It was a long day at work. The endless corridor under Cott Arena seems to get further from the parking garage every day. And so far, the undercover mission has yielded nothing. My superiors at the FBI are going to pull the plug any day. While my employee badge says Janice Snow, my real name is Carla Johnston. I'm an FBI special agent.

How did a rookie fresh from the academy get assigned to this op? I look young. Nobody in the Cott cartel suspects that the high school girl running the concession stand is with the FBI.

A sudden noise makes me stop in my tracks: a woman's scream echoes down the hallway. I dump my backpack and grab my Beretta from the hidden pocket. I chamber a round and clip the tactical headset to my ear. With gun low and ready, I advance up the hall.

Focus, deep breaths. Pick your target. Remember your training. I reach a door with light under it. My heart starts to race. No time to call anyone, this one is all you.

But as I reach for the knob, a figure bolts from the darkness. In an instant I'm face to face with a giant. He goes to tackle me, but I twist free and fire twice, hitting him once, but he doesn't go down. He slams me to the wall as I pull the trigger twice more but hits the barrel before I can line up a third shot. Two more point blank to the chest. He keeps coming. He connects with a left, but I pivot right and land a roundhouse kick to his head. He doesn't even blink.

I break free and run, hitting the panic button on the radio and reloading a magazine. But he's faster. I pivot to fire but he tackles me. The gun falls from my hand.

A bee sting burns my neck where the needle goes in. My knees give out as I go for the gun, but it's out of reach. It's too late, I'm finished.

He withdraws the syringe and smiles, revealing a mouthful of broken teeth.

Everything fades to black.

In the fog and mist, as the fetid air hung oppressively upon the waters, in the distant reaches of my hearing, twigs broke under the weight of an overconfident creature. One that obviously did not know how to approach things with care. I opened my eyes, and wiggled a bit, sending ripples that disturbed the gray-brown depths.

The creature took more steps coming closer, treading on more twigs. It was as if it was intentional.

And there it stood before me; an erect, fully-clothed philosopher. Those wandering fools are always a menace, poisonous to eat, yet irksom and disruptive. Better to expose those fools to the elements at birth, i say.

as expected, the philosopher started to talk.

He told me that I existed!

The scoundrel!

Could you believe such impudance?!

Can you believe such cruelty? !

I was perfectly satisfied, content to wallow in my non-being, and suddenly this ruffian with a central nervous system, accuses me of BEING!

It hurts, i tell you.

And for what? What did i do to deserve such vileness?

But, since the philosopher brought up the subject so scandalously, i demanded to know by what right does he offer such slander.

'It is no slander, thou creature. You exist and it is my self-evident right to express this fact publicly. Nay. I state here that you exist not ONLY as a concept but as a material being'

'Why would you say such things?' I demanded angrily.

'I say such things because they are the truth' said he calmly.

'That doesn't make sense. I fail to see the motivation here, you liar. I don't see you declaring such things of the rock behind you or the oxpecker that just flew past. If they exist and it is the truth, which you value so, why are you not calling them out of oblivion!?'

'i could call out rocks or trees, blackflies and newts and have done so in the past. It is unfair that you doubt my sincerity in such a way, knowing not what transpired before.'

'Perhaps i know not what transpired before because i do not exist. Furthermore, do you mean to tell me with honesty, that you concluded your round of stating the existance of all things of extant nature and now got around to declaring my existence? What a busy man you must be! Well, if you haven't finished your survey , don't let me stand in your way, i see a willow in the distance whose being is questionable at best, a dubious mountain-peak must be really grating you over yonder. '

'I shall not waste my time with trifling arguments. You exist and must ...'

'Must me no Musts! ' said i. My spines were already well lathered by that point 'my arguments are valid, I can anticipate that you shall tell me of how your eyes are now watching me, wnd how your ears hear me, and thus I exist, shed light of truth upon, by your senses. But answer me this, you rajah of conceit. Answer this; why occupy yourself with such dangers as defining and observing, if in the end, it brings you in mortal danger?' I said, springing out of the water, ready to make my move.

I stood there with my tentacles flaring, my radula bearing, my ooze dripping and my eyes glaring,

'I am not in danger. ' declared the philosopher calmly. There was even a hint of annoyance in his voice that I would even suggest such a thing.

'Are you not in danger? Do venomous talons not lascarate you? Do electric tentacles not shock you? Do well sharpned radula not scrape you? If I prick you, do you not bleed?'

'There! That last one. Proof! Proof that you exist! Shylock! You can not be non-existant and still know of the merchant of Venice. '

To be honest , he had me there. I knew of the bard, and therefore by implication existed.

The pain of such a realization was great. Not every day, one receives such horrid news.

I twisted and turned in agony. As I was writhing, the wretched watched with glee.

It took much to overcome the pain , and I vowed revenge.

'It is not truth you are after, though sadist. It is gratfication. ' i declared furiously.

'Well then, I shall now find ways to impart upon you just how existant i am!' I hurried and pounced, sending my favored tail ahead, to seize him. My senses reported that nothing was caught under me. I looked within my coils and found no struggling philosopher. No desperate cogitator. Up ahead , though, I could see the academic, sneering in self satisfaction. Slippery and fast , he escaped my next lunge, avouding the rasps and barbs as if they were made of gelatine. He laughed in joy as I writhed in suffering and wrath. Mocking my existance, yet prooving it all the same. This amusent though was his downfall.

'I see you derive pleasure from my existance, though by this, you betray your intent. ' i said.

'It is to tell the truth, and no more. I can not deny my pleasure at being proven correct.'

'I can see that. it is then your pursuit of a pleasing truth that motivates you! Other truths that are not so pallatable, or seem too mundane to you are easily ignored and neglected. If that is the case, then you are no philosopher. You wre a pornographer. Almost the same word but worlds apart. '

'Don't call me a pornographer!' Demanded the philosopher.

'You stick lables and distinctions analyse and compare, construct and deconstruct, but only if it brings you pleasure. And a very cheap pleasure at that. The anguish and humiliation of another being. You called me existant only to strip me down of any comfort and wholsomeness that come along with being non-existant. Oblivious i was, before I was an I. Now that you shoved that sharp pain into being, you pride yourself and jubilate, relish your intellectual superiority. What is it more, than smut and degradadion. Pornographer you are, though you may have advanced titles of learning, they are given to you, no doubt by fellow slippery pornographer. I hope you wash your hands well after shaking all those hands. Don't know where those palms have been. Probably occupied as you do, with pornography. '

'Stop it! stop it stop it!!' said the wretch, and raised his hands to bar my rebuke any more.

He did not notice, that as i was berating him thusly, one of my longer tentacles moved and slithered up the bank. Patiance is a virtue that beings that Recently came to exist have in abundance. In the hurry that follows they lose it, and spend the rest of their life looking for it again. I had overcome his derison, but still held on to some patiance, and made use of it now, desperately.

'You suck the goodness that you find, and escape, through the chaos that you sow. But some day , someone will not be so moved, and then..'

Snap!

I reeled in that long tentacle, not with the intention of coiling and grasping, but with the intention of striking!

The massive , whiplike motion slamned against his back and legs, driving into his khaki knickerbockers the spikes of my venom. He fell to his knees, the eyes open in confusion and terror, as the muscles of his legs and lower back betrayed him. I pounced on him with all my tentacles, throwing aside his binoculars, and notepad, his pith helmet and his empirical instrumention case. (God knows what he planned to do with that). As i rasped his skin with my radula, I knew at once the monstrous nature of existance, which he was so confident he could avoid. I felt pity for him at that moment, and despite my earlier desire for inflicting on him a torment of existential proportions, i merely swallowed him whole, extinguishing his loathsome philosophical perspective. I've since had many regrets and devoured many organisms. But never again sought to draw pleasure from the suffering of others.

Well.. except for writing...

He moved as an unpredictable blur. His sweat dusted my face. A pungeant musk lingered stale in the stale. Shined dress shoes flit from back to front, back to front. A dragon tattoo covering his right arm mirrored his footwork: a fierce river, the dragon cascaded like a waterfall as his arms tensed and relaxed, throwing jab after playful jab. Eyes stared empty, expressionless, but emotive with calculated fierceness.

The waterfall ricchocheted against sinew. The dragon charged. Pain blinded me--my head rocked back. Blood gushed out my nose and down to my lips. The sharp taste of iron was a good appetizer to this feast.

I could take him. As my eyes came back into focus, I moved with him. His muscles under his skin were his tell. I became his doppelgangar, swaying with the dragon and looking for an opening. His mind was as sharp as his knuckles though, and he caught on to my tactic. His direction changed. Hands moved through stances, guards, and feints. Like a magician, his prestidigitation obscured intent.

The dragon surged forth in a right hook. I weaved and crouched then countered with a blow towards his jaw. This was my opening.

The tiny white hairs on my ear prickled as his fist brushed against them. He had missed. But that was his intent, I only found out after. His fist had only been a shadow to distract. Again, my vision flashed purple as his elbow collided hard with my temple. The dragon snaked downwards, taking my arm with it in a lock. My feet flipped skyward; the floor struck my cheek harder than he ever had.

I came to with him hovering over me.

“You done?” he asked. His eyes drooped, tired, as though the dragonfire had seared away with the end of the fight.

“Never,” I responded, and he hauled me to my feet. There was only one more week left, and I wasn’t anywhere close to being ready.

I threw the first blow, it was a good one, it collided with his face. I thought the force would give me time to land another blow, but he was already throwing his own punch.

Man this guy was strong...

Ever been taught 'Don't hit girls' nope! Not this guy! I felt a bruise forming on my cheek. The guy glared at me.

"Now," He said, "Do you know where your place is?"

"No," I said "I need directions."

He punched me in the face and shoved me to the dirt.

"There!" He yelled "Directions shown!"

Man this guy really thought he was smart, didn't he? Well, he kinda put me in the prime position to hit the men's reserved soft spot. If you understand you understand, I am not going in depth, just know, he probably didn't feel so smart after that.

There was a very high pitched squeal coming from him as he started to fall over. He said some very non-PG words that were a little sexist to, though I didn't care. He used the wall to stand himself up and he pulled a gun.

Why'd he have to do that?

I snap kicked the gun away from him just as he pulled the trigger, cross your fingers that that bullet didn't come back down and hit somebody, I then performed a jump spin kick to his face and knocked him out cold. Man, that's what dirt-bags like this guy get I guess.