cranks before my awesome car roars – or should I say smokes? – to life. And two, I just became a runner for the mob and I can do some serious time for taking this package back to Sam. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know the item I just locked in my glove compartment is a bag of cocaine, heroin, or God knows what kind of illegal substance. All the stuff I removed from the compartment to make room – papers, registration, checks, pens, CD’s, and condoms – is now lying on my seat. I know putting condoms in a glove box is not the smartest due to the heat, but like Austin Powers I like to live dangerously; and I always forget about them anyway. Plus I’m really busy with school and don’t have time for women.* (Not true and never will be.)

CHAPTER 3: The Phone Call

Chester doesn’t answer my phone call, but answers my text in four seconds. Go figure. After a brief back and forth he calls back. I don’t give away any details through my messages because the Mafia can wiretap your phone and see everything. That’s not really the reason; the timing for those events to actually happen doesn’t make sense at this point. I honestly just don’t know want to say. ‘Hey Chester, by the way, I ran into some Mafia guys and now I’m transporting at least five kilograms of coke. One of them is my boss and I’m scared out of my mind!’

“Ellis D, what’s up bro? Sorry, had to call – playing COD and can’t be textin’. I’m getting schooled by twelve year olds. These little rat-fucks have some dirty fucking mouths,” Chester says as soon as I pick up.

“Sorry? Dude, I just called you and you didn’t answer! Anyway, some shit went down; can’t talk about it over the phone, but we need to get together. Where’s Taylor?”

“I’m in my room,”* Chester says. (Now, first off I don’t know why he always calls it his room, since if we’re getting technical, it is my room as well.) “Tay’s here too. I just handed him the controller and I’m watching him DESTROY! Kid is unstoppable right now. NO, YOUR mom sucks cocks in hell! Sorry, I hate these little kids. So what happened?”

I hear people screaming insults through the TV and what sounds like a Rambo movie playing, but only the good parts. I can envision Chester with his chunky face reddened from each volley of profanities, but they go unnoticed by those on the other side of the connection because Chester’s been too cheap to buy a decent microphone for his PS4 after the one it came with broke.* (Chester’s Christmas gift has just been identified; that is, if I live that long.)

“I just said I can’t talk about it over the phone, idiot. This is serious though. Turn the game off and meet me at Barnes and Noble.”

“Turn what? Tay’ is straight dominating this round. He just got a nine killstreak. We gotta see it through. NO, how about YOU die slow! You Kindergarten piece of shit!” Chester’s not so good at comebacks. He usually repeats what the original insult is and adds some stereotypical or racial slur. It’s just who he is.

“This is serious. Like serious, serious. I’m serious!”

“Seriously?” Chester chuckles. “Oh shit snacks! T just got slit in the jug!”

Chester is charming in his own strange, odd little way. Sometimes without provocation he’ll abbreviate words he never did before and it takes me a few seconds to realize what the hell he’s saying. By my calculations, Taylor got stabbed in his jugular.

“Alright, we’ll head over to the Kentucky Fry. This better be good since you’re making me put on socks.”

“I said the Barnes and Noble, man.”

“That don’t work for me; there’s nothing I need there. But I could totally go for one of those dub’down sandwiches. I ain’t had one in years.”

“Fine. But we have to make it quick. I gotta go back to The Sub Shop after.” I hang up the phone, and with everything on my mind, I feel like I’m forgetting something. It must be important, whatever it is, because it’s giving me that hot sensation in my cheeks and under my arms. I figure if it’s important enough, I’ll remember eventually.

Chapter 1: Transformation

Ethan Bradshaw blinked slowly, the world around him slipping in and out of focus like a bad dream. He was in the bullpen, his own desk a mess of papers and coffee stains. Strangely enough, blood stains. He felt a nagging emptiness inside—a heavy, unnatural ache that pulsed in his chest. He tried to remember why he was there, why he felt so… wrong. The familiar clutter of the Raccoon City Police Department was around him, yet it all felt foreign, like a place he was only half-allowed to understand now. The office was dull, and dim. And why was that? He thought.

A sudden, sharp memory cut through the fog: Leon. Today was supposed to be his first day on the force. The rookie, eager and green, full of the kind of wide-eyed optimism that didn’t belong in a place like Raccoon City. Ethan felt a tug in his mind, something fragile and flickering. He’d promised himself he’d look out for the kid, show him around, get him settled in. Teach him the theoretical ropes.

As he tried to hold onto the thought, the hunger surged again, sharper this time, clawing its way up from the depths of his body. He staggered, gripping the edge of a desk, his fingers clamping down with unnatural force, nails scraping against the polished wood. Noticing once again the pool of blood on his desk. Again, where had it come from. He opened his mouth to speak, to call out for help, but only a low, guttural moan escaped his lips. His neck was in horrible pain, he hand unsteadily reached up to navigate the source of the ache. His fingers touched ripped flesh and a gaping hole.

Stumbling back he crashed into a desk and turned, the crisp new name plate sitting front and center. Leon S. Kennedy.

Leon, he thought, struggling to remember why it mattered. His head throbbed, and he felt his own name slipping away, his sense of self blurring. But then, as if in response to his silent plea, he heard the faint creak of a door down the hall.

Chapter 2: Loss of Voice

Ethan’s head snapped up, his vision settling on the armory door across the room. He heard footsteps—quick, purposeful. A shadow moved, and then Leon himself came into view, silhouetted against the dim light of the hallway. The rookie’s face was set, focused, unaware of Ethan watching him from across the bullpen.

The sight of Leon sparked something within Ethan, a surge of recognition, a shred of who he used to be. He stumbled forward, his arm lifting instinctively, his mouth struggling to form words. Leon, he wanted to say. It’s me, Ethan. Help me. But his throat only managed a low, raspy sound, barely more than a growl.

Leon’s head jerked up, his eyes locking onto Ethan’s. For a moment, Ethan saw confusion flash across Leon’s face, maybe even a faint glimmer of hope. But then he saw Leon’s expression shift, hardening into a mask of grim realization. Leon took a step back, his hand instinctively going to the handgun on his belt. Ethan saw him hesitate, the rookie’s face tense with an unspoken question: Is there anything left of him?

Ethan tried to raise a hand, to reach out and show Leon that he was still here, still himself. But his arm jerked forward in a lurching, unnatural motion, his fingers curling into claws. His mind screamed in protest, but his body had become something else, driven by an urge he couldn’t control. The hunger twisted inside him, filling him with a need he barely understood. He could feel his humanity slipping, drowned beneath that primal drive.

He took another step toward Leon, his feet dragging, his mouth stretching open in a grotesque attempt at speech. “Le-on,” he rasped, the sound mangled, as if someone else had spoken it for him.

Chapter 3: Unhappy Trigger Finger

Leon’s face tightened, his jaw set. Ethan saw the rookie’s hand steady as he raised his weapon, the barrel pointed directly at him. Kid’s got guts, Ethan thought, feeling a pang of something like pride—or maybe it was a memory of that pride, fading fast. He wanted to tell Leon to run, to get as far from this cursed place as he could, but his body betrayed him, moving forward in jerking, halting steps.

Ethan tried to pull back, to stop himself, but the hunger surged forward, seizing control of his limbs. His own hands reached out toward Leon, his mouth open, teeth bared in a snarl that wasn’t his own. He fought against it, struggling to pull back the shadows that now filled his mind, but his body ignored him. He was no longer in command, his instincts twisted, redirected, making him something he had once sworn to fight.

Leon hesitated for only a heartbeat, his face resolute but tinged with sorrow. Ethan could see the conflict in his eyes, the recognition of a man he had barely known but respected. And then, with a steadying breath, Leon squeezed the trigger.

The gunshot echoed through the bullpen, sharp and final. Ethan felt a burst of pain in his chest, and for an instant, everything was clear. The fog lifted, and he felt a sliver of himself return, just enough to feel the weight of what he’d become. He stumbled back, a strange sense of relief washing over him even as the darkness began to close in.

Leon’s face blurred, but Ethan’s mind clung to the memory of that young, determined expression. He wanted to thank Leon, to tell him he’d done the right thing, but his voice was lost, buried beneath the shadows. The pain faded, the hunger receded, and for the first time since he’d started to lose himself, Ethan felt at peace.

Chapter 4: So Many More ...

Leon lowered the gun, his face a mask of steely resolve, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of pain. He held his weapon steady, waiting to see if Ethan would rise again. When Ethan’s body remained still, Leon took a shaky breath, his grip loosening.

He had barely known Officer Ethan Bradshaw, had only met him briefly, but he’d seen enough to know the man had been kind, a seasoned cop with a protective instinct. Leon swallowed, his gaze lingering on Ethan’s motionless form for just a moment longer before he turned away, his duty pulling him forward. He had to convince himself over and over that these people were no longer human. It was becoming easier and easier with each pull of the trigger.

With a final look back, Leon stepped into the armory, his hands moving quickly and efficiently as he gathered weapons and ammunition. His first day had turned into a nightmare, but he had a job to do, and he wasn’t about to let Ethan’s sacrifice be in vain. There would be many more 'Ethan's' out there, so many more ...