The Why:

I must admit, I am not looking forward to this job. I would've told them to shove it, but I didn't fancy the image of my mangled corpse being dropped into the wilderness to become the last few calories the bears needed before they hibernate for the winter. That is what they do to anyone who crosses them. So, here I am. Who knew that the real power controlling EVERYTHING is even darker than the illuminati, Free Masons, Taylor Swift and RNC put together? Fuck, the real power holders in the world make the illuminati, Masons, Taylor Swift, and RNC look like a bunch of newborn puppies. All I know is that if I want to live and avoid having my family gutted and then hung by their entrails from the oak tree in my front yard like a morbid pinata for my disobedience, I must now do the work of the right hand of Satan himself, those twisted, evil, sadistic master manipulators of the world, the Girl Scouts of America!

The Why:

When I asked them why I was supposed to do the job I was given, the forest green and UPS-Brown clad pony-tailed wearing little imps broke my wrist for my insolence by backing over it with their den mother's Chevy Suburban. I was then informed that their reasons are their own and they weren't revealing anything about their master plan. All I was given was the details of the job along with the threat of a slow torturous death for me and my loved ones should I fuck this up or get caught. So, here I am. If anyone finds this, please WARN THE WORLD! The Girl Scouts are the greatest evil on Earth! How else can they charge an ever increasing amount of money for a box of Thin Mints? No one in their right minds would pay $10 for a box of Thin Mints or Peanut Butter Patties! And they raise the prices EVERY year yet, we mindlessly drop a month's wages on their cookies that're baked with love in the fires of HELL! I never believed in black magic before, but the way we line up to buy Samoas by the case like zombified Type 2 diabetics, we must be under the demonic influences of dark rites and spells.

The Who:

The Assignment: Observe and document the activities of one Shallow Gene Pool. Pool is a white male approximately 50 years of age. In appearance, I'd describe him like this: Imagine if Curley of the Three Stooges, Mr. Burns of the Simpsons, and Uncle Fester of the Addams Family had a hedonistic, orifice expanding, body fluid exchanging one night stand and through the power of this unholy act a child was conceived as an afront to nature. That child abomination would be the exact doppelganger of Pool.

Pool has 4 children, 3 boys, 1 girl, and a shockingly beautiful wife. Curious as to how Pool landed such a beauty, I utilized my biological sample gathering equipment and managed to get a few urine samples from her. The results came back clean every time, so he isn't drugging her to keep her trapped in hellacious matrimony. Maybe he's hung like a bull elephant? Doubtful I know, but it is the only hypothesis that makes any sense.

Pool is a social worker, meaning he and his family live in border line poverty. In fact, he's so broke I doubt he can pay attention. Anyway, he seems fairly proficient at his job, which is just as shocking as his ability to snag a hottie for a wife. I thought at best he'd be able to hold down work where common sense and intelligence aren't required, like at the DMV or FOX News. It just goes to show that you can't determine if your toilet paper is single or double-ply until its out of the package and you use it. Pool is surprisingly double-ply in his vocational abilities. Oh he's the off brand, newspaper soft, double-ply, kind of toilet tissue, but he's double-ply none the less.

The Where:

Pool lives in California's San Joaquin Valley, or as it is called by locals, "The Place Where Cows, Meth, and Orchards are Plentiful, but Hope and Intelligence are in VERY Short Supply." This place is truly a black hole of despair and apathy. I figure that my time in California's foul perineum of a valley will cost me at least 15 IQ points that I'll never regain.

The How:

In order to monitor Pool's every move I set up recording devices, cameras, and even DNA gathering equipment in his home, office, and vehicle. Once my spy equipment was in place and tested, I began to do the bidding of those diabolical, cookie dealing, freckled faced little imps.

Entry #1 Monday, 11/4/24: Pool's Work Week

Pool's work week begins just like most people's. First he showers. This immediately nullified my theory that his wife is married to him because he's hung like a pachyderm. Truth be told, in terms of his phallus, Pool's meat missile endowment can best be described as being somewhere between that of light switch and ingrown hair.

After dropping off 1 child at school, Pool drives to the office. To my surprise, Pool possesses a fair amount of road rage. In fact, his ability to use profanity in creative ways is one of the few talents he possesses! Not only is he able to draw from a vast pool of foul language, he is able to utilize it with what can only be described as a Shakespearian eloquence. Some of my favorite examples:

"Nothing Says, 'I have a micro-penis' like a raised pickup, ASS HOLE! Not sure if your Uncle Ben's Status short grain dick can even do the job, but PLEASE DON'T PROCREATE!"

"That is a handicapped spot, you're parking your Mercedes in lady and I don't see a blue placard or handicapped sign on your plate! Having a hyper-sensitive gag reflex doesn't make you disabled! It just makes your husband chronically fucking disappointed! Maybe blue balls would qualify HIM for the disabled parking placard you insensitive, ableist cunt!"

"Instant Idiot. Just add motorcycle. Gotta love it. The way you ride that thing you're gonna Darwin natural selection your stupid ass out of the gene pool, motherfucker. Cheaper for the cleanup crew too, I'm guessing. All that's needed is a spatula and a trash bag and your carcass is no longer a road or genetic hazard."

Arriving at work Pool finds his way through the cubicle jungle to his own personal 3 walls of despair. From here, he social works for a couple of hours, spends his lunch break sobbing under his desk while curled in the fetal position, and either does paperwork or goes on a home visit. Of course, HIPPA laws prohibit me from providing any information about his home visits. Let's just say that he seems to stumble through them in a frenzied kind of mediocrity, but at the end of the day, the families seem happy. Either that or they feel so sorry for him that they can't bring themselves to complain.

Upon returning home, Pool helps with dinner, helps get his 4 crotch goblins off to bed and settles in for the night.

Entry #4-5 Tuesday, 11/5/24 to 11/8/24: Pool's Work Week

Apparently, Pool is a music snob. He blasts everything from Mudvayne to Led Zeppelin during his commute and while doing paperwork. I call him a snob because as he has explained to his coworkers, if he hears that someone likes country music his distaste is made known by gagging and he experiences a compelling need to warn the person about the dangers of inbreeding. By way of apology he then explains that he barely escaped the trailer park once and now if he hears just a single guitar twang he's afraid that his Johnny Cash/Hank Williams/Willie Nelson related PTSD would likely cause him to have a single-wide flash back resulting in him assaulting whatever or whoever is producing the music all the while screaming, "Die you ring of fire falling, no talent hillbilly, yellow rose loving cousin fuckers and return to the truck stop in Hell from which you came!"

Other than that, nothing new to report. Pool is in a rut and apparently too dense to realize it. In fact, his routine could put people in medically-induced comas. In order to stay awake, I've managed to convert an insulin pump into a caffeine delivery device feeding me a steady flow of Red Bull that keeps me awake until Pool blessedly falls asleep.

Entry #6 The Weekend Saturday, 11/6/24

And the boredom continues. Pool's weekend consists of doing chores, giving his kids money, and Detroit Lions football (in California? weird). Once the 4 cum fruit go to bed and are fast asleep, Pool gets a bit randy. Most of the time Mrs. Pool reminds him that it is this very behavior that resulted in the afore mentioned cum fruit. I guess the thought of more mouths to feed acts as an anti-aphrodisiac, because Mr. Pool immediately stops humping the leg of Mrs. Pool.

Now let me say for the record, that I draw the line at snooping in the bedroom, but unfortunately, one night I forgot to turn off the audio feed in Pool's bedroom. What I heard by accident was enough to make me take a vow of celibacy, because just the thought of physical intimacy makes my want to toss my store-brand (NOT Girl Scout) cookies.

I get that sex is a free for all when it comes to groans, sighs, and (if you're doing it right), squeals. Pretty much anything goes during the Squishy-Squishy Yum-Yum. However, the sounds that I heard were the stuff of nightmares. For example:

Goat bleating (not real goat, thank you Jeebus) was a significant part of their coupling.

At some point Mr. Pool cried out, "I am the LOVE MONKEY! Let me partake of your sweet, ripe banana while you swing from my vine!"

For some ungodly reason, the couple started singing, "I've Been Workin' On the Railroad" during their copulation.

There were other sounds of varied pitch, length, and intensity that I cannot quite identify, for which I am grateful. However, I found myself experiencing a skull crushing headache accompanied by bleeding from my nose and ears as their love noises reached a body fluid exchanging crescendo. Strangely enough, according to the morning news, the exact moment the Pool's lovemaking reached its maximum sonic dissonance (11:23 PM Pacific Time) several pods of dolphins simultaneously beached themselves up and down the California coast. I'd like to think that my nose and ear bleeding was coincidence, but I cannot find a reasonable explanation as to why hundreds of sea mammals committed mass, synchronized suicide at the exact same moment.

This assignment is going to drive me to madness. Maybe I should just pray for a quick death in the Girl Scout's Thin Mint oven. I'm not sure how much more of this I can take.

October 15th

You talk in your sleep. Did you know that? Last night it was about the fire again. You never told anyone what really happened in that basement. Don't worry - your secret is safe with me. For now.

I like watching you make coffee in the morning. Two sugars, splash of cream. Always waiting exactly four minutes - watching that timer tick down on your phone like it's some kind of ritual. Like it will keep the memories away. It won't.

You should really fix that bedroom window. The one that sticks when it rains. Sometimes it opens on its own at night. Sometimes I have to close it for you.

October 18th

Your mother called again. You always turn your phone face-down when she calls, like you can make her disappear. But we both know the real reason you won't talk to her. Does she still ask about that summer? About what happened to Claire?

The bruise on your shoulder - the one you think you got from bumping into the door frame? That wasn't the door. You thrash a lot in your sleep now. I have to be more careful when I get close.

I left you a gift today. You haven't found it yet. It's in that shoe box you never open, the one shoved under your bed. The one with the photos you pretend don't exist. I put it right next to them.

October 23rd

I dug up your old diary today. The real one. Six feet deep, right next to Whiskers. Remember how you told everyone he ran away? Such a convincing little liar you were.

Still are.

You wrote about the shadows you used to see in your closet. The ones that moved when you were alone. Smart girl - you knew they were real. You just stopped looking.

We've met before, you know. Many times. You were too young to remember the first time. I made sure of that.

October 24th - 3:17 AM

You're sleeping now. Peaceful, finally. The pills help, don't they? But they can't keep me out.

I'm sitting in that chair in the corner of your room. The one that belonged to your grandmother. Did you know she died in it? The nursing home lied about that too.

I should leave. The sun will be up soon. But first, I need you to understand something: I'm not writing these words to scare you. I'm writing them because soon you'll become exactly like me. It's already starting. Haven't you noticed the gaps in your memory? The hours you can't account for?

Look at your hands when you wake up. Really look at them. That's not dirt under your fingernails.

Soon you won't need to sleep at all.

A wicked cackle wakes me at 2:15 a.m.

From my cot, I see no one in or outside my prison cell. I walk to the bars of my cage and, in the dim light of the corridor, I notice a small, unmarked package on the floor just outside my cell. I reach through the bars, pick it up and peel off the plain brown paper, revealing a small, spiral-bound book. No markings there, either. But when I open it, the first page is full of hand-printing that reads like a journal:

Oct. 30

A wonderful night! Just the right chill, and clouds obscure the moon. Reminds me of the evening long ago when you threw eggs at your neighbor’s new car as he parked. The driver panicked and hit another car. You ran. The eggs come before the chicken. :-)

Oct. 31

Remember when you wore a ghost costume on this night? Who knew that little kid would make a ghost of the driver of that other car. And you thought no one saw you.

Nov. 1

I love courtroom scenes in movies. Real-life, too, especially when you smirked at the judge who sentenced you this afternoon for embezzlement and grand larceny. You also should have blown him a kiss like you wanted to.

Nov. 2

Stop writing! Don’t apologize to your ex-boss. Do you really expect your jailhouse letter will make him say, “Duh, I forgive you for robbing me blind”? Stay strong.

Nov. 3

Don’t be a weakling! You should have pushed that book right back at your visitor. Instead, you accepted it, even after the guard thumbed through it with his grimy hands. Throw that thing away!

Nov. 4

Don’t get soft on me. Don’t XXXXXXX You are the man! You laughed at that weak, crying inmate this afternoon. You make me proud.

Nov. 5

Why the hell did you go back to that inmate and read him some verses out of that book? No need to answer, man; I saw the semblance of shame creeping into your mind. I don’t need to remind you—but I will—that you agreed to eliminate that emotion when you threw in with me.

Nov. 6

Awww, today you cannot find your book.

Nov. 7

Couldn’t find it in the prison library either. Heh-heh.

Twelve Noon, Nov. 8:

It pains me to write this, but it will pain you way more. This morning, I saw you in your cell, on your knees with hands folded. This is a mortal violation of our agreement. Tonight, you will see the penalty. This is the thanks I get for recruiting you?

I'm no stranger to online delivery.

In fact, the Amazon delivery driver now knows me by name. I always keep track of what I order and when. So, you can imagine my confusion and disappointment when instead of a new Gucci purse and belt, I'm greeted by a haphazardly-wrapped little box on my front step. No stamp, no return address, not even a note. Just my name written in swirly cursive letters on the top of the box.

I bring it inside, never one to refuse a gift of any kind. The brown wrapping paper comes off in one clean tear and underneath is a small shoebox, probably only big enough to hold a pair of child's shoes.

But there are no shoes inside. There is, however, a black leather journal. Odd.

Tentatively, I pull it out of the box and set it on my lap. The leather is smooth, not grainy. Very sleek. But who would have left this for me, and why?

I pull back the cover.

On the top left hand side of the first page is the date: January 7th, 2023.

The writing is pretty, with the same big swoopy letters used to write my name on the box. So that means whoever wrote in this journal is probably the same person who left it outside my front door.

I feel hesitant to continue reading, but I don't think I can stop now.

I tap my feet in nervous energy as I read the first entry:

January 7th, 2023

I watched her today. Waltzing around in that little black dress, a white shawl draped

over her shoulders. Her brown hair was pinned up at the top of her head. If you

squinted, she could have almost passed for Audrey Hepburn. She looked like the

picture of class. HA! If only everyone at the party knew what she really got up to in

her spare time. If only Todd knew, if only he'd see -

The journal slips from my grip and falls to the floor with a dull thud. Suddenly the room feels much too small and my sweater much too tight. I pull at the collar in agitation.

Who the hell wrote this?

I pick the journal back up off the floor and skip forward a few pages. I settle on another entry, this one dated April 18th, 2023.

April 18th, 2023

She likes coffee with extra cream and sugar. I should have guessed the princess

would have such delicate taste. Heaven forbid she handle a little bit of

bitterness. Life can be bitter sometimes. I'm not surprised she doesn't know this.

Perhaps I should show her.

Absentmindedly, I skim through one entry after another, the tone becoming more and more vitriolic.

One specific entry catches my eye and I pause. This one is recent.

November 1st, 2024.

Todd must be either a complete idiot, or totally lovesick not to realize what kind of

floozy he's been sharing his bed with. I saw her today. I was this close to confronting

her. For the first time in 5 years, I finally mustered up the courage to look her dead

in the eyes and tell her she was going to pay what what she'd done. But then this

waiter nearly knocked me over with a plate of stale mini quiches, and when I looked

back up, she was gone. Maybe it just wasn't the right time. That's okay. I'm

patient... I can wait.

I slam the journal shut, my breath coming out in short gasps. I have the horrible sensation of someone's eyes on me, although I know for a fact there's no one else here.

"What she'd done"? What had I done?

I scan my brain, trying to think of any particularly negative interaction I've had in the past several years. I have my occasional bouts of anger on the street and sometimes I can be a little testy in the grocery store. But it doesn't make sense for a total stranger to hold onto a grunge over so small a thing for so long. And to follow me around, wanting to make me "pay"? The person would have to be completely deranged.

Unless... this isn't about me at all. The journal frequently mentions Todd throughout the various entries. Maybe it's someone he knows, or someone from his past.

A ring from the front door bell startles me from my train of thought, and I jump out of my seat, the journal falling out of my hands.

I can't see who it is through the stained glass window, so I take a peek through the peephole. There is a person dressed in some kind of delivery uniform, hat bent low over their head. They're holding a parcel under one arm and a clipboard in the other.

It must be the Gucci items I ordered.

I unlock the door. The delivery person is standing still as a stone on the porch, not moving an inch.

"Hello. Is that my package?" I ask, leaning forward to try and see the person's face from underneath their cap.

Suddenly, the person - woman - looks up at me. I can see that she's absolutely stunning, with tan, glowing skin, and bright green eyes. A few strands of wavy, chestnut colored hair have come lose from her pony tail, perfectly framing her face.

"This is for you." she says, handing me the parcel. Even her voice is pretty.

"Thanks." I take the parcel from her with a smile.

She doesn't leave. She stands in the same spot, unmoving, staring at me with a polite smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

The moment lingers a bit too long and, wanting to end this awkward interaction, I gesture to the clip board tucked under her arm.

"Do I need to sign anything?" I ask.

She slowly pulls her stare away from my face and looks down at the clip board.

"Oh, yes. I do need one signature." she says, handing it to me. She reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out a pen. She hands that over, too.

As I'm signing my name on the small black line at the bottom of the page, I can feel her eyes on me.

I finish signing and hand it back to her, but she stops me.

"There's one more line on the back." she says and the fake smile is back again.

The prior feeling of awkwardness is quickly molding into something worse. Slowly, I unclip the piece of paper from the metal clasp and turn it over in my hands. When I see the sentence written on the back, in those familiar curly letters, a chill runs up my spine.

It reads: there are no clumsy waiters here to save you. Time's up.

Entry #1

You may not know me, but I’ve known you for a long time, longer than you realize. I’ve been watching, observing, and documenting every detail that matters. This journal—every page—is meant for your eyes only. You’ll understand in time why I know so much, but for now, all you need to do is keep reading.

Entry #2

Today you hesitated outside your favorite coffee shop before heading in, didn’t you? I know that hesitation well. That brief pause where you almost wonder if you should go somewhere else. You didn’t, though, and ended up ordering your usual—black coffee with a hint of cinnamon. Strange how comforting rituals can be, even for someone as restless as you.

Entry #3

I remember the photo you keep in the top drawer of your desk, the one of you as a child by the sea. You haven’t looked at it in a while, have you? But it’s there, a little reminder of what was lost. I know you wonder sometimes what happened on that trip. It wasn’t your fault.

Entry #4

Are you starting to feel it yet, that faint, creeping sensation of being watched? It’s only natural—when a person’s secrets are laid out for them, it’s hard not to feel exposed. But trust me, this is only the beginning. Every answer you seek lies within these pages. Just keep reading, and don’t look behind you.

Entry #5

There’s a reason I’m reaching out now, and it’s not because I want to scare you. You need to understand that there’s something out there, something connected to you in ways you’ve never suspected. Look to the people closest to you—the answers are closer than you think.

Entry #6

Last night, you stayed up late, staring at your computer screen, lost in thought. You were considering a decision, one that could change things for you. You worry about the outcome, don’t you? The “what if” that keeps nagging at the back of your mind. Just know, I’ve seen it happen before—I’ve seen you make choices, some right and some terribly wrong. I wonder which this will be.

Entry #7

Do you remember the old bookstore on Birch Street? The one that closed down years ago? You spent hours there as a teenager, combing through dusty shelves for hidden gems. I wonder if you ever realized someone was watching you from the other aisle, someone who’d slip notes into the books you’d later pick up. Yes, that was me. I was leaving you messages, trying to connect. Did you ever notice?

Entry #8

Today, you’ll get a phone call that will take you by surprise. Don’t let your guard down—it’s not what it seems. Not everyone is as they appear, and sometimes even the familiar can mask danger. Just remember, you’re not alone. I’ve been guiding you this far, haven’t I?

Entry #9

I can sense your frustration as you read this. You want answers, but they’re not so simple. The truth is, there’s something deeper connecting us, something that goes beyond coincidence or chance. I’m here because I know what’s coming, and I can help you prepare. But you have to trust me—or at least, trust the journal.

Entry #10

By now, you must be wondering who I am. Maybe you’ve guessed, or maybe you’re no closer to the truth than you were before. But here’s a hint: you’ve met me, though you might not remember. I’m closer than you think, and soon, you’ll understand why I’ve been watching you all along.

The entries send chills down your spine. This unknown person, this "Watcher," is weaving themselves into memories you thought were yours alone. You begin to realize that the mystery of their identity isn’t just about who they are—it’s about why they’re so invested in you.