Not a Poem this time, I swear

It's called Dial-Up Connection

-

                The phone always lay beside him.

                It was always off the hook, still on, husking the emptiness on the other end, broken only by the slight breathing of somebody else. He couldn’t fall asleep without the phone. He always needed it beside him with her on the other end, regardless of whether she was awake or not. Some nights he woke her up with his phone call. Other nights, he pitied her and spent the night tracing the cracks in the ceiling. He used to play games with it and create his own night sky complete with its own constellations. But soon, even that couldn’t help the nights pass even faster.

                His stomach was always sick with nausea before he called her. He became nervous all the time, tripping over thoughts and spilling endless garrisons of ideas into his pillow just so he could focus. His simplicity was never the best, but his brutality was never the worst. He could never understand why he called her every night, only that she made him feel like no other and that gave him some sort of comfort when the nights became too long, too dark, or never ended.

                Tonight, he traced an old ceiling constellation, one of the very first ones he ever found in the cracked white sky. The phone lay on the stand beside him, inviting him to call her again. But he resisted, trying to give her peace and calm for the first time in a long time.

                The constellation grew boresome. He grabbed a tennis ball and started banging it against the wall until his neighbor yelled at him to quit the racket. He flipped TV channels endlessly but got lost in their infomercials and found himself even further from where he started. He punched his pillows, switched them, dumped everything that good possibly be in his mind on them, and still found no reprise in this hollow night.

                He went for a walk, humming to himself, music playing in his head. It was always sad music. He never understood why, but the sad music made him more at peace with himself.

                He came back and collapsed on the bed, the endless ticking from the clock on the wall ringing in his head. After about fifteen minutes of this, he wretched the clock from the wall and broke it to pieces on the floor. When he was done, he carefully and calmly picked up all the pieces and dumped it in the bin with the rest of the broken clocks.

                He was trying to balance the tennis ball on his forehead when the phone rang. It startled him and sent the ball rolling off to the other side of the room.

                He answered the phone.

                “Hello?”

                “Hey,” it was her. The night was no longer a waste.

                “Hi.”

                Not a lot of communication ever happened on these phone calls. Some nights he held the phone to his ear, not saying a single word, before falling asleep. Other nights, he placed the phone directly beside him and fell asleep. And even on some nights, he fell asleep curled up around the phone, holding it as if he was a small child and it was his teddy bear.

                “You ready?”

                “If you are.”

                “I am.”

                He placed the phone beside him and stared at it. Her breath was drifting through the phone, gently rocking his mental sense of being back and forth, as if she were the ocean and he was just another stranded vessel searching for a way home. If so, would that make the phone the lighthouse?

                That was his last conscious thought before he woke up the next morning, the phone still beside him. It was quietly humming the dead tone noise. She must’ve woken up before him and hung up.

                He went about his daily routine, much refreshed from the sleep he found last night. When the end of the day came and the moon hung high in the sky, he called her.

                She didn’t pick up this time. A man did.

                “Hello?”

                “Hello, this is the police.” Said the man. “Can we help you?”

                Ice cold fear bottled up inside his throat. He quietly asked the police officer if he knew where she was.

                There was a long drawn out silence before the officer answered.

                “She died last night, sir. She fell asleep with her phone in her bed last night. It got it tangled up in her throat as she slept, and the phone cord choked her to death.”

It's called Time, Time, Will You Stay The Night

Here's to Time,

the natural event which robs us all

-

Time, Time, Will You Stay The Night?

If I could ask you to stay

If just for tonight,

Would a simple bequest

Be enough to make you stay, Time?

Because you’ve made everybody wishing

That the grass is greener on the other side.

The youth dream of being old

And the old dream of being young.

It shows that you have no soul,

You cold hearted mistress,

And begs me to believe that your inner qualities

Are not what they really seem to be.

Prudent and bold, that’s what you are,

With no pity to humble man and their ever present quest

To become something more than just fertilizer to the Earth.

Great Caesar, Great Alexander, Great Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle,

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,

Made into no more than the clay beneath my feet.

So Time, Time, before you go

Is one night to ask for

So hard to understand?

You can ask me to reconsider

Or understand the workings of a stable relationship.

But as far as I’m aware

You make us too short, too fragile, too unworthy of being able to waste time.

We don’t have petty time to waste acting higher or better,

Acting like the rest of the world does

As if you’re in their pocket.

Their pocket? Their pocket?

Really?

Can money or love or any of the above be enough to persuade you

To stay, if even for a moment?

Believe it or not,

All I am trying is to fight the odds and hold on

Though everyone knows it has to go.

Then why, might I ask,

Are they so insistent on acting like there is always a tomorrow?

Any second could be their last, any breath could have no repeat,

Any simple step could be their end.

So Time, Time,

You move too fast,

Am I just a favor before your last?

Time, Time,

You have no worry of growing old

And that leads to the jealousy and hate in my throat.

But I just want you to know,

Before you go and decide to walk out this door,

That my request is still open

For a one-night stand, one for the ages,

With you alone, Time,

For if it was a choice between Death and the eternal December I’m stuck in,

I’ll take you on any night.

I Seriously Need to Stop with the Poetry; I Am NOT a Poet

It's called a Lonely Red Herring

-

                It’s because you’ve been thoroughly overthrown with disabandonment

                And search to make no amends of an empty carousel ride’s lonely conversation.

                You’re stuck on the floor

                A pillow keeping you fixated on the ceiling

                As you search for a wishing well to throw all your loose change in.

                Unbeknownst to you,

                I’m trapped, drowning in the next room.

                An endless cycle of screams, aimed at the most cynical of the two of us.

                Broken jewelry showers on the ground, the endless amount of Christmas tinsel pulled from a rotted tree.

                Attempting to pick them up only scatters them more.

                The current’s rising and bearing wind with it.

                My body’s floating on an endless tide.

                The vacancy can’t be fulfilled with you by my side

                Because you’ve created the vacancy just by being there.

                December’s failing; the life support’s been pulled away.

                 I’m waiting for the rushing waters to turn into snow

                So maybe that way I finally won’t drown.

                Your disabandonment has hit a heavy chord

                Because you’re never actually alone;

                Rather, you make those around you alone.

                So I’ll buy you some roses,

                Or maybe even more,

                And let you stain the sheets with endless dreams

                Of what everybody else but me wants in this life.

                Sorry if I’m being selfish,

                Sorry if I’m being prude,

                Sorry for all the negatory things that swim around and clog my thoughts

                Preventing me from saying all the bitter things that should be said.

                I’ll float back down

                Down, down, down, down

                Falling to the ground.

                An underwater escapade,

                Oh, if only I could fly.

                Because you’re still asleep, your pillow fixating you on the ceiling, the floor your newly made bed

                And I’m still in the next room

                Overwhelmed and drowning at the harsh reality

                That no good comes out of nothing

                But nothing only comes out of good things.

                So, I’ll feed you more words

                Give you more ammo for your smoking barrel

                And let you fire your full arsenal.

                Aim it,

                Aim it please,

                At my throat.

                So all these words can spill out instead of my blood

                And all my questions will finally be empty

                And my vented questions I shout at the world’s edge,

                Where the carefully crafted sky and painted landscape have reached their brink,

                Will finally be useless

                And I won’t get the same bitter answers in response.

                So, now I’ll go change the direction of the stairs

                And let you find another room.

                I’ll just sit here in this room,

                Overwhelmed and drowning the ocean of events I never thought through.

                I’ll stare out the window and wait for the sky to turn

                And think

                Because they’ve parachuted down into my mind,

                Escaped the brink,

                And filled me with weights so that I will sink

                Down, down, down, down,

                I’ve fallen to the bottom of this endless pit.

Please Read the Full Post Before Forming an Opinion

I thought long and hard before posting this next poem.

All my work is incredibly personal and drawn on a number on influences I've experienced.

All my work is serious.

But the following poem was pounded out in about five minutes, no hesitation, just key after key after key.

Compared to my other works, it takes liberties. A lot of liberties.

So, that being said, to anyone reading this, I have decided to post this because this is my blog. I can post whatever I'd like (admittedly, to a certain degree).

If what I've written is what needs to be written, for whatever reason or motive, then it deserves the chance to go up on this blog.

For those of you who actually do know me, you'll know that I've had a pretty tough past few days due to certain previous extracurricular activities and events involving me currently, which have only been stressed and made worse due to previous events.

That being said, this poem deals with some of the stuff that's been going on.

You will find it darker and (possibly) more obscene than everything else I've done.

And for that, I apologize.

But as I said, I have written what I have written for a reason.

With that being said, I can no longer find any words to help explain this next post. So, without further ado, I present my next poem.

It's called Gravity.

-

Fuck Gravity.

                You’re relentless, soulless, selfish, and so needy.

                                Everything must be so close to you and always kept close to you.

                                                You never give us a chance to just stretch out our wings and go free.

                                                                I need to float on a northern wind again.

Fuck Gravity.

                You’ve always held us down.

                                We have so much potential, so much to reach for, so much to know.

                                                But you keep us glued to the earth, wasting precious energy just to move.

                                                                Can’t you see we just want to float?

Fuck Gravity.

                I need some new chords of dissemblance.

                                I need fresh air beneath my feet.

                                                I need a broken beat underlaying my feet.

                                                                I need to ride the wind to a new and forgotten home.

Fuck Gravity.

                I need to escape this place.

                                The broken sheets, the scattered ingredients, the torn and foolishly tossed away gifts.

                                                The scars the memories bought and brought back.

                                                                This place holds no more oxygen to me.

Fuck Gravity.

                I’m made into a long forgotten bed.

                                One I needed to abandon.

                                                I don’t want to be brought back and I don’t want to stay here.

                                                                But I’m stuck here because of you.

Fuck Gravity.

                Keep holding us down.

                                My anger can only bear so long

                                                Before it turns into broken creeds of depression

                                                                Tainted by infected memories of the one who laid beside me.

Fuck Gravity.

                I want to turn you blue.

                                And then you’ll hopefully finally understand the semblance

                                                Of tracing the broken rivers lain inside in my mind.

                                                                You’re the only one who forged them there.

Fuck Gravity.

                I have had my fill.

                                Other’s words can no longer fill the desire to speak my own.

                                                This process has turned me old, ashen, and gray

                                                                And now I’ve rotted from the inside out.

Fuck Gravity.

                Why must you persist?

                                I’ve dug my own grave and laid down inside of it,

                                                The underside caked with yellow powder,

                                                                And watched you toss the dirt over me as you laugh.

Fuck Gravity.

                You’ve finally won.

                                And in the light that I swear I thought I knew,

                                                Your face was all that’s left

                                                                Poisoning and darkening my final moments unguarded.

Fuck Gravity.

                Because of you, I now fear my sleep and dread the moments that I’m awake.

Metaphorical Story

Completely metaphorical story. More than one meaning.

My best suggestion: have someone read you the story, then read the story. You make more connections that way.

-

My December

            My December is hallowed ground. He walks arm-in-arm with Dark and Desolate Days, who each call out to him with cries of passion. His response is the uneven snowfall on a cloudy day, slightly swayed towards one side but just barely enough so he can blame it on the weather. His chilled breath hangs around his face and clumps together to obscure his true intentions. He asks Dark Days out one night for an evening spent along the seashore, where they trace insignia into the sand and shout praises to the stars, only to show up on Desolate Days’s doorstep, begging to kill the night. She lets him in, a hollow smile on her face, only pausing to lock the door behind her.

            My December is a wishing well. He threw himself out into sea but could never touch the bottom. He surfaced only to find himself alone again, the four leaf clover on the pillow beside him laughing at his pitiful state. He traced her smile on frosted glass and held the clover guiltily in his fist. He pulled the blinds shut and sipped the bottle of February Air in his hand, hoping its intoxicating effects will put him to sleep again. He held Hope’s clover close and thought hard. My December then brings it out to his wishing well and considers who would notice if he pitched himself in instead of the clover.

            My December is a robbery. He leaves nothing behind but only takes what he needs. The warm touch, the soft embrace, the lips curled in pleasure, no one has ever seen Dark and Desolate Days like he has. And no one ever will after he leaves them dead in his wake, another heartless victim whose name is now splattered over headlines. My December attends their funerals and refuses to talk to them after they stare at him with hollow eyes hidden behind a white veil and dress. He then takes the bottle of February Air and crawls his way back home, Hope’s four leaf clover tucked away carefully within his pocket, searching for a way to end a Hopeless night.

            My December is a nightmare. Every time he closes his eyes he sees her face. Every time he stares at the sunset, bringing forth a new day, he feels her voice on his ears, whispering to him what the new day should have brought. Every time he wakes in cold sweat, Hope’s name on his lips, it’s because she just touched him in his dream. My December tears the town apart, releasing his fury in a blizzard. The townspeople cower in fear until he almost drops his bottle of February Air. He drags himself back home that night, drunken and abused, to place the bottle back on the fourteenth shelf, far away from his heart.

            My December is hallowed ground. He’s never walked it alone but no one is ever by his side. My December dreams of being put to ashes, to just die and never return. My December walked that day, the Moon leading him with a serious gaze, the four leaf clover tucked in the pocket of his high school blazer. He stepped through the yard, death and decaying frost following his every footstep, until he found the marker he was looking for. My December stared, with hollowed eyes, at where Hope was buried, her body, however, they could never find. He laid down on the frozen earth, much comfier than his bed, and just when he thought the nightmares would start, they all slipped away. For My December could hear Hope’s voice:

            “This is My December. He is always so clear. His ice cold hands are mine to hold. His frozen breath is mine to feel. And I always felt like it was something I missed, but Hope knows best, to hold My December by her side.”

            For the briefest moment, My December felt himself change. My December was now Dark and Desolate Days’ lover, and they would never leave his side, but then where would Hope exist? In response, My December suddenly rationalized, as the snow fell all about him, putting him at peace, My December can only exist with Hope by his side.

Some more fun stuff and probably one of my favorite short stories

-

“The Gentlemancy of Mr. Arthur Hemingway”

by: James Sabetti

                William Gould swallowed the piece of steak he was chewing before continuing.

                “A simple job like that would require three men, Mr. Hinaki, but I believe it will be discovered, especially given the certain circumstances.”

                Mel-do Hinaki, the grandson of Hi-shon Hinaki, the celebrated founder of Hinaki Enterprises, put out his cigar in the ash tray on the table. He picked up his knife and cut into his steak.

                “What do you mean?” Hinaki patiently asked, almost speaking perfect English, before putting a piece of steak in his mouth.

                Will put down his silverware and pushed his plate off to the side, calling off the waiter who shot forward to take it; the hotel ballroom they sat in was elaborate and fancy, with white, silk tablecloths, bright lighting, and a chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The wear was extremely formal and the tinkle of china and glass echoed among the cleverly placed tables.

                “Now, your plan calls for the use of elevators – “

                “ – I know what my plans consists of,” Hinaki cut off William with a slight impatience, “I want you to tell me what you think would work, Mr. Hemingway.”

                Mr. Hemingway. The name reverberated through Will’s head. Arthur Hemingway. A man sought after by many businesses, the very best at corporate espionage, and always sold off to the highest bidder. It was dangerous work, and Will created Arthur Hemingway to protect himself. Almost all of his contacts in the world (mostly businesses) knew him by this name and nothing else, including the girl awaiting him in the suite fourteen stories above him.

                It was the life, though: traveling all over the world, enormous paychecks, and death-defying jobs. Like, for instance, right now, the employer was Mr. Hinaki, owner of Hinaki Enterprises. The target: Ryan Orchismodo, the owner of a Swedish company, Polar Ice Lights, which was in a close race with Hinaki Enterprises, had information about a top secret project his company was working on in his hotel room eight stories above them. The price: 75 million dollars. A lot of money, but only a scrap of what Hinaki would get if he got that information and eliminated Polar Ice Lights from the playing field.

                “Air ducts.” Will responded, spreading out his napkin in front of him and taking a pen out of his pocket. He began to draw a maze of thin lines as HInkai watched, interested.

                “I’ve taken advantage of my stay here this week to learn the air duct system – “

                “ – And I’ve heard that’s not all you’ve taken advantage of.”

                Will looked up at Hinaki, who was smiling light heartedly.

                “She stays out of this.”

                “Of course, of course,” Hinaki said, waving his hand. “Please continue.”

                “The air duct system leads right to his room.” Will continued, leading his pen along the selected path. “the duct begins in a hallway just outside my room.”

                Hinaki took the napkin and looked at it.

                “It’s the perfect plan – “

                “I want a demonstration.” Hinaki cut him off. “To prove this works.”

                Will watched as Hinaki took out his wallet and called the waiter over.

                “Mr. Hinaki,” Will said, a plan forming in his head as the deal began to slip away, “tomorrow, when you wake up, come by the suite for your wallet.”

                HInaki looked at Will before laughing. He wiped his mouth with his napkin and got up, saying, “Good luck, Mr. Hemingway. Enjoy the remainder of your stay.”

                Will watched him walk off. “Wrap that to 1403.” He said to the waiter, gesturing to the two almost untouched steaks. He gave the waiter a tip and then walked over to the bar.

                Will took an open barstool next to a lady dressed in a fancy blue dress with a long, flowing ponytail. The lady disregarded Will with a cold look, causing him to smirk as he ordered a dry martini from the bartender.

                Will drained the martini and then began drumming his fingers on the bar. After a few minutes, he turned to the lady in the blue dress.

                “It’s been a long time, Carlye.” Will said, putting emphasis on the last word.

                Carlye Rance turned to face him, surprised. “So it has, William.”

TWELVE HOURS EARLIER

                Will woke to someone knocking on his door.

                He groaned and kicked off the sheets, rolling out of bed very slowly. He walked over to the suite door, disregarding the bathrobe draped on top of a chair; he was half-dressed, only wearing pajama pants, and didn’t think it was necessary to cover them.

                Will opened the door to find the bus boy, a man Hinaki had put under cover to keep an eye on Will as he worked, standing in the doorway, holding two envelopes. On the front of his suit, he had a silver name tag reading TOMMY JONES. Will briefly wondered if that was his actual name as he took the letters from the bus boy.

                Will looked at the letters’ senders. The first one was from Hinaki himself, probably giving him the information for tonight’s meeting. The second letter’s owner, however, had written their name in a style Will had only seen a long time ago and because of it, it took Will a moment to read the name. Curious, he looked up at the bus boy, mouth open to ask him about the letter. He stopped instantly as he saw the bus boy leaning into the room, trying to get a better look at the sleeping figure in Will’s bed.

                Will shoved the bus boy out of the doorway. “Piss off,” he said, then slammed the door in his face. He turned back into his suite and looked around.

                The sun was still trying to fight its way through the buildings surrounding the hotel, but pieces of its light pierced through the buildings and into his suite. His kitchen was dimly lit, with purely white countertops and a white table blindingly against a white floor. The living area was a mess, however, compared to the perfectly clean kitchen. Stacks of papers upon papers were littered across the sofa, tables, and even around the 72 inch flat screen TV. Amongst the clusters of papers were black gadgets used for scaling walls that Will had been toying with the night before.

                In the bedroom, however, was his prize possession, if he could call her that. Alexandra LaGrounge, known commonly as Alex, lay asleep in his bed, her mixture of fine, French Aristocrat and American culture hidden beneath the sheets. All that was visible to Will was her dark, exposed back and the back of her jet black hair, covering her shoulder blades.

                Will walked into the living room, grabbing his electronic cigarette from the table where he had left it last night. Will had regrettably started smoking while he was in high school and had quit as he became aware that his current lifestyle required him to be much healthier than the smoking had left him. However, like all people who quit an addiction, he soon was searching desperately for something to fill the newly-found void in his life. One day, while in New York due to travels, he ran across a street vendor selling rechargeable electronic cigarettes. All the feel and taste of a real cigarette, just not as harmful. Will instantly bought almost all of the electronic cigarettes and filled the void.

                Will sat down on the couch after shoving some paper out of the way, turned on the cigarette and lit it, inhaling a breath of beautiful smoke. He took a few more puffs of the cigarette, watching the smoke float around the room before tearing open the envelope Hinaki had sent him.

                Inside was a solitary piece of white paper with typed instructions on it, telling Will to meet Hinaki in the ballroom at 8:30 tonight. Will memorized the instructions, then burned the letter with his cigarette lighter. He watched the ashes fall to the ground, already thinking about the other letter.

                Very few people knew Will as William Gould, the kid from the lower reaches of Vermont. And most of them were either dead or wouldn’t recognize Will until he said something to them. Yet, somebody had managed to get in contact with him and know his present location. He ripped open the letter and took out the frail yet fancy looking card.

                It was a wedding invitation. Will opened it up, thoroughly confused. He was never invited to weddings; in fact, he had never been to one. He searched through the card, looking for a familiar name. Suddenly, he found it. It was the bride’s name that was so familiar, a name he thought was long gone and that he would never hear again, yet, would very soon never hear it the same way again: Carlye Rance.

                After the shock of reading her name set in, Will began reading the rest of the invitation. The blurbs ran through his head as he read them: in a week….formal wear…please RSVP….here at this hotel….open bar….what? Will scanned back through the invitation. He hadn’t read wrong; the wedding was to take place here at the hotel.

                He sat on the sofa, smoking his cigarette, staring, lost in thought, at the invitation.

                “You ok?” With a tremendous effort, Will wrenched his thoughts from the invitation and looked up at Alex, who was wearing nothing but one of his shirts.

                “Yeah, I’m fine.” He said with a smile. After she returned the smile, he asked, “How would you like to go to a wedding?”

PRESENT TIME

                “I almost didn’t recognize you, Will.”

                Will smirked. “I get that a lot.”

                Carlye watched him with a devouring interest, as if he would suddenly disappear from sight the second her focus slipped from him. Will nervously played with the empty martini glass in front of him; they had been talking for about fifteen minutes now and his job had not come up in the conversation, something Will hoped would stay that way. Carlye knew all about his job, Arthur Hemingway, and the means by which he lived, and Will knew she hated every bit of it. His fingers quickly flitted through the pockets of his dinner coat as his nervousness grew. He cursed; he had left his electric cigarette upstairs.

                “What’s wrong?”

                “Nothing,” Will said, attempting to wave it off with his hand, “I just left something upstairs in my room.”

                “You’re staying here?” Carlye said, surprised. “The wedding isn’t for another week! I understand you may want to partake in the pre-dinners and parties, but Will - “

                “Um, Carlye?” Will meekly said, cutting her off mid-sentence. “I was already here when I got the invitation…”

                Will let the words hang in the air for a moment and watched Carlye’s reaction as she digested the words.

                “Already here…” she repeated, shell-shocked. “already…” she snapped towards him, leaning in close. “Are you working right now?”

                “Um,” Will started, but was instantly saved as a tall man in a black tuxedo walked over and placed his hand on Carlye’s back.

                “May I help you?” the man said in a dark, deep voice, directing the question towards Will. The man was built and imposing, with jet black hair parted to the left and dark, lazy eyes. With a jolt, Will realized it was Carlye’s fiancé.

                “John, I’d like you to meet William Gould, an old school friend of mine. Will, John Davis, my fiancé.”

                “Nice to meet you,” Will said, extending his hand forward, still extremely nervous from the talk of his job. John stared at Will, and then slowly took his hand into a firm handshake. After a second, John’s firm composure shattered into an amused smile.

                “Relax, Will,” John said, relaxing his body as well as he tried to stifle his laughter, “I’m not that type; I just enjoy messing with people.”

                Will relaxed under John’s smile; however, he glanced over at Carlye. She was smiling with the rest of them, but Will could see something in her eyes that made him nervous.

                Once he was able to regain control of his laughter, John said to Will, “I’m surprised to see you here already, Will. The wedding isn’t for another week.”

                Here it was again: his job. Will smiled, calm and collected. Making up his job was much easier than actually telling people what he did for a living. “Yes, well, I was already here at the hotel on business, and I just received the invitation this morning, and, by some miracle, ran into Carlye here tonight after a dinner conference.”

                Carlye’s eyes pierced him, but Will held the gaze, no longer nervous; she could ask him no questions while John was around. “Carlye did say you were a hard man to get ahold of, sorry the invitation was so late.”

                “No worries,” Will said to John, smiling, “I get that quite a lot.”

                “So what is it that you do for a living?” John asked, leaning against the bar now.

                “Boring stuff, really.” Will said, waving his hand. “I’m an art curator, so I have to meet with potential art owners and decide if what they have is worthy enough to put on display.”

                “Sounds tedious.”

                “It is.” Will looked at his watch, seeing an open opportunity to leave; it wasn’t that he didn’t like them, he just felt guilty about leaving Alex upstairs. “In fact, I should get going. I’ve got a long night ahead of me with quite a few phone calls to people overseas, so if you don’t mind, I will say goodnight.”

                “Oh, we should walk you to your room!” John said, jumping up from the bar. “We don’t want to be bad hosts.”

                “Oh, no, you shouldn’t - “

                “ - I think we should.” Carlye said, a smile still upon her face.

                Will gritted his teeth behind his smile. “You two are so nice.”

                “Thank you,” Carlye said, mock curtsying.

               

                Will told them that his room was on the fourth floor, hiding from them the suite room that would ruin everything. The suite was constantly under watch by Hinaki’s bus boy, and if Hinaki saw them, he would instantly think that Will was betraying him or taking advantage of him. Plus, if Carlye saw the room, she’d know something was up.

                The elevator ride was awkward for Will. He played with the cuff on his sleeve as they rode while Carlye leaned against John’s arm as he tapped his foot to the elevator music.

                DING! The doors slid open as they reached the fourth floor. Will bolted out of the elevator, cutting off Carlye and John while pressing the CLOSE DOORS button in the process.

                “What room are you?”

                “I think we should walk you to your room.” Carlye said, her voice overpowering John’s first question.

                Will stood in the doorway, his arms spread out, preventing them from leaving as the doors shut.

                “Goodbye, and thank you so much for taking me to my room!” Will said cheerfully.

                “Will -“

                “Will!” Carlye’s last shout was cut off as the elevator doors shut.

                Will took a deep breath and then shot down the hallway, looking for the stairs. He only had a limited amount of time to get there before Carlye and John got the elevator back to the fourth floor. He shoved open the door leading to the stairs and slammed it shut behind him. He leaned against the door for a brief moment, nervous sweat making his hands slippery, before walking up the stairs. As he loosened his tie, he cursed himself for having a weakness towards girls in blue dresses.

                Will shoved open the door connecting the stairs and the fourteenth floor. His tie was loose, his top button undone, and his dinner jacket folded over his arm, causing the bus boy to give him a very apprehensive look.

                “Elevators down?” he asked.

                “Nope.” Will answered curtly, removing his room key from his dinner jacket.

                “Did you need the exercise?”

                Will briefly paused from what he was doing and looked at the bus boy. “Do I look like I need exercise?”

                The bus boy blushed. “Sorry.”

                “And if you must know,” Will said after a moment’s silence, in which he managed to unlock the door and pick up the tray holding the wrapped, almost untouched steaks from the floor, “the elevator crowd wasn’t so nice.”

                And with that, Will strode into the room with the tray in hand.

                “Room service!” he called.

                “Is the waiter included?” came the response from the living room.

                Will threw down his dinner jacket into an empty chair and strode into the living room, chin in the air, chest outwards.

                “Your dinner, madam,” he said, bowing, extending the tray to Alex.  She sat on the couch in jeans and a short-sleeved fluffy blouse, her dark brown hair thrown over her shoulders and her aristocrat-like features were easily picked up by the light.

                “Oh,” she said with a mock-squeal of delight as she saw the steaks. “Cold steaks. Just what I’ve always wanted.”

                “Oh, ha ha.” Will said, pulling the tray away from her. “I think I saw a microwave somewhere in the kitchen. Let’s heat up these steaks and eat like kings.” Will walked into the kitchen, a smiling Alex soon behind him.

                They heated up the steaks and lit candles on the table, watching the night life begin in the city below them as they ate.

                As they finished, Will said to Alex, “I need to ask a favor of you.”

                “Yes, sir?” came the response.

                “I have to sneak into Mr. Hinaki’s room tonight and steal his wallet. He wants a demonstration to prove the air duct system works, so I’ll give it to him.” Will said, leaning back in his chair, finished with his steak, as he judged Alex’s reaction.

                She leaned back in her chair to, crossing her arms. “And how does this involve me?”

                There was a moment’s silence as Will picked his next words carefully. “I need you to knock out our bus boy.”

                Alex raised an eyebrow, amused. “How? I’m not exactly a martial arts expert or anything.”

                Will reached into his dinner jacket and pulled out a small vial containing a clear, white powder. “Just drop a small pinch into his drink and you’re done.”

                There was a silence as she contemplated the proposal. “Do you care how it’s done?”

                There was another silence as the question caught Will off guard. “Ummmm…how am I supposed to answer that?”

                Alex laughed, getting up, and took the vial out of Will’s hand, kissing him on the cheek. “Don’t worry, Arthur. It won’t be anything bad.”

                Arthur. Will sat in his chair, unmoving and silent as Alex snuck out into the hall. His thoughts flashed back to earlier this evening, when he had been called “Will” for almost the first time in three years. He sipped his wine, not actually tasting it, but tasting the bitterness of a life left behind.

                A few minutes later, Alex’s wrapped her arms around his neck from behind.

                “It’s done.” She whispered into his ear.

                The clock read twelve-thirty; Will just finished putting on his final pieces of his suit in the bedroom while Alex watched from the bed. He tugged a ski mask over his head, completing the suit; he was wearing an all black, static free cloth suit, generally used by night-time special ops teams all over the world. Slung over his shoulder was a duffel bag full of re-engineered cliff climbing equipment; instead of burying itself into the cliff side, it was magnetic and stuck to the metal in the air ducts and was capable of carrying over 20 tons.

                Finished, he looked up at Alex. Smiling, she gave him the thumbs-up, saying, “The warrior is ready to play.”

                He nodded in response and then left the hotel suite. As he crossed the passed out bus boy, he flashed him the finger.

                Further down the hall, he came to a stop next to a janitor’s cart. He wheeled it down the hallway until it was directly underneath a grate in the air duct. Will deftly climbed on top of the cart and, after removing a screwdriver from his pants, unscrewed the grate. As quietly as possible, Will lifted himself into the grate and started down the duct, using the memorized patterns in his head.

                After several minutes of twisting and turning down the narrow, winding, tin corridors of the air duct on his hands and knees, Will finally came to a large steel grate preventing any small animals or objects from disrupting the fan it protected. He took an end of a rope attached to his belt (the other end was attached to a small pulley-like motor strapped onto his belt) and tied it around the grate. Once finished, he backed up a few inches and then tugged on the rope as hard as possible; the grate didn’t budge. Satisfied, he awkwardly turned around and continued crawling through the air duct system.

                After endless weaving, Will reached his destination: the drop. In front of him, the bottom of the air duct disappeared, leaving Will with a perfect, fourteen story drop to the hotel’s basement. On top of it all, the drop was surrounded by gleaming, grey frictionless walls.

                Will loosed some of the rope from the motor on his belt, took a deep breath, and then pushed himself over the edge of the duct.

                His heart stopped for a split second as he fell about two feet, then the rope taunted itself. Will almost screamed aloud in pain as the harness the motor was attached to caught him in the crotch. He dangled helplessly in the air for a minute or two, cursing himself, waiting for the pain to go away. As it did, he fixed the positioning on the harness so that it no longer straddled his crotch area. Then he gritted his teeth, and began his descent to floor six, where Mr. Hinaki’s room awaited him, eight stories beneath him.

                Six…seven…eight Will counted silently in his head. He stopped pulling rope out of the motor and with an effort, swung himself into the duct. He quickly unclipped the motor from his waistband and dropped it onto the air duct floor. Crawling forward on his hands and knees, Will carefully slipped through the duct system, the memorized map in his head leading the way.

                After several minutes of silence, Will found himself directly over the grate leading into Mr. Hinaki’s hotel room. Beneath him, in the darkened room, the jetlag had infected Mr. Hinaki greatly. He was asleep in the only bed in the room, the guards around him slumped over in there chairs.

                Will quickly took out another magnetic motor, stuck it to the top of the air duct, then took the rope, which had a small fish hook at one end, and bent the hook around one of the grate’s bars. Then he removed a small hand tool from his waist band and placed it around one of the screws. The machine was specially designed to unscrew a screw from its back end instead of its head.

                Two breathless minutes later as he waited to see if any of the guards woke up from the falling screws, Will raised the grate using the fish hook line and dropped it beside him. He then attached a solid metal hook to the air duct ceiling and took out the rope from the other motor on his waistband and tied it around the hook.  Then, with a deep breath, Will slowly slid into the opening.

                He dangled in the air, sighing with relief as the line held him. Will slowly lowered himself into the room until his feet touched the blessed ground. He released the motor from his waist and straightened up; everybody was asleep still. Will quickly got over to the desk, took Mr. Hinaki’s wallet from the table, and placed a blank business card with his room number written on ink on it in its place. He re-attached the motor to his waistband and rose himself back up into the air duct.

                Will quickly raced back to his room, re-tracing his path through the air ducts. Twenty minutes later, he collapsed on his bed in his hotel room. He lay there, panting for a moment, before hands touched his chest and long hair fell into his face.

                “Did you get it?” Alex asked, a coy smile on her face.

                Will held up the wallet. “Hell yes.”

THE NEXT MORNING

                Will snorted awake as someone pounded at his door.

                “Fuckin’ interruptions.” He grumbled and then rolled out of bed. He stumbled, bleary-eyed, over to the door.

                Five seconds later, he had the barrel of a pistol pressed against his forehead. “Shit!” he swore.

                Mr. Hinaki stood behind three burly men, one of which had the pistol pressed against his head. They barged into the room, the man with the gun forcing Will up against the wall.

                Alex woke up and screamed, falling out of bed, unconsciously holding the sheet around her naked body. One of the burly men grabbed her and pinned her against the wall.

                “Don’t touch her!” Will shouted. The burly man cocked his pistol in warning and Will froze.

                Mr. Hinaki strode into the room, his face calm. Behind him, a fourth burly man entered the room, dragging a sobbing Tommy Jones by his collar. Mr. Hinaki came up in front of Will and lit a cigarette. He took a puff and then blew the smoke in Will’s face.

                “Did you know those things can kill you?” Will asked through the cloud of smoke. The man with the gun slammed his knee into Will’s stomach. Will almost doubled over in pain, coughing, but he was forced to stay standing because of the pistol pressed against his forehead. Across the bed, Alex gave a small shriek.

                “I am only going to ask you once.” Mr. Hinaki said after taking another puff from his cigarrete. “Where is my wallet?”

                Will opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, the man with the gun slammed the butt of the pistol into his nose. Will coughed through a thick stream of blood before answering; his nose wasn’t broken, but it sure hurt as hell.

                “Bedside table.” He said thickly. The third burly man, who had been watching the scene, quickly strode over to the table. He grabbed the wallet and showed it to Mr. Hinaki. Instantly, the two men released Will and Alex.

                “You said you wanted a demonstration.” Will said as they made to leave.

                Mr. Hinaki stopped. He looked over his shoulder at Will, who had not made an attempt to clean the blood from his nose.

                “You have four days, Mr. Hemingway.” He finally said after a pent-up silence. “Mr. Orchismodo will arrive in two days and leave on the fifth. I want that information before he leaves.” Mr. Hinaki took another puff from his cigar. “I will also be replacing your bell boy.”

                Tommy’s eyes widened at this. “NO, PLEASE, NO, I SWEAR – “ he was cut off as the burly man punched him in the face. Tommy struggled under the man’s grip, blood and tears dripping from his face.

                “What will you do with him?” Will asked, his blood cold.

                “That,” Mr. Hinaki replied with a small smile, “is none of your concern, unless you fail to bring me what I want.” They dragged Tommy from the room, screaming pleads of mercy, before slamming the door behind them. Tommy’s screams were silenced shortly after.

                Will looked over at Alex, who was shaking, her face dead-pale.

                “Holy shit.”

THREE DAYS LATER

                “Your turn, Will!” John said, laughing.

                Will sat nervously in the hotel lobby, barely paying attention to the conversation at hand. He had his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, the hems of his jeans muffling the sound of his heel tapping against the floor. He had purposefully chosen a seat that was close to the conversation but also had a good view of the front doors of the hotel.

                “Sorry?” he said, tearing his eyes from the doorway, focusing on the conversation. John, Carlye, and a few of their closest friends (which Will was surprised to find himself a part of) were seated in comfy armchairs and sofas around a large, low table with drinks and photos on it.

                “High school story from the old days.” John said cheerfully. “Give us a funny one!”

                Will racked his brains. He hated his high school experience and he didn’t remember most of it. Thankfully, Carlye saved him.

                “Aw, look at that.” She said, picking up a picture. It was of her and Will in high school, and Will had bright red streaks in his hair while Carlye had yellow.

                Will laughed when he saw it. “I completely forgot I had - “ His voice trailed off as he saw a man walk in through the doors. He had brown hair, glasses, and a meek composure, as if he wanted to not be thrown into the spotlight. It was Mr. Orchismodo.

                Will watched him get onto the elevator as he struggled to finish his sentence. Mr. Orchismodo looked at him, making eye contact as Will finished. “ - hair like that.” Once Mr. Orchismodo entered the elevator, Will turned his attention back to the conversation.

                Half an hour later, he politely excused himself, saying he had art curator duties to attend to. Once he was in his room, he pulled out his things and got dressed up in his black suit. Alex was out shopping in the town right now, but she would be back soon. Will quickly gave her a call with the hotel phone and left her a message saying that he was on the job. Once everything was in place and set up, he left, nodding to the new bell boy (a thick man with gorilla arms, but the same name: Tommy Jones) stationed at his room.

                Will leaned over the air duct gate over Mr. Orchismodo’s room. The air duct was a little stuffy tonight and Will was having some trouble breathing through the ski mask. His sweat was sticking to the suit, making him very itchy. He scratched his palm as he watched Mr. Orchismodo.

                Mr. Orchismodo was watching television, his eyelids slowly drooping shut. It was almost one in the morning. Will sucked in a deep breath and resisted the urge to itch his side.

                Will was monitoring Mr. Orchismodo’s sleeping patterns so that when tomorrow night came, he would be prepared. He had done the same thing last night, where Mr. Orchismodo fell asleep at just past one. Tonight, it looked like it would be the same thing, meaning that Will would need to be ready to go by two, allowing enough time for Mr. Orchismodo to be fast asleep.

                Will was going to steal the documents tomorrow night because Mr. Orchismodo would be leaving the following morning. If Will stole the documents tonight, that would leave a full day for Mr. Orchismodo to discover the documents were gone. By stealing the documents tomorrow night, Will ensured that Mr. Orchismodo would be unaware of when the documents were stolen, or even where they were stolen.

                Mr. Orchismodo let out a loud snort as his head fell back on the pillow, finally asleep. Will watched him until two-thirty (during which Mr. Orchismodo did nothing but sleep) before going back to the main air duct and started working his way back up to his room.

                As if on an impulse, he suddenly dropped himself on the sixth floor air duct. He had memorized the whole air duct system and there was something he wanted to check. He weaved his way through the air duct system before reaching his destination.

                Below him, Carlye Rance lay peacefully in her bed, her head tilted to the side as her chest slowly rose and fell with her breathing. John was in the room across the hall (due to some religious ritual that Will didn’t understand). Will quickly and quietly unscrewed the air grate and lowered himself into her room. He stared at Carlye’s sleeping body for a moment, her peaceful state infected him briefly, before he started searching the room. He tore apart everything quietly but took great care to put everything back where it was.

                Finally, he found it: the picture of him and Carlye in high school. Will stared at it hungrily, trying to decide what to do next. After long consideration, during which Will had brief images of his high school days flit back to him, he took the photo, folded it up, wrote “For you only” on the back, and then placed it inside her wallet. Then, with one last look at Carlye, he left the room.

                “When does his flight leave?” Will asked Alex as he paced the living room, puffing on his electic cigarette.

                “Nine-twenty A.M.” Alex answered, skimming through some papers. “Do you want his flight number?”

                Will waved it off. “No, that’s not important.” He blew out some smoke and watched it curl into nothingness in the air. “He’s leaving early, so we know he’s going to go to be early with everything already packed.”

                “Except for the documents.” Alex interjected.

                “Yes,” Will said, continuing to pace, “He doesn’t trust that too much. He’s kept it in the room safe – “

                “Forty-eight, twenty-two, thirty-nine.” Alex read off a piece of paper; Will had seen Mr. Orchismodo put the documents in the safe on the first night of his stay and had luckily caught the numbers.

                “Exactly.” Will finished, still pacing. “Which means that I should be back by two-thirty.” Alex nodded during this brief pause of conversation. “Now, Mr. Hinaki wants the documents by nine o’clock, which gives us a six hour window to set up everything.”

                “We also need an hour window period to throw him off the trail.” Alex reminded him.

                “Yes, that’s what the wedding’s for.” Will nodded. “Did you get the dress?”

                “Yes.”

                “OK, so you go down for breakfast and then go to the car. Maybe about seven-thirtyish. I go down at nine, give Mr. Hinaki the documents, and then head back to the room and then we’re done.” He looked at Alex. “Got it all?” she nodded. “Good, then let’s get to work.”

THAT NIGHT

                Will sat on the sofa in the living room, staring at the blank TV screen. In his head, he was going through the plan over and over, considering every possibility. He was dressed in the black suit already, a leaf of paper strapped to his back by Velcro. Alex sat on the sofa beside him, dressed in a bathing suit, a laptop with a scanner hooked up to it in front of her.

                “It’s time.” She told him. Will nodded and remained sitting on the couch for a moment before getting up. He kissed Alex before pulling the ski mask over his head and heading out into the hallway.

                Tommy Jones nodded at him as he left. “Cutting it close.” Jones said, tapping his watch. Will ignored him.

                Will hoisted himself into the air duct system and began the long process of getting to Mr. Orchismodo’s room. He dropped perfectly down the main air duct and got to Mr. Orchismodo’s room just after one-thirty.

               

                Back at the suite, Alex walked out into the hallway, a bag in her hand. Tommy Jones stared at Alex’s body in a bathing suit as Alex gave him a coy smile before turning into the elevator.

She called out to the bell boy, “Gone swimming!” and waved at him as the elevator doors shut.

                Tommy Jones stood in the hallway, mentally arguing with himself. He had strict orders to watch the room, but he was also told to follow anything suspicious. He stared at the door as he argued with himself. That wasn’t normal, was it? To go swimming at such a late hour? And what was in the bag?

                Cursing himself, he ran to the stairs and bounded down them, racing to get to the swimming pool.

                Mr. Orchismodo was already asleep. Will silently cursed himself. Mr. Orchismodo already being asleep could throw the whole plan off. Will looked around the room, looking for some sort of sign that would tell him when Mr. Orchismodo fell asleep. Nothing, apart from the fact he left the TV on. Will sighed and watched the TV, glancing at his watch every few minutes to see where he was on time.

                It was almost two in the morning. The bell boy rubbed his exhausted eyes. He sat in the main hotel lobby, staring through the window at Alex as she swam. He was very tempted to try and see what was in the bags, but he didn’t want to blow his cover. Sighing, he tore open the bag of chips in front of him and ate, his eyes never leaving Alex.

                Will lightly let his feet touch the floor. His heart was racing as he watched Mr. Orchismodo. A single wrong move and Will would be dead. Will quietly stepped over to the safe, wincing as the floor creaked. He took his eyes off of Mr. Orchismodo only long enough to open the safe, take out the documents (which were in a manila folder) and replace them with the leaf of blank paper on his back.

                He shut the safe and then hoisted himself back into the air duct and rushed back to his room. The bell boy was gone, skillfully taken care of by Alex. Will got into his room and threw the documents down on a table. Time was of the essence, and he didn’t have much of it. He grabbed the two suitcases and backpack that held all of their belongings, which they had packed earlier that day, and left the room, which now held none of their belongings, save for the laptop and the scanner.

                The bell boy watched as Alex opened up the bag. Finally, finally he would see what was in it. He stood up eagerly and watched as she…pulled out a towel and started drying herself. The bell boy cursed himself and quickly ran back up to the room.

                Will walked down the hallway from the direction of the air vent and turned the corner, almost walking headfirst into Tommy Jones, who stood nervously by the door.

                “Did you get it?” the bell boy asked. Will nodded in response. “Good.”

                Will entered the room and quickly shut the door behind him. He waited for fifteen seconds, then re-opened the door. “Have you seen Alex?” he asked the bell boy.

                “She said something about a swimming pool.” The bell boy answered, all nervousness gone.

                “OK, thanks.” Will said and shut the door.

                Will quickly fired up the scanner and was in the process of scanning the documents to the laptop when Alex came back.

                “Did it work?” Will asked her.

                “Perfectly.” Alex answered. “He followed the bait, just like you said.”

                “Good.” Will said. “Save those documents and call up Reyncon Incorporated. We don’t want just Hinaki enterprises getting this or else we’ll lose a high profit.”

                “Yes, Arthur.” Alex said.

SIX HOURS LATER

               

                Will handed Mr. Hinaki a yellow folder with the documents inside. “The money?” he asked. One of Mr. Hinaki’s men handed him a laptop, which was confirming the transfer of seventy-five million dollars to Arthur Hemingway’s account. Will looked at Mr. Hinaki and smiled. “It’s been a pleasure Mr. Hinaki.” He said, bowing.

                “As to you, Mr. Hemingway.” Mr. Hinaki bowed as well. “Please, enjoy the remainder of your stay.”

                Will nodded, though he knew that was a lie. What he did know was that Tommy Jones was preparing to kill him the second he stepped off the elevator. He also knew that all of his possessions would be cleaned out of his room and replaced with drugs so his death would look like a drug war hit.

                But what Mr. Hinaki didn’t know was that Will knew this. Mr. Hinaki also didn’t know that Will had cleaned out the room of all his possessions and then removed every trace of Will or Alex ever being there. What Mr. Hinaki didn’t know was that Will would be getting off at floor six instead of fourteen and would be headed straight to his car.

                Will waved goodbye to Mr. Hinaki and then headed to the elevator.

                The wedding was beautiful. Carlye looked prettier than ever. John looked so happy next to his bride. Everyone commented on how perfect they were together.

                It was finally Will’s turn to congratulate the bride and groom. They were at a church just after the ceremony, packing up to head back to the hotel lobby.

                “It was nice meeting you.” John said to Will, grinning at him.

                “Same to you.” Will responded, grinning as well as Alex held onto his arm. He turned to Carlye. “It was nice seeing you again.”

                Carlye hugged him, momentarily breaking contact between him and Alex. “Goodbye,” she said quietly, kissing him on the cheek, “Arthur.”

                And with that, a smile on his face, Alex in arm, Mr. Arthur Hemingway left the wedding.