The hunt for Colonel James Woods had been on for the better part of a year when the letter arrived at his estate. News of his remarkable disappearance had reached adventurers from every corner of the globe. From the jungles of Peru to the sands of the Sahara to the frosted peaks of the Himalayas, his friends searched tirelessly. None was as committed to the quest as Rex Henshaw, his handsome young apprentice who had visited dozens of countries over the preceding months, and it was no accident that this document fell into his hands.

While significantly past his prime and directly defying the advice of his physician, the Colonel’s devoted butler, Spartacus, raced through the labyrinth of halls that comprised the Woods estate until he reached his master’s office. Therein stood Rex staring intently at an enormous map that stretched across an entire wall of the room. The world had been vandalized by the Colonel’s young ward, the seven continents barely visible. A chaotic blur of circles and lines littered with darts and thumbtacks. Rex was so focused he did not hear the hastened clop of tuxedo shoes in the hall — despite the echoes —nor the old man’s heavy wheezing as he desperately gasped for air and attempted to gain some composure.

It was not until the Colonel’s favorite pet, a large white tiger named Balthazor, stirred from his slumber and growled that Rex had even noticed anyone else was in the room. He immediately peered over the Colonel’s desk where the beast had been sleeping on a pile of tattered old books and caught his first glimpse of his exhausted and slightly balding companion.

“Master Henshaw… this… just arrived, sir,” Spartacus coughed, reaching into the jacket of his tuxedo and extracting the envelope.

A flurry of papers scattered fiercely through the air as Rex rushed across the room. Balthazor hopped down from the desk and followed casually. After snatching the envelope from the butler’s hand, Rex examined it thoroughly. There was no return address. No postmark.

Anxiously, he ripped it open, a perplexing wrinkle on his forehead. The ragged pieces of the envelope gracefully fluttered down upon the worn shag carpeting, leaving a trail as Rex paced over to the desk. The grumpy tiger followed close behind, taking a brief moment to pause and sniff some shreds of paper before sitting elegantly at Rex’s feet, rubbing its cheek forcefully against his jeans. The black denim complemented its fur, once a vibrant white but now fading to dusty beige. While growing rather husky with age, Balthazor was no less intimidating to anyone except Rex — how quickly he had forgotten that the same tiger nearly took his life on his first night in the estate — who reached down and gently rubbed its head as he unfolded the letter. The beast purred in satisfaction. As he read, Rex’s forehead grew more wrinkled, and his eyes began to squint in thought.

He glared at Spartacus, who remained in the thresholdhoping to avoid an encounter with the overgrown housecat.

“Where’s Archie?”

“I do believe he went out for a drink a good hour ago.”

Making his way across the room, Rex shook his head and handed the letter to the butler, who did not hesitate to satisfy his curiosity.

“Big surprise. When he gets back, tell him to sober up and fill his tank. Michael and I are leaving in the morning, and we’ll need him ready to fly.

“Why rush, sir? This clearly indicates that you have a month before Master Woods is expected to —”

“We don’t know when that letter was written. Sure, it could have been a week ago, but it could also have gotten lost in the mail for a few days — or weeks. This is the only lead we’ve got right now, and I’m not taking any chances.”

With that, Rex departed. The tiger ambled after him, making a point to stop and snarl at Spartacus before it stepped out. The poor butler clenched his chest, and as he tried to lower his heart rate, he could hear Rex’s voice emanating from the hall.

“And don’t forget to feed the cat while I’m gone!”

Dearest James,

Words cannot express my excitement for our rendezvous next month. I know we were just together yesterday, but already it feels as if it’s been years since I last saw your face. Besides, I haven’t been gorilla hunting in years! Everything is set for the expedition — I’ll meet you at a hostel outside of Kisangani. After my plane lands in Bangoka, I plan on stopping by the local bazaar. If I’m not at the room when you arrive, I’m sure you’ll find me there.

Yours Truly,

Helena Bradford

P.S. – I was in Papua a couple weeks ago and found the most beautiful mask for your collection. It wasn’t easy getting it past the natives, but I know the perfect spot for it on your wall!

Having spent several hours staring blankly out the window of the plane, Rex was consumed by his usual paranoia. He wasn’t afraid of flying; in fact he rather enjoyed it. Crashing, on the other hand, he believed would be significantly less pleasurable. He had been calm during takeoff just as much as he had been when boarding the plane. It wasn’t until he had been off the ground for twenty minutes that boredom directed his gaze through the small window to his right, which revealed to him a strip of duct tape strapped around the wing, the end flapping violently in the wind. That was the moment that reminded him who was flying the plane.

Archibald Henderson was once, though very briefly, an esteemed member of the United States Air Force. Archie often boasted of his ancestry, namely his ever-so-great grandfather, the longest-serving Commandant of the United States Marine Corps, who served on the USS Constitution during her victories in the War of 1812. Whether they were actually related has yet to be proven, but at any rate, they irrefutably shared the same name.

While Archie’s fame rivaled that of his supposed great-great-great-grandfather, his reputation lacked prestige. In twenty-seven years of service to his country, he was able to break a dozen records — all of which involved the demolition of aircraft. Of course, he would always point out to his colleagues that only eight of them were actual crashes. His crowning achievement commenced in the air when he ran out of fuel and attempted to return to base, a decision that led to the destruction of eleven aircraft and ended Archie’s hapless yet beloved career in the military.

Rex had heard the story many times. Though it always made him laugh when he had two feet firmly planted on the ground, it never failed to thrust him into hysteria when he was trapped in the air with Archie in the cockpit.

The heart is a crucial part of the human anatomy consisting of four chambers, which allow blood to receive oxygen as it flows through the body’s circulatory system. This definition’s scientific technicality fails to reflect my belief that the heart defines a person. I believe my heart has a distinct way of defining me. I am a patient. I am a patient who has a congenital heart defect. I am a patient with Truncus Arteriosus.

Although these stark details do not offer an accurate portrayal of my condition, my hospital record does. I am a female who is 4 feet, 11 inches in height. I am a patient with a heart murmur caused by a malfunctioning mitral valve. I am a patient whose aorta and pulmonary artery were combined at birth. Consequently, only deoxygenated blood circulated through my body. I am a patient who, before the age of thirteen, had the following procedures: one stent, two balloon angioplasties, and four catheterizations. I am a patient who has had two open-heart surgeries: one at four days old and one at the age of twelve.

Off the hospital record, the two heart donations that I received during these operations are the only reason a jagged green line marches across the heart monitor. Despite these donations, my heart is still incapable of creating a steady THUD-THUD sound like a bass drum. Rather, my heartbeat is a laboring washing machine that generates a sloshy THUMP-schwoosh sound.

THUMP-schwoosh. My heart lurches, pounds, struggles, and survives under the bumpy, white scar that runs down my chest like the links of a long, slender chain. THUMP-schwoosh. My imperfect heartbeat thuds behind sturdy white rib bones. THUMP-schwoosh. The erratic rhythm is a constant reminder of the debt I can never repay, and the noise creates an excruciating conflict inside me. THUMP. I am alive! I can experience sudden epiphanies, unexpected setbacks, askew ideas, and crisscrossing theories that puzzle and perplex but lead to some greater truth. Schwoosh. I ask myself reproachfully, “Am I doing enough? Am I making the most of the life I have been given?” THUMP-schwoosh. My heartbeat is a compass that throbs out the personal conviction, “Live! Live boldly; live up to your potential.”

Despite its defects, I believe my heart defines me. I am a patient. I am a patient with Truncus Arteriosus. I am a person who is small yet mighty, determined, and resolute. I am a patient with a pulsing mass of veins and arteries that makes me a bundle of contradictions.I live in constant excitement for today, and conversely, in constant apprehension of tomorrow. The complex organ the size of my fist provides the aspiration to thrive in glorious existence. Under taught skin and sinew, an effervescence surges within the pulsating muscle of my borrowed heart.

Across my window, green blurs by,

And Olympic Mountains tower high,

Rock-flecked beaches and blue-green sea,

A shining needle marks the Emerald City.

The highways are wet from the constant rain,

And a whirl of wind kicks up from the speeding train,

Creating love, as I take a trip down

The highway by the Puget Sound.

The forest’s canopy was dense and thick, branches twisting and writhing around each other, to the point that hardly any sunlight pierced its great barrier. The leaves were moist and dripping from a recent rainstorm, and many of the forest’s smaller inhabitants rummaged around the forest’s floor. The creatures scrounged for any food they could find, oftentimes each other.

A velociraptor stalked among some nearby bushes. It crept closer and closer to a family of protoceratops, who was blissfully unaware of its imminent danger. Then, like a bolt of lightning, the raptor rushed out of the dark foliage. It sprinted toward the youngest of the frightened creatures and was upon it before it even had time to react. The others fled in fear as the raptor sank its razor-sharp teeth into the protoceratop’s neck, and with a flash, the pitiful thing was dead.

The raptor began ravenously feeding on its prize. But not halfway through its meal, something roused it from its bloody handiwork. A great thunder shook the forest, from the tops of its trees all the way to its roots. The raptor looked desperately at its meal, but dared not cross the path of what was approaching. It fled into the underbrush in shame, taking only one last hunk of meat.

The ground rumbled with each step, as if under the attack of an earthquake. A great form lurched through the forest. His legs were like tree trunks, his tail whipped behind him. His enormous jaw housed huge, razor-sharp teeth. He was a creature that was spoken of in a hushed, reverent tone. He was praised for his rippling muscles and powerful jaws that commanded respect. So much respect that no creature dared mention his goofy little arms.

He was…Mr. Tyrannosaurus Rex.

Mr. T-Rex stomped by the protoceratops corpse without even giving it a glance. It was a paltry amount, not fit for a creature of his magnificence and station. No, he was after larger and fiercer prey; prey that would be worthy of killing. Mr. T-Rex’s destination was a bright light shining in the distance. As he drew closer, the trees grew thinner, and blue sky began to appear overhead. Finally, he had made his way to the edge of the forest.

The tyrant king looked out at the sight before him. A glimmering blue lake stretched out in the land below him, beyond which were golden plains far as the eye could see. The shores of the lake were teaming with dinosaurs of every kind: triceratops, stegosaurus, sauropods; even great pterosaurs dotted the skies.

Mr. T-Rex had to choose his prey carefully. If the ensuing fight was too easy, his reputation would be irreparably damaged. Obviously, the pterosaurs were out of the question, as were the sauropods, the only dinosaurs mightier than he. Stegosaurs had the assets to put up an impressive fight, but, given their infamous stupidity, were more likely to spike themselves in the head than make for a compelling struggle.

No, it would have to be the triceratops. Great juggernauts, armed with long and powerful horns that could easily gut the mighty Mr. T-Rex. They were fiercely territorial creatures who commanded almost as much respect as the tyrannosaurs themselves. But which one would it be? Which one was neither too young nor too old, healthy and in his prime; which behemoth had the might to face him?

Mr. T-Rex eyed a particularly spirited triceratops bull leading its fellows to the water’s edge. He raised his enormous head in celebration and gave out a triumphant bellow that rang across the plains. The thrill of combat entered into Mr. T-Rex’s mind and he twiddled his fingers excitedly; at least he would have if his arms weren’t too stunted to reach each other, but the point comes across all the same.

Mr. T-Rex lumbered out of the forest, stopping briefly to let the sun’s warm rays bask down onto him, energizing him for the fight ahead. As he came closer to the lake, the other dinosaurs became aware of his approach and scattered, fearing for their lives. The triceratops, however, held their ground and formed a mighty phalanx between Mr. T-Rex and the fleeing dinosaurs. Mr. T-Rex had anticipated this and stopped a ways from the wall of spiky death. He had no chance against an entire herd of triceratops; his only chance was to goad the triceratops bull into one-on-one combat. Mr. T-Rex unleashed a savage roar, one that caused the line of triceratops to falter ever so slightly before regaining their composure. The bull recognized Mr. T-Rex’s power and refused to risk his followers’ safety any more. He slowly, but stoutly, broke away from the brigade and stood before Mr. T-Rex, alone.

The other triceratops moved to protest their leader’s decision, but the bull stamped his feet and let out a menacing growl. Nothing could change his mind. The others moved away and anxiously watched the battle that was about to unfold. With a gnashing of teeth, Mr. T-Rex charged the triceratops. The bull, in turn, moved his head upwards hoping that Mr. T-Rex’s momentum would cause him to fall upon his horns. Mr. T-Rex saw through this base ploy and deftly side-stepped the bull and circled around him, launching his jaws at the bull’s back legs. The brute whipped around, swifter than expected, and left a cut on Mr. T-Rex’s snout.

Mr. T-Rex backed away from the bull, impressed by his agility. He would have to plan his next move carefully. The two began circling each other, neither one breaking eye contact. Mr. T-Rex weighed his options. The bull was faster than any triceratops he had ever encountered before, thus negating the option of attacking from the back. An idea crept into Mr. T-Rex’s mind. His concentration returned to him, body trembling with anticipation, stubby arms waving excitedly in bloodlust. He only had one shot at this.

Mr. T-Rex once again charged forward towards the bull, who once again raised his head upwards. This time, however, Mr. T-Rex showed no signs of slowing down. Each footfall brought Mr. T-Rex closer to the bull’s razor-sharp horns. At the last second, Mr. T-Rex raised one of his mighty feet into the air and stomped down onto the end of the bull’s snout, his toes going between the horn at the edge of the bull’s nose. The bull’s head buckled forward and smashed into the ground hard; his two main horns speared into the earth, sending bits of dirt flying into the air. Mr. T-Rex closed his jaws onto the stunned creature’s frill and began wrestling with his head. With a powerful jerk, Mr. T-Rex tackled the bull onto the ground, flipping him over to reveal his vulnerable neck. Wasting no time, Mr.T-Rex tore into the helpless bull’s jugular. He yanked his mouth upwards and ripped out the triceratops’ throat! “Alex.” Blood and tissue were everywhere, flying through the air, splattering Mr. T-Rex’s face! “ALEX.” The looks of horror from the other triceratops at the morbid, gruesome, decimated remains of their former lea-

“ALEX!”

I found myself sitting on the hard, uncarpeted floor of my bedroom. The tyrannosaurus and triceratops figures were in my tightly-clenched hands. Other dinosaur figures were strewn on the floor around me: stegosaurus, pteranodons, apatosaurus; a velociraptor laid motionless on top of my bed. I looked up to see my mom standing in my bedroom’s doorway with an annoyed look on her face.

“Alex,” she said, “you told me you’d gather up all of your old toys a half an hour ago. Have you even started?”

I looked around at the toys scattered on my floor. “I may have gotten a little distracted.”

“You promised that you would take care of all of this before you went back to campus. Now just toss all those old dinosaur toys in the box so we can give them away.”

I looked down at my dinosaur figures and then at the box but made no move to place them in there.

“Actually, I was thinking about hanging on to them for a little while.”

My mom gave me an incredulous look. “You’re twenty. What does a twenty-year-old need with dinosaur toys?”

“Alright just… just give me a few minutes? Okay? Just a few minutes.”

My mom let out an exasperated sigh and left the room. I glanced into the hallway to make sure she went back downstairs. I took my textbooks out of my book bag and quickly stuffed a few handfuls of the dinosaur figures into it. I kept the tyrannosaurus and the triceratops out and continued in my head. The other triceratops looked in horror at the morbid, gruesome, decimated remains of their former leader…

Mr. T-Rex looked up from his kill to see the other triceratops,stricken with fright. He let out an earth-shaking roar, sending the triceratops fleeing away from the site of this great battle. Mr. T-Rex stood above his fallen foe, satisfied that this struggle would be remembered for years to come. He had his share of the bounty and left the rest for the scavengers. No one could say that he was not benevolent to the lesser predators.

Mr. T-Rex made his way back towards the forest, the sun setting across the grasslands. This day was coming to an end, but it was just one of many. There were still many adventures to come, many more challenges. There would always be new trials to face in the life of…Mr. Tyrannosaurus Rex.

(A modestly well-furnished living room. At center stage is a couch with a small nightstand to its right. On top of the nightstand is a lamp with a removable shade, as well as a heavy, bronze statuette and a small cup. At stage left is a copy of “Starry Night” by Van Gogh. At upstage right is a frame, which represents the closet door. In relatively the same spot at upstage left is a door leading to the basement. At downstage right is a large TV resting on top of a small credenza. At stage right is the home’s front door. As the lights come up, we hear a fumbling outside the front door, followed by the doorknob shaking. After a few moments, we hear a click and DALE comes creeping through the door, followed closely by JEFF. Both are dressed in all black.)

DALE: Close the door.

JEFF: (after carefully closing the door shut) Are we really going
through with this, Dale? What if they come home?

DALE: Don’t you worry about that, Jeff. I been staking this
place out for a couple weeks. Every Tuesday night they
leave the house and are gone for at least two hours.
We got nothin’ to worry about.

JEFF: If you say so. (Pause) So why this house?

DALE: (motions towards the TV) Because of this.

JEFF: All this trouble for a TV?

DALE: Not just any TV. The Miyazaki Photon Class, 75-inch
1080p HDTV. The latest in eye-irradiating technology.
Retails at $3,500, but with a little finagling and a
gratuity for our trouble, we can bump that up to 4
grand, easy.
(chuckles maniacally as he speaks) And it’s all ours!

JEFF: (staring in awe) It’s…beautiful. (Pause) Looks a little
heavy, though.

DALE: Which is why I dragged your slow ass along. (crouches
at one end of the TV) Now if you’re done ogling the
tube, would you mind giving me a hand with this thing?

JEFF: Oh! Sorry, Dale.

(DALE grabs the other end of the TV and, together,
they struggle as they lift it.)

JEFF: (exerting himself) This thing…is actually…very heavy.

DALE: Just walk!

(The two begin maneuvering towards the front door but
are suddenly stopped dead. The TV lurches backward,
and the two struggle to hold it steady.)

DALE: (between pained breaths) Goddammit, it’s still plugged                                                in!
Back! Go back!
(They set the TV back down on the credenza. JEFF
reaches behind the TV and tears out all the plugs.)

DALE: Hey be careful, moron. Don’t damage the wires.

JEFF: Alright, we’re good.

DALE: Let’s try this again. Okay on three. One…two…
(Suddenly, the doorknob starts rattling. Muffled
voices can be heard as someone struggles to get a key
in the lock.)

DALE: (hissing) Shit!

JEFF: Oh crap, what do we do? What do we do?

DALE: The closet! Get in the closet.
(The two rush into the closet and close the door just as
MARGARET and DENNIS enter through the front door.
MARGARET comes in first looking visibly angry, while
DENNIS just shuffles in indifferently and closes the
door behind him. The closet slowly cracks open with
DALE and JEFF peering into the living room.)

MARGARET: What the hell is wrong with you, Dennis?!

DENNIS: (sheepishly) I’m sorry, Margaret, I don’t know what
came over me.

MARGARET: We’ve had dinner with the Everlys every Tues
day for the last two years! If you were tired of doing
that, you could’ve just said so. Instead you insult
Beverly’s cook-ing and Frank’s new job, and humiliate
me in front of the only people who would have dinner
with us anymore.

DENNIS: (exploding) Oh come off it! The Everlys were morons
anyway. Beverly is always going on and on about her
name.(mocking voice) Hi, I’m Beverly Everly. I’m
Beverly Everly. I’m Beverly cock-fucking Everly! And
fuck Frank! Always going on and on about his wonder
ful new upper management position, gloating! Just
cramming it right in my face!

MARGARET: Oh ho! Now it comes out! You’re jealous of Frank.

DENNIS: Like hell I am!

MARGARET: Oh yes you are! Admit it, you’re jealous that
Frank is more successful than you’ll ever be.

DENNIS: And Beverly is better looking than you’ll ever be!

MARGARET: Then why the hell don’t you go over there
and fuck her?

DENNIS: Like you’ve been fucking Frank!

MARGARET: (completely caught off-guard) I…what…how?

DENNIS: I’m not stupid, Margaret. I followed you one night on
your way to one of your “book clubs.” For the record,
it’s risky to use that excuse twice a month, much less
twice a week. When you got to the motel off of 80, I
saw you and him go into a room together.

MARGARET: You…you followed me?!

DENNIS: That’s the detail you choose to focus on? God I hate
that! I hate when you get worked up over the most re-
dundant bullshit. I hate it when you act all friendly to
people when you’re talking to them and immediately
start gossiping behind their backs. (Pause) I hate that
you eat spaghetti with a spoon. What the hell is with
that?! Gah, I hate you!

MARGARET: And I hate that you’ve always let people step all
over you. All this time you knew I was sleeping with
Frank, and it took you this long to grow a spine? Well
I’ve had enough. It’s over. I’m leaving you, Dennis,
and Frank’s leaving Beverly. Soon, I’ll be starting my
new life as Margaret Everly, wife of Frank Everly,
regional manager.

DENNIS: Don’t say those words!

MARGARET: (mockingly coy) What words? Oh, do you mean
regional manager?

DENNIS: Stop it!
(DENNIS begins to back up towards the nightstand
with the lamp and statuette.)

MARGARET: (chanting) Regional manager. Regional manager.
(DENNIS begins reaching behind him and feels the
statuette.)

DENNIS: I said stop it!

MARGARET: Regional manager! Regional manager!

DENNIS: STOP!

(DENNIS swings the statuette wildly. It connects with
MARGARET’s temple and she crumples to the floor.
DENNIS stares with wide-eyed horror, mouth agape.
JEFF and DALE exchange looks as they, too, look on in
disbelief.)

DENNIS: (feebly) Margaret?
(DENNIS slowly crouches over MARGARET’s unmov-
ing body. He hesitantly puts his fingers to her neck and
feels for a pulse. After a few moments, he jolts back to
a stand ing position and looks away into space. His
eyes widen and his breathing becomes stilted.)

DENNIS: Oh God, she’s dead. (He checks the body again)
Still dead. Oh fuck. Okay, Dennis, think…think!
(DENNIS paces back and forth for a few moments
before eyeing the basement door.)

DENNIS: Ah!
(DENNIS grabs MARGARET’s body and drags it
towards and through the basement door, shutting it
behind him. He is heard dragging it down the steps.
DALE and JEFF come bursting out of their hiding
spot and head for the door.)

JEFF: We gotta get out of here!

DALE: I hear ya!
(The two are halfway out the door when DALE
remembers something.)

DALE: The TV!

JEFF: Come on, Dale, really?

DALE: Just help me!

JEFF: It’s just a TV.

DALE: It is not just a TV! It is the Miyazaki Photon Class, 75-
inch 1080p HDTV!

JEFF: (Pause) Okay, fine.
(The two once again grab the TV and struggle to lift
it.As they head towards the door, DENNIS can be
heard coming back up the stairs.)

JEFF: Oh crap, oh crap!

DALE: Put it down!
(They set the TV back down just as DENNIS is starting
to open the basement door.)

DALE: Shit, back in the closet.
(They duck back into the closet as DENNIS enters into
the room. He is looking paler than before. He shuffles
over to the couch and falls onto it. He sits staring at the
floor mum bling inaudibly to himself, trying to come to
grips with what he’s just done. He raises his right
hand to eye level, and it begins moving its thumb
like a mouth.)

DENNIS’ HAND: You did what you had to do, Dennis.
(DALE and JEFF exchange concerned glances.)

DENNIS: What did you say?

DENNIS’ HAND: All she ever did was hold you back. You always
used her well-being as an excuse to stop pursuing
your dreams. She was the crutch that kept you from
spreading your wings.

DENNIS: But I loved her.

DENNIS’ HAND: And she never loved you back, not even when
you were young. You went on boring dates, followed
by a night of lousy sex, and when she saw all of her
friends getting married and having families, she
settled for you. You were always just a means to an
end with her.

DENNIS: Why are you telling me this?!

DENNIS’ HAND: Because I’m your friend, Dennis. Because I
want what is best for you.

DENNIS: And…what is best for me?

DENNIS’ HAND: (leans in closer) Your freedom. (under its
breath) To kill people.

DENNIS: What was that?

DENNIS’ HAND: Hmm? Oh, nothing. Say, you look pretty hun-
gry, big guy. Bet you’d like some tacos right about now!

DENNIS: Well…I actually know a good place down the street.
Let me grab my jacket.
(DENNIS starts heading towards the front door when
there is a knock on it.)

DENNIS: Oh God, it’s the police, I’m fucked!
(DALE and JEFF start panicking as well.)

DENNIS’ HAND: Calm down, you idiot, there’s no way they
could have found out already.

DENNIS: What if one of the neighbors heard the fight? God,
they probably heard that three towns over.
(More knocks at the door.)

DENNIS’ HAND: Just grow a pair and see who it is.
(DENNIS hesitantly reaches for the knob. All three men
collectively hold their breath as DENNIS turns the knob
and creaks open the door. Standing on the doorstep
is SKIP, the next door neighbor. He beams widely as
DENNIS opens the door.)

SKIP: Hey, neighbor! How you doing?

DENNIS: (nervously) I’m fine, Skip. Um…how are you?
You doing… good?

SKIP: (oblivious) Yessir, thanks for asking. (awkward pause) Uh,
well, I hope you don’t mind my asking, but…is…
everything okay over here? I thought I heard a bit of a
commotion not too long ago, and I just wanted make
sure you folks were alright.

DENNIS’ HAND: (whispering) Invite him in.

DENNIS: Oh, where are my manners? Come on in, Skip.

SKIP: Ah, thanks Dennis.
(SKIP steps inside and DENNIS closes the door
behind him.)

DENNIS: Would you like something to drink?

SKIP: Oh no, I don’t want to impose anymore than I already am.
So what happened?

DENNIS: Margaret and I had a bit of a nasty fight.

SKIP: Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Is everything alright?

DENNIS: It will be. Margaret’s upstairs right now. I’m just going
to let her be for now.

SKIP: Yeah well…I guess that’s all you can do for now. (lowering
his voice) Women, eh?

DENNIS: Mm…yes. (Pause) I hope our fight didn’t bother
you and Kelly.

SKIP: Oh no, don’t worry about Kelly. She’s upstate visiting
her mother right now. Yup, got the whole house to
myself, heh heh.
(SKIP takes a glance around the room before spotting
the “Starry Night” painting copy on stage left. He
moves to-wards it as he examines it.)

SKIP: This is a Van Gogh, right?

DENNIS: I didn’t have you pegged as an appreciator, Skip.

SKIP: I’m really not, but for some reason I always liked this one.
I don’t know, it just…speaks to me, or something.
(As SKIP is admiring the painting, DENNIS’ HAND
begins motioning towards him. DENNIS is confused,
so the hand picks up the statuette used to kill
MARGARET and makes bashing motions in the air.
DALE and JEFF see this, turn to SKIP, and start
hissing the word “run” at him. He doesn’t hear them,
and DENNIS moves up closer behind SKIP.)

DENNIS: I know what you mean. You look at it and see a won
derful place, a better place. Despite the stylization and
whimsy, it’s a place that seems more real to you the
more you look at it. (moves up right behind him) If you
just…keep looking at it.
(DALE and JEFF look on in stunned silence. SKIP
keeps admiring the painting.)

SKIP: Yeah…never thought about it that way…but yeah. (Pause)
You know, I was wrong about you, Dennis, you’re
alright. To be honest, I always thought you were kind of
a weirdo…

(DENNIS strikes SKIP in the back of the skull with the
statuette. SKIP collapses to the floor dead. DENNIS
puts the  statuette back on the nightstand and drags
the body over to the basement door and drags it down
the steps. Once again, DALE and JEFF burst out of the
closet, and JEFF rushes towards the door.)

DALE: Where the hell are you going? Help me with this!

JEFF: (fed up) It…is just…a TV!

DALE: (exasperated) It is not just a fucking TV! It’s the Miyazaki
Photon…it’s a 4,000 dollar TV! What more do you need
to know? (struggles for the words) Look man,
I…I need yourhelp.

JEFF: (looks back at door then to DALE) Okay.
(The two position themselves on both sides of the TV.)

DALE: Okay, one, two, three, heave!
(The two struggle to lift the TV up, only to hear
DENNIS coming back up the stairs again. They put the
TV back down and rush back to the closet. On the way,
JEFF loses a shoe and rushes to put it back on.)

DALE: Hurry!

JEFF: I’m trying.
(JEFF gets his shoe back on but doesn’t have enough
time to get back to the closet. In haste, he grabs the
shade off the lamp and puts it over his head while
standing rigid. Just as he’s in position, DENNIS comes
back through the door.)

DENNIS: Did we really have to kill him?

DENNIS’ HAND: Moron! He knew what really happened. He
was just stalling in order to find some evidence.

DENNIS: Then why wouldn’t he just call the cops? Report a
domestic situation?

DENNIS’ HAND: I don’t know, maybe because he was an idiot!
An idiot like you! Now be quiet, and go get tacos.

DENNIS: But I’m really not…

DENNIS’ HAND: Tacos!
(DENNIS walks towards the front door but stops
directly to the right and a little in front of JEFF with the
lampshade on his head. JEFF remains calm.)

DENNIS: No…this is wrong.

DENNIS’ HAND: What’s wrong with tacos?DENNIS: Not tacos,
dammit! The killing and the beating and the dragging

down!

DENNIS’ HAND: Don’t raise your voice at me!

DENNIS: No, I’m tired of this! This is wrong, this is crazy.
You’re crazy!

DENNIS’ HAND: And you’re talking to your hand.

DENNIS: That’s beside the point. I’m not going through with this
anymore. I’m turning myself in.

DENNIS’ HAND: Yeah, go tell the police you brutally murdered
two people. I hear they’ve streamlined the lethal-
injection process over at state.

DENNIS: I could go for the insanity plea!

DENNIS’ HAND: And you’ll rot in a looney bin for the rest of your
life. It’ll give us plenty of time to talk to each other.
Swap stories, reminisce…hey, remember when you
killed your wife? Good times.

DENNIS: I have to listen to you now.

DENNIS’ HAND: Yeah, but at least I’ll go away once you’re done
helping me out with some unfinished business.

DENNIS: (Pause) Tacos?

DENNIS’ HAND: (patiently) That’s the first part, yes. But remem-
ber that I’m your friend, and I am here to help. I think
it’s time we paid a little visit to Mr. Everly.

DENNIS: Frank?

DENNIS’ HAND: Think about it: always one-upping you, always
bragging about it. (a little quieter) Sleeping with your
wife. They seemed pretty cozy in life, why not give
them a little reunion in death?

DENNIS: (thinks for moment, shakes his head) No. No, I’m
not going to do it. I’ve had enough of this. I’ve had
enough of you.

DENNIS’ HAND: Listen, you ungrateful little pissant! Either you
kill Frank Everly, or you’re stuck with me forever!
What’s it going to be?
(DENNIS begins pacing left and right in front of the
disguised JEFF.)

DENNIS: I don’t…know. Crap! Think, think! Man, I could really
use a glass of water.
(JEFF picks the cup off the nightstand and hands it
to DENNIS.)

DENNIS: Oh, thank you.
(DENNIS sips at the cup for a second or two
before realizing what just happened. His eyes bulge
out, and he turns around to face JEFF. In one frantic
move, he rips the lamp shade off JEFF’s head, and the
two come face-to-face with each other. Both men
scream simultaneously, and in panic, JEFF picks up
the bronze statuette off the nightstand and bashes
DENNIS in the head. DENNIS falls to the floor dead.
DALE hesitantly leaves the closet and joins JEFF as
they look down at DENNIS’ body.)

DALE: Jesus, man, what did you do?

JEFF: Oh God, he took the lampshade…then he screamed, and
screamed…and, and…I killed him.

DALE: Damn…help me with this would ya?
(DALE positions himself at one end of the TV. JEFF
continues to stare in shock.)

DALE: (testily) Come on!

JEFF: What…what have I done?

DALE: Listen, we’ll talk about it after we’ve got this thing
outta here. Okay?
(DALE walks over to JEFF and waves his hand in front
of JEFF’s face.)

DALE: Jeff? Hello? Anybody home? (raising his voice)
Paging Dr. Numb-nuts.

JEFF: (staring into space) Killed him…killed him…live with self?

DALE: Hey, I know. You can use all that money you’re about to
make to hire a psychiatrist. Would you like that, Jeff?

JEFF: …tacos.

DALE: (sighs) Make me do everything…
(DALE grabs JEFF and leads him to one side of the TV.
DALE grabs JEFF’s hands and makes them grasp
under the TV. DALE moves to the other end and gets
ready to lift.)

DALE: Now you just move with me.
(DALE begins to lift the TV up, and JEFF follows suit.)

DALE: (mood brightening) Hey! Now you got it!
(DALE turns so his back is facing the front door. He
quickly steps backwards. JEFF does not move an inch,
and the TV smoothly slides out of his hands. The TV
crashes to the floor, the fall forcing it out of DALE’s
hands. The TV is completely busted. DALE stares in
complete shock. He begins rummaging around the TV,
assessing the damage. He quickly rises to his feet.)

DALE: Oh God, it’s broken. (quickly checks it again) Still broken.
No, no, NO! Goddammit! (grabs JEFF’S shoulders)
Why didn’t you do anything?
(JEFF makes a crashing noise with his mouth and
starts giggling.)

DALE: Oh, so you think that’s pretty goddamn funny, huh?
(JEFF continues to giggle.)

DALE: (temper rising) Real fucking funny!
(DALE pushes JEFF to the floor. JEFF’s giggling
becomes laughter.)

DALE: (losing control) Stop laughing!
(JEFF does not comply and, in his rage, DALE spots
the statuette. He picks it up and stands over JEFF.)

DALE: (calmly, but seething) I’m only going to ask you
one more time.
(JEFF’s laughing becomes louder. He makes the crash
ing noise again, sending DALE over the edge. With
a yell, he raises the statuette into the air and begins to
strike down. Just before the statuette hits JEFF, DALE
stays his hand.He holds the statuette over JEFF’s head
for a few moments before throwing it away.)

DALE: (weary) Dammit.
(DALE helps JEFF to his feet.)

JEFF: (regaining control) Ugh…I…what? Oh man.
I’m…I’m sorry, Dale.

DALE: No, man. That was…that was pretty fucked up.

JEFF: (looking down at the TV) Oh crap. The…
Nakatomi…what’s it?

DALE: It’s okay. Let’s just…let’s just get out of here.

JEFF: Yeah…now that I think about it, I’m pretty hungry.

DALE: Jesus, seriously? (Pause) You know what, it’s okay. I
actually know a good place down the street. (looks at
DENNIS’ body and remembers what just happened)
Actually…let’s make that a few towns over.

JEFF: (looking at DENNIS’ body) Yeah…agreed.
(As the two head for the front door, all of a sudden
DENNIS stirs. With some effort, he lifts his head up.)

DENNIS: What happened?
(DALE and JEFF are startled by the unexpected
amount of life still left in DENNIS. JEFF runs and grabs
the statuette before bludgeoning DENNIS again in the
head. JEFF stands over the body, seeming unfazed
this time around.)

DALE: (baffled) But you…and you were all…and now you’re?  (Pause)
Oh, fuck it. Let’s just go.

JEFF: (after a second) Yeah, okay.
(The two scamper out the front door, slamming it be-
hind them. The lights linger on the scene for a moment
before going down.)

I stare at your page like a lone death mask, etched in your eerie likeness and scattered among the throngs of the living. It’s all there, everything factual about you: how old you were, where you were born, your graduating class. I look through pictures of you and friends, smiling and laughing amongst one another without the grim shadow of oblivion about you. Your final writings reveal nothing profound, the scribbled, last minute thoughts before an unforeseen end. In the eyes of any other, you’re still there, working in a diner, listening to music, hanging with friends, and having a complicated relationship while remaining interested in men. But the numerous lamentations of friends and loved ones written upon your wall pay testament to the loss of you, a life cut short and randomly, leaving nothing behind but a hollow visage bearing your smile, your eyes, your face, and a colder world; the electronic ghost of you.

I will not lose my desire.

I see them walking—
Dead women walking—
With rings on their fingers
And bells on their toes,
But there is no music.

They stand still—
Never looking,
Never watching,
Never wondering,
Never imagining,
Never straying.

Loyal lovers,
Resigned lovers,
Dead-on-the-inside lovers.

But I refuse.
I refuse to lose my desire,
My umph,
My ooh,
My ahh,
My yeah, baby, just like that.

In my mind I feel them,
See them,
Love them,
Make love to them.

Am I wrong?
Am I unfaithful?

Is it wrong, unnatural, sinful
To feel?

Yes.
But I am alive.

There is a ring on my finger
And bells on my toes,
And I have music wherever I go.

I can’t concentrate because a half-full can of Diet Coke is going flat on my desk across the room. And that’s just too loud. I can’t focus because the smell of Gillette shaving-gel residue is wafting off my upper lip. Every time I inhale through my nose, I can smell the blue soapy film. Taste my own stale-spearmint breath with every exhale. The hypersensitivity comes with the dark of the room. I can’t think straight because there’s a woman in my bed undressing me. I don’t remember her name. Friend of an old friend. I know nothing about her.

“Are you ready?” she asks, grinning, as she throws my shirt onto the floor.

“I just…that should probably go on a hanger,” I explain, “I lent my iron to—“ she laughs before lunging towards my throat. Lips slightly parted, with more appetite than affection, she begins kissing me.

As this anonymous nearly-stranger runs her tongue up my neck, and nibbles my ear from time to time (and as my shirt collects wrinkles), my mind turns to Schrödinger’s cat: my favorite paradox. Start with a cat, a hammer, a vial of poison, and trace amounts of a radioactive substance. And then put them all in a box. No way to see inside. Completely closed off and dark in there.

This woman’s name is Michelle, I think. For some reason, that name comes to mind when she clamps her teeth down around the skin just above my right nipple. She snorts a little and then turns her attention back to my neck. I glance down to make sure the skin isn’t broken, and then let my thoughts wander back to the cat.

In the box, a relay mechanism is set so that if even a single atom of the radioactive substance decays, changes states, the hammer will smash the vial, and release the poison—

“Come on!” she shouts playfully. Actually, it might be Lauren.Maybe Kate. Kelly? No. It isn’t Kelly, but that’s getting closer. Or further. I think.

“I’m sorry?”

“Don’t be sorry,” she grunts, “just help me get your pants off.” She tugs at the zipper clumsily.

“Oh, right,” I say. I slide off my jeans, fold them, and lay them by the side of the bed. I don’t throw them. With jeans off, and my bare back against the sheets, I just lie there.

Because the radioactive matter cannot be observed, it occupies all potential atomic states at the same time. Both decayed and unaltered. Logically, somehow, the vial of poison would be both in tact and shattered; meaning the cat would be both living and dead simultaneously inside the box. At least until someone looked inside. How is that possible? That’s the paradox, I guess. There’s no real answer. No satisfaction to be had. “Michelle,” “Lauren,” “Kate,” or another name, thrusts her tongue into my mouth and swirls it erratically.

This girl in my bed sinks her fingernails into my hips and slowly drags her head away from mine. Downward. Sensually blowing, lightly, on my skin. I wonder if she can’t remember my name either.

“Daniel,” she begins. At least one question is answered. “Am I the only one enjoying myself here?” She pulls her head up to look me in the eyes. Puts one warm hand between my legs. I say nothing. I look away from her (just for a moment) and stare at my shirt on the floor. “Dan?” Wrinkles setting in. “What the hell is wrong with you?!” she shouts. Less playful than her first outburst.

“I don’t know what you mean.” I don’t know her at all. I can hardly see her face with the lights off.

She snarls, “Look, I think I’ve been putting out a pretty good effort; you haven’t been.” She laces her fingers together behind my neck, leans back, and pulls me forward on top of her. “And that isn’t fair.” She continues, “You do want me to stay, don’t you?” She lies on her back.

“Of course.” I lie to her face.

“Well, prove it.”

“Fine, I mean, sure…but first, I’d really like to just put that shirt on a hanger.”

She sits up, straight and stiff, knocking me back. “Christ, am I wasting my time?” she asks indignantly. I don’t know what to say. She continues probing, “Do you even remember my name? What’s my name?” I still don’t know what to say. She thrusts backwards onto the mattress, pulling me down again. “What’s my name!” she demands, shrieking, hissing. She squeezes my wrists. Hard. My fingers spasm, and I can’t think clearly.

“Schrödinger’s cat!” I shout down at her, “You’re Schrödinger’s goddamn cat! Alright?” She doesn’t loosen her grip. Doesn’t clench tighter.

She opens her mouth, “I’m—“

“I don’t want to know!” I interrupt. I close my eyes; lids clenched tighter than her hands around my wrists. “Don’t tell me anything.” I lean down and whisper, “I don’t want to know anything about y—“ She cuts me off by biting my lip, pulling me down even further.

If you can’t see inside the box, the atoms of that radioactive substance occupy all atomic states. If you don’t ruin it by looking, the cat is both alive and dead. How far does this go? I don’t know. If I don’t know this girls name, if I don’t see her face, couldn’t she be everyone? Anyone? She moans. Arches her back. She could be everyone. Anyone else.

“Ellen Carpenter, you are a bitch. You are the scum of the Earth, and I pray that you burn in hell!” she said, smashing another one of the miniature, crystal figures she’d spent more than half of her 26 years collecting against the cream colored walls, as if they were the ones she was angry with. She threw an angel this time; it kneeled unsuspecting on a clear crystal cloud with its head positioned against pressed-together fingertips, sending a silent message to God. The angel veered to the left and flew straight into the wall, leaving another pile of crystal fragments like several of its figurine brethren had before it.

I stared at the tiny rainbows each one created as the sun coming in from the large living room windows reflected onto their broken bodies sprinkled across the floor. The battlefield between us was littered with pieces of figurines that had taken flight across the room and either landed safely somewhere, their impact cushioned by the carpet, or hit the wall behind me and shattered effortlessly.

I couldn’t help but feel slightly guilty as she screamed at me. But what was I supposed to do? Apologize? I’m not very good with apologies. I usually just buy cards to say most things: “I miss you,” “I love you,” “Congratulations.” But I’m sure there’s no greeting card, no matter how heartfelt the message, how fancy the lettering, or how catchy the tune, to sincerely express just how sorry I want to feel.

I’d never heard Liz scream before. She was fuming; her usually perfectly-placed dark brown hair bun was a nest atop her head, eyeliner left its trail down her cheek, her green eyes, my own green eyes, surrounded by a clashing faint red, reminded me of Christmas.

“Look, Liz. Don’t be upset. It’s okay.”

“How is this okay?” This was the first time she talked to me as if I was in the room, instead of screaming to the heavens.

“Well—” I couldn’t think of anything. So I stood there, cherry-painted lips agate, wishing the right, or any, words would come out.

She just let out a frustrated yell—I was not the only one at a loss for words—and wound up her arm for another shot. This time a dolphin amid clear cresting waves hit me in the nose. I swore I heard something crack before I felt warm blood dripping into my mouth and watched some of it make its way onto the carpet. There must have been a point in our lives where I stopped paying attention; my sister’s previously weak, waifish frame was throwing figures with the force of a body three times her size. I used to be the burly sister; there was a time when I pushed Liz around. But somewhere along the way the dynamic switched, and I was the one cowering behind a shield of my own hands.

“Elizabeth!” I yelled, alarmed at the mess coming from my face. “What is wrong with you?”

“You, Ellen!” I thought she was about to pop. Her face red, plucked eyebrows huddled together, lips tight, pink and pursed, almost to the point of being invisible, she shot another figure as I thought about whether or not I should rip off the bottom of myfavorite AC/DC shirt to cover my face. The shirt went really well with a pair of jeans I had stolen from an ex-boyfriend of mine that were comfortable and worn in all the right places.

The next figure hit the side of my forehead and threw me off my balance, sending me into the wall. Elizabeth stood across the room, holding a figurine in each hand this time, but as my eyes watered, I couldn’t tell which ones they were. She brought her right hand up, and as she threw her arm back, I ducked down and curled into a ball. I heard glass shattering above me and could feel several shards dropping on top of me, poking any piece of skin not shielded by my clothing.

“Oh my God,” I said, not really sure what to do.

“You can get up. I wasn’t aiming for you this time.” I slowly brought my head up, eyes still half closed, and looked above me to see the shattered glass of her 20×24 wedding photo. Standing there in her off-white wedding dress (handed down to her from our mother), smiling with each and every one of her teeth, and clasping the hands of the man she swore she’d love forever, Elizabeth had never looked more natural.

I pushed myself up from the floor and could feel tiny pieces of glass poking my palms. I looked around for Elizabeth, but she was nowhere in sight. I started to walk toward the door, but I could hear her behind me. I turned around quickly—my face covered—to see her standing there with a bottle of alcohol, a box of band-aids, and a handful of tissues.

“What’s this for?” I asked.

“For your wounds, now sit down.” I was understandably unsure as to whether or not I could trust her; maybe she’d have another fit of anger and pour the bottle of alcohol down my throat, whilst straining her vocal chords in a seemingly tribal scream. But part of me felt like I deserved as much, so I sat down.

“Are you done hurting me now?”

“Just long enough to stop you from bleeding on my carpet. I should’ve come over to your house.” I laughed, but she still had a very serious, very angry look on her face. She dabbed alcohol on my forehead, and put a tissue to my nose. I flinched feeling ten again, telling Nurse Angela that my knee didn’t hurt anymore, so she wouldn’t hit me with a second round of alcohol. Elizabeth took a deep breath. Slightly more relaxed she said, “Tell me why.

“Why what?”

“Okay. Maybe the dolphin to the head really messed you up.” This time she was the one who laughed; but quicker than her smile came, it was gone again. “Why Matthew? Why not someone, anyone else?” I shrugged my shoulders. She slapped me. The sound of her hand striking my cheek echoed in the empty apartment.

“Fuc—I really don’t know. It just happened.”

“Things like this don’t just happen. Did you plan it?”

“We never had time to plan anything, it really just happened.

The first time was a little awkward, but it got easier.”

“It happened more than once?” She raised her eyebrow and took the hand she was using to keep my head tilted back and my blood from tainting her couch, to grab my hair and yank my face to hers.

“I didn’t mean anything by it. I swear, Liz.” I could feel her breathing warm and heavy on my face. “I love you, like a sister.” I smiled weakly. She didn’t smile back.

“I hate you, Ellen.”

“How could you?”

“I could give you a list of reasons—I hate you because you’re selfish, you’re rude, you’re irresponsible—I hate you because for some crazy reason you felt the need to ruin my life. I think you’ve done more than enough to establish yourself as the
“wild child” — you don’t need to prove it to me.” It was hard to believe that the unsturdy, frazzled mess of a woman that sat before me was the same one whose never-ending legs and coma-inducing sweetness unknowingly stole away my prom date just five years ago.

“I’m sorry, Liz.” The words spilled from my lips with a hesitation.

I’d never known before; I had less trouble telling her husband all the things I could for him that Liz wouldn’t. Her eyes started to cloud up with tears again; I knew I had said the right thing.

“Did that make you feel good?” she said. I wasn’t sure about her tone, but that had to be what she wanted to hear. How could she not want an apology? I nodded, moving her hand up and down along with my head. “Great, I’m glad you feel better,” she said letting go of my hair. I could see my own greasy brown strands woven between her shaking fingers as she walked away from me. I folded over, my head against my knees, and sighed. I thought I would cry; but all I could do was breathe. It was during this brief moment of calm that I heard a click, and felt the short barrel of my semi-automatic pistol on the back of my head.