Chapter 3: The Feed

Aside from their apparently diminutive size, Zane knew little about Gideon’s departed parents. One thing he liked about them was their decision to mirror every wall in the spacious living room. Zane loved mirrors. He found himself to be as beautiful as others must also find him to be and could while away an entire day studying his flawless self. In addition to the captivating view, it was within the realm of mirrors where his secret room lay, beyond the glass and before the glaze, and only for him. At the moment, the mirror was only a mirror; he admired himself and nothing more. At thirty he could pass for twenty five, younger if he dressed right. According to his mother, he was the very image of his father, with his sun streaked blonde locks and slender muscular form. The only difference, his mother had said, was that his face, although like his father’s, was something more than extraordinary. It was a gift from an angel. He could never fault her observations. His face was wonderful to behold. He’d never met his real father or seen a picture, but he must have been a handsome man indeed. Aside from birthing him, his mother’s only real legacy was a tattoo that stretched across his back and down the side of each arm. The artwork depicted two large black, birdlike wings interlaced with arcane markings that, in all the years since, he’d not been able to decipher. Could have been his mother was truly inspired from above and it was angelic script. More likely, though, she was insane. “From an angel, to an angel,” she’d repeated as she poked at him. Meant as a gift—one of the few she’d ever given, and a fact that made it all the more special—his mother had created a masterwork upon his skin with nothing more than a sewing needle, two bottles of ink, and a stone’s quantity of patience. She’d finished the wings approximately twelve hours before his eighteenth birthday. Eleven hours before he killed her. Without being aware he’d gone there, Zane found himself staring into the living room from the other side of the mirror, from the doorway of his secret room. This was good. He could think there, be alone there. Maybe add a window at the back...maybe see Annie on the other side, see where she went. But he couldn’t. There was much to do. The show would be his time to shine. He could come back then. He could come back with an angel…his drop cloth angel. Slowly, as though wading against a current, he stepped toward the door, toward himself. He passed from his room with the force of a fired bullet; the rejoining staggered him as he became whole again. After a moment of blinding white that circled his head like a hurricane sized halo, he looked up. The face in the mirror was bleeding, bleeding from the mouth. He’d bitten his tongue again. He didn’t like the taste of his own blood. It was bitter. Not sweet like some of those he’d known, known and tasted. His mind began to wander…to faces, to places… But, the show…the show must go on, and he was the star; Cannibalangelo was the star. Practice, he thought. Practice makes your good better and your better best. He wiped his mouth, took a deep breath, and then lowered his arm to hang at his side. Once relaxed, he began to practice being human. Practice for him began with tears: crying on demand was a talent he’d so far found impossible to master without the use of props. With a finger he traced the dry eyes and frowning mouth of his mirrored partner, leaving behind a sweat smeared outline on the glass. Moving on through his routine, he cleared his throat and spoke to his endless image, “Me? My name is David. David Jackson. I write fluff pieces for music magazines…I’m in sales…an insurance claims adjuster…a friend of your uncle’s…” Then he tilted his head and whispered, “Yeah, I don’t believe me either.” He spat at his reflection. On the coffee table there was a remote that controlled everything from the blinds on the windows, to the thermostat. He pushed buttons until the stereo lit up. You sure do have all the toys, Doc, he thought. From speakers secreted somewhere in the high ceilinged room, an eerily luminous keyboard chased lightening and waves as they crashed and Jim Morrison crooned. Wailing along, side-by-side with the lizard king, Zane rode the storm. From underneath the music there came an unfamiliar annoying ringing. Zane spied the telephone on a stand across the room but made no move to answer it. He left the call to the answering machine, killed the stereo, and then entered the kitchen. The machine picked up and his own voice said: “Hello..? Hello..? Is there anyone there?” At least Zane thought it sounded like him, but different, like a close impersonation. Maybe it was him, maybe it wasn’t. Zane smiled as he waited. “Gotcha,” said the machine, “I’m not available to take your call right now. Busy, busy. So leave a message and I’ll call you back.” Beeeep. “You’ve changed my greeting. That was not entirely intelligent of you. Very funny, though, Zane,” was Doctor Gideon’s tinny, not-very-amused response. “Listen, call me as soon as you get this. We need to talk.” Zane grabbed the extension from the charger on the kitchen counter and thumbed the talk button. Sighing theatrically into the phone, he said, “Kinda busy here, Doc. And the name’s David, at least for now. You know that. You say Zane again and I’m hanging up. Two weeks. You gave me two weeks. Say what you have to say and make it quick.” Zane held the phone away from his ear as the doctor spoke. He opened the refrigerator and peered in. “Hi, Annie,” he said, and pinched her bloodless cheek. Aside from the head, there was a lonely cluster of condiments and a pitcher of water. Great. Against the protest of his grumbling stomach, he closed the door and sat down at the kitchen table. He’d put all the leftovers in the freezer and didn’t feel like thawing anything for later. Also, he was getting kind of sick Annie. What he really wanted right then was a big bowl of cereal. No cereal, no milk…he was normally more prepared. He’d been on his way to get those, along with a change of clothes, when he’d met Annie. Damn Annie. Damn boring tasting Annie. As he half listened to the doctor, Zane leafed through the flyers he’d brought back from his premier foray into Toronto. Surely his angel could be found somewhere among them. “Zane, I’m only thinking of your best interests. I can’t help you from here. If anything goes south on you, my boy, you’re on your own. We don’t cross borders. It’s just not done.” “David—and it looks to me, Doc, like I just did cross borders, so drop the jilted bitch routine. I’ll be back in a couple of weeks. Besides, I’m hot and ready to rock at this end,” he said, referring to the video cameras he’d installed the day before. “Wanna do a check? I’ll send you the link and do a visual.” “Yes, I suppose. Say, you’re not going to skin an Eskimo or bite the heads off any penguins, are you?” “You’re not very PC are you, Doc? It’s not Eskimo, it’s Inuit—and no penguins. I heard they taste like chicken, and you know how much I hate chicken.” Zane blinked at the small computer screen, having a hard time focusing at first. “I thought we were doing fine here in Chicago, but this…” “This what? This project that you have no control over?” said Zane. As he typed, he pictured that safe little man sitting in his cozy little den, tasting the dark side one teaspoon at a time—sipping the violence vicariously through Zane and others like him. Fucking Jerk. “There,” said Zane, clicking send. “Oh, by the way, I’ve brought that table in from the foyer. You remember, the one you bought from that Scandinavian sadist in Florida, the one with all those body piercings? “No. Definitely not. I—” “Well, I can’t work without a table, can I?” The phone sighed, “Never mind. Just be careful with—” “Thanks, Gideon. I’m touched you care.” “My table, Zane. Be extremely careful with it. It’s priceless.” “Yeah and where’d you get the money for it?” “You, Zane…among others, but mostly you.” “Now, was that so hard? Come on, Gideon. I feed, you get the feed, and the viewers get to watch. Only gonna be one loser here and she won’t be in a position to care.” “Jesus, your optimism never ceases to amaze me.” “And you’re not optimistic?” “No. I’d consider myself to be more of an opportunist. That said I still believe this venture of yours is nothing short of insane. Will you even be ready by Thursday?” Zane left the computer and headed for the dining room, and he began to feel dizzy—something that had begun the month before, and had since become a daily occurrence. He’d come to recognize this hostile takeover as a battle with a demon. He was sure of it. It manifested itself as an absence of self, a draining force that supped at him from inside his mind. Sweat swelled across his stomach and down the backs of his legs like a pair of dead mice, and Zane knew he was in for more than a mere skirmish. Next, he could expect the flickering blackness; the struggle for his eyes, his brain, and fragments of his past. Then, there was the pain. Oh, the electrifyingly magnificent pain. The demon truly was a worthy adversary. The attacks had taken on a frantic nature lately, which led Zane to believe he must be winning. What other explanation could there be? Gideon didn’t know about the demon, and Zane would never tell. How could a man like Gideon ever presume to understand? “Yeah, Thursday,” Zane said, focusing his will upon ignoring his invader, “Have you ever known me to miss a shoot?” Then, his mouth said something he didn’t know it was going to say, but thought was funny nonetheless. “You know, you can be a real crotch crust sometimes, Doc—a real cunt.” The demon may have been his enemy, but he sure spoke the truth. The demon was closer, grasping for him from the inside—scratching, pulling. Zane swayed, willing it away as a child would a persistent bogyman. Through the oily black vortex swirling ever larger, he said, “Look, I gotta go. We good?” Pain flared in his skull, racking him with a body shudder. Gideon might have said something, but he wouldn’t have heard. Zane had a hard enough time keeping his fingers closed on the phone. “I said: Are we good?” “Are you deaf, boy? I just told you.” As drool began to seep from his mouth and run down his chest, Zane walked to a corner of the room and slid down the wall. “Must be the phone. Sorry. So, what did you say?” “I need you to come back to Chicago this weekend. There are some papers here for you to sign.” “Papers?” “Saturday afternoon. I’ll see you then.” “Sure.” Zane forced the needed air through his vocal chords. Cradling the phone in both hands like a pet scorpion he waited, and would as long as he could. “Your minute’s been up for a while, Gideon. Plans to make, people to bake,” he mumbled into the receiver. “Don’t worry,” said Gideon, “it’s nothing bad.” Nothing bad. Check. “‘Kay, bye,” Zane mumbled. Weekend. Check. Go see Gideon. Check. He keyed END, let the phone fall from his fingers, and collapsed onto his side. He wanted to dig a hole through his skull—free himself, expel the pain. But he knew that’s what the demon wanted; it wanted free access, a doorway in. Zane was smart, Zane was wise; he wouldn’t be fooled by any damn devil. This war would be won in inches. There was nothing he could do but wait. Wait for either victory or defeat. Zane clenched his teeth, tucked himself into a ball, and rode the storm. ~~oOo~~ The sun had tripped over its own shadow and fallen behind the couch sometime before Zane pushed himself away from the floor; the darkness outside the Chalet absolute. Even the stars shied away from him for reasons only another star could fathom. Could have been, he mused, they were embarrassed for the beautiful naked man laying in a pile of his own feces and felt he needed privacy. Maybe it was simply cloudy with a chance of empathy. He quickly checked his face and hands for blood, then breathed a sigh. He stank, but remained unblemished. Rolling away from the puddle, he plodded in the direction of the laundry room to find a mop and some plastic bags. After cleaning his mess and showering, he returned to the kitchen and stood by the table, staring down at the flyers he’d been leafing through earlier while talking to Gideon. Eenie meanie miny moe, he thought, then lifted one away from the rest. The lucky winner read: National Cancer Society of Canada Memorial & Fundraiser Tomorrow. It wasn’t perfect—cancer victims were creepy—but chance had spoken. He was happy again. Not even an image of cancer-tainted meat could bring him down. Like peas and carrots, he could eat around the bad parts. His spirits were on the mend and the pain receded. He’d won. The demon was gone. So what he couldn’t remember the name of his old high school or how to do long division. The demon was more than welcome to keep that shit. “My name is David,” he said to the flyer, “and I’m gonna make you love me.” They always did.

Chapter 2: Paint Brushes & Other Needed Ingredients

Beaver Creek (80 kilometers north of Toronto) “Annie?” Zane Ellis stood over the hogtied hitchhiker, a bucket of warm water in one hand and a sponge in the other. She was awake, but her soul was somewhere else. Her eyes, swollen almost shut, were two pairs of veined lips, so dark they seemed poisonous. As he watched her, he wondered where she was, where all his victims escaped to in that space of time between capture and death. He also wondered if he could go there too. He had his own place, a secret room in his head, but was their escape, their refuge, any better than his? Wherever it was, he would’ve loved to paint its landscape. He nudged the girl’s bare leg with the toe of his shoe. “Annie, it’s time to get you cleaned up. Wake up, sugar.” The girl’s head swiveled like a punch drunk boxer’s. Then, after a whistled intake of air, reality leaked through a crack under the door to her safe place; her eyes opened and she jerked against the thick ropes holding her to a pole in the middle of the shed. Around the ball gag in her mouth, her incoherent cries were hoarse and guttural—slobbery, even. Zane stepped back and allowed her to vent. He wasn’t mad, didn’t feel the need to silence her. He’d be pretty miffed if he woke up naked and tied in a strange place too. But he also didn’t want her to stain his clothes with her sniffles and snot, so he decided to wait until she’d finished. Annie didn’t seem as strong as some of the others had been, so he guessed it would be only a few minutes before she’d see her situation for what it had been building up to since birth: hopeless. He’d use that time to slip into something more suited to the task, and maybe make a pot of coffee. He stepped out of the shed just as the sun met the sky. It spread across the horizon like a fresh paper cut awaiting the day’s first bead of blood. This was fitting. This was an omen. He left the door open so the girl could see what he saw, witness one last beautiful sunrise before eternity took her. He felt it was the least he could do. His eyes fell to an old axe-stabbed stump, caught in relief by the sun’s first rays. The profiled axe called forth an image of things to come. He turned and regarded her one last time before heading for the house. Although fortuitous, their meeting had been largely disappointing. She’d been standing at the side of the road with her thumb in the air, holding a sign that read “Going that way”, accompanied by an arrow pointing up instead of forward. An idea began to percolate as he pulled to the side of the road in answer to her waggling thumb. Her presence had introduced an opportunity for a ‘practice round’ for his upcoming show and he had every intention of pursuing it. Granted, the ‘hitcher and the dark road’ was as cliché as a meeting could get, but whose fault was it the girl had snubbed any motherly advice she’d ever received in regard to strangers and deserted roads? Surely not his. Plus, it wasn’t as though he’d been actively searching her out. He nonetheless considered her a gift horse, a bonus of sorts. As the memory of her hustling after his brake lights brought a smile to his face, he mused over the real direction the arrow had been pointing: up. Up was where the angels sang. One punch as she leaned into the car was all it took. That had been the most disappointing part. Add that to the fact she was standing alone on a dirt road near dusk, and he might have rethought his belief in the Chaos theory in favor of the flowery notion that everything happens for a reason. But that would be madness. At about eighteen years of age, the girl was too stupid to live and too old to unlearn all that had brought her to this point in her life—to that dirt road in particular—so Zane had decided to help her out. More, he was going to help her “up”. And since she would only be exercise, a warm up, Dr. Gideon wouldn’t need to know about her. The old man would only want the video feed for the kill planned for the main event, and this girl was definitely not main event material. As he stared into dawn’s amber yawn, contentment faltered, and then faded, as an image of his benefactor surfaced. Four hundred miles by air, a whole country away, and Zane still fell under the greedy man’s shadow. A fact he shouldn’t have found surprising, considering Dr. Gideon owned the chalet and the forty acres it rested upon. The doctor was a constant irritant, but his wealth and connections were extensive, which was why Zane hadn’t killed him yet. He smiled as he imagined a not-so-distant future in which Gideon was no longer needed. The doctor wasn’t happy about lending him the chalet, but relented and gave him two weeks. Two weeks didn’t leave much time for nuance and preparation, but Zane would be free to create his art, his way, without the old man looming over his shoulder, uttering suggestions regarding lighting and camera angles, or screaming for a premature but enduring money shot. Short sighted quick thrills were all the rage among the clientele who purchased the doctor’s movies. All brutality, no vision. Zane had vision, but his creative nature was something for which Gideon held little humor. Through his art, he intricately mapped the secrets and struggles, the birth and death rattle, of all humanity, one canvas at a time. Where Gideon saw dollars and blood on a drop sheet, Zane saw divinity; a gleaning of the pattern within the chaos, rendered in the purest color of the spectrum. Maybe someday his genius would be recognized, but likely not by Gideon. The single missing item for his upcoming video drama was a co-star…someone special—and not that too-stupid-to-live hitcher. She was going to be a part of the show, but would serve in other, less visible, ways. He’d taken most of her hair the night before, while she was still unconscious. At the moment, her mouse-brown locks were in the kitchen, soaking in a shallow pan of bleach and conditioning solution. Later, he’d require a much larger sacrifice. Her hair would make fine brushes, but a paintbrush wasn’t a paintbrush without a handle. ~~oOo~~ Zane recalled Gideon saying he rarely visited the chalet. He could have guessed without being told as he rummaged through the closets for something disposable to wear; there was nothing that would’ve fit the doctor’s lanky form. Judging by the sizes, Gideon’s parents could have taken jobs in a travelling circus as a pair of chubby midget clowns. If he went back to the shed wearing any of Gideon’s father’s old clothes, Annie might think he was crazy, or some inbred Jethro type axe murderer. If only he’d stuck with his original plan and gone into town for clothes and Froot Loops, this situation might have been avoided. Upon searching the garage, he found a pair of vinyl coated rain pants, but, oddly, no matching coat. Beneath the pants was a pair of rubber boots that would fit, but then he thought if he wore the pants and boots together with no shirt, Annie might suspect him of being some homicidal Mr. July from a Fireman’s calendar. He decided to have a cup of coffee first, then figure out what to wear…maybe go into town for a box of Froot Loops and clothes. Then he could relax on the patio and work on his tan until lunchtime. At a growl from his stomach, he amended the thought of leaving her alone to rousing her right then. The sun would always be there, fresh and new every day, but she wouldn’t. Besides, breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Twenty minutes later, he stood in the doorway of the garden shed, coffee in one hand, and axe in the other. In lieu of clothing, he’d decided to dress as he did for his shows. He was naked. After setting the axe down, he took a sip of coffee. It was good. He’d have to remember how many scoops he used. And he’d been right about the girl; she was calmer now. She still sobbed and snotted as she shook like a palsied rabbit, but at least she’d settled. Annie was dirty, slightly overweight, and sat amid a muddy lake of her own bodily excretions, but Zane saw the beauty beneath the mud and tears and planned on savoring every second they spent together. Before she could slide back into another eye rolling convulsion which might delay him further, he shushed her. She quieted, but shot fearful glances at his naked form. He followed her eyes to their target, and sighed. “I’m sorry for that, I really am. Listen, I know we’ve just met, but please believe me when I say to you that sex is the furthest thing from my mind. I’m not that kind of guy.” His eyes wandered from her to a shelf cluttered with all manner of tools, and his gaze settled upon a dust covered saber saw. He smiled, and then squatted in front of her with his forearms resting on his knees. “That was the good news.” She didn’t seem relieved. This was going poorly. Annie wasn’t being very receptive at all, and Zane couldn’t help but feel partially responsible. If he’d only gone into town first for something to wear, this awkwardness over his nudity may have been avoided. He soaked the sponge, squeezed it, and began to wash her, starting with her face. “I don’t think you want to hear the bad news, so I’ll tell you this instead: You and I, Annie, are going to make beauty come alive. Together we’ll create a masterwork, blood and bone, that will make the heavens weep. Won’t that be nice?” Annie blinked and shivered, sobbed and snotted. As he circled, searching for a good starting point, he spoke into her ears words of assurance, words to soothe: “I just need your bones, but have no fear, sugar. Nothing is wasted, never with me.” The soothing words didn’t work—they never worked—but the screams weren’t so bad, and didn’t usually last very long. Surprisingly enough, Annie’s did. She howled along with the rusty saw, in a jack-hammering crescendo, until he was halfway through the second limb. She was a real trooper. Before pulling it out, Zane stared into her eye for a very long time. Annie wasn’t in there anymore and he hadn’t heard her leave. She’d gone back to her happy place and could stay there forever. Zane felt at peace. Peace for her, peace for him. Maybe it was the coffee, could have been the beautiful day, likely a mixture of both, but he was happy right then and began to whistle while he worked.

Chapter 1: Worth

Part I Unstoppable Force Meets an Edible Object Once upon a time, there lived a girl of worth. Here is her story, give or take a lie or two. Chapter 1:WORTH Zoe Beaupre stood at a crossroads. She was lost, but standing at an intersection of two forgettable Toronto streets had nothing to do with this pressing issue: in one hand, she held an empty bottle of Percocet, complete with her name on the label, like an honest-to-god prescription she actually needed. The other clutched a very old, recently stolen pocket watch. The Percs had been a gift from a gentleman doctor of her acquaintance back in St. Louis. Knowing she couldn’t pass a customs search with her drug of choice, she’d asked for and received—for a favor that still hurt when she tied her shoes—a prescribed solution to carry her through the week long stay she’d planned with her sister. Should have, but didn’t. She dropped the bottle back into her purse, just in case. You never know when you’ll need an empty pill bottle, complete with your name on it. Zoe dangled the watch by its chain and it rotated lazily, trapping arcs of sunlight that shone like butter against the tarnished casing—and she suffered a momentary pang of guilt. The watch wasn’t exactly hers to sell. While searching for a pair of earrings in her sister’s jewelry box, she’d rescued it from an encroaching mass of cheap trinkets. “That’s right, bitch,” said a voice from within her head, “Do it. You’re already going to Hell. What’s a little theft gonna hurt?” She should’ve known she wasn’t going to make it through the morning without him speaking up. “What’s it to you, Monkey? Is it yours? No, it’s not, so shut the fuck up.” “One monkey, shutting up.” The purple monkey materialized on the sidewalk at her feet, holding one fuzzy hand over his yarn stitched mouth, and flipping the bird with the other. This didn’t compute. Monkey never gave up so easily. “That’s it?” Purple Monkey nodded his head earnestly. That’s weird, she thought. He’d usually not stop until she’d torn him to pieces or tossed him out a window. “What’s weird?” “I thought you were gonna shut up?” “I am. Let your conscience be your guide, yada yada.” The monkey shrugged and hitched a ride on the back of a passing dog. Zoe stared after him. About ten feet away he turned, winked, and disappeared. The word weird had taken on a whole new meaning after he’d invaded her head. A doctor had run several tests, but they came back negative for a tumor or any physical reason for his presence. A Psychiatrist, on the other hand, asked if there’d been any changes in her life lately; had she been taking any new prescriptions…any other drugs? He’d known about the heroin. How could he not? He did have the results of her blood analysis in his meaty little claw. Upon leaving his office that day, she’d decided to forgo another appointment or a second opinion in favor of self medication. A quack couldn’t help her, not even if they knew the whole truth about Monkey. Truth was, the monkey wasn’t exactly new to her. His previous existence had marked a very pivotal point in her young life, a time of growth and discovery. In appearance he was all she remembered him to be, but that was the sole similarity. This Purple Monkey—this invisible monster—wasn’t cuddly and soft, he was vulgar and rude. Bought as a pair when they were children, purple for Jeanne and pink for Zoe, the monkeys immediately became the main attraction of The Sisters Beaupre private circus. Though seen as nothing more than a broom under a bed sheet by their mother, the circus was their own secret fantasy land. A world in which the sun shone its smile all day and all night; a world where a girl could be a star, take charge—living on cotton candy and pretzels—and thrive without parents who would leave or yell about Jesus all the time: Two girls and their monkeys against the world. During a return bus trip from one of Jeanne’s chemotherapy sessions, Zoe had been so caught up with the fog art she’d been painting on the window that, when her mother dragged her away, she left Pink Monkey behind on the seat. Later, her mother had called the bus line, but the monkey hadn’t been turned in to their lost and found. Pink Monkey was gone forever and so was Circus World, at least for Zoe. Three days later while she sat cross-legged on her bed, staring miserably out the window at the rain as it pelted the road with tears the size of golf balls, Jeanne brought Purple Monkey to her room and tossed him on the bed. She told Zoe the monkey wanted to be with her now – that it was tired of Jeanne and liked her better. Zoe gladly accepted her sister’s offer and immediately pitched the Big Top. She felt sad for Jeanne, not having her own monkey anymore, but she could thereafter be the audience neither one of them ever had, someone to laugh and enjoy the show. At first, Jeanne watched all the time, but then the cancer came back and her visits to the Big Top grew shorter and further apart. Soon she stopped watching at all; not even Purple Monkey made her smile anymore. Circus World was never the same after that. Zoe tried to understand her sister’s lack of interest, but couldn’t help hating Jeanne and her cancer for giving up on Circus World. After a while the illusion died and Zoe also gave up on the Big Top. By the time she turned seven it was just like her mother had said: a bed sheet and a broom, nothing more. That didn’t mean she gave up on Purple Monkey. After all, he was still her best friend. Zoe remembered dragging the stuffed carcass of that violet simian to school, the dentist’s office, and the beach—literally everywhere, including the bathtub. Eventually there wasn’t much more than patches and a lingering aroma of unwashed socks left of him, but she didn’t care. He was more than material, stitches and button eyes. To Zoe, he was a connection; a conduit to that sunny place where fathers didn’t leave, mothers didn’t scream, and sisters didn’t get cancer. One day, while Zoe was down the street at a friend’s pool, her mother tossed Purple Monkey out with the trash. Upon finding the monkey missing, Zoe was inconsolable, nearly tearing the house apart in her search for him. Her mother couldn’t understand the tantrums, especially when they continued past the first week. And, subsequently, neither did the therapist Zoe was sent to see over the affair. It wasn’t until Zoe came across a wonder drug named heroin at a house party some thirteen years later that the same monkey—odd colored button eyes, clumsy patchwork and all—returned. He walked right up to her in the middle of someone’s trashed living room and said, “Hey, Bitch.” Just like that. She knew it wasn’t real. She was older and knew better then. Grownups, at least sane ones, didn’t have imaginary friends. But that little fact didn’t stop it from talking, or, for that matter, from acting like a complete dick. And why should Monkey care about a stupid watch? Why should I? Besides, if Jeanne had even cared a little bit about the damn thing, she should’ve taken better care of it. At times, Zoe found guilt as easy to sidestep as an oncoming turtle. She dropped the time piece into a pocket and waited for the light to change. She was left-handed, so she went right. Penniless after only two days, she’d sorely underestimated the price of a good time in Toronto…hence the watch, hence the pawning of said watch. If needed, one or more swinging egos could be milked for the rest of the cash, but only as a last resort. She was on vacation after all. For lack of a pill, she popped a breath mint. Two blocks up, she found a pawn broker. ~~oOo~~ “Fifty dollars, no more,” was the pawn broker’s first and final price. “What do you mean ‘fifty dollars’?” Her words lashed like a cool mint scented whip across the mixed odors of the cubicle sized entry. “The fucking thing is gold, you asshole.” For his part, it was clear the pawnbroker had played this game many times before. In response he grunted and found his bellybutton with an index finger. Zoe sensed she was going about this all wrong, and wished her last words were spaghetti so she could suck them back in one long strand. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ve been under a great deal of strain lately and recently lost my plane ticket home to St Louis. My finals start tomorrow and I need to get back. What do you say about eighty bucks for a poor student?” The pawn broker, a dark little East Indian man wearing a shirt too short for his paunch, eyed the grouped track marks below her rolled up sleeves and flexed the wrinkle between his brows. “I say fifty dollars.” He picked up the magazine he’d been reading when she entered and proceeded to flip through the pages, ignoring both watch and woman. After a few fanned pages, he smoothed a few wisps of hair across a forehead so high he’d need a telescopic handle to comb past the crown, and said, “Let me show you something, please.” The man laid the magazine face down and left the counter. He returned with a dusty shoe box, pulled off the lid, and set it atop the magazine for her to see. In the box a Timex rubbed faces with a Rolex, whose strap was slid through the buckle of a very feminine pearl backed number, which sat on the face of another, and so on. The gangbang of jewelry in the box was very impressive and all looked very expensive to Zoe, but she could see his point: This was a buyer’s market. Damn. As this new failure spread through her like a stain on a takeout bag, she wondered if Jeanne would give her another loan. “You see, my friend,” said the smelly man, “I have many, many watches—more, probably, than I could ever sell. Yours is a very fine watch, a pretty watch. But, young lady, if I cannot sell it, how much do you think it is worth?” Again, she saw his point, but the way he spoke was really beginning to irritate her. “Okay, whatever. Take it and give me the fifty bucks.” Zoe sighed and leaned back in the small entrance, tapping the wall with her head. The watch had belonged to her father. When he left the last time, he’d pulled Jeanne aside and given it to her. He must not have seen his younger daughter in the hall as he bent and kissed Jeanne before leaving. Zoe hadn’t received that same farewell. Actually, she’d received no farewell whatsoever, so she felt almost nothing by the loss of the watch. A hand emerged through the bars and set a slip of paper on the counter. “Please sign your claim ticket. There is a pen to the right.” From where she stood the hand reminded her of Thing from The Addams Family. She pushed away from the wall, plucked the pen from its cradle, scribbled Morticia Addams in the signature box, and slid the slip back through. She was going to be short, way short—especially if she planned to have any fun while she was there. Before giving up, she decided to play her only remaining card. Zoe tilted her head and tapped her fingers on the counter to get the man’s attention. “Hey,” she said, low and gentle, inwardly cringing at what she contemplated. The pawn broker looked up from writing her information into a ledger, and his massive forehead wrinkled into rounded steps as his eyebrows came up. “Miss?” She glanced out the door, then forced a smile to her lips. “Is there anything we could work out for, say, another eighty bucks?” A stab of revulsion flowered in the pit of her stomach at the thought of him sweating over her. No stranger to doing what needed doing for the cause, Zoe succeeded in diffusing the rebellion with a silent burp. “Maybe back there?” she said, pointing over his shoulder to the rear of the shop. The little man didn’t miss a stroke with his ballpoint. Once finished with her claim ticket, he ripped it off and approached the window. Sliding it through, along with enough body odor to fumigate a square block of roach infested houses, his face loomed within inches of the bars. “Whatever it is that has you, young lady, you must fight it. It is not my place, for certain, to speak to you so boldly, but you started it.” Every consonant hit her like a sledge hammer. He leaned across the counter and ran his fingers along the cluster of needle marks on Zoe’s arm. “My dear son, Senji, was taken by the drugs two years ago.” His fingers trembled as his arm receded back through the gap in the bars. Zoe’s skin tingled in the wake of his touch. Her eyes found the floor and stayed there as she took the fifty from the counter and stuffed it into the front pocket of her jeans. Before leaving, she mumbled, “Thank you,” then walked out. Once on the sidewalk, she took a deep breath as she unrolled the sleeves of her shirt—sleeves she didn’t recall rolling up!—and buttoned them at her wrists. Feeling more than a little dirty, she drifted into the flow of pedestrian traffic and allowed it carry her where it would. After a while she began to feel an old familiar itch. Damn monkey.