Blog Action, Part 2

I clicked the safety off my revolver and kicked in the door. I rolled in quickly, taking cover behind the wreckage of a sofa, and glanced quickly around the room. No one was there. Vaulting over the table, I checked the bedroom. It was a mess, but no one was there.

"You know, I could have just used the key."

Alice had decided to show me the apartment so that I could look for clues. I guess she wasn't used to the operation of a no-holds-barred, loose-cannon cop like myself. I would never open a door with a key. I would break it down and let the insurance cover the damage.

I poked around with my gun for a little bit while sharing a bit of witty, romantic banter with my client.

The clue finally presented itself when I opened the cupboard in the kitchen. There, sitting on a plate, was a small bag about a fourth of the way full of a white powder. I knew it instantly from my police work: crack cocaine.

"What do you have there," she asked, entering the room.

"I know where to go next," I answered quietly.

"Where's that?"

"My drug dealer."

I walked into the back alley I so frequently used to walk when I was a druggie and looked to an unusually large man leaning against the wall. When he glanced my way his hand immediately dove into the folds of his trench-coat.

My magnum was out first and I fired four of the six bullets in the gun in a well-placed spread. Two hit his gun, shooting it back into the corner of the alley, and two hit the wall to his right, sending him diving behind a garbage can for cover.

The silence that followed was deafening, the only thing breaking it was the occasional rustle of a rat in the corner.

"Peter," I said, moving around to point the gun at the man, "I think it's time we had a little talk."

He looked up at me with fear.

"What do you want to know?"

I threw the crack in his face, "Who did you sell this to?"

"I don't reveal my clients"

With a deafening bang, I shot a bullet into the wall above him.

"WHO DID YOU SELL IT TO?!"

He looked at me with anguish, and then spoke. "A guy by the name John Michaelson. He lives on the street, so I can't give you a location. Sorry."

"You have a picture?"

"I make it a point to take pictures of all of my clients, but-"

"Give it to me," I said, cocking the gun.

Pete looked angry, but took out a bag, leafed through it, and finally handed me a picture. I left without a word, studying the picture closely.

I had seen this guy before. I didn't remember where, but I remember I had.

I met Alice for dinner that night and showed her the picture. She looked at it in suprise, and then sat back in her chair, sighing.

"You know this guy?"

"Yeah. He's an ex."

"And let me guess. You didn't exactly part on good terms."

She smiled sadly. "Not really".

"Do you know where I can find him?"

"Yeah. He usually hangs out at the corner of second and chestnut, sitting on the bench panhandling."

"I'll have a talk with him."

After dinner, I walked into my apartment, hung up my coat, and poured myself a drink, sitting on the couch.

And then I heard a noise. I turned around to see where it was coming from, and I saw two very large men behind me, both armed.

"Anything I can do for you two gentlemen?"

With that witty remark I sprang up and leaped over the chair, using it as cover. Shots rang out all around me, but the chair soaked them all up. Turning, I shot two bullets from my revolver, sending one of the men scrambling for cover as the other fell down, hit in the chest.

In the silence that followed, I reloaded my gun and began stalking quietly around the apartment, looking for the other man.

I stepped over the body of his fallen comrade, looking behind the couch.

And then I felt the one thing that no one in the world ever wants to feel. That feeling that makes you know that there is no way in hell you are ever going to get out of this one. The one that every lno-holds-barred, loose-cannon cop like myself dreads.

It was the cold ring of metal pressing on the back of my neck that indicated there was a gun there.

"I think it's time you knew how things worked," the man said quietly, "You don't threaten drug dealers, you don't find pictures of their clients, and you don't kill my partner."

"But I believe I just did all of those things," I said.

The man ignored me, "And now, I'm afraid to say that you die. Goodbye, detective."

He cocked the gun, and I heard the deafening bang of it going off.

But I didn't feel anything.

The cold metal left my neck as the man crashed to the floor, completely dead.

I looked around and saw Alice smiling in satisfaction, standing in my fire escape, peering through the broken window.

She stepped in and set down her gun, wrapping her arms around my neck.

"Just thought I'd drop by".

Blog Noir, Part 1

She stepped into my office like she owned the place.

Later, I found out that it wasn't my office. It turned out she did own the place.

Ah, well. That's the way it goes.

I stepped out onto the rain-slicked street and took a drag from my cigarette, watching the moonlight dance on an oily puddle.

Watching moonlight dance on oily puddles while smoking a cigarrette was my specialty, but that's expected in the business. After all, I'm not exactly a garden care specialist. I'm a private eye.

I walked down the avenue, stopping at the bar on the corner. I pushed through the door into the depressing atmosphere, strolling to the bar. The bartender quickly got out a glass, wiped it with a grimy old rag, filled it with Scotch, and set it down in front of me.

I extinguished the cigarrette in the ashtray and drank deeply from the glass. I turned to face the rest of the little dive, looking around at the quiet, depressed patrons.

Trouble sat down on the barstool next to me. It was in the form of a brunette, as usual.

"I have a case for you," she said to the man next to her.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he replied, "I'm a chiropractor."

She seemed discouraged at first, and then turned to face me.

"I have a case for you," she said again.

"What can I do for you?" I asked, taking another drink of the Scotch.

"My apartment was ransacked. I don't know what happened, but I lost about two grand in money that I had hid in a sock, as well as about three hundred in damages," she said, "Can you help me?"

"No problem," I answered.

I smiled. This was going to be fun.

Boston Market

Yesterday I went to Boston Market. The person serving me had a heavy Eastern European accent.

I should've left right there. But, naturally, I didn't, or this would be an extremely boring entry.

I took a second to decide what to get, and then approached the counter.

I order my sides (mashed potatoes and corn. I'd never gotten corn before, but I figured it was healthy.)

"For here or to go?" she says, in her accent.

"For here."

Apparently, she didn't get the message. She puts my food on a plastic plate and puts a cover it, and puts it in a bag.

I decide not to say anything, but rather get a lemonade and slink to the back of the restaurant.

I take out my meal, but apparently the top wasn't on good.

I lose two pieces of my three piece dark chicken.

And a bunch of corn. Darn.

Well, I clean up as best as I can and switch tables. I eat my food. It wasn't terrible, but not great.

I start drinking my lemonade. And by that I mean I spill it all over the place.

I was just spazzing. Ah, well.

So yeah. Band camp today.

Does it really matter?

I don't see why it's relevant, but it was chocolate cake with vanilla icing, and the knife was just an ordinary sharp knife (fairly small, not serrated).

Okay?

Freaks.

Band Camp

Yeah, so I'm going to band camp today.

Yippee.

Annnnnnnnnyway, here are two random things.

One: Today I washed my glasses with lavender soap and now all I can smell is lavender.

Two: I cut a piece of cake with a knife and, not thinking, licked the knife. It's not as bad as you think, but it hurts.

Yep.

Lemon Juice

Is the same as lemonade.

Right?

Wrong.

Are you saying that lemonade doesn't exist?

And then I woke up.

Anywho, here is my schedule, in case you care:

Per 1; Days 1-6; MP 1-4: Spanish 2
Per 2; Days 1-6; MP 1-4: World Lit
Per 3; Days 1-6; MP 1,2: Television
Per 3; Days 1,3; MP 3,4: Phys Ed 9
Per 4; Days 1-6; MP 1-4: World Cltr
Per 5; Days 1-6; MP 1-4: AP Bio
Per 6; Days 1-6; MP 1-4: Alg 2 BC
Per 7; Days 2,3; MP 1-4: Choir T/B
Per 7; Days 6; MP 1-4: Chorale
Per 8; Days 1-3; MP 1-4: Wind/Choir/LitMag
Per 8; Days 4,6; MP 1,2: Phys Ed 9
Per 8; Days 4-6; MP 3,4: Health 1

And that's that.

She Blocked Me!

WTF? OMFG!

Hee hee. That's sweet.

Anyway.

I have nothing to blog about. Absolutely nothing.

How about you just go visit someone elses?

Oh, really?

WELL SAME TO YOU!

What? MY MOTHER IS A SAINT!

We're not friends anymore.

Blogger V.2

Blogger Version 2?

Sweet.

New features tour here. Still beta, but cool anyway.

Color war week at camp. It's really stupid. I hate it. Too much competition. And we have to do stupid cheers TWICE EACH DAY.

Bah.

Anyway trying the new Google SketchUp. Looks pretty cool, no?

Alright.

See ya.

Interesting...

I sincerely think you will all read this line.

My four-part story is officially over.

Just thought I would say.

Ah... don't really have anything else.

But maybe I will later. Read Triple Threat. And I'm playing with my layout.

Closing Remarks

As most of you know, it is very difficult to deliver a powerful exiting statement.

This is the story of what would have been one of the most powerful exiting statements to be made.

Unfortunately, it's also about how I ruined it.

As the story picked up, I was falling through a sea of black and white. It had felt like about 5 minutes, but it had actually been 10 years.

In those 10 years, Tim had become a famous nerd, Jeff and Jeff were doing comedy acts, and Angie and Maddie were on broadway.

And John Heywood, under the pseudonym "Don Juan", had become the world's youngest mafia enforcer. In two years he would become the world's youngest mafia don, but that was a different story.

At this point in time, he was on talking with another mafia family who were trying to negotiate the release of a hostage.

Sometimes people use the saying, "and then everything went black". Less common is "and then everything went white". But almost ever used is "and then everything went sky blue". Unfortunately, I now have to use this phrase.

As I was saying, I was falling through a sea of black and white.

And then everything went sky blue.

That's odd.

Duh.

Oh fine.

I twisted in the air to see below me, and I saw a building.

Crap. I'm going to hit that building.

Yep. Sucks for you.

Please just try to support me for once.

Fine. You're going to be fine.

No I'm not.

Look, do you want me to sing broadway again?

NO!

Gee, Officer Krupky, you've done it again.

I ignored it.

Meanwhile, Don Juan was getting up from the table. The other negotiaters looked expectantly. His response would decide the fate of the hostage. He was about to deliver the most powerful exiting statement of all time. And I was about to ruin it.

"Deliver this message to your don. Tell him Don Juan said 'F-'"

At this point, there was a deafening crash. I came slamming through the ceiling, smashing into the table, and coming to rest on the floor.

Juan finished his sentence: "'You.'"

He stormed out of the room, raging at the infernal child who ruined his poewrful exit. He made a note. "The redhead: Whack".

Back in the building, I decided the awkward silence had lasted long enough. I stood up, brushed myself off, and bid them good day.

Walking outside, I came upon an angry Don Juan, armed with a shotgun.

Ah. I'm going to die, aren't I?

Yep. Gee, Officer Krupky, Krup You!

I was scared now. John took aim at my chest, and made another powerful closing statement: "Sam, I'm sorry that I have to do this. But I'm afraid your time is u-"

My cell-phone rung.

Juan swore as I picked it up.

"Sam, it's God again."

"'sup?" I asked, cooly.

"I need you to do something."

"What's that?"

"Could you pass the mayonnaise?"

I didn't bother hanging the phone up. I just dropped it.

"Don Juan, could you do me a favor?"

He answered impatiently. "What?"

"Would you shoot me?"

He was more than happy to oblige.

Part 3

I have a headache.

Why yes, you do. Way to figure that out.

It's pretty bad.

Duh.

Why are you being so sarcastic?

What else would I be?

Good point.

Thank you.

Got anything to eat?

Nope.

I'm not hungry. I was just wondering.

You should open your eyes now.

Why's that?

Because this whole "self-narration" thing is stupid.

Fine.

I opened my eyes. And then closed them.

This was mainly because, on the ceiling, there was a drawing. A drawing of what appeared to be a pickle.

I like pickles.

No, you don't.

Oh that's right.

I opened my eyes again, looking up at the pickle. I stood up, looking around the room I was in what appeared to be a room.

That's good. You've established that you're in a room.

Shut up, would you? I'm trying to think.

No you shut up. I'm going to sing "The Circle of Life".

Please don't.

The Ciiiiiiiiiiiiiiircle of Life.

Ugh.

As my conscience went on singing this song, I decided I would look around. There was nothing in the room besides the pickle on the ceiling, and a door.

I decided I would open the door. As I reached for the handle, the door exploded.

The door just exploded.

And it moves us aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaall

Ugh. Stupid mind.

I walked through the door into a room that appeared to be full of lollipops.

I took a lollipop and ate it.

It tasted like...

Nothing at all.

Frances entered the room.

"Hello, Frances." I said.

"Shut up. You got me into this mess. Luckily I have these ruby slippers."

She punched me in the face, tapped her slippers together, and dissapeared.

Ah, well.

I stocked up on some lollipops and went through another door. This, too, exploded.

I ignored it, and kept walking.

Nothing was in this room, either. After exploding several doors, I came upon a room with nothing but a table.

On the center of the table was a switch.

I flicked it.

Suddenly, George Gershwin appeared. He was holding a stick.

"YOU STUPID KID!" he yelled, "I WAS IN HEAVEN UNTIL YOU POINTED OUT THAT I WAS JEWISH!"

He then proceeded to beat me to death.

After I died, I decided I would explore the rooms some more. Once I found a window, I jumped out.

There was no ground. Just, white. No one was around. The rooms rapidly dissapeared, and I was floating in whiteness.

And then, everything went black.

And then white again.

And then black. This was giving me a headache.

A headache?

Yes. I have a headache.

Please not this again.

The end.

Российская Забава

"Rise and Shine, Mr. Freeman. Rise and shine."

I heard a voice. Surely it couldn't be talking to me. I was not Mr. Freeman.

"Not that I wish to imply you have been sleeping on the job. No one is more deserving of a rest. And all the effort in the world would have gone to waste until... well, let's just say your hour has come again."

It was still talking. I realized at this point that I could hear it talking, and therefore I was not dead. The fall should have killed me (or rather, the sudden stop at the end). That cloud was quite a ways up.

"The right man in the wrong place can make all the difference in the world. So, wake up, Mr. Freeman. Wake up and smell the ashes."

My mind was spinning, and I was holding onto a single thought. I suppose, writing this now, it was probably of no importance.

What videogame was that from?

Silence reigned for 30 seconds, and then I opened my eyes.

I was on the ground.

On, what appeared to be a sidewalk. A man in a gray suit was walking away from me, and a trolley passed by me to the right.

And there, at the end of the street, in all its glory, was the Kremlin.

The huge spire's golden orb glistened in the evening light. And there, on the green dome, was something people were pointing at.

It was a broken jar of mayonnaise.

And then it all came back to me. God, George Gershwin, and, most of all, the mayonnaise.

I remember shoving Frances off the cloud, but she was no where to be seen.

Ah, well.

I walked down the sidewalk, peering into the shop windows, until I found one I liked.

The sign at the top was easy enough to understand: "Магазин Оружия".

It was the inside of the store that was curious. It was full of огнестрельное оружие. After browsing for some time, I decided on a nice Револьвер. Stepping up to the counter, I asked for some боеприпасы. The store owner obliged, handing me a red box.

The clerk probably would've asked me to pay if I hadn't opened the box right then and put the пули into the палата. I was lucky, because George Gershwin had appeared to have stolen my wallet.

Stepping back out to the street, I inspected my new purchase. People seemed to give we a wide berth when they saw what I was holding. I decided it'd be best if, at this point, I put it into my fanny pack.

It occured to me at this point that I had a fanny pack, but it didn't really matter.

At this point, a kid walked up to me and asked me for some money. I dug through my pockets until I found a quarter. Dropping the quarter into the cup, I asked him where I could find a bank.

I walked into the building and up to one of the tellers and I pulled out a sandwich.

The teller stared.

I ate it carefully, slowly, almost cautiously.

The teller picked put the phone and dialed the police.

I stepped outside as sirens began blaring in the distance. A police car pulled up to me and a policeman stepped out, yelling in Russian.

The babel fish in my ear translated it for me:

"Luckily I don't have to shoot you, unless you say the 25th letter of the English Alphabet."

I answered with confusion. "Why?"

The police officer pulled out his gun and aimed it at my chest. I managed to jump out of the way and pull out the Револьвер, aiming it at the officer. I squeezed off a shot before the world around me froze, the bullet hanging in the air.

A man appeared before me with a gray suit and dark hair cut into a crew cut.

He flicked the bullet out of the air and began talking to me.

"Time, Dr. Freeman? Is it really that time again? It seems as if you only just arrived. You've done a great deal in a small time span. You've done so well, in fact, that I've received some interesting offers for your services. Ordinarily, I wouldn't contemplate them... but these are extraordinary times."

The world around me began fading into nothingness, but this man stayed in focus.

"Rather than offer you the illusion of free choice, I will take the liberty of choosing for you. If and when your time comes round again. I do apologize for what must seem to you an arbitrary imposition, Dr. Freeman. I trust it will all make sense to you in the course of..."

"Well..."

"I'm really not at liberty to say. In the meantime, this is where I get off."

The man opened a door in what appeared to be a world of nothingness, and stepped out.

At this point, I heard a high-pitched screaming noise from above me.

I looked up.

There was Frances

I yelled.

"D'arvit!"

And then Frances hit me.

And everything turned black.

**EDIT** Ah. Wasn't sure which would ruin the effect less, but here's an announcement: Jeff, Tim, and I have started "Triple Threat", a new blog experiment. Check it out.

My Conversation with God

Today I met God.

Our conversation did not go as well as I expected.

Our meeting was up in the sky. We were both sitting cross-legged on a cloud. He served me tea, which I thought was quite polite of him. It was too sweet, but I decided it would be better not to complain.

"Hello, God." I said. I thought this was a reasonable greeting. I considered bowing, but I decided that might be too formal.

"Hello, Samuel," he answered, "I have waited a long time to meet you."

"Oh," I said, unsure of what to say, "Why is that?"

"Because you have been a terrible influence on your friends. They are devoted to my religion and you try to steer them wrong" he said.

"Ah," I answered, "but didn't you give us free will so that we may make our own choices? I believe that if these followers are truly devout, they will not be swayed by my thinking."

At this point there seemed to be a pause. He asked me if I would pass the mayonnaise. I saw none of this condiment on the table.

"God, there is no mayo on the table. In fact, we are drinking tea. Why would you need mayonnaise?"

"Your lack of faith disturbs me." he answered.

"Are you quoting Darth Vader?" I questioned.

"No," he answered, "this is your problem. You have a lack of faith. Instead of questioning the existence of mayonnaise, you should have simply gone to the refridgerator and gotten some more."

I answered as respectfully as I could. "Yes, but I am a guest. I find it rude for a guest to raid their host's refridgerator. Also, there is no refridgerator on this cloud."

"Are you saying that refridgerators don't exist?" He asked.

"Clearly, no," I said, "I am merely saying that there are none on this cloud."

"Turn around." he said slyly.

Turning around, I saw nothing except for what appeared to be a motorboat, as well as the remains of a slightly larger-than-average-sized rat.

I turned back to god and, once again, questioned the existence of a refridgerator on this cloud.

"Are you saying that refridgerators don't exist?" He asked, for a second time.

"No!" I said, "I am saying that there are no refridgerators on this cloud. Is there, perhaps, one I don't see?"

"There is one, but you must truly believe there is one."

I closed my eyes and willed, with all of my heart, for there to be a refridgerator on the cloud. Opening my eyes, I heard music. Specifically, George Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue".

I turned around to see Jeff playing a piano. Sitting rather serenely on top of the piano was a jar of mayonnaise. I picked it up and brought it over to god.

"What is this?" he asked.

"It is your jar of mayonnaise!" I answered.

"I do not want this! Dispose of it."

I brought it to the edge of the cloud, and, carefully aiming for the Kremlin, threw it off.

"God?"

"Yes, my child?"

"Is it a coincidence that both Jeff and I are Jewish and we are both here with you?"

"My god, you're right!" He realized, "I'll fix that at once."

The music paused for a minute, and then at the piano bench appeared George Gershwin, picking up where Jeff left off in the song.

"God, I'm sorry. George Gershwin was Jewish too." I said, quietly.

God quickly whipped out a laptop and typed a bit.

"Right again. And, what's this? He's in heaven! That's not right at all. Right then, new memo. Note to Saint Peter and all other staff at the admissions office: Do not allow anybody, even if this person is a fine composer, into heaven without first checking their religion."

As God finished typing, I realized that I wasn't going to heaven, no matter what. What a relief. No more pressure to be good.

"Ah, now. Where was I? Right. I'll clear this up right away."

The music paused again, and then, continuing in George Gershin's spot, was Frances.

"Frances?" I asked him, "She doesn't even play jazz!"

"Are you saying that jazz doesn't exist?" He asked.

"Of course not, I was saying that-"

He cut me off. "Are you saying that Frances doesn't exist?"

"No! I was saying that-"

"Please pass the mayonnaise."

At this point, I decided that my conversation with god was over. I grabbed Frances and shoved her off the cloud, and then jumped after her.

I've been told that, when falling, the actual fall is not the problem.

It's the sudden stop at the end.

Gone Silent

The phrase "gone silent" is a term used by submariners. It is refers to a time in which the submarine will maintain radio silence so as not to be discovered by a ship that may be above it.

Unfortunately, this is not the meaning I intend.

Since Thursday, I have been punished by my mother because I didn't do my chores.

So that is why I had "gone silent".

Anyway, the winner of TOtB is no one. None of your answers were even close to suitable.

Sorry.

Anyway, new contest:

You are at a party at your neighbor's house and talking to another party-goer who you have deemed a good person and whom you would like to have as a friend.

And you forgot their name.

Stupid.

You break off the conversation by telling the person that the house is on fire and you walk over to a friend and ask the person's name.

They don't know.

Asking around even more, you realize no one knows this person's name. Curious. You decide to get a Coke from the kitchen and walk in, when a smurf pops out from under the sink and pulls you into the cabinet, locking you in. You can't escape, and all the cleaning solvent fumes are going to your head. You can see the kitchen through a tiny crack in the cabinet.

In walks your potential friend whose name you don't know. You yell to them, but they don't hear, they are talking to someone else. You know that if you said their name they would look at you.

You're screwed. Sorry, man.

No wait. I mean, "How do you escape?".

Good luck.

Also to satisfy Carissa, here is a nice happy story about a unicorn.

Once there was a unicorn.

It died.

The end.

Dread

David glanced at his watch.

2:37 A.M.

It had been two minutes.

They should be here by now. He really didn't know what he would do when they got here.

They would burst into the room and head straight for the locked closet. Doubtless they would have the key by now. Lance would gladly hand it over and reveal the location of his trusted partner of 10 years.

David thought of Lance and cursed him under his breath.

He should have shot him right there when he had the chance.

Lance and him had pulled this kind of thing for their entire partnership. Tonight should have been easy.

Tonight.

They had everything perfect.

Mask. Car. Gun.

His thoughts wandered back to the rain-slicked street. The target was walking toward the car. David sat in the alley next to the car, in between two garbage cans. Lance was behind the blacked-out windows of the van, sitting shotgun.

David smiled. Shotgun.

The target had four more steps until he reached the alley.

First, Lance would open the window, and ask the target for directions, showing him the map.

Three more steps.

The target would lean over, and Lance would grab his collar, pointing the 12-guage at the man's chin, telling him to give him his wallet.

Two more steps.

David would sneak up from behind and inject the tranquilizer he carried into the target's arm.

Another step.

He would then proceed to shove the target into the back of the van as Lance moved over to the driver's seat and drive off.

Lance rolled down the window, and said something that David couldn't make out. The target leaned over and Lance grabbed him, jamming the shotgun into the man's chest.

As David recalled, it was at this point that things began to go wrong.

Six loud gunshots came from the roof above him. They shattered the car windshield and the back window, as well as drilling three holes into the car. The last shot was unfortunate. It slammed into Lance's arm. He screamed and let go of the target, who immedietely began to run. Lance took the 12-guage out and leaned out the window, resting it on the side-view mirror. He took quick aim at the running figure.

David paled. He knew what his boss would do if the target died.

"Stop!" he yelled. He dropped the hypodermic needle and pulled out his pistol, aiming it at Lance. Lance, of course, didn't listen. He squeezed the trigger off for what would have killed the target then and there.

As luck would have it, the gunman from above took two more shots at this point, having reloaded his gun. They both hit the shotgun, effectively rendering it useless.

David jumped out of the alley and rolled across the sidewalk, landing against the car in a seated position. He took brief aim with the pistol and let four shots fly at the man firing from above. He slumped over, dead.

Lance yelled at David to get in, and David didn't hesitate to. Lance gunned the car before David got a chance to shut his door, aiming for the target.

"Lance!" David yelled, pointing the pistol at him. He hoped the scare would be enough, but Lance kept accelerating towards the running figure.

David aimed the gun in the air and shot it through the car's ceiling, certain that this would stop Lance. It scared him enough for him to let go of the wheel, but the car directed itself at the target and hit him. The target flew a full ten feet before smashing into a parking meter.

David was shaking. He pointed the gun once more at Lance and said as calmly as he could, "You have four seconds to get out of this car".

Lance took two.

David jumped over to the driver's side and peeled off. Lance tried shooting out the tire, but the shotgun wasn't very accurate. It harmlessly glanced off the asphalt.

Sirens were going off in the distance. David didn't bother trying to blend in with the rest of the traffic; his windshield was gone. He swerved around, finally pulling into a spot several blocks from his apartment. He succeeded in pulling the licence plate from the car and then walked back to his apartment, scared. He would grab some things and get a cab to the airport.

He sprinted up his stairs and into the loft. He took a second to look out the window. There were two cars, both the same as him. Blacked-out windows. Four men in business suits got out. They went into the lobby.

David snapped back in reality and looked at his watch again. 2:39. It had been another two minutes. Why were they taking so long getting up the stairs.

And then he heard the door open. It had been a mistake to give Lance the key. David gritted his teeth and hoped they had killed him.

"David," said a deep voice, "You failed us tonight. This target was worth six million dollars, but you have to go and screw it up. Get out of there. Now."

David didn't move. He didn't even breathe. He was absolutely terrified.

The deep voice spoke again.

"Put a clip in the closet."

Anyway that's my stupid story. I'll post later today with something real.

Oh and today Frances' boyfriend threatened me:

"hahahahahahahahahahahahahahah duno y i'm laughin but u dont wanna meet me thats all i can say cuz i heard u treated sum1 like crap..."

Well that sucks.

Of Mice and Squirrels

Today my cat killed a squirrel.

And left it by my front door.

Ah, well.

Here's Jeff's contest:

"Using a barometer and anything you can find in your house, find the height of a random building in New York. Make sure to use the barometer and mention a moose."

Good luck with that.