Vibro-Chair

"Ma'am, you can't sit here all day." The store clerk said sternly, as his hand rested lightly on the plush, leather vibrating chair.
"I don't see anyone here, is there a line?" The large woman said, sitting up to dramatically look around the Sharper Image's show room floor to prove her point.

She was right, there was no one there. No one was ever at the Sharper Image on a week day. The store sold random trinkets which were aimed at wealthy people with nothing to spend their money on, or traveling business men who needed miniature radios for their hotel rooms. Weekends were packed with people who wanted to play with their useless flashlights that held built in compasses, or life-sized spider man statues- but they never buy anything. The leather massage chair was another one of those items. They put them out in the front windows so it would draw people in to sit and try them out, but the nine thousand dollar price tag ensured that no one would actually purchase one. This woman did just that, but the difference between her and the average customer was that she came in every day carrying a duffel bag of food and water.

She wore a tight tee shirt with a lizard on the front, sitting in a lawn chair with sun glasses and holding what looked to be an iced tea. On the top, right across her breasts which were unencumbered by a bra, were the words "Thank God It's Friday!" Which curved and stretched as it tried to cling to her form. She also wore a pair of tight sweat pants, stained from the diet cola that glided around between her thighs. The chair was vibrating with enough force to shake every portion of her body, but since she had been there so long, the chaotic pattern of the vibrations had settled her body into an equal rhythm that gave the illusion that she was still, but her body was in a type of slow-motion as if she were swimming underwater. The clerk found it hard to maintain eye-contact as he spoke, because of the hypnotic motion of everything between her neck and knees.

"Honestly ma'am. We're not allowed to have one person sit on this chair all day."
"Fine, then I'll move over to the other one." She bleated angerly as she tried to sit herself up. But, like when spending too much time in a hot tub, her muscles were weak, and she struggled.
"You don't understand. If you continue to sit on any of these chair for hours at a time, you're taking advantage of us. If you like the chair so much, you could just buy one. We have a payment plan if you can't afford it right now." As soon as he finished, he could tell by the pleading look on her face that buying one of the chairs was the last thing she wanted to do. The clerk looked away after a minute, not able to figure out what her reasoning was, and not able to look at her body sliding around like raw eggs on a skillet. Finally, he went back to the counter, muttering something about giving her a few minutes before calling the mall security. He pretended to file papers, and went on to arrange the items on a shelf behind him but she didn't move. People walked past and peered in as they always did. Trying to catch a glimpse of the chrome and wood items within, but when they laid eyes on the woman they quickly averted their eyes and hurried on. One child, who's parents had clearly just taken him to Master Cuts, pointed at the woman- to which the parents instantly covered his eyes and moved to the other side of the hallway while they walked past. The clerk realized that this problem was only going to get worse when he finally mustered up enough strength to walk towards the woman.



As he came up behind her, it all revealed it's self like a crime scene. First he saw the back of her matted hair, then her red neck, then the top of her T.G.I.F. shirt and the horrors that writhed inside. He lifted his eyes to the store front window and saw something he hadn't expected. Just beyond the reflection of the woman with his own image rising above her, stood a man. He was holding a over sized "Baby Gap" bag and a cup of Starbucks coffee. His nose was practically pressed to the glass as he gazed lovingly at the woman. Confused, the clerk looked at the man, then re-focused his eyes on the reflection of the woman. Her expression was that of hopeless yearning. The two of them stood there for a long time looking at each other, with the hum of the chair swirling around them. The clerk stopped like that of a man who had just encountered a fawn grazing in the forest. He took a step back, but stopped for fear of breaking this spell. He looked to the man again and thought he could make out a single tear trailing down his cheek. Then, he looked at the floor, ashamed that he was intruding on something so private. He didn't look up until he heard the woman get out of the chair with labored breaths. She stood up straight, and then bent over to pick up her bag. The man was no longer at the window. Without looking back at the clerk, she walked slowly out the double doors, and what he supposed was the opposite direction from where the man had gone.

My Life As a Slightly Manically Depressed Hitman With ADD Tendencies

Based on my previous reconnoitering I had anywhere from three to fourteen minutes before the mark got home. It all depended on whether or not he stopped for Starbucks after work. Most times he didn't, but sometimes -

Fucking Starbucks! Can you believe that the length of time a person could measure their life on this planet was dependent upon the purchase of a double half-caf non-fat latte? Can you imagine a world where the length of time a person has to live is determined by the choice of whether or not to pay five bucks for seventeen cents worth of milk, cream and coffee bean? Something as absurd as a venti-sized cardboard cup's worth of legal stimulant could mean the difference between having enough time to call your loved ones to share one unknowing final heart-felt moment? Death himself would have to stand waiting in your driveway, holding his scythe and tapping his foot while looking anxiously at his watch, because you chose to go to Starbucks? That life could be so frivolous, so meaningless, so futile? Why bother? I mean really, what's the point of anything? If life can be so easily destroyed, so easily snuffed out? If life is so bereft of -



Oh, there's the mark now, looks like he didn't go to Starbucks after all. No last call to a loved one for him - ha! Loved one. Maybe I finally found a loved one, huh? Things seem to be going well enough with Angela. I mean, I know it's only been, what, four dates? But her smile - the little dimples that form around her mouth and the way she tilts her head to let me know she's joking about something she's said, and her body, man, her body's to die for. Die. Death. Oh yeah, the mark, gotta kill the mark. Should I hit him while he's on the concrete driveway or walking past the flowerbed? It's so hard to get bloodstains off of concrete, and his wife - make that widow, soon - will have enough on her mind as it is, but it'd be a shame to ruin that beautiful floral landscaping. I wonder how his wife got the rosebush looking so nice? Hey, I bet Angela would like some roses, or is she allergic? I'll have to give her a call after the job to find out -

Hey! Where'd he go?

My Life As A Big City Sandwich Board Wearing Doomsayer

It isn't as easy being a big city sandwich board wearing doomsayer as you might think, for instance, I have to keep coming up with new things to write on the sandwich board. A big city sandwich board wearing doomsayer can't get away with something as clichéd as 'Repent! The End Is Near!' - that may play out in the sticks but up here in the big league your average big city type won't even bother breaking their stride to swing a kick your way with something as weak as that written on the sandwich board.

Although I do hope the end is near because I can't wait for all those kickers to get what's coming to them. And the spitters and the punchers and the pushers, too. The eternal fiery circles of hell are too good for the lot of 'em if you ask me. Oh yeah, and the harassing cops and the puddle-driver-througher cabbies, they're gonna burn too.

But don't worry, not everyone will burn in hell for all eternity. I'm pretty sure the people who give me food and money are going to heaven. Of course, I can't tell them that when I'm out on the street, I'm a doomsayer, not a, um, not-doomsayer after all. I mean, really, how would it look if I'm shouting fire and brimstone to the damned when some kindly soul gives me a few bucks and I, what, stop? Tell them that they're saved? Although, come to think of it, that's how some religions work. But, no, if you give me food or money I can't just stop yelling and tell you you're going to heaven, but rest assured, you are.



But getting back to the whole message thing, it's a fine line that I walk when making up a new message. On the one hand I can't write something as vague as 'Mean People Will Burn In Hell!' because then people'll think Hey, I'm not mean, so I won't burn in hell and we can't have that. On the other hand, I can't get too specific either, I mean, sure, 'Harry Sherman, You Will Burn In Hell!' sounds great at first, but, frankly, I'm in a bulk business, and while a sandwich board sign like that will freak out anybody named Harry Sherman, well, you get the idea.

Although, I did try a micro-payment scheme for awhile where anyone could, for a couple of bucks, have a personalized doomsayer message on my sandwich board, and, for another buck or two, have their picture taken with it. It was big among the tourists for awhile but it never really took off the way I wanted it to and after the dot-com crash it was so hard to get VC financing and, boy, did I need the VC money - expenses are crippling in the big city sandwich board wearing doomsayer business. I go through a lot of raingear and waterproof chalk, after all, it's not like people are going to stop being damned for all eternity because it's raining out - that'd just be silly.

A pimp in the sunset of our lives

Jordan played with his cup in silence. The other gray-haired men who sat at the MacDonalds table with him looked to each other with raised eyebrows and smug looks.
"Is that so Jordo? You really married to that idea?" One of them said slyly smirking at another who sat across from him.
"Yes. I'm not changing my mind, and I'm not having a break-down!" Jordan blurted out, his scowl growing deeper as he continued to stare intently at his cup of coffee. "I've given this a lot of thought."
"Well, it's just strange that you've come up with this plan and never said a word all these years that we've been meeting here each morning..."
"I didn't think I could tell any of you! And this just proves it..." Jordan said, looking up at his accuser with a wild expression.
"Ok, ok. Calm down. We're just concerned for you, that's all. No one is stopping you. We just think it's a little silly..."
"Don't you judge me." Jordan snapped, his eyes still piercing. The table fell silent. Janice, the slightly overweight eighteen year old with a weak chin came over and asked if anyone wanted a re-fill.
"You boys staying out of trouble?" She said, smiling at them. She hadn't worked the morning shift very long, but she clearly loved the idea of being a wize-cracking waitress to these regulars, and dove into the role eagerly.
"Oh you just wait." One of the men boasted, going through the motions of witty banter. "I still have another hour yet before I have to go to work." All the men laughed, and as she left the laughter faded into sighs, then silence.

"Pimp, Jordan?" Micky, the skinnier and quieter of the group asked.
"Yep."
"Doesn't that go against yer upbringing?" He asked with a pleading look.
"It isn't about that. All my life I've held back against the things I always wanted to do, and after the bypass..." Jordan trailed. Another at the table fiddled with a corner of the sports section from the morning paper. The door opened and all but Jordan looked to see who entered.
"Looks like the breakfast rush is coming in." One said flatly.
"A little later than normal." Said another. Jordan sighed and looked dispondantly out the window to the highway which contrasted from black to dark blue in the pre-morning light.
"Where did you get this from anyway?"
"Dead Wood." Jordan said as bright, white headlights sped alone down the highway.
"Dead Wood?"
"Yeah, a show on HBO."
"Oh, I don't get HBO. When did you decide to get that? I thought Martha didn't like you spendin' your money on those types of things."
"Remember all the arguing he had to do to get the Internet?" Another added light-heartedly. The others laughed.
"Damn near ruined their marriage didn't it Jordo?"
"Yeah, well. Things are different now."
"How so?"


"I'm not living with Martha anymore."
One man cleared his throat as another loudly stirred the settled sugar in the bottom of his cup.
"Aren't you worried about the police?"
"I'm tired of letting things get in the way of what I want."
"Whores Jordo? That's your life dream?"
"It's not about the whore's Ken! Damnit! It's about the danger, the complexities of life! It's about making decisions that effect human lives but it's all done in the name of business, no preservation! I want henchmen who I order to kill a priest who's been hanging out in my brothel, because it's bad for business. I want that henchman to take pause, and consider the weight of his soul against his ideals of dedication to his boss! I want to strike one of my bitches for getting out of line, then tell her stories about the way I found her on the streets- and how I've made her life better. I want complexity in my life. I want to be multifaceted. I want to be intimidating and compassionate, gaining the respect from people of all walks of life..."
"I don't know if you realize this, but being a pimp isn't like it is in 'Dead Wood' anymore. That was during the Gold Rush. Now it's more like 'New Jack City'." Ken said, interrupting Jordan. "I don't think you're cut out for it Jordo."
"Don't call me 'Jordo' anymore."
"What? Uh, alright. What do you want to be called?"
"Swan."
"Oh dear God." Another exclaimed, throwing down his paper dramatically. "I can't take this anymore." He muttered as he dug in his wallet and pulled out three dollars to toss into the center of the table. "I'm leaving. And I'm not coming back here anymore as long as 'Swan' is here." Taking his cue, the others got up and followed him out. As they filed out the door, Jordan called back to them. Shouting how he would prove them wrong.