Copyright 2012 Jason Mintel

Cover Art done by Adam C. Day

CHAPTER 1

On his wife’s battered space freighter, among the debris left from the Mon invaders, Gord, arriving too late, sifts through the refuse that makes up the hatchery. The Mons who occupied it only a short while, gutted out the hulls, dismantling all the life systems so that now the freighter lays a wasted flame of leaking dark matter, a cemetery of shadows. Signs of life once existing are in the hallways, the outlined borders of the crew’s bodies are burnt into the walls where the light detonated into shadow. Their image burnt into the retina of the distorted chamber corridors, the only thing left to show where once was vibrant life, now entombed with a nameless headstone to mark the passage of their lives and dreams and accomplishments. They disintegrated completely, in the grasp of space’s cold empty vacuum, everything the light touched, left exposed, inside the hollowed out compartments instantly died, vaporized.

Deeper in the heart of the ship, in the hatchery, broken hatchlings, pups, with their heads cracked open and their hearts, leaking yolks, lay scattered from off the shelves and across the floor.

On the bottom rack is a pup not quite cooked. It sits on a bolt driven into the hatch and the pup is holding the hand of another puppy, who is immobilized and not yet aware. Gord smiles at the last of his wife’s litter. He breaks off a nuzzle from the main pipe and shakes it into a canister. He examines the contents, it is orange blue yolk, mother’s milk. He looks at the two pups and then back at the remaining yolk, doubtful, there is only enough for one soul.

“Do you want it all for yourself?” Gord asks.

The pup looks at his playmate and looks at the can, looks at his playmate and looks at the can, and a blue light clicks and he shakes his head no and returns to holding his playmate’s hand. Gord smiles again at the little guy,

“Ok,” he says, “You both will have to share then,”

He pours the soul into both of their open hearts, the batter rising as he seals it. Still no movement from the playmate, “Not quite finished,” says Gord, and he pulls a piece of clay off of the healthy pup and molds it into the other who now slowly awakes. He reaches down and gingerly holds the two pups in his palms carrying them to the outer deck, where his light radiates while they gaze at a view of infinity above and below.

Gord talking to the miniature figures in his hands continues, “This freighter is five miles long, yet now while traveling, its hull stretches over a distance of twenty million light years. Time and space are bred in the dark, but the light, the crumbling edges, is where we exist.”

The pup opens is mouth in a silent ‘O’.

Gord lets the breath out of him and sighs, “How ironic that I, creator of galaxies, am now confessing my sins to a delicate, fragile newborn just created.” The pup made of star matter, shines in a shimmering rainbow spectrum, then it blinks twice in red. “Perhaps it is because you are so innocent and pure, you don’t know evil, you do not judge. There are many types of hell, and the Mons are consumers of it, and they have my wife.”

“Those spaghetti faces,” blinks the creature.

Gord, fighting his urge to despair, smiles a little, “We got to work on your vocabulary.” He stares off into space, “She thought she could make peace with the Mon, but there is no peace there. They, a race born of char, are invaders from the murky sinkholes of space, they leave worlds, empty strainer holes, dripping, lifeless, burning destroyed rock of waste plummeting through space, fire in the sky, barren of even ash.”

He pauses to see if the immobile creature is taking this in. It nods.

“They are evil scum. They plundered our home world, burning through its resources, using the life to feed, draining it, to fuel their armada of ships to go to the next. The Mon, deMons, even feed on themselves, always battling for power, but under the lash of a new leader, Sain, they, with unspeakable acts against nature, have grown very strong. They rule most of the universe. They are invaders, bred to fight, slaughtering our peaceful loving people, with bodies a fiery mass of muscle and bulk. Cast out of hell they are the flame broiled cattle, coming in as many types and shapes as processed patties, they are called the minotaur, with fire in veins, and hot magma eyes.”

The little creation blinks and a blue light flickers on, then off, “I’m want smile tail,” it says.

Gord tickles it beneath its ear, “Time is growing scarce, a short definition you should know before we are cast out… We are bitter enemies of the Mons,” Gord continues, his eyes lost, searching the night’s maze of stars for answers to questions he doesn’t know, “We are Gel, anGels, more water-based. Our bodies are more fragile but we are not the weaker ones. We Gel can manipulate the water in our bodies, into different forms. Like how you were created. Understand?”

The pup sits down crosslegged in his palm and nods its green button head.

“Do you know what the ‘yolk’ is? In the center of each universe, the nuclei? It, is incredible life matter, it itself is alive, it is our Creator, our God.” The pup’s eyes open wide and it sucks its cheeks around its thumb.

Gord continues, his voice changing pitch and sounding like a memorized melody or song, his eyes tear as he sings to the abandoned deck’s bridge, comforting only himself, “Think of God as an ocean, and every living thing is a small puddle of the same ocean. We all have water of life in us, even the tiniest insect or plant, we are like puddles of water who are walking in the desert, if just to appreciate God the Ocean more, and when we pass away our life blood flows out of our body and returns back to the sea of souls, our Creator, the Ocean. From greatest to smallest,” he tickles the tummy of the Pups, “all have a little bit of our Creator in us. Now when all of the water, all of the souls are together, forming one mighty Ocean that’s our God, Understand?”

“So when we meet another life form, the God in me bows to the God in you. That’s where all life comes from and goes. However, the Mon, how do I say this? They have dammed the water of life, of God. They block our souls from rejoining the Creator, the Ocean. That is why we fight. That is why they are so horrible, feeding off of suffering, they mutate and pollute the water of life. They are demons and must be stopped.”

“Even the basic nature of our races, fire and water, fight. We are natural enemies, we cannot exist in harmony with them, and neither can they with us.

“But we are different, we have consciousness and compassion. Oh Lord, how many lives have I ended by snuffing out a planet here, Know how much life is in a single cubic square of dirt? An infinity! And I extinguished entire star systems! Insanity! How much blood is on my hands? The ghosts of innocents, those I’ve turned into demons, waiting, pulling, to get their meat hooks in me? Oh Lord, forgive me.. father, mother forgive me…”

“I need you to tend a very special garden. Do not be afraid though, you will be in my house and you will never be alone, you now have each other, bonded together now forever, as I, your Father, am to you. You are a puddle who can tap into an ocean, and will always stay connected to your missing half, friend you share a soul with, co-spirit, always alongside you, together you are whole.”

“I do not know if it would be better without knowing emotions… but understand we all cast ripples, everything sends out vibrations, but I give you the chance to learn, and if you take it know that what happens to one, through a chain reaction of sorts, organized chaos some call it, happens to all… from small cell vibrating inside a man, to a man vibrating on a planet, and the planet vibrating in a galaxy... on it goes. If you wish this, you will learn the rules, you will be responsible, a player, no longer an innocent, and subject to punishment and loss. Do you want to know emotion? To have a mind? To love? It is your choice, one I shall leave you with.”

The three watch, the puppies holding hands, they stargaze out the observation deck, as galaxies are consumed in the wake of the war, brilliant flashes in the sky, countless star systems, the wasted, are torn apart and forever vanish, yet also they see great exploding systems born.

“We are like god to the natives of these worlds, many species are captured, through much pain, such incredible terrible pain! Some are altered into death machines some go extinct, all suffer.”

Gord, replays the memory and watches again, tears inside his eyes burn anew, as his brothers are slaughtered and his Queen, Even, on a mission of peace, is surrounded and captured by the frigate destroyers of the Mon brigade. The Living Universe makes changes to intercept, but Gord can only hear the laughter of the Mon in deep space, laughing at his wife’s tormented screams, as they force her to swallow several suns, and infect her with their flame. Gord, watching his wife die and become part of the infection, smashes his fist down snapping the countertop. She has a wound that will never heal, and now she is spreading the festering disease.

Too late, he picks up the tiny stars that once made up her eyes, looking at her, as she looks deep and lovingly at him.

“Bye my Love, I can no longer exist,” she whispers.

“You will not die, you will heal from this,” he says crying.

“Oh my thorn, now alone on an empty rose stalk, there is no flower left to flourish, but still you protect the idea of the flower. This petal falls further then the wind can carry it.”

Gord must isolate her, her touch is poison, and they both know it. She cries as he leaves her embrace. “You must cast me out, my Love,” she says, “My thorn..”

“You, my rose, I will not rest until you are free in my arms again! There is no known cure, but I can stop it from spreading, I can draw the poison out into me, I can do that much. I will send you to the outside of the Universe, but I cannot go, for it is inside my body. I must hurtle you through the stars, in slumber, till the day when you will awake.”

The prison he constructed for the Mons, he now uses on his wife. A new living cell, a new substance of sentience, a living tree, whose wood can hold a spirit, capturing it in the prison of gods, where they stay in hibernated sleep.

In such a way he captures the spirit of his wife, Even, in a mystical tree.

Gord turns to his two garden tenders. “You can have anything you desire, except, do not eat the fruit of Even, it is tainted,” he tells the two with eyes alight and dimples winking. He withdraws his knife, a black thorn, from its scabbard, “remember we always have a choice” he says, “even if it’s just to open our eyes, or take a deep breath.”

“Now I must apologize beforehand…” His voice trails off with a sad smile, and he swallows the prison tree seed with his wife’s yolk.

Gord holds the blade up then shoves it with force, puncturing his chest. Pushing the blade, he slowly inches it deeper until leaning forward, in agonized breath, his face, a mask of torment, relaxes and a small sigh escapes his lips as he falls over, dead. The blood seeps out in a pool from the dagger in his heart.

Something besides lifeblood spills out, some cloudy form, a black sphere swirling, the sickness he swallows from his wife’s veins, the Mon’s poison that will have killed her, but now will ultimately destroy this end of the universe, leaving rotting worlds choked off, and continuing to spread until it eats the heart of each system out.

It grows big and bigger, consuming; the edge of it crumbles wider and as more items fall inside its swallowing mouth, pockets of fire ignite all around and it begins twirling like a cyclone. Spiraling, the dark fiery mass explodes out of his chest.

The little pup replays their creator’s words to his soul mate, “I will send you to the outside of the Universe, but I cannot go, for it is inside my body.” Then, “I must hurtle you through the stars, in slumber, till the day when you will awake.” The pup reaches out and they hold hands. They step down together.

As the room compacts around them, shrinking, imploding, they both walk across the counter and, with a slight hesitant pause, step into the chaotic mass growing out Gord’s chest, the first beings to enter the doorway to the outside of the universe, poisoned before it ever began.

As the stars zoom by, from deep within, the pup listening to the heart beating hears a mystical voice rising, “You must follow the Light. Chase it. Chase the Light. You must chase the Light. Chase… the Light…. Chase… Light…. chase Light… chase.... Chase…”

“Chase?” shakes Moon, “Chase wake up!”

“Chase, Chase! Chase, I have to go to yoga, you need to get up, you promised, remember? Let’s see how did you say it? “Shackle my treasure tail to your war vessel”, the way you phrased your marriage proposal in Klingon, and Yes, my answer to your question, by the way. Ha! You’re such a dumbass!” He hears laughter and smiles through the window of pain, before sleep pulls him back down, a naked lamb chained to a mountain train.

A parting vision, it is of the goose waiting for soup, talking to a pathologist in a suit behind a desk cubical, she repeats again, “If there is a fly in my soup I shall say, in a dignified voice, “You’re Quackers!” and if they wish me to deliver eggs they must serve me crackers! I don’t want eggs! I want world peace!” and Chase awakes from a long distant dream.

He was given a mission, a mission of greatest importance, to save… save… what? It’s forgotten, he remembers seeing screaming faces in the spreading darkness ignite in the wake of the retreating light. The whole cosmos yielding in desperate need of salvation, in great pain, something only he can do to save them, an atom bomb of urgency ticking in impending doom, groping hands pulling at him to rescue them, crying anguished pleas, save… or else… or else… what? it’s gone. Chase finds himself inside the comfort of his economical sized two bedroom apartment.

An alarm is ringing, the same one, he has the vague recollect, piercing his dreams hours ago, becoming the background soundtrack to his nightmare. The screeching picks up speed and shrieks into his bloated overloaded sensory drive. His mind, on fire, is overwhelmed processing a mammoth hangover with amplified awareness of other invading sounds, of roosters and crows giving sermons from rooftops with microphones, before turning into T.V. static. Shapes cling to the ceiling and stick like peanut butter pancake batter in his sight. The bright light coming in through the window pane shines in a kaleidoscope of colors that he recoils from as if it is a giant roach-woman searching for love, antennas rapidly frisking him, pulling him in her and sucking clean his insides, in the dark and savage corners of his mind. Objects in his vision cascade and dance, banging, shrieking, yelling, mockingbirds, scaring the train conductor as he blows the whistle, the shadows crawl rapidly back up the walls, the pain is too intense for him to ignore, he needs desperate relief.

He rows an aircraft carrier through his ear canal, flooding the sewage grates deprecating up out his suffocating head, wishing to board her, the kamikaze swarm of flies puncture his swollen bloodshot eyes, seeing his room’s objects disintegrate into ash, the final nuke explodes, his ship drowning in a typhoon redeemed unsalvageable, he shipwrecks into the siren’s rocks.

His fingers push into his temple sinking into his brain, to break in and pull it out. He yanks the cords connecting the back of his brain to the alarm clock, fumbling for them on the floor, he, successfully rips every plug from the wall outlet out, as the ceramic desert mosaic style lamp goes crashing down and shatters into twenty pieces. The buzzing stops abruptly.

His migraine hangover headache is a torture he, with his own unaided will, cannot endure alone. He needs the help of something higher, or more immediately, some drugs. He rolls onto the floor now, swimming over the industrial carpet of dirty clothes and boxes of books, all types of poetry and spirituality, of Zen masters, religion and witch craft, voodoo, and parenting and trashy romance, animals, druids, mythology, knocking over the latest one, Birdhouse Blueprints, his plan to build birdhouse condos all along the roof of the complex. His heart racing in survival mode, now he hunts the top of his night table knocking everything over ripping the drawers open, searching for the white plastic bottle with burning red top, till finally he, struggling with the child proof safety top takes a handful of pills and waits for them to kick in, thinking ‘Oh my God this is bad, the worst ever’ he tries to remember and can only think of Star trek, why?

Oh God, I didn’t.

The last thing he remembers is being in charge of his girlfriend’s sister, Hailey. It was a costume party and he had dressed up, last minute, very badly, as a Klingon in Star Trek. His mission was to ‘keep Hailey happy and away from her ex - Jack’, and boldly go where no man has ever gone before.

He remembers sticking very tightly to the costume party code and throwing himself into the role. The stupid Klingon translation book he had stuck to all night, might have been a little over the top, perhaps really annoying to others, but for a moment of time, he was more then an ordinary man, he was a representative of star council high command, a Klingon, on a mission of peace to pilot the Vulcan cruiser across space into the depths of deep oblivion.

He remembers up to the point of playing an intense few games of quarters, and standing on top of his chair and lightly pelting his girlfriend Moon and her other friends with change to make it hail, not rich enough to rain. He remembers calling Jack a dickhead and telling him to go fuck himself, an insult made doubly worse, in his mind, by his perfect pronunciation of each word in the Klingon tongue, something he felt was lost on the crowd but is a lot harder than one might think, but the point was made with fists punching into faces and then his masterful stroke of genius when the cops arrived, of quickly switching costumes from Klingon to a cheap mask of Treebeard, the walking and talking tree, saying great pick-up lines like ‘Got Wood?’ and ‘You’re not sinning if the fruits not forbidden!” and “You’re apples, I’m oranges, and together we make a perfect pear.’ and scurrying out the back door, with Hailey, to meet up with the main group back on their home ground at the Morgue, their local bar, where Moon works at. The rest of the evening is blacked out and remains even more shady and evading.

From out of his room he hears ‘Dancing with Wolves’ playing on the TV again. Chase, the director, takes the last two coffee biscotti cookies from his hidden stash in his sock drawer, and goes out to practice lines with Magnolia their actress in training. The biscotti are heavenly and he savors the first bite, as it fills him with joy but then it leaves an emptiness, and his fiend cries out in wait for the next bite to fulfill his taste buds dark power, satisfaction never complete.

He gets ready for his role as a Native American brave as, laying on the carpet, propped on elbows, smiling in her bunny pajamas, long hair disheveled, is Magnolia his friend.

“Squall, me seek Moon, howl howl”

“How how?” says Magnolia, suddenly very serious and in her role, “She out yoga, with master Yoda, uh… medicine man.”

He nods, she is at yoga practice with Drew, the Star Wars nutcase.

“Me hungry need biscotti.” She rubs her tummy maintaining a stern face, and motions in the shape of the biscotti with her hands before solemnly placing them over her tummy. “Got you? Give me!” she motions again towards his biscotti then pretend places it in her mouth.

“One in hand worth two in bush,” he says proudly nation warrior, non-committal like, his own belly protesting in hunger, the fiend inside urging him to devour the biscotti, but against his will he tosses her the last one.

She growling low, grins showing teeth and acknowledges his gift with a tight lipped wagging snarl.

“I really think your body language, tone of voice,” says Chase, “and facial expressions have greatly improved in your training. What is the next audition for the Little Village Theater?” he asks.

She solar beams, “Next one in three days, I’m going for the drunken pirate wench whore.” She sees his smile, “Shut up.”

“Oh wow! That should come very naturally, practicing a long time for..” he notices her pouty eyes and laughs, “That’ll be a stretch huh? Sounds like a lot of fun. Let me know if you need practice.”

She is smiling again rocking back and forth in her bunny pajamas. Grinning at him she chews the biscotti, dazzling her full set of white teeth, and natural rash make-up wiped clean, and turns back to the TV. “As how many times I have offered my services to you, you never want to jump my bones, Moon must have a spell on you, gonna give me a complex. Nevermind I find you ugly as fuck, and very unattractive and unappealing but that almost makes it worse, you know? What is it her spiritual ‘third vagina’ she is always talking about?”

“That’s usually called ‘third eye’ and its no discredit to you. You are smoking hot. Just my dog loves her.”

“Stain does follow her everywhere, I never thought about it but maybe it’s because of her animal magnetism, or maybe her scent? I mean if she can get a dog to follow her like that think of what she could do to a guy. I’m going to ask her.”

Chase painfully yawns holding his head together, “Know, why do so many people always think about sex so much? It is layered in my thoughts, woven in. Think enlightenment is not just a freedom of fear but also of sex and lust?”

Magnolia shrugs, “I don’t know, you’re the philosophy major, maybe it’s in the packaging?” and then her eyes roll up in thought, “Girls love packages, big ones! But like if the package is small, it better cost a lot.”

“Well if I must have lust, let me feel the energy and be attracted to the whole world, not just a select few. I mean, no exclusions. I want to be in love with every person, each tree, feel the heart pounding rush from every bird and every bee.”

“But we all give off different vibes, it’s built in, the packaging is what I’m trying to say. I do not think you have a choice, but sex can be a beautiful experience, where else is such wild energy released, completely natural, you know?”

“Only thing worse than how society caters to big boobs in tight pants is how some people spend their whole lives to build the biggest tomb. They are so preoccupied with death that they never live,” he switches topic back, “Let me know if you want group support at your audition, I can cheer for you.”

“You mean laugh at me, but still Pirates cast is a lot better then the senior citizens role, being old, with balding stringy hair and prune faces really kind of scared the crap out of me, but a big name producer was there and I saw him looking at me, I only had the part with slurping up the oatmeal but...”

“Eye eye, me matey, throw ye self into this role and we’ll see you on the movie screen.” Proclaims Chase and in a half drunken stupor, he swaggers to the bathroom.

The rising sun quarrels with the retreating haze as the dawn, hung over from the night before, raises its head above the toilet and vomits out the day. Chase opens the medicine cabinet behind the mirror. He feels as if he is reaching beneath his reflection, looking deeply within. He finds an empty dental floss cartridge, a canister of furniture polish and Moon’s voodoo doll she made of him. The doll is brushing his teeth and has a smudge of toothpaste on its cheek and Chase realizes, looking in the mirror, so does he and wipes it off his face. He searches for a t-shirt that does not reek of cigarettes, the soap bar has butts stuck in it, empty bullet shells shot in war the night before. He stares hell in the face and realizes it’s his own.

Slowly running hot water over his bruises, he cannot remember how he got so beat up. Awake only in the sense of eyes open, Chase sees the sticker on the mirror. It reads, “Boy am I glad to see you!” He smiles when he sees it; it is a gift from his girlfriend, Moon, her addition to the bath décor. Memories take him to the edge of hysteria, laughter pours out the sink faucet. He can turn it off, but there is always a leak dripping somewhere.

Chase pulls a tie out from last week’s pile in his bedroom. It reminds him of a noose as he slips it on. It always reminds him of a noose. He keeps the knot in place. His Father had tied it for him, knots are not his thing. He never learned how to tie one. His Dad used a similar knot to hang himself with three years ago. Chase, for a brief moment, cracks open the door to his heart and feel’s his Dad’s last moment alive, ‘I hope to God one free of pain,’ he prays, ‘I hope to God a leap off the chair and into freedom’.

Glancing at the clock, Chase sees the day started without him. Today, after weeks of unsuccessful job resume submissions, he has decided to swallow his pride and go to QueenBurger for a job, promising himself he will get severely stoned and drunk when he returns. A star he will earn. A badge he will wear. It will be mission accomplished, a major achievement, if not a good use for his degree in philosophy. Unemployed these last five months, it has been a tough job staying constantly drunk.

Magnolia catches him in the hall. “Want a toke?”

“I really shouldn’t, gonna apply at QueenBurger, you know?”

“Then you definitely need this, just relax, I mean you are going to the Butchers Den. Know all about how they store and kill their cattle? Now you’re the cow, and they’re hungry.” She smiles and raises her eyebrows. “We’re going to devour you if you let us. Take a toke and you can channel your Mother’s earth spirit and you will be granted powers. Like.. have you ever watched the Power Rangers?”

Chase looks at her, sighs, and reaches for the pipe bowl out of respect for the goodwill it is offered in. A peace puff. He puts it to his lips and inhales deeply. He feels his spirit take a step back out of his body and fall away.

“It’s like you fight in pajamas against the moment before sleep takes you. You know? I mean free the whales or change the freaking channel already, right?” She continues talking, and he realizes she never stopped.

Chase nods. “Thanks my friend,” he sees now what was hidden from him sober, Magnolia just flipped his switch. “It’s good to be back.” Monkeys fly in the window chattering. In the hot fire of the sun’s loins, feeling their dance, their emasculate ecstasy, he sees the wards he placed so carefully on his mind’s doorway fall away, shot dead. Some doors should never be opened, some questions never answered. He rises to get a beer.

“Go get them champ,” Magnolia says and Chase reaches into the fridge, moldy, virtually empty, but finds two beers from the back, and pulls them out like a dentist yanking two rotten wisdom teeth out with pliers from a bacteria infested mouth, he sighs, his Dad had been a dentist. He writes a small posty note in mind to call his Mother up sometime.

He pops the tops, hands Magnolia one, and tilts his back. After a little while he goes to get another beer and realizes he drank the last one.

“Man I need more beer,” and the cog in his head turns, “but I have no money,” he frowns, drawing disappointing conclusions, “but I’ll get a job!” Yes, he rationalizes, three moves ahead, Yes, he’s already sipping a cold one on the futon, this is the answer to his problem. “But where should I apply?” Coming full circle, he remembers “Oh yeah, QueenBurger!”

“Right!” Eyes, ripe tomatoes, he grabs his keys and takes off down the runway.

In the parking lot a homeless man stumbles toward him with a scrawny twitching female, who is making hoarse gluten noises. The man, face disheveled, translates for the girl jittering on crack beside the man, “She says she will give you a blowjob for a donut.” Bruised and with mud clogged hair he bows his head down, Chase gets his first good look at the man, who is rapidly suffocating air in wheezes.

“Ok, thanks,“ Chase says and starts rolling up the window. The man looks reluctant to continue, then his eyes go wide and his hands shake, and in an agonized bark, his face contorting in a scream, he yells “SHE NEEDS A FUCKING DONUT!!” so venomously that Chase jumps in his seat.

It looks like the man is having a heart attack, with strings of snot hanging from his nose. Chase reaches down to the glove box and removes a Rice Crispy Treat. He throws the Rice Crispy Treat out the small space of the window in the girl’s direction. The man, her pastry pimp, looks on in disbelief as Chase’s car reverses, fast. In rage the pastry pimp charges, shaking his fist, calling out to Chase in a violent stream of curses, before giving up to a slow jog in the rearview, still screaming as Chase turns the corner.

At QueenBurger Chase waits in line. There is a bell on the counter next to a small sign that reads, “Ring if you enjoy our service.”

“It’s the doorbell to God,” says a mysterious man in the shadowed corner. “This is how angels get their wings, buffalo wings that is.”

Chase hesitates then rings the bell three times and realizes it is very fun and somewhat freeing. He rings it twice more.

The cashier smiles, her eyes like far off watch towers, and puts her hand on top of the bell. “We get it, you’re happy with our service, thanks.”

His turn. “Excuse me,” Chase says, “I only eat meat that died of natural causes. How is that labeled?”

“I couldn’t tell you how the cow died, most likely it was a very gruesome and painful death,” the cashier says and smiles, showing her teeth. She looks dead herself.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Curious, do you bludgeon them to death? Electrocute? Strangle?” Chase stares at her hands.

“I do not think it is that personal. Probably an automated machine.”

“Like machines that make millions of Styrofoam #1 fingers?”

“No.” She’s already gone, checking out the next in line, continuing the search for her cure. “Would you like something else? We have salads.”

“Of course she does,” Chase says before realizing he is talking aloud. “Actually I am here for a job.” Chase indicates at the “Help Wanted” sign on the door.

“Of course you are,” says the cashier, Chase can hear her thoughts like spaghetti with no Ragu, it’s just plain noodles. “..then I will extract my revenge…,” her thoughts say, “… in the vinaigrette salad dressing..”. Chase takes the application and sits down.

The pen twiddles in Chase’ hand. He studies the crisp employment application. “Give me your meat,” Says the majestic voice again.

“Who are you?” asks Chase.

“I am Ronald, your King,” Says the voice coming from everywhere at once. “Who will you serve?” he asks.

“What?”

“We serve Billions here, read the sign outside.” Says Ronald. “The one beneath the golden arches.”

Chase, glancing around, spots it. “Over 3.3 Billion Served!”

“Who will you serve?” says the titrate caterpillar spinning its cocoon.

“I need some service!” An elderly woman struggling in a walker is smearing a cheeseburger against her lips with her free hand. She pawns off her ringed finger to show a diamond, “I’m vacationing from Florida!” She grins savagely, ”I came all this way to be here, you know, with my husband in the car. I don’t want to be disappointed.” She winks with a smirk, “Now I want to be serviced! I want some meat! Give me a combo # 6! Give me that sweet nugget sauce!”

What the crap? thinks Chase. He sees her shadow sucking up the cashier’s open head, licking it clean. “Oh, YES!” the old lady says in gasps, “GIVE it to me!”

Chase can see the people’s life threads. He can now see the strings. The cashier’s hands glow, holding two cheeseburgers. An energy cloud of pitch black rises from the stove that is cremating the cow.

Chase begins filling in the application. In the blank space asking for his name, a voice surrounds him, “Pick a name, any name, and the one you choose will die suffering in the….,” before tuning out. The pen hovers for a few breaths, then he writes his name, Chase Light. Sweating, he coasts on auto and fills in a few more boxes. “A Fallen Angel was thrown from Dairy Queen into the Fry Machine.” What the hell? What is happening to me? A second more rational voice clears his throat. “Chase! What we are experiencing here is a failure to communicate!”

Chase turns the page over and writes what amounts to a life time of lies. His pen touches the page and a black dot grows. The ink spreads slowly filling a universe of collapsing walls, forever entombing words in cemetery plots of appropriate boxes, as the white cell block walls to write on never end.

“Think outside of the box.” Says Ronald, “where do you grow your meat?”

“What?”

“What do you bring to the table.”

“I… don’t..” Chase looks at the application again, slowly falling in and suddenly sees a pattern before realizing he is writing on Ronald’s head. Ronald smiles at him through the employment history section. Chase stabs the paper with his pen, but it will not die. Listing his skills to gain employment, on Ronald’s lips, he feels cheap inside selling himself on lies, and desperately tries to memorize them for the interview.

“Now,” says Ronald again in voice like he is addressing a toddler, “Let the manager sniff your butt and keep your head down, that’s a sign of submission. If the manager gets the right scent he’ll let you sniff his butt and then you are to roll over on the floor, and let the QueenBurger’s staffing team sniff your butt.”

“Something funny.. is not… right,” Chase senses several red flags.

“Chase?” says the salt shaker, on further inspection, the space ship’s throttle control.

“Uh… what?”

“Do you know right from wrong?”

“Trick question!” screams the voice of the pathologist.

“I know that this is so suddenly wrong.”

“That’s right,” says the ketchup dispenser, “it is so wrong. But I’ll protect you from the zombies. They eat brains plain, don’t like condiments on them. Rub ketchup all over your head. It’s Zombie repellent cream.”

“What?”

“Ask about your religious political stance!”

A heavy weight pulls Chase down, a movement catches his eye. Chase notices on the glossy tile by his feet, a cricket has been stepped on. It is struggling to right itself, its leg looks broken.

“See the cricket, yes his misery is a byproduct of your carelessness, so you think the world owes you a favor, that we all revolve around you? Now, the tough question with hard answers, do you kill it and end its misery? Or do you take it to the hospital?”

“Chase! Do not listen to the salt shaker, listen to me, you trust me don’t you?”

“Who the hell are you?”

“I need you to eat me,” says the cricket, a calm voice of reason.

“What?”

“Yes Chase! You must eat the cricket!”

“I am Sugar Lips Cricket. I’m your new conscience.”

“He’s talking to the bugs now. Infestation in his body, roach at the controls, look out!”

“Remember, the outside of the universe is located inside your body, remember, you are the one true king!”

“Eat the cricket and it will pass word to your people! He will be a messenger! They will look for your coming into being!”

Chase’s flesh suddenly quivers and the bugs are back crawling.

“They may itch, but don’t scratch. Then it’ll spread, just like the slut, your doppelganger who whores out your body when you’re sleeping.”

“What? Look I’m just going home.” Chase balls up the application and chucks it in the can. He hears Oscar the Grouch say, “Thanks Asshole.”

What the hell is going on? What is happening? He needs a beer to cry into, one for him and one for Sugar Lips, who now gingerly lies in his breast pocket.

Chase gets back to his pad and sees Magnolia and his dog Stain searching the carpet beneath the graffiti table. Magnolia looks up with a lopsided grin. “I know there’s a roach here somewhere, clumsy fucks.”

“I have a cricket to smoke.” Chase says, “though it may well be the death of my conscience.”

“I’ll kill you!” Sugar Lips screams, “Got lung cancer? You hear me asshole?!”

“Join the club,” says Magnolia, “I mean we’re all dead inside, just machinery searching for a mouth to scream, or is it feed?”

Chase hears the townspeople with torches outside the door, “Yeah just producing another Tupperware dish for fat free fish sticks,” Chase looks at the twitching joint, “another Godzilla yo-yo.”

A storm is coming. The untamed sun is straining to roll free from its hole and return to the wild. Some decision he must make, something must break.

His pants vibrate in a Pink Floyd tune and Chase pauses and puts Sugar Lips back in his top breast pocket and answers his phone. He sees a picture of a young child and a text message that reads, “Living a Cheerful Life? For this little boy in Africa, life is not much to Cheer about. Be a stain and spot free Saint! Be Santa’s Helper and spread Cheer, the laundry detergent, wherever you go! Cheer is doing more than a vibrant beautiful cleansing of your clothes, we are buying necessary supplies for orphan children in need! Buy Cheer and support health clinics worldwide.” But that’s not what has him gripped by the throat, causing the blood rush to his head in pounding heartbeats. Below the ad someone texted, h… e .. lp. The caller ID, he reads in disbelief, is ‘Dad’.

Who has my Dad’s cellphone thinks Chase recovering from the shock and getting a little pissed off. The phone in his hand vibrates and rings again.

It’s Moon his girlfriend texting him, “Hey Babe,” she says, “Off work. We nvite 2 Jackn Mary buy booze csh n left boot u dig Luv me.”

Chase staggers into their room and searches for Moon’s deadly stiletto left black high heel boot. It is tossed under the bed. He pulls out a $20 she has tucked in the back of the boot, for him, along with an Alpo Purina Variety Treat she placed there for Stain. He opens up the back screen door to their little fenced in back yard, Stain comes running and they both head for the store.

Chase walks up to the 7-11 parking lot. The store at first glance is passed over, hidden inside an empty hotdog container. The 7-11, an island barrier reef capital of merchandise, is surrounded by a mirage of the ocean at low tide. On the rotting shore, it leaves its stench, mud and a trace of beer, Slurpee cups crushed among the sea grass, condiments mixed with seagull crap and fish guts strung out, their heads cut off, eyes, cold and hanging, stare dead at the passing hermit crabs making their way, barnacled among the soot of the establishment, their bikini areas, exposed, take quick shots with the sun and moons loose, on each sandy corner road. The convenience store trash, scratched out lottery tickets, cigarette butts, black oil and tar litter the ground. Skeletal shells of automobiles, the shiny metal frames the latest in demand of nuclear physics attempts at assembling atoms to unravel reality from a post annihilation dance craze, the car bones are picked clean by the crabmen.

Chase, flicks his cigarette into a puddle streaked with gasoline, it makes rainbow ripples. Colors skim the surface, reaching out and joining the darkness to cargo ships on route to deepest space oblivion inside the infinite depths of the bottomless puddles. The rainbow’s blood floats silently to the top illuminated beneath the street lights pulling on the spider web strings of matter connecting cold black holes punched through the universe’s heart and arteries, veins of crumbling light on the edge of the night’s tide, galaxies blinking on and off in violent explosions of promised life, the will to live, freighters make their run, traveling down birth canals on trading lanes powered by the stars.

Chase points between the ice machine and bundles of firewood and says, “Stay” and Stain, sad eyes to be left outside, walks over and sits in the spot staring in the window at Chase going inside the store.

The door opens with a three chord chime, a disco ball sound welcoming tall afro’s and scantily clad sides of meat marinating in extra thick steak sauce, the gunnery school girls packing heat, ancient boys with their gene splicing time machine toys, the old maids wanting to play, cloning their legs, and the patrons wagging their frozen tail bones on the dance floor graveyard six degrees of separation below zero. The door rings of drunken sweet roosters raiding the hen’s house then crashing the eggs on the rocks, cracking them open and eating out their yolk hearts. The Sirens sway, their asses sitting inside packages of comfort, donuts and cake, waiting for the hungry mouths and hands to hold them, to eat them, clean from out their wrappers, sticky fingers, they sing, sweetly irresistible, with big bite hotdogs in their mouths and buckets. Zeus and Hercules, his son, sound horns blown through inebriated cocktails, and a beam of light casts out a nuke igniting inside the customer’s eyes, blinding them fresh from the night’s tide of cheap wine washing down the chunky cherub’s crunchy chocolate bar and Listerine and Pepto-Bismol for their back throat gargling.

Chase pauses and has to blink several times in the bright light, as the doors sound again, chiming this time of caffeinated gargoyles eating mouthfuls of pigeons, squirming, squelching, rotating beneath the heat lamps the caught birds, plumage plucked clean, victims of the red bull energy junkies, high on the dangerous shelf’s ledge, survivors in a media war campaign, salute Chase with their last dying breath bottled in sports juice drinks as he passes them by. Also displayed is bait for the duck hunters, just quackers for their cherry centered lozenges, and advertisement spokespersons for lip gloss, the chapped duckbilled dinosaurs now evolved into mythological Christian worshippers carving statues on Fantasy Island, wear.

Chase steps in the 7-11 hesitantly, “Thank Heaven” says Sweet Lips the cricket. He made it! Chase’s eyes momentarily refocus from the intense light, he feels he is under God’s microscope now. Is he just entering the gateway to a happy hunting ground where God focuses the brunt of his attention? Where nothing can hide from this All Knowing All Seeing Light? He feels the taint of evil-doers close by, demons at a distance, perhaps in this convenience store he can get the sales clerk, a proud white braided hair lady with a murder of crow’s feet around her sunken eyes, perform an exorcism on him? But, he thinks, do I need one?

Chase steps forward to the covers of the magazine and newspaper rack, headline news, thousands dead. With such long lines going to heaven and the long turnover rate to process them at the Pearly Gate, the dead may stop here at the convenience shop while passing through, they can get thirsty along their way to oblivion and beyond. A hot dog with no big gulp, if thirsty, can make for a long and miserable eternity.

It is midnight and the tortured undead are paying their penance due, as tormented in his own personal hell, a zombie, salivating with musty clothes, fresh from the grave, moans as he shuffles past Chase. The pale man stumbles across the tiled floor in a dusty lumberjack jacket and foreign legion kakis. In his hand is a case of Milwaukie’s best and a box of condoms. Muttering to himself, “Her laughter is only anger,” the man straightens his hat and tucks in his shirt before he goes shuffling out, back to his mistress the night.

Chase steps up to the register. The clerk, face has seen much suffering in the 7-11 aisles, an older wise woman of timeless land. She is whispering in a low voice to the hotdog’s chili and cheese machine on the tail end of the counter. She is coxing it along with a running stream of sweet nothings. Perhaps it is the guardian of this store? A shield generator? If a player-hater stabbed it with one of the white plastic disposable utensils, would the source of this store’s chakra die? He eyes the plastic utensils next to the ketchup apprehensively with respect.

She removes the hotdog’s chili dispenser’s back panel and replaces what looks like a deflated cheese lung, Chase wonders where they found a spare lung, the donor, than with a creepy feeling he realizes that he already knows.

Chase clears his throat and says, “the beer locker still open?” as he walks to the refrigerated doors. His watch says 11:39 but he knows it doesn’t tell the right time.

Seemingly annoyed at Chase’s interruption she looks to the side and frowns, with a finger held out to Chase, “Hold on Honey, I’m almost done filling the chili,” she turns back to the machine whispering, “Come on baby, put out for those dogs.”

She guards her booty, blocking Chase’s view with her backside. Tasting the new flux of energy, after a few more adjustments, the machine has an uprising. Chase, sigh of relief as the refrigerated door opens, grabs a case of Budweiser in bottles. She flips on the kill switch and a new terminator is born.

The pork sausage pimp pats the back of the panel, “We keep them plain dogs coming back for more!” and grunts in Chase’s direction, she stops and looks at him, as if for an encouraging word or reward.

What does she want my approval? thinks Chase. He says, “Yeah.”

The clerk smiles and nods tapping the side of her head. Her tattoo is half hidden on her neck, it is a raven. Her shirt is a rosy red, and her pants are black. He stares at her nineteen fingers as she runs them across the cash register and brings a pinkie to her mouth. Then he becomes captured in the gaze of the tv camera.

“Yep, no one wants to rob me anymore we got that installed.”

“I’m not here to rob you.” Says Chase.

“That’s a shame I could really use a break and maybe get some nachos in the confusion. No hold up note, no put the loot in my paper bag.” She looks at Chase and frowns, brow swallowed up by wrinkles, in a no ask no tell dimpling expression.

“Don’t you think if I did have a note to rob you I would have shown you by now?” Chase asks, more to himself as wondering if in an abstract way he really is robbing her but is too stoned to know it.

“I don’t know would you?” She says a little more slyly, “I mean I don’t know what you gang bangers are plotting next, I’m no CN News.”

“Cartoon Network?” Asks Chase a little more worriedly, to himself, gang bangers? And if she is talking about Cartoon Network News what the hell does that mean? “I think if I was here to rob you I would have a weapon of some sort and instead of standing here making idle and meaningless conversation, I would be more rogue and intense. Right?”

She stares at the plastic knives and forks by the ketchup and nods in their direction.

Does she want me to rob her with a picnic knife? Chase is feeling this is becoming way too difficult for a simple beer run. The cashier sighs, “Well noted,” she says then, “or well noteless as in your case.”

“Argh!” Chase thinks feeling ill in his stomach, alarmed at the bad joke.

The cashier stares at his hands slowly, and then brings her gaze up to Chase’s face and winks.

“I just want a case of bud and a box of cigarettes.”

She steps back as her good eye surveys the red field she is invading, over bodies of comrades, she sways her hips up the steep but dangerous Himalayas over to the back counter. He begins to think she did not hear him when she laughs straightening up her chest, “Got beer?” she laughs, “Eh? Like the media’s milk campaign? But why buy the cow when such milk is free?” and she reaches behind to undo her apron. Good God, thinks Chase, she’s removing her top!

“No, not breast milk!” Chase, swallows laughing a couple of chickens short of a processed patty as if inside he is unsure this is good or bad, the thirsty part of him teases with his dry parched lips in a merciless outcry. He cannot really imagine breastfeeding right now. She fixes her neck collar and stops and studies him with half a grin, then returns to her passive warrior stance, and shows off a rack of keys. “Gonna lock em up now.”

The lady in line behind Chase taps him on the back, Chase turns to see a cute redhead, with green eyes, cat, jet black hair streaked with red, in buns with crochet needles stabbing through each one. She is wearing a pink sweater, with an elaborately quilted pattern and a low cut neck. She is on her way to rescue America’s hungry and has big jugs of hot stew brewing on the back burner, enough to last for days until help arrives. She points to the display shelf of cigarette cartons behind the counter and then the pack in Chase’s top pocket.

“Got Lung Cancer?” she asks.

“How about some ID first?” asks the saleslady. Chase pulls out his card. “Good…. Chase is it? Good.” She says as she studies it for a minute and looks at him, concentrating, Chase thinks, she is gazing at his mouth, is it a look of disappointment? – if so that makes him feel just odd and he now is overly aware of his big lips. Does he have yellow stained teeth?

“I will get toothpaste too then,” he says to her non-vocal complaint. She nods, eyes young stars burning in the sky, “Crest whitening,” he adds.

She makes a dimple grin in agreement and looks at the ID again, “Lost the mustache didn’t you Honey?” she says.

What does this lady want from me? Chase at a loss gives her a confusing tartar control smile then recovering his wit again, and curious now to escape the Wise Woman’s spells, asks, “How much?”

“Pick your poison,” says the clerk.

The lady behind him in the pink sweater heartily continues, “What issss the price of life?” she asks.

Piping from out Chase’s pocket, the cricket, his conscious replies, “Careful! She’ll trick you into giving her a baby! And a romp in that swamp and you’ll have more than feet fungus.”

Chase ponders the ladies question, What is the price of life? $37? then he says, “People spend their whole lives to find that answer and when they do it’s already too late.”

Chase notices the girl in pink’s nametag reads ‘Barbie’.

From beneath the coffee maker a perky voice cries out, “You can tell the worth of a Barbie doll by the stamp on its butt. Look at her butt! That’s how you find how much her life is worth!”

“Her vineyard, grapes squeezing out wine, may be a well vintage matured beautiful blend, intoxicating to taste, but beware the crabtrap!” warns Sugar Lips.

She is on display, a tantalizing treat, golden gooey center heart and candy coated brain, perfect for sucking on, her legs part the red sea as she leans against the chip rack, slouching, low cut skirt riding up her hips at an angle, she is bending against the chip rack, its bags crackling like the chips are on a hot roasting fire, she turns her head and stabs him mercilessly off her blade.

The salesclerk behind the counter smiles, hovering now over the sausages warming beneath the glass case, she picks up one with her tongs and turns it over for equal heat division.

The lady in the pink sweater in line behind him remarks again, “I am going to a wake.”

The cricket, Chase’ conscience, gains his attention, “Chase, ask if she’s a Barbie. Ask her to play dolls.”

“Careful! She’s a man killer! Ken’s severed head is still impaled on a stake in her doll house door....”

“No, I never had any dolls… they were action figures.”

“Oh you want to see some action do you?” a shiny presence, the anti-Adam remarks.

The woman behind the counter smiles, watching him. She plays with her lips, pouting now, as they grow thick and wrap around her neck over her sugar coated ears, she spreads her hands wide onto the counter, showing off the jack pot lottery tickets.

“Life is priceless,” Barbie says.

“Life feeds on life.” he says to her, trying in vain to end the conversation and offer some comfort for the deceased who’s funeral she is attending.

“How true, we feed on the energy around us, all spirits connected, the body can be a channel, energy goes up my legs and into the world, grounding me, but not now. I am cut off. I am spiritually dead.” She looks starry eyes away. “I usually don’t drink,” she says embracing the 6 pack of wine coolers in a hug, “but he was a good friend of mine,” quick knee bend as, looking at him from behind, magic brewing in her swaying hips, she takes aim, “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

“Danger! DANGER!” the cricket is screaming now.

”Maybe you could go to the mall?” asks Chase blood rushing to his head, I got to get the hell out of here. “Lots of people there.”

“Like to undress your ‘action’ figures?” asks Sugar Lips cricket.

Chase, is now holding Sugar Lips in his clenched fist, “Fashion is fashion. The body is beautiful. Anatomically correct dolls would teach us that.” But Sugar Lips is not listening.

Chase opens up his palm and Sugar Lips Cricket looks up at him.

“You’re ugly!” Sugar Lips says to Chase, “I’m changing hosts, I’m cashing in...” says the cricket who takes a leap of faith out of Chase’s hand. In mid leap Chase can hear him, “weeeee!” as he leaps for freedom, he lands in the donation jar half full of pennies and nickels.

Chase turns to the clerk, an unasked question in his eyes. He sees the donation jar’s sign, “Feed the Hungry.” The children need to feed, thinks Chase, logical. The cricket in the donation jar hops up and down with a plunk among the change.

“That’s for change.” says the clerk.

“It’s about time for a good change,” says Chase, adding “You can’t really change more than that. May feed a kid who is really really hungry.. or a frog in need?”

The sales clerk gives a three layer bean burrito frown, “What the hell?” she asks through clenched teeth. She looks volatile and violated, perhaps her animal guide is offended? The cashier unscrews the lid and shakes it. Chase takes the cue and reaches in and removes his cricket, who is calm some not thrashing as much. “If you want to lure lure bigger more hungry prey into the jar, you know, sometimes you just need the right bait to catch the biggest fish.”

“You men put big hooks in your worms,” says Barbie sadly. “my fish is snared,” she continues.

The sales clerk nods, “Bait for big fish heads.”

“What? I don’t know what the hell is…” Are they screwing with me? The clerk is growling, and suddenly Chase feels the weight of the moon, the overwhelming feel of evil is charging through, he takes a deep breath and quickly searches for the source. “I would like some Beer please, and cigare..”

“He died from lung cancer,” shrieks the girl crying. The clerk eyes Chase like he shot a dog and motions to the girl. Chase sees a beast streak through the front door of the store. It has bottle fingers and its throat, a bag of chips, opens wide, a mouth drooling coffee grounds and chili, drips in chunks from silver and brown foil. Chase sees the entrance to the Beast, its door is the girls mouth, and its ringing the bell. Her forked tongue pushes, its way, forcing out of her lips, wrapping around her mouth. The girl makes a sudden scream of grief, crying, hands, claws, eyes, pits of fire and hot flame, scorch him as her tears curve down her cheeks, she leans into him and cries in his chest burying her face into his jacket, her mouth opens to swallow his head, moaning, nearly engulfs him, she looks ready to fill her tank with gas and swallow a match.

“Fuck! Run!” screams Sugar Lips, “Get the HELL OUT, NOW!”

Chase steps away from the counter. The cashier is frowning now, clenching fists, and motions to the girl again. “Poor baby,” she says as Chase stumbles back, spooked, and knocks over a small gum and breath mint display, getting up clumsily off guard he butts into the Tasty cake and Hostess rack spilling the pastries. He looks back at her mouthing curses with mounting tension, when immediately to his left is a bottle of rubbing alcohol. “I’ll take this!” he shouts and digs in his pocket tossing the twenty dollar bill to the floor, he reaches his hand up around the counter shelf for a pack of generic cigarettes. He sees they are called Orc sticks. He grabs the rubbing alcohol and runs out the door.

Outside the cool chill air comforts Chase, he leans over the store’s support pole, realizing he has been wheezing and holding in his breath, he struggles to regain it. He looks at the bottle of rubbing alcohol, appraising the situation the best he can. He sees the light in the store blink off then on and knows the nuke must of exploded on the spiritual plane. Killing the demon within, he hopes.

“You really blew that one.” says Sugar Lips. “or maybe not, perhaps this is what you need to kill the infection growing in your heart like a weed, disinfectant you know. Take a chug to freedom.”

“Maybe,” says Chase, “right now I have a window of numbness, a good buzz already, but this is a good opportunity to get drunk.”

Chase, calls Stain, his dog, and together they walk towards his apartment. He undoes the top, a little hesitant. He sighs. Moon is not going to be happy, but he knows she will understand. She deserves better. The rubbing alcohol burns like bleached lava and he immediately vomits. “Holy crap that’s bad!”

He feels as if his elevator is stuck between floors, he is starting to lose it. “God I am having some trouble here just now, some reservations, I think I am losing touch with reality and unraveling or something, I need some help... please guide me...” He looks up to the night time sky, he regains some serenity staring at the stars once again in wonder and awe. He always felt a close relationship with the Universal Being, his faith, unshakable. If he didn’t have faith he would of long ago drowned in fear.

Stain is sniffing behind a tree for longer than necessary and curious, Chase walks around it. There next to the tree is a giant cow patty pile, completely natural, but hold up, what’s this? He sees some funny blue fungi growing in layers on top of it. Crying victoriously he cheers, “Shrooms!” and collects the mushrooms in a bag. He jumped tracks but the party will continue!

Thrilled at the prospect of delivery his honey Moon some shrooms to make up for the lack of beer, he pulls out his cellphone to call her when he sees he missed a call from his Mom. He rings her and gets no one so he checks his messages.

“Chase,” says his Mother, “Something very odd has happened. Someone broke into the apartment.. busted the lock, but the only thing missing is.. your Father’s ashes... They stole his urn. Know anything about this? Please call soon. I am getting a security system installed.”