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I can’t fully blame them though; as gross as all of that is, it would be really crazy and mundane trying to be Mr. and Mrs. I love God all the time.

“He’ll never do it again.”

A girl, a child uttered those words while running in front of me. I didn’t even see her coming, but she was there. She smelled awful. She had that burnt hair smell. I can’t imagine anything ever smelling worse than burnt hair, and she smelled very strongly of burnt hair. I looked at her eyes. They were a bit absent, not in a stupid or innocent way, in a shocked and traumatized sort of way.

“Sorry, what?”

“He’ll never do it again.”

“Who’ll never do what again?”

“Never again. Never again.”

She started to run off.

“Wait. Please! Is there someone in the church?”

This horrible feeling came over me. Those words she spoke, the burnt hair smell, running away from the church – what was she talking about? It makes me want to run back towards the church, search through it, make sure everyone is safe, but it’s way too late for that. The building is barely recognizable. If someone is in there, they are now nothing more than a burnt hair smell.

There’s nothing left for me to do now but go home. I’m too sad to walk downtown. I’m just going home, going to bed, to sleep. Why did I let such a horrible thing happen? Suddenly the smell of burning incense doesn’t feel so liberating. I wonder if burning sandalwood will always make me think of burnt hair from now on, burnt skin maybe, horrible.

Downtown seems out of focus now, far away. Home is close, and my body needs sleep. Sleep.

Buzz … buzz … buzz

Why does the universe not want me to sleep? Doorbell – all right. Last time someone was at the door it was fairly amusing.

Two suits were standing at the front door, again, one man, one woman. These people had a different set of convictions than the zealots that showed up earlier. They looked like the type of people who believe they have some level of control over other people.

“Just the guy we were looking for,” the man said.

Being me, I replied: “Jesus. Where have you guys been? I called the agency like 2 hours ago.”

“Sir, I think you …”

The woman started speaking, but I couldn’t resist interrupting her.

“Whatever, whatever. This is my time, and I’m paying for it. OK, you guys, come in, take your tops off, and get down on your knees. I want you to both service me at the same time.”

“Sir, we have some questions – this is very serious, and we would like to help you.”

Oh, I see. The woman wants to help me, and the man?

“You are in a lot of trouble. Do you want me to haul your ass down to the station now?”

Hmm. Looks like the man is playing bad cop.

“The station, huh?”

The woman, with a faux tone of kindness, says “yeah, we’re cops.”

I stood there, trying to figure something out. They both fit the same profile. They looked as though they could be cops. They acted like cops. There was something different though. I couldn’t quite nail it down. They have the same discipline, same demeanour, but the language doesn’t seem quite right. The woman would have fooled me, but the man sounds as though he got his lingo from a one hour television show.

Flashing his badge, the man puts one foot inside my house, saying “I suggest you start talking about the drug store now.”

With my left hand, I grab his badge and with my right hand, I grab his face and push him back and to the side, into his partner, as hard as I can, slamming the door with my foot.

I run to the phone, dialing 911.

“911 what’s your . . .”

“I need you to verify a badge number.”

“What?”

“A badge number – you know . . . those things that cops carry around.”

“Sir, this number is for emergencies.”

“Look, I have a potential situation where people might get killed. Do you want to be responsible for dead bodies?”

Silence.

Yelling now, I repeat: “do you?”

“Sir, is the police officer in danger?”

“Nobody is in danger as long as you can verify the badge number for me.”

“Sir, the police have been dispatched and will be there shortly.”

“Listen. I’m going to read this badge number to you, and you are going to tell me if it is in fact a police badge number; otherwise, you are going to be that 911 operator on the news who is known as the woman who got innocent people killed.”

“Sir, please don’t do anything rash. The police have been dispatched.”

The duo at the front door are ringing the bell and knocking, uttering threats, but they’re not breaking down the door. That seems strange.

“The badge number is 1742.”

“Sir, are any police officers in immediate danger?”

“Nobody will get hurt if you just tell me if this is a valid badge.”

I hear typing, nothing else.

Too much silence.

“Well?”

“Sir?”

“Yes.”

“Sir, where did you get that badge?”

I got it off the cop.

“Sir, I suggest you turn yourself in peacefully. If you wait outside on your knees and put your hands in the air, facing the officers, your safety will be ensured.”

“Wait. What?”

“Sir…”

Click.

I had to hang up. I couldn’t stand that ‘sir’ crap anymore. The banging at the door had stopped at about the same time that I heard the sirens start. That’s not right. That’s really not right. There was a forested area close to my house. If I ran there, I could escape the police until I could figure out what I was going to do.

In the movies people always get away when they run into the forest. In real life, it’s very difficult to run through a densely wooded area without running into and tripping over trees. Beyond that, having half the police force trailing you doesn’t help either. Hiding in plain sight would have been much smarter. I’m smarter and in better shape than every cop on the police force. I could have run through yards, hopped fences, hid in buildings. It isn’t easy to trap someone who is on foot and running through the city. Being stuck in a forested area that’s completely surrounded by roads is easy to block off. I basically have no survival skills, and I need to eat every few hours or I suffer from nausea. They caught me; it took them a few hours, but they were able to close in on me fairly easily, so this is why I’m stuck here with the donut eaters.

“Name?”

The clerk asks me the typical processing questions. There isn’t really a way out of this, so for now I need to cooperate.

“Sam . . .”

“Never mind the formalities Sam, come with me” the officer rudely interrupted.

“Sir, don’t we need to process . . .”

“No. I’ll see you later about it. Understand?” the officer again rudely interrupted.

Let me offer a translation. ‘No’ means, I have the authority, shut up and listen. ‘I’ll see you later about it’ means that if you have any questions about why I’m not following protocol, I’ll let you know at my convenience. ‘Understand’ is not really a question of comprehension, in this case, it’s the officer’s way of telling the clerk to shut the hell up.

I stand up and follow the officer to a meeting room, not an interrogation room, a good sign.

“Here’s what I have: I have you with a dead officer’s badge; I have you threatening a 911 operator with dead bodies; I have you at the scene of a drug store robbery.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Did you or did you not tell the operator there would be dead bodies?”

“As, I’m sure, you’ve already guessed, I was trying to verify the badge number because of the people at my door who were claiming to be cops.”

“How many people were there?”

“Two. When was that cop killed?”

“Were they both men?”

“The cop, when was he killed?”

“1 month ago.”

“There was a woman and a man. I pushed them backward and grabbed the badge.”

“So, you were sure they weren’t cops?”

“Not 100%, but they seemed like they were playing cops.”

“What gave them away?”

This question bothers me. Why does he ask it that way? Wouldn’t most people ask: ‘How did you know?’

“The man gave them away. He wasn’t a convincing officer.”

“Right. Right. The drug store, who was that girl you were dancing with?”

I feel as though I could break out into song.

“Maria, I just met a girl named Maria.”

“What was that?”

“Ah, sorry, I’m a bit behind on sleep lately.”

“So . . . her name’s Maria?”

“And suddenly that name . . . oh, ah, yeah. Yeah, Maria.”

“Why were you dancing with her? Who is she?”

“I knew her from high school. I hadn’t seen her in years, and I was at the drug store; it was weird. I felt suddenly compelled to dance. I had this allergy thing, and I was tired, so we danced. It was magical.”

“Do you normally dance with women in the middle of drug stores when you haven’t seen them in years?”

He’s making it sound so odd. Sure it was a bit unusual, but “who doesn’t like to dance?”

“It looks like the perfect distraction for what became a robbery.”

“The store wasn’t being robbed while I was there.”

He hands me a pen. It’s a cheap looking plastic pen with a chewed up lid.

“Right. Right. OK. Write down your statement about the drug store and what happened with the fake cops.”

If the pretend cops at my door were willing to kill a cop, they would have easily killed me. Is it Maria they’re after or Ann? I’ll have to get some answers from the cop.

“Do you know who robbed that drug store?”

“We’ve only identified your friend as one of the robbers. There was another woman, but we don’t know who she is. Do you?”

I’m not about to lie, but I don’t mind diverting his attention by saying: “I know Maria.”

“Right. Just write down everything you can think of.”

I write, but I leave out the part about Ann. I don’t want to make it easier for the cops to find Maria.

My statement is the following:

I called in sick to work and went to the drug store to pick up allergy medicine. I was having a particularly bad reaction to environmental allergies. I met up with a girl that I used to know from high school, and I got caught in a very intoxicating situation where we danced and I sang. I told her that I loved her, and she asked me to leave. I forgot that I was there for allergy medicine, and I left.

“Officer, I have to ask, why were those pretend cops at my door? Did they know Maria?”

“It’s too early to say.”

That’s a cops way of saying that he isn’t talking to me about it.

I’m going home. I know it’s probably not a safe place to be, but I just need to sleep.

I’m falling asleep. This is wonderful. I start randomly saying nonsense words as I’m drifting off, almost as though I’m speaking in tongues.

Ring . . . ring . . . ring.

Really?

“Hello?”

“Sam, it’s Tammy.”

“So?”

“So, we need to talk.”

“We are talking.”

“The funeral is tomorrow. Will you at least come to that . . . Sam . . . Sam?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where have you been? Are you just not answering my calls?”

“I was out of the house, but I talked to you this morning anyway.”

“This morning? Sam, we talked 2 days ago.”

“No, no, this morning; we had the conversation about dad this morning.”

“That was two days ago.”

“Oh . . . thanks Tammy. I gotta go.”

“No, wait.”

I hang up, ending the conversation there. Tammy may be the biggest bitch that I know, but I don’t think she would try to mess with me on time. I sit still watching an old Cuckoo clock on the wall. It tics loudly. The clock shows 3:30. It’s bright outside. Tic . . . tic . . . tic. I keep sitting, keep watching. It feels like a lifetime. It feels like an eternity that I sit there and watch. I count, 60 tics. The clock shows 3:31. I look outside, and it’s pitch black. I’m losing time.

Buzz . . . Buzz . . . Buzz

The door again. What waits for me this time? I feel my heart pounding out of my chest. It’s 3:31am, and there’s someone at my front door. Perhaps someone wants to settle a score. I open the door, and my eyes pop open when I see “Ann.”

“Hello.”

I step to the side saying: “come on in.”

She comes in, sitting down on my couch right away.

“Ann, do you know something about a man and a woman who came to my door, pretending to be cops?”

“They came here?”

“Yeah. I didn’t believe they were real cops, so I called 911 to verify the badge number, and they had a dead cop’s badge.”

“Right.”

“Who are they, and how did they know where to find me in the first place?”

“They must have been following me. It was an initiation. You start off small so they know you have the guts. We started with the drug store, but then you move on to much bigger crimes, like smuggling. We’re all well educated people, and they use us for our skills. They go around to everyone that you know asking questions. Once you’re in, you never get out; that’s the deal, and they make sure of it.”

“So, you and Maria voluntarily joined an organized crime ring?”

“Sure, it’s good money for me. I think Maria joined to help get a poor family member from another country an operation or something stupid and selfless like that.”

“And, you’re here because?”

“Maria doesn’t belong in this. She’s a good person. I want to know what you know about Maria. I want to help her get out of this.”

I’m weary about this, but I really don’t know anything about Maria anyway, so I can tell Ann everything when I say: “she was an acquaintance in high school; that’s it.”

“That’s it? You were dancing with her.”

“You and I were naked in a stream together. Do I know you?”

“I guess not.”

“What I still don’t get is why the religious thing. Why were you at my door in the first place? You obviously don’t have any convictions. It couldn’t have been a coincidence that you were there.”

“I do belong to a religious group. It’s easier than telling my community and my family that I’m not religious. As for the coincidence, I found out where you lived. I wanted to see who you were.”

“How could you possibly find that out?”

“I’m a very resourceful person. This is a big part of why they want me so bad.”

Ann gets up from the couch. She notices my cuckoo clock and moves toward it. She begins to wind the clock, pulling the chains down so the acorns rise to the top, as she says: “this is a beautiful old clock.”

“It belonged to my parents, but I somehow ended up with it.”

“Yeah, the older they are the worse they are at keeping time.”

I look at the clock, smile and say: “three thirty one.”

Ann smiles back at me, holds my hand, very gently, kisses me on the cheek, looks deeply into my eyes and says: “time is a funny thing, isn’t it?”

“I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately.”

Ann is a bit different than the other women I’ve met. I can’t put my finger on it just yet, but there’s something very familiar about her personality type. She walks me back to the couch, and she sits down. I lie down on my back, resting my head on her lap, closing my eyes. She gently begins running her fingers through my hair, as someone who is in love might do. Her finger tips move from tousled hair to my chest, where she begins to glide them up and down, over my shirt. Barely able to feel the wonderful sensation, I remove my shirt, throwing it on the ground, almost as though I’m angry with it for getting in the way. I return to my resting position, eyes closed. Neither one of us says a word as Ann continues to stroke my chest, up and down, very slowly, with her fingertips.

She gently lifts my head, so she can get out from under me, whispering: “I’ll be right back; no peaking.”

I spread myself across the couch, keeping my eyes shut. I begin to drift off, and I see a woman who grabs my hand. I’m in some sort of a greenhouse. She begins walking me through this giant greenhouse, when I say: “where are you taking me?”

“I’m your guide. Follow me, and everything will be fine.”

I somehow trusted that this was an important moment. I will follow this mystery woman, deep into the greenhouse. I’m here for a reason, and she’ll show me what that reason is.

The woman is fading, and the greenhouse is disappearing around me.

“Don’t go; you need to stay here. This is important.”

Everything fades away as I feel a weight on top of me. With my eyes still closed, I feel Ann’s lips gently kissing my cheek. Her soft hands deeply massage my chest as she moves her mouth away from my face. Open mouth kisses and hot breath dance across my neck, from earlobe to shoulders, kissing her way down to my chest. I feel her wiggling, gently, excited, as she is straddling me. Her wiggling turns into a motion as I feel her lips and tongue sucking and flicking my nipple. She has awakened me. I open my eyes to darkness. Ann must have turned off the lights. It’s pitch black. I feel around so I can touch her, caress her, and she has already disrobed. Her skin is smooth and soft, and my hands move easily up and down her body. A soft caress to her face, a gentle hand movement from her hip to her breasts, a very firm grasp of her inner thigh all cause Ann to moan a little bit, just a little bit. Her breath gets heavy, faster, much faster. I begin touching her everywhere, gently, roughly; it doesn’t matter; she keeps getting louder. I grab her inner thigh very firmly this time, very high up, and I can feel the wetness dripping down. I feel her hand gyrating and moving quickly, as she gets louder and louder. I grab her ass with one hand and the back of her neck with the other, almost too hard. She lets out a scream. Her whole body shakes and shakes and shakes.

I feel Ann’s hands fiddling with my belt, as she clumsily and angrily tries to remove it. I don’t help her though. I enjoy the suspense, the frustration, the difficulty; I love it. Her shaky hands finally get through my belt, as she is now faced with the button and zipper on my jeans. Her hands are vibrating, and they are almost useless at this point, so she sweetly asks: “can you please help me?”

“No.”

“Don’t you want me?”

“Yes, but I want you to do it.”

Her frustration grows stronger, as she gives up technique and begins trying to angrily force my jeans open. Her frustration becomes vocal as she growls at me. It builds and builds, and she screams loudly and beats my chest, hitting and slapping me, saying: “take them off, now, right now.”

“You do it.”

Ann bites me, my leg, my chest, my neck. It hurts too, but I like her anger, it excites me, maybe too much. She finally wrestles her way past my button, unzipping my pants with her teeth. I lay still, not helping her at all as she wrestles with my heavy legs to pull off my pants and boxers. I feel her tongue on me then her mouth surrounds me; it feels so good. Her tongue, lips, mouth, and hand all work together in perfect harmony. I feel the gyration of her arm again, as she is once again pleasuring herself. Her moans try to escape her mouth, but instead I feel their vibration on me. I begin to squirm. I can’t stay still; it just feels too good. I run my hands through her hair, up and down her neck. She doesn’t stop; she doesn’t relent. She keeps going. Her passion is endless. She starts shaking again, screaming, but I can barely hear it; I just feel it on me. I’m about to explode, but she takes her mouth off me.

I’m whimpering and shaking out of frustration, so much so that I can only let out: “Ann.”

She says nothing in return and just sits down on me, making it impossible for me to utter another word. She starts shouting commands at me.

“Slide your tongue in . . . that’s it . . . that’s it. In and out . . . yes. Do it faster . . . use your fingers.”

She reaches behind her, taking me in her hand, making an up and down stroking motion. I’m so close; almost anything will get me there. Her legs tighten around my face, and I can barely breathe, as I feel her legs clenching my head, tighter and tighter. Her hand’s grip begins to loosen on me as she once again loses control. I can feel her shake and quiver, now more than ever before. She’s screaming, shaking, clawing at my chest, vibrating, as I feel a gush wash over me, soaking me. She stops breathing, stops moving, for what feels like a long time, but might only be seconds. She begins to breathe again, chest heaving, and she can barely catch her breath, as she lets out a little giggle then a full laugh.

I’m trembling, and it makes me say: “I’m so close.”

She slides downs my chest so close to where I want her to be. I can feel her warmth, barely touching, just barely.

“Ann. I need you.”

She moves her whole hand up my inner thigh to my belly button and back again, while gently kissing my lips.

“Ann. I need you.”

She teases me by moving a little closer to where I want her to be. I can feel how wet she is. I move my hands up her chest to feel her heart still racing. Cupping her breasts firmly in my hands, I say: “Ann. I need you.”

“Then be a man.”

“What?”

“Be a man.”

I gently lift her off of me, laying her down on the couch. I move myself to her mouth, but she pushes me away.

“Be a man, Sam.”

I’m frustrated, angry, so I turn her over. I’m slow and gentle, as I go behind her. It feels so warm, so wet, so good. I start a motion.

“Be a man, Sam.”

I playfully spank her, but she just says: “Be a man, Sam.”

I slap her ass hard, maybe too hard. She gasps and lets out a little yelp. She starts to touch herself again. I move faster, more aggressively. I loosely wrap my hand around the front of her neck, and she lets out a little moan. She begins to shake; I feel a clench, and I explode.

Shake . . . clench . . . explode . . . shake . . . clench . . . explode . . . shake . . . clench . . . explode . . . shake . . . clench . . . explode . . . shake . . . clench . . . explode . . . shake . . . clench . . . explode.

She collapses, and I collapse.