I.

Up the stairs Suzann without an E went.
8" X 10" bright white rectangles dotted
the yellowing and dusty walls,
clean reminders of bad family photos.
Her parents, Bob and Theresa,
had picked out wallpaper. Lilacs
and vines and oranges. Why? She
didn't know.

She tossed her backpack on the floor
at the foot of her bed. Her senior book
was still on the night stand. Charity and
Faith, her sometimes friends, had spent
the last two weeks filling out every page
of theirs, printing hazy images on cheap
photo paper at their homes and sliding them
into the plastic holders or taping them to
the pages without.

They coerced boys they
had liked or still liked or would like if to
fill out pages. When the boys simply signed
their names or names and football numbers,
they guilted them into writing more. Give
me something to remember you by.

Suzann liked to look at only one boy,
Casey Stephen Fuchs, pronounced "Fox,"
though you know that's just what the family
said. She didn't want him to write in her
senior book. She enjoyed the space between
them. She knew what her peers didn't:
she was seventeen.
She knew she didn't know
the right words yet. She knew the heart-bursting
flutters she felt were temporary--enjoy them, she thought,
shut up and enjoy them.

Her parents set her curfew at 10:30. So
this Friday, like most Fridays, she stays
home.

She opens ****** in the City of Mystics,
a novel she's burned through. Fifty pages
or so left. She likes detectives. The methodical
stalking, the idiosyncratic theories and philosophies
that allow them to connect dot after dot.

She shuts her eyes and sends herself walking down
the streets of New York, where hot dog vendors
whistle and say, "Nice legs." She flags down a cab.
She sees Casey across the street. What are you doing
here, stranger? She waves the cab on.
The driver, a brown-skinned man from some vague
country, throws his arms up. "C'mon."

She cuts across the traffic, dodging a white stretch limo,
a black Hummer, a hearse.

Casey's straight hair hangs over his left eye. It's both
melodramatic and troubled. There's a small shift
at the corners of his lips, the corners of lips, this
is a detail she writes of often in her journal--why?

She can almost hear Casey ask her, "What brings you here?"

"Business."

"What kind?"

"None of yours."

He takes this as an entry for a kiss. Not yet, handsome. No no.

"Make whatever you want for dinner," her mom shouts up the stairs.
"There's stuff for nachos if you want nachos. Some luncheon meat too.
Only one piece of bread though."

"Okay."

"Alright. Just whenever. Dad and I are going to go ahead."

"Okay."

"Alright."

Get me out of here. Suzann's whole life is small: small town,
small family, small church, all packed with small brained, short-sighted people. She wants New York or Chicago. She wants a badge--no not a badge. She'll be a vigilante. "You're not a cop," they'll tell her.

"Thank God," she'll say. "If I were a cop then there'd be nobody protecting these streets."

II.

She's read mysteries set in the middle of nowhere, small towns like her own Kiev, Missouri. They always feel phony. Not enough churches.
Not enough bored dads hitting on cheerleaders.
No curses. Every small town has a curse. Kiev's?
Every year someone in the senior class dies.

As far back as anyone she knew could remember
anyways. Drunk driving, falling asleep at the wheel,
texting while driving, all that crap is what was usually
blamed.

This smelly boy named Todd Louden moved out of Kiev
in the fall semester of his senior year a couple years ago.
Suzann was a freshman.

A few months after he was gone, people started saying
he'd killed himself with a shotgun. First United Methodist
added his family to the prayer list. They had a little service out
by this free-standing wall by the library where he used
to play wall ball during lunch. People cried. Suzann didn't know
anyone that hung out with him. Maybe that's why
they cried, unreconcilable guilt--that's what her dad
said.

Then in the spring Todd moved back. The cross planted
by the wall with his name confused him.
He'd just been staying with his grandma. Nothing crazy.
The churches never said anything about that. He was
just the smelly kid again. Well until late-April when
he got ran over by a drunk or texting driver.
They hadn't even pulled up the cross by the wall ball site
yet.

III.

You call it the middle of nowhere, a place where the roads didn't have proper names until a couple years back, roads now marked with green signs and white numbers like 3500 and 1250, numbers the state mandated so the ambulances can find your dying ***--well if the signs haven't been rendered unreadable by .22 rounds.

The roads used to be known only to locals. They'd give them names like the Jogline or Wilzetta or Lake Road, reserved knowledge for the sake of identifying outsiders. But that day is fading.

What makes nowhere somewhere? What grants space a name?

The dangerous element. The drifter that hops a fence, carrying a shotgun in a tote bag. Violence gave us O.K. Corral. Violence gave us Waco. Historians get nostalgic for those last breaths of innocence. The quiet. The storm. The dead quiet.

IV.

It's March and not a single senior has died.
So when she hears the front door open
around 2 a.m., Suzann isn't surprised.
She doesn't think it's ego that's made
her believe it'd be her to die--but it is.

She hears the fridge door open.
Cabinets open.
Cabinets close.
She hears ice drop into
the glass. Liquid poured.

She clicks her tongue in
her dry mouth. She puts
a hand to her chest. Her
heart beats slow.
She rests her head on
the pillow. It's heavy
yet empty, yet full--
not of thoughts.

She can't remember the name
of any shooting victims.
She remembers the shooters.
Jared Lee Loughner, Seung-Hui Cho,
James Eagan Holmes, Adam Lanza.
No victims.

She hears the intruder set the glass on the counter.
He doesn't walk into the living room.
He starts up the stairs. His steps are
soft, deliberate. What does he want?
Her death. She knows this. He is only a vehicle.
Nameless until. Has he done this before?
Fast or slow?

He's just outside her room, and she doesn't
remember a single victim's name. She hears
a bag unzip. She hears a click.

If he shoots her, Suzann Dunken, there's
no way the newspaper will get her name
right. Her name may or may not scroll
across CNN's marquee for a day or two.
If it does, it won't be spelled correctly.
This makes her move. Wrapping
her comforter around her body, she
tip-toes to the wall next to her door.

She hears a doorknob turn.
It's not hers.

He's going into her parents' bedroom.
They're both heavy sleepers.
She opens her own door slowly.
She steps into the hall. She sees the man.
The man does not see her.
She see the man and grabs a family
portrait. The man does not see her,
and he creeps closer to her parents.
She sees the man standing then she
sees the man falling after she strikes him
with the corner of the family portrait.
The man sees her as he scrambles to get
his bearing. She strikes him, again with
the corner. This time she connects with his eye.
A light comes on. "Suzann," her mother says.
He tries to aim the gun. Again she strikes.
He screams. He reaches for his eyes with
his left hand. Now with the broad side she
swings. She connects. She connects again.
The man shoves her off, stumbles to his feet.
By this time, her dad reaches her side.
One strong push and the man crashes into
the wall outside the room, putting a hole
in the drywall.

He recovers and retreats down the stairs
and out the door into blackness.

Her mother phones the police.
She pants more than speaks
into the receiver.

"Suzann," her dad says. "Sweetheart."

Suzann looks at the portrait, taken at JC Penny when
she was in the sixth grade. The glass is cracked.
She removes the back. She pulls out the photo.

"Did you get a good look at him?"

This photo. Her mother let her do anything
she wanted to her hair before they took it.
So she, of course, dyed it purple.

"That's right," her mother says.
"It's about half a mile east of the
3500 and 1250 intersection. Uh-huh."

Her dad sits down next to her.

"How long do you think it'll take them
to find us?"

There's a shift at the corners of her mouth,
and she nods, just nods.

Louden your laughter,

Unveil the dancer in you,

Hold you up like a bra does to *****,

Enlighten your burdens,

Shine light into your darkness.

That's what friends are for!

The Puppet Master

Standing outside my favorite coffee shop, I light up a cigarette to massage my lungs.
My cell phone vibrates, it’s my good for nothing son.
I hit ignore with no plans of calling him back later.
Judge me all you want but I’m not the one who’s a maniacal traitor.
Possibly a cold, cruel dictator.
That’s for you to decide, the reader and commentator.
Am I a member of the elite or a low life belonging to the lowest common denominator?
The truth is, if you care to know, is I’m an innovator,
even more than God himself, the grand creator.
I even contain deep inside myself a ***** little secret.
You will learn about that when I give my next client his special treatment.

I take a hit of my cigarette and take in the view of the night.
The sky is an uncomfortable black, moonless and not a star in sight.
A slight breeze comfortably glides in-between my hair providing it with a smooth flow.
The temperature is moderate and traffic is light, a good combo.
My home is just a few blocks away so tonight should make for an enjoyable walk.
Maybe once I’m home I will call my son back and we can finally have a long needed talk.

I take another hit of my cigarette and begin walking home,
all the while thinking about how I would like to go to Paris to visit the catacombs.
It would be a fantastic vacation; one I desperately need.
Maybe I should find myself a sugar daddy who would take me in exchange for me swallowing his seed.
He can lavish me with trips and gifts.
I can use my ****** talents to keep him fulfilled and happy.
Fair trade offer I would say.
A sugar momma would do as well; I can pretend to be gay.

Two blocks away from home a feeling of dread overcomes me.
I stop walking, freeze with nerves shooting up and down my spine, not a good time for this, I really need to ***.
I feel the eyes of a man watching me from behind.
I feel that he has wicked intentions in mind.

I turn around and scan the area for anything suspicious.
I notice a well-dressed man standing next to a building smoking inauspicious.
He flashes me a toothy smile that’s rather ambitious.
He licks his lips at me probably thinking I look delicious.

Uncomfortable, I turn back around and begin walking again at a quicker pace.
I pat down my pockets hoping I’m carrying my mace.
I’m not, I hope he’s not following me, I look over my shoulder just in case.
He slowly walks behind me with his head down so I can’t see his face.

Sweat begins to drip down my face.
I need to get on my high horse and make it back to my place.
This man could be dangerous and up to no good.
I feel that he would **** or **** me if he could.

I begin to run towards my home continuing to look behind me all the way.
He continues to walk slow and ominously behind me acting like he has started a game we both have to play.
Wanting to get out of this man’s sight as quickly as possible, I hit my high gear and run up to my front door.
I unlock it quickly not wanting to find out what this man has in store.
I run inside, slam the door, lock it and drop to the floor.
If stalking me to my home was his idea of fun, well there will be no encore.

I crawl on the floor, out of sight of my windows in case he looks in, to my bathroom where I’m able to stand back up.
I move my neck back and forth, it’s acting up and very sore, I could use a good rub.
Still reeling and on edge for the man following me, I look at my phone.
Do I dial the police and make his actions known?
Or I could go back outside, confront him and show him that I do indeed carry a backbone.
It’s probably best I just leave this entire ordeal alone.

I wash my face then go into my kitchen to make myself a stiff drink.
Just one drink then into the shower I have to go, I’m beginning to stink.
I finish filling my drink then pop in a pill that’s pink.
It helps me to relax and not worry about…at least I think.

I chug my drink then slam the glass down as a hand covers my mouth.
I’m held against my will by a man lacking couth.
“Don’t fight or struggle and this will be easier on you.
The last thing I want to do is **** you and watch your pretty little face turn blue.”

I feel the man rub his bulge firmly against my ***.
If he plans on sticking it up there he better be leaving me with some free grass.
The man forces me to walk to my bedroom where he violently pushes me stomach first onto the bed.
He climbs on top of me placing his hand firmly down on my head telling me if I fight I’m dead.
With his free hand, he pulls my leggings down exposing my bare *** and thong.
He drops his trousers and underwear and begins feeling up my *** with his…massive ****.
He’s far larger than I imaged him being.
He tells me I’m going to enjoy this and I’m not disagreeing.
He feels to be at least 11 inches; please tell me I’m dreaming.
****, if he’s even half way decent he might have me screaming.

With his free hand, he begins to feel my ***** thought my thong now beginning to get soakin’ wet.
I imagine soon my face, along with his, will be covered in sweat.
“You’re ***** for my massive manhood, aren’t you?
Your wet ***** is kind of a clue.”

Unseen to him I smile, as he pulls my thong down and ****** himself into me violently and without warning.
He slides right in since my ****** is already lubricated with my juices, but his massive size causes some short term intense pain, I’m sure I’ll be sore in the morning.
With my lips spread wide and my *** up in the air, he ***** me harder and harder with each ******.
This is even better than what we previously discussed.
With all of his eleven inches deep inside of me, he stops and holds his **** in me.
He flexes his biceps, kisses me on the lips, fondles my **** then begins violently and ruthlessly ******* me again providing me with never before matched glee.
As I predicted, I begin screaming as my ***** reaches ****** and begins squirting all over him.
**** me, this is good and this is just the prelim.
Feeling me ****** and squirt causes my ****** to blow his load deep inside me.
He rolls off of me and tells me he has to ***.
I do as well and follow him to the bathroom.

I walk in and find him peeing with his massive **** hanging out freely.
Locking it down and making it mine would be my goal, ideally.
I would slither into his work and **** him discreetly.
Maybe a private show for his favorite co-worker, how hot and steamy!
We would satisfy each other completely.
But that’s not why he’s here, just for us to get freaky.
Although his eyes are mysterious and dreamy,
he was sent to me to handle at a cost that didn’t come cheaply.

I speak first, “Well that went better than I ever imaged it going.
You ****** me good, you had my face glowing.”

“When I spoke to Dr. Burke and opened up to him about my **** fetish,
I expected him to condemn me for being devilish.
I’ve ***** women in the past and was struggling to control the urge, I know I’m pathetic,
but Dr. Burke didn’t judge, he saw past my misdeeds and understood my internal wreckage.
When he set me up with you to legally act out my **** desires I was beyond thrilled.
I tell you what, you are very skilled.
You acted so panicked and afraid when I was stalking you outside.
Watching you panic and crawl to the bathroom, I busted out laughing so hard I thought I was going to die.
And that ***** of yours…the best I’ve ever had!
I think you and I could have quite the *** Olympiad.”

“I’m glad you are pleased with your experience with me.
Hopefully it helps heal your internal damage and helps set your soul free.
Dr. Burke also informed me you have a ******* fetish and want a woman to sexually dominate you.
I’m ready to help you with that fetish as well right here, right now, if that is in fact true.”

“Yes!!!!  I want a woman to dominate me, embarrass me and punish me for all of my misdeeds.
I’m all yours my *******, I’m ready to proceed.”

That’s right you poor pathetic creature, I’m the puppet master pulling all the strings here,
but before we end this session I want to once more milk the venom from out of your massive spear.
I motion to the man to follow me back into my bedroom where I order him to kneel before me.
I place a collar around his neck, strap a leash to it and tell him to close his eyes and count to three.

After three he opens his eyes to find me standing in front of him with a dagger placed softly against his neck.
I tell him his body belongs to me now and is only mine to wreck.
I tell him to bark like a mutt if he understood the rules.
He barks and barks and barks like a ******* fool.

I tell him to close his eyes once again.
I tell him he is my property when inside my domain.
I grab ahold of a leash tight and begin to choke him a bit.
It’s fun torturing this man, I will admit.
I tell my dog to lick my ***** for it needs to be served.
Treat it with love and compassion like it deserves.

He crawls up underneath my ***** and beings to lick it passionately.
I begin to let out some moans, he knows how to use his tongue adequately.
My breathing deepens, my moans louden as he eats me out ravenously.
It’s a shame we can never be together romantically.
I have a job to do unfortunately.
It does provide me with a comfortable life miraculously.

Tired of having his tongue in my *****, I move his head away from me and tell him to go lay down on the bed.
He smiles, winks and licks his lips at me knowing he just provided me with excellent head.
Once on the bed, I handcuff both of his hands to the bed posts.
He marvels at his own **** and says a few words trying to boast.
I then tie both of his ankles down to the bed so he’s completely unable to move.
He begins to laugh and asks me to give him my worst; seemingly with being tied down he approves.

I take a whip out of my closet and stand in front of the bed holding it tight.
The man again smiles and laughs and tells me to give him my worst bite.
I swing the whip and hit him in the chest with all of my might.
I repeat this over and over again until his chest no longer looks alright.
It’s torn up to shreds and bleeding badly but the man just laughs.
He tells me I’m an expert of my craft.
The sick **** actually enjoys being tortured.
“Give me a worse punishment,” he orders.

I go back to my closet and take out some clamps and place them on his ******* and *****.
He lets out a grunt filled with agony but tells me placing a clamp on his ***** was the right call.
With his **** rock hard from the excitement of being tortured, I decide it’s time to ride it one final time.
It’s a shame at the same time, he might be the best **** in all of Anaheim.

I climb onto the bed and sit on the mans ripped open chest,
then, with his full attention on me, he begins to play with and ****** my *******.  
I begin to rub my soakin’ wet slit against his **** as he begs me to get on and ride him until he erupts.
This man’s entire being is completely corrupt.
But so am I if I’m looking at it from your point of view.
It’s not my fault I get paid to provide a **** time and be a good *****
and get paid to…
well you’re about to find out.

I place a blind fold over the man and tell him I’m about to milk his giant manhood dry.
He smiles quietly praising his lord far above him in the sky.
I sit on his **** and take in all 11 inches as they slide right in my naturally lubricated slit.
It feels marvelous, that part I will admit.
I dig my nails into the man’s shoulders and begin ******* him fast and hard.
He begins squirming and moaning loudly as my ferocious ******* catches him off guard.
I lean over, bite his ear and whisper to him to scream out I’m his queen.
He screams just that and screams out I’m better than ******* a ****** teen.
He tells me he has a load built up and is about to explode.
I **** as fast and hard as I possibly can, I’m feeling I’m on banshee mode.
He lets out a loud ear piercing scream as he blows a massive load inside of me.
With sweat pouring down his face, he lets out a massive smile, his heart (and ****) full of glee.
With his *** dripping out of my slit, I lean over and remove his blindfold,
then begin licking the blood off his torn-up chest reminding him I’m still in control.

I sit up slowly and look up towards the heavens as I take out the dagger that’s been attached to my leg.
I hold the dagger high over his heart as his smile turns to a frown and he begins to beg.
I close my eyes and say a prayer to my God Osiris then look down at the man,
tell him all this time he has been a pawn in a complex plan.
He frantically tries to free his arms and legs but he isn’t going anywhere.
I tell him he has a few seconds to say one final prayer,
but that’s a lie as I immediately sink the dagger deep into his heart.
His eyes, once full of life, fade away to a gray as his soul departs
down to the fires of hell with Osiris, I’m sure.
Maybe one day I’ll run into him again during my introduction tour.

I climb off the bed with the satisfaction of a job well done.
I won’t lie, I did indeed have a lot of fun.
I locate the man’s pants and take out his wallet.
I find a family picture of him with his wife and two kids, I called it.
The sickest ***** are always married and with children.
I’m sure they never even suspected their loving husband and father was such a villain,
a smooth talking, double life leading reptilian,
and probably a descended of the original pilgrims.
They were also sick *****.
If you don’t believe me, you are blind to our own dark history.

I locate the man’s I.D. his name is Harold Jones.
Harold, what a stupid name for someone with a heart and soul made out of rocks and uncontrollable hormones.

I put the wallet away and go check my cell phone.
I have one missed call and a new voice mail from Dr. Burke.

“Amanda, it’s Doctor Burke.  I trust everything is going smoothly with our friend Harold.  Listen I have two more people I need your help with.  A concern acquaintance of mine has a daughter named Sarah he needs our help with.  She has these uncontrollable desires and needs us to put a stop to it.  I also have an experiment I’ve been working on for a couple years now that I’m afraid I have to pull the plug on and need you help doing so.  Call me when you can and we will discuss the details of each case.”

****, looks like I have a busy few days coming up.
Guess I better go load up a cup.
have a few stiff drinks to loosen myself up for this.

That faith or fear,
Heaven or hell,
Your dispositions.
Feeding on you.
Carress your angel,
Demon'll subdue.
Louden your courage,
Poltergeist'll squelch.
Demons, not above
your head. You,
a conduit to soul.
You embossom
universe.

People who think they are are alone, have no idea what it actually feels like.
Isolated is a close friend of mine, and its voices continually louden in my head.
Talking to myself, trying to fill dead air.
The mind plays tricks on itself to believe that someone might be there.
A man can only be alone for so lone, till his mind is fully gone.
Nobody to hear me talk about my dark fantasies.
Nobody to hear me talk about my dark realities.
The life boat I set sail on, has started taking water.
Entities in my head, have started to turn me into fodder.