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“Come down and play,” a voice echoed from the metal grate. I inched forward, pausing over the vent. Below a young woman with black hair and pale skin sat in a chair. “Down here, with me.” She clawed the wooden armrest with her fingernails. Her lips did not move, nor any discernable part of her face. She just stared into the shadows, waiting for some unsuspecting fool to fall into her web.

Who is that sizzling hot babe? None other than Alina Puscau. I could definitely see her as a dark elf in my novels.

So I'd had enough. Enough of the miserable 9 to 5. Enough of headstrong managers breathing down my back.

Just simply enough.

It had been twenty long, painful years since I had a geography lesson; and there she was, laying there before me in all her glory--Jakarta, Indonesia. Certainly I knew this one; I'd been there before. But I thought they called it Malaysia or Micronesia. So damn confused. What did you expect? I had a freakin high school education.

Only a few minutes had gone by and already sweat poured down my brow. Had he gone left or right? It was impossible to tell. I'd always regretted choosing left over right, so it was right all the way. I plodded along, twisting and turning with the intricacies of the corridor, unable to catch a glimpse of my reluctant donor. The muscles in my lower back tightened as I wormed up and over a narrow pass. My breathing became more frequent as I barreled down the silver passage. I had to find Harold Fritz fast; otherwise it might be my heart on the chopping block.

I never would have purchased this house if I'd known that a goblin lived in it. The agent promised that the plush pad on the outskirts of Westchester was devoid of crime and vermin. In a sense he was right, but nothing could have prepared me for the creature that skulked these hollow walls.

If you find yourself at the end of the day without accomplishing all you'd hoped, try a five-minute blast. What exactly do I mean by a five-minute blast? It's a short exercise where you blast through a small window of time without stopping, pouring all of your effort into one specific thing. This can be a scene from a book, a character sketch or notes about a particular setting. In short, it can be whatever you want it to be; just be sure to choose something that will give you a measurable amount of success.

The blond behemoth tossed me through the full-length window and stormed inside. I'd already shot him twice but he was too jacked up on heroine to notice. I would have loved to ask what happened to his clothes, but I was too busy spitting out teeth and glass. At least he wasn't armed, that much I knew for sure.

Water gushes in, filling the empty space around me. Slowly the level rises, lifting me to the edge as I drift back to consciousness.

"Awfully rude of you not inviting me to the party," says a voice from behind.

I squint my eyes, trying to make sense of the blobs of light floating around me. "What is this?" I say, fishing myself out of the pool. "I put a bullet in your head."

Really, I should know better...

Troubled by the influx of gang violence and polarized demographics, a local politician decided that the term "whipped cream" was no longer politically solvent. So he dialed up each of the manufacturers and demanded that they change the name to "mistreated cream." Unfortunately for him, the manufacturers operated much like a cartel and had the politician shot for the preposterous idea. To commemorate his stellar service to the community, his successor finally persuaded the manufacturers to change "whipped cream" to "anguish cream."
And they lived happily ever after.

The surgical thread in my neck was all I had left of her, the only sign that any of this was real. And when that came out, I washed away any trace of her from me. Her absence left an emptiness I hadn't felt in years. And the truth was, I'd probably never see her again.

"Nice tidy little story. Very touching." Hicks adjusted the toothpick in his mouth. "You're running out of fingernails Mr. Dennings, and I don't do toenails if you know what I mean? Perhaps we should start taking pieces from someplace else?"

The stairwell faded in and out of focus. No telling how she got me down the stairs or how much blood I lost. The staircase spun and suddenly I was seated in the passenger side of a black Chrysler Le Baron.

“Tyler isn't here, Mr. Bridgley,” said Sara. “But you left quite an impression on him, as you did me.” The line was silent and then went dead. A moment later the switchboard lit up with a call from the same number. Sara pressed a button and picked up the line. “Mr. Bridgley, I don't mind playing games. In fact, I'm quite good at them. Just tell me why you're doing this.”

I thundered across the rooftops, the wind at my back. Loose gravel made the footing awkward as I raced ahead. My pace quickened as I came upon a skylight and jumped through. A waterfall of glass followed me down as I landed somewhere between the cranberries and mashed potatoes. Quickly I unloaded my guns into their lifeless bodies. As the rounds tore through them I noticed that few had heads. Empty cartridges clanked off the table as I slapped in fresh ones and turned.
I was too late.
The seven executives had already been slain. And where was the eighth?

Tyler paced the floor, clearly agitated. He mouthed something and then slammed down the handset. Sara gasped as he tore the phone from the wall and tossed it out of frame. Although she had thousands of hours of surveillance footage, she had never seen him react like this. In fact, Tyler rarely ever raised his voice. He was always so calm and collected. What had gotten into him? What was so different about tonight?

Special Agent Hicks left the photos out for maximum effect. Then added a couple more. Indigo's lifeless corpse beckoned me. At least they hadn't shot her in the face. That beautiful face. I took a deep breath. Her eyes were now lifeless mirrors of the grave.

Harold Fritz was diagnosed with testicular cancer 12 months ago and told he only had one month to live. He outlived the projections by a mile and was the only patient who could cope with kicking the bucket. Or so I thought.

“Good morning, Dr. Bartheid,” I stepped inside.
“Good morning, Director Cahill,” he nodded, drying off his hands. “Congratulations on your new promotion.”
“You didn't have anything to do with that, did you?” I gently shut the door.
“I may have put in a good word for you here and there,” he winked.
“So what's on tap?”
“Heart transplant.”
“Really? Are you sure that an asylum should be performing heart transplants? That's a fairly complicated procedure.”

Confetti rained down on Jizmann and I as we stepped into the hall. “Congratulations,” the staff cheered as they rolled down a large banner that read, ‘Welcome to the Dark Side, Director Cahill.'

“Jizmann, get a load of this,” I said, turning up the volume.
“I'm standing outside of the Merrifield psychiatric hospital,” said the raven-haired newscaster, “where authorities lost contact with the facility just a few hours ago. There are reports of gunfire, but no confirmed casualties at this time.”

“Can I come out now?” I said, pressing my weight against the door.
“Not quite yet,” came a voice.
“How much more time do you need?” I grumbled.
“Just one more minute,” he said as several pots and pans clanged off the floor. “There, done,” he moaned. “You can come out now.”
I cracked open the door and peered up at the clock.

I tossed the pills across the room. “What do you think I am, stupid?” I yelled at the nurse. “I'm a fully grown man. What good would Human Growth Hormone do for me anyways?”

What the old bastard needed was a smile, so I took the finest Crayola I could find, the one labeled Jazzberry Jam, and scribbled across his maw. It wasn't as impressive as it was on posterboard, so I knifed down harder and harder until jammy snapped in two. “More pastels,” I exclaimed and dove into the box. What was this? Purple Pizzazz? Perfect. I was going to turn that frown upside-down, so help me God!