Saved

***Featured in SNM Horror Magazine August 2009***
www.snmhorrormag.com

Justin Street sat on his couch in his Northern Iowa home. He was sitting slumped, with his hands dangling at his knees, deep in thought. This was not the first day he was in this position. This went on every day for a few weeks straight. His wife would be home in an hour and his kids would be getting off the bus from school (he strained his neck for a look at the wall clock) in twenty-three minutes.

Today was different. Today, his normal thought process (mortgage, kids, wife, bills, bills, sex, bills, mortgage, sex, wife, kids, and bills) was dwindling. Most days were spent in more and more anxiety. The brain storming sessions (or the time he spent on figuring out how to save the world) went from mass stress to little to nothing. Today was blank. Justin Street sat there, on his couch, thinking of nothing. He eventually reasoned that his growing numbness was brought on from the stress itself. The mortgage was months late. Who knew when someone would come banging on his door forcing him to the street. The day was nearing and all he could feel was numb.

Too many days were spent stressing about that simple fact. He worked sixteen hour days to provide for his family and what? Jack shit, that’s what. This particular situation was nobody’s “fault”, per say, it is just the way of living. Yet, here he was. A wife, two kids, and a mortgage (bills, bills, wife, sex, mortgage, bills, bills, and bills); that’s where he was. And it all amounted to what? God only knew. God knew there was a means to an end. God knew and wouldn’t tell you. He might as well throw him and his family to the street Himself, that’s what it came down to. And that was that.  God. Salvation. Redemption. Bills. Bills. Bills.

A sound came from the front door. It sounded like a very faint rap from a very tiny hand. Justin glanced at the wall clock once more. Only five minutes went by. My God, I can do a lot of babbling in my head in a short period of time, he thought.

He got up slowly and checked the front door. A silhouette of a man stood on the outside screen. The sun was shinning over the man’s shoulders, back turned, and the glare struck his eyes with temporary blindness as the man swished back to face him. An angel? Justin thought hopefully. Maybe this was how he was to ease his pain. An angel appears to him. Maybe even God Himself had come to greet him with the answers to everything. Maybe He was going to help him pack for the street. Don’t be stupid, he says to himself.

He opened the door and felt a rush of air flow past his face. He gripped the door to steady himself through the sudden dizziness. A cold bolt rushed through his blood from his head to his toes. He shook his head to clear the weariness.  He couldn’t quit see the man’s face, but he looked as a mirage, only real.

Oh God, this was it. Here is the man to throw his ass out on the street and my family isn’t even here to watch (Grab the popcorn, honey! This is going to be a good show!).

“May I help you?” Justin croaked. He was surprised how difficult it was to spit out the words.

“No, Mr. Street, I think I can help you” the man in a blue suit belted. His face was still not visible in this light but his stature made up for that. He was very tall, strong build, and more confident in himself than any man Justin had ever met.

“I-I’m sorry?” Justin still had trouble catching his equilibrium. “Do I know you?”

“No, Mr. Street. But I know you. Ah yes, I know you very well indeed!”

“Oh,” he started to get his bearings, “so you’re the man who is to kick me out of my house, huh? I have been waiting for you. Only, I didn't want it to come in the first place. But, hell, come in won’t you? Have a beer, before I live in a box, eh?” Justin stumbled back a bit preparing to jostle to the refrigerator. He already felt he had two cases and somehow not remembering if he had any at all.

The man stepped through the door, hands clasped tightly behind his back. His presence was now felt even more. The shear weight of his presence was almost crushing. Justin stumbled back again, grabbed his chest, heaving. He couldn’t catch his breathe. His chest rose and fell; up and down. Almost buckling over to gasp for air, the man spoke again.

“Mr. Street, I am not here to kick you out your house. I know how hard you work for this. How you provide for your family! Heavens, no! This is your home. I would not take you from such a thing. However, I do think I can help. That is, if you are willing to accept.”

Still gasping for air, Justin could not speak. He could not even look towards him. Did he not see that he couldn’t breathe? Could he not see that he was killing him?

“W-what do you w-want?” The words were spit out in spurts of air that was forced from his lungs. “W-who are you?”

The man stepped in further and shut the door behind him. He approached Justin in a swift movement. He wasn’t even sure that the man was walking or hovering or flying. The man bent over to speak to him. One hand flung around his backside to his front. The other remained. But, in that outstretched hand he held a brown paper bag.

“Mr. Street, you are hyperventilating. Breathe into this.”

Justin took it slowly, still not looking into the man’s face.

“It is not important who I am, Mr. Street”, the man in the blue suit went on, still clasping his hands tightly behind his back, “nor where I am from. But, I will tell you, I am not from the bank or the real estate company to repossess your house. No. I am here to help. You see, you are a man in a situation where you cannot escape; will not escape. The tightness of your circle of hell is unbreakable. Not even by God, Himself. That, young sir, is where I come in.”

Justin tried to speak, but nothing came out. The confusion was worse than a daydream. Sometimes, in daydreams, things feel so real that your subconscious almost accepts it as truth. The memory picks out figments of that dream and places them for the physical eyes to see. Simple really, just a puzzle of pictures placed neatly to fill the picture as a whole.

“Jesus, Justin, look at you. You look like a man eighty years of age and my guess is you haven’t hit thirty. Pity. I can see by the look on your face that you are more confused. Let me explain. Pride, Mr. Street, is one of the Seven Deadly Sins, which you possess. You sit and you think. What, may I ask, ever comes of that? Not much I would say. Pride strips you of humility. You may think you can get by, figure out how you are going to come up with the money to save your family, and by you come. On the by, you have missed again. Pride spits in your face, Mr. Street. Pride is your own turmoil in oblivion. One of which you will spend the rest of your life attempting to claw your way out of.  All I need from you is to agree. Agree my hand and you will be saved from your turmoil.”

Justin, still standing in the corner, breathing deep into the gift of a paper bag, stared at the floor. Raw terror rose from the pit of his stomach that was now knocking on the door of his mouth for a place to flee. A whirlwind of emotions picked Justin up and flung him around his psyche. His breathing quickened. The paper bag fluttered in and out, picking up pace. Who is this man and what is he doing to me?, Justin thought. His heart rate quickened double time. And all at once, he threw the bag to the floor, and spoke to it.

“You’re right. I have pride. I have pride in my family, my house, my car, and my dog for Christ’s sake. All of which I worked and work my ass off for. Now, you come here and tell me it’s a sin; a sin to feel this way about what I have? Piss on your sin! And get out of my house!” This outburst took a considerable amount of strength that still was more confusing than all. Justin’s eyes welled up. He did not want to look into the man's direction. He turned his head to the right, sweat dropped to the floor from his brow.

Out of nowhere, the man thrust his left hand up against the wall directly in front of Justin’s face. Droplets of drywall slithered from the hole where his hand now stuck. The man in the blue suit was yelling now with rage.

“Confess! That is why I am here. That is how I can help you! I can relieve you of your turmoil! I know everything, Mr. Street! The way your wife looks at you. The way your kids look at you. That look is that of unfamiliarity! They don’t know you, Justin! Not even your precious dog will fetch your pathetic toy!”

“I don’t understand” Justin broke out. Now on the verge of a meltdown of sadness mixed with rage. He thought for a moment. He thought if this man, if he really is a man, were to come to my house and offer help when I need it most, how would that do for humility? Accepting the inevitable and crying about it? Maybe that is what he needs; humility.

“Ok” Justin spoke again. “Ok, what is it you need me to do? Confess? I confess my sin of pride. I confess to drinking too much after a long day at work. I confess that my wife and I are not doing as well as we could be. And I confess to not being the father I should be!” He was welling up again from the rage and sound of his own raised voice. He was now on his knees in confession, still speaking to the floor.

“Do you wish my help?” The man asked quietly.

“Yes.” Justin croaked.

“Ok. You are saved.”

The man in the blue suit slowly removed his right hand from his back where it was clasped so tightly before. Justin was afraid to look up. Terror struck him on his knees. The man’s hand came up and touched the side of his head. Justin thought his hand was cold; so, terribly cold.

Powww!!!

Justin Street’s body dropped to the floor with a thowp! Blood oozed out of the bullet hole in the side of his head.

The man in the blue suit dropped the gun next to his body, and at that same moment a tear fell from the corner of Justin’s eye and dripped next to it. He looked at him indifferently and said,

“Fool. No soul can be relieved of their sin so easily.”

“Saved; I relieve you of your turmoil.”

The man in the blue suit opened the door, walked down the sidewalk, and vanished onto the street.




Lindsey Nolan, all of fifteen years of age, lay on her bed in her room in Boise, Idaho. Her feet planted firmly on the bed, resting against the head, with a pad of paper and pen resting on her legs. She lay there, in her short shorts and a white tank top, tapping her pen vigorously on the pad. A thesis on the Navajo Indians was due tomorrow. What the hell is a thesis anyway, she thought restlessly. Her IPod lay to the right of her as the Beatles hammered out of the earbuds. She knew this was old taste in music for her, but she didn’t care. She loved listening to A Hard Day’s Night, A World Without Love, and Ain’t She Sweet. These were just a few of her favorites but, nonetheless, she feed on the Love. So much soul, in so little time her mother would tell her. It was in the Love. Plus, they were hot! Then she would cackle her sweet little cackle.

Hot? Lindsey mulled it over for a bit and had to agree with her mother. They were hot. Well, back then anyway. Not quite as hot as Billy, though, right? Billy Mently was a very cute boy who was (gasp!) three years older! Oh poor Lindsey, only but a freshman, and Hot Billy a senior classman. Wow! How would she be able to catch that game, huh? He wouldn’t but fart down wind in her direction than ask her out.

Now wait, we are getting a little off thesis here. Lindsey’s mind went back to the beast at hand and caught a glimpse of her lower thigh.

Smack! Her hand went upside her left thigh and growled at the fat hanging from it. Why do I have to be so fat? Do you think Billy will look at a fat pig walking through the hall? No!, she shrieked in her mind. Thirty minutes ago she weighed herself on Death. Death was so aptly named by Yours Truly, due to the stubborn fact of the lying tin, resting near the familiar toilet bowl that blazed the red letters of death. Death was more commonly known as a scale. Death announced mockingly 122! That was one pound heavier than yesterday morning! What the H - E -Double Hockey sticks was THAT all about?

Smack! Her other hand went up her right thigh. She deserved it, she reasoned, to be so stupid as to finish those Doritos at lunch! She hadn’t had dinner. So all of this “weight gaining” was infuriating her! Never again! So much for the thesis, she thought to herself, and chucked the pad and pen onto her bed.

She flung her earbuds out of her ears, jumped out of bed, knelt down to her New Balance tennis shoes, and shoved them on one at a time. She flung herself up, snatched her windbreaker from the back of her chair, thrust it over her head, and stomped out of her room.

Lindsey stepped out her front door to be welcomed by a gush of warmth and the sun drifting to twilight. She stepped out onto the sidewalk, turned left, then back to the right so she could run towards the sinking sun.

This is where she lived; on this sidewalk. All her worries, school, boys, and parents are left behind and she could be alone. Usually, her head is clear and the only sound she could hear was the flop! flop! of her shoes hitting the pavement.

Today, though, today was different. Instead of flop!, what she heard was, Fat!

Fat! Fat!
Fat! Fat!

Each time her New Balance shoes fell to the pavement; Fat!

Hearing this only made her angrier. Her jog became a run. Her run became a sprint. Her breathe escaped her lungs in tiny increments, About the same amount of weight I gain every hour!, she bellowed inside. She surged on.

Fat! Fat!
Fat! Fat!

Her sprint slowed back to a jog after a quarter mile or so. There, she thought, that ought to rid me of the Doritos from lunch AND the Oreos from last week!

Lindsey's head started to swim. A faint hum came from the back of her skull slamming to the front. The humming vibrated her brain and sent tingles down her spine. She hadn't brought anything to drink and dehydration was setting in quickly. Her vision started to blur with tears; either from the wind in her eyes or from her pain within; she could not decide. Her pace slowed to a brisk walk.

On the sidewalk, about a hundred yards ahead, she saw a man. A man in a black suit from the looks of it, she thought. As she approached a bit closer, she decided that his suit was actually blue. His hands were clasped tightly behind his back.  Lindsey could not see his face due to the fire ball blazing just over his shoulder. At first, she thought nothing of him. She was now passing him only shooting a quick glance and head-nod of hello, but his face was still black as the night itself.

“Hello, Ms Nolan” the man in the blue suit said just as she swept by him.

She was taken aback, stumbled, kicked the back of her leg with the other, and almost gave the pavement some skin for keeps.

“Wha-Huh?” She stammered out.

“Hello, Ms Nolan. I know you don't know me, but I know you very well, yes indeed.”

“H-how” Lindsey still couldn't get her words out. The humming in her head thickened to dull roar. “How do you know me?” She still couldn't get a look at the man's face. Now, facing the opposite side of the sun, he was blackened even darker.

“That is not important, Ms Nolan. What is important is that I am here to help you.” His voice was strong and his stature was yet stronger.

“Help me?” She was already on the verge of tears and still not understanding who this man was and what he wanted.

“Oh yes, my dear; you see, I know a young lad down the street. I spoke with him today. He is a football player, I believe. Said his name was Billy. You like him, no? Aw, I can see by your face that you do. And you are afraid that you are too fat for him, no? Am I close?”

“How do you know these things?” Lindsay let tears and emotions come. The man demanded her emotion, it seemed. She could feel it being ripped out of her rather than releasing it on her own free will. She thrust her face into her palms, crying. She was on the verge of hysterics and no way of stopping it.

“Envy, Ms Nolan, is one of the Seven Deadly Sins. ‘Sorrow for another’s good’ is how they put it, I believe. Do you feel sorrow for another’s good?” The man in the suit was approaching closer, almost hovering. He flickered in and out of Lindsey’s view. Now, towering over her within an instant, she could only look at the ground.

“No, I have no envy.” Lindsay said. She started to regain her composure, but the humming remained; vibrating every pint of blood to her extremities.

“No? Ms Nolan, I don’t advise avoiding the truth. That will only make matters more difficult for you. And you have gone through so much as it is. I would hate for this to drag on further. Listen, I know you know Envy. It is a close friend to you; a companion. I know the way you look at other women, older women mostly, and want, NEED, their form. You are so envious of their figure that rage builds inside. Rage on the brink of murder. You wish you could kill them, slither out your fat body and into theirs. Impressive idea, Ms Nolan, but a thought you cannot control anymore, is it not?”

Lindsey stood there, shrieking again in her own mind, her face buried deep in the cups of her hands, shaking. She was shaking so badly that it would turn into convulsions if they did not subside. Her thoughts raced this way and that. Fat, thin, murder. How did he know all of this? She thought. How?!

“I can help you, Lindsey.” The man in the blue suit said, completely disregarding her state. “I have something for you, something that you want, and something that you need; something aside from murder. Look at me!” He was escalating into shout.

Lindsey couldn’t look at him. She stared down at his knees and mumbled incoherencies. Then, finally, she said, “I would like your help.”

“Good. I am happy to be of service to you, my lady. Phentermine. Do you know what that is? No? Phentermine is a weight loss pill; it decreases your appetite quickly. Be careful how you use these, they are very lethal when taken in excess. But, a lady in your state would take a hundred to lose a few pounds, right?”

“No, no I-I don’t take pills” Lindsay said, now with a bit more authority. The man in the blue suit now stood directly over her head now, blotching out all rays of sunlight that remained on the sidewalk. His right hand unclasped from his back and was now out in front of her face.

“Yes, you do, my lady. Take these; they will help you with your situation. Take them!” the man bellowed. His voice had such authority it seemed to rumble the ground they stood.

Lindsay Nolan reached out her hand and felt a pill bottle plop on the palm of her hand. She fell to her knees. The weight of the bottle seemed so much that it brought her to the pavement. Oh, the familiar feel of a bottle. She confesses now; confesses to Envy, to pills. That bottle lay so naturally in her hand. Lindsay helplessly twisted the cap and finally popped it open. She took one, looked at it with passion, and threw it in her mouth. Her teeth started chomping, chomping vigorously at that familiar taste. The sour powder rolled around her mouth as her trap opened for another; and another, and another.

I will be thin! She screamed. I will be thin! Everyone will love me! Love my body!  Her mind began to gurgle; spit and sputter like an old car trying to roar to life. Her shaking had escalated. The humming now a dull roar once again. The dull roar turned into a drumming; a drumming of vibration. Then, out of the thickness in her head, she heard a voice. The voice came from the man in the blue suit, but the man was no longer in front of her. He said,

“Saved; I relieve you of your turmoil.”

Lindsey Nolan bit her lip, cracked a smile, and said to herself,

Thin.

She stuttered into convulsions; the pills doing their dirty work. She collapsed to the ground in a heap of skin on bone. Within a few hours her body withered away to nothing. Only a passerby would claim a grave robbing from the look.



Earl Sampson was standing on the corner of Grand and Streeter Dr in Chicago, IL. This had become familiar surroundings to him recently. Moving away from home may always be a difficult stage in one’s life, but not when the man doing the moving and the adjusting to a new world is that of a forty five year old male and the founder of Sampson & Sampson, Inc.

Earl’s company was a big name law firm stationed in New York City. His younger brother, James Sampson, helped Earl bring the company to its peak. No other law firm was bigger or better.

Earl Sampson was not in Chicago on business. Nor was he here on vacation, checking out the Navy Pier down the street. He lived here now. Actually, he lives in a park East of Grande Street called Milton Lee Olive Park. He laid his head on a park bench settled under a large oak tree. This was his home. His decision was to leave his home in New York. Leave his wife. Leave his son. Leave his brother. And leave his company he spent his adult life creating.

His decision was more made for him that his own. One day, working late at the office on another murder case which he was defending, he decided to come home a little early. The paperwork could be laid out in the morning to finish; he only wanted to go home and be with his family for dinner.

When he pulled into his driveway, that night, he found that his brother’s car was in his parking spot. Not thinking much of it he casually walked towards the back of the house where the kitchen window stood. He peeked into the window, made a mental note that the siding needed to be sprayed down, and did not see anyone there. He slid into the back door quietly for a better surprise.

Earl tip-toed around looking for anyone in the house, peeked into his son’s room, which turned up empty. He glanced up and down the hallway, holding his breathe for a sound, and then a slight sound came from the direction of the room Earl and his wife shared. The door was cracked only slightly and a little light peered through. His heart rate quickened a bit, as he was attempting to ascertain the situation. His brother’s car was in the driveway, he couldn’t find his wife or son anywhere in the house, and now a squeak whispered through the crack of the room’s door. Earl’s blood started pumping harder, revving the sleeping engine inside to a booming anger. He took a step back. Wheeled up and kicked the door open. His wife, naked, on top of a man he could only assume to be his brother. Earl’s fists clenched into a ball, then fell back loosely to his hips; open, closed, open, closed. Half-moon indentions brought blood to the service of his palm. Drops of blood slipped through his fingers, plopping on the carpet.  His wife could only give a look of pain, as she slipped of his cock reaching for her robe, and an apologetic glance that was more embarrassment of getting caught than remorse of fucking his brother in their own bed. He looked at his brother. He lay there, with his wife, staring at the ceiling. Earl looked back and forth between the two; back and forth. Not one of them said a word. Twenty seconds dragged on to twenty centuries. He turned his heel and stepped out of the door and out of the house.

That was a year ago, now in Chicago, and he still hasn’t seen or heard from either his wife or his son since that day. His brother was nothing but a dead rodent washed to the street from the sewer after a hard rain. Non-existent was healthier. He couldn’t really think of how he got here. Such a long journey to thumb from New York, that’s for damn sure. Every day was a blur and that every same day he thought how he would rather not live. Everyone had betrayed him, stolen from him, and then kicked him in the teeth as he lay heartless on his bedroom floor.

Earl Sampson’s rambling in his head had brought him to an Italian restaurant he has come to adore. He did that a lot. Walking, thinking, and walking without knowing where his feet took him. He was hungry. That’s all he knew; and Italian was his favorite. The restaurant would not let him the front door; he supposed it was the ragged clothes (a gray sports coat, a white button down collared shirt underneath, and a pair of matching gray slacks) that lay haphazardly on his body. His clothes have become near black from his traveling here with a few tears and holes. He was nothing but a bum in the city; a goddamn bum.

Earl quietly slid down the back alley where the dumpsters were placed behind the Italian restaurant. This was his dinner tonight. The amount of food wasted by this city was amazing! Just one of these dumpsters could feed a third world country! He slumped over the side, got a whiff of the trash, and up-chucked over the opposite side. What has become of me, he thought sadly. Death, I adore you. Your mysteries, your pain-relievers, how do I reach thee?

“Be careful what you wish for, Mr. Sampson.”

Earl swirled around from the sound of a man’s voice. In mid swirl, he slipped on a grease spot on the ground next to the dumpster, fell backward in slow motion that can only be described as comical, kicked with his left leg, grabbed for support with his right arm, his fingers grasped a wire (maybe it was a cord of some sort) from above the dumpster, pulled down on the cord, something metal clanged and fell to the ground just paces away, lost his grip on the cord, and fell with a Omphf! into bits and pieces of Italian greased spaghetti, clams and buttered bread in the dumpster.

Well, he thought, that ought to be a nice smelling cologne. He shifted his footing in the dumpster, grabbed the edge, flung his feet over, and plopped on the pavement with a thud. Another thought had surfaced, more like an emotion that swept over him, engulfing him with fear. And one word, Devil!

“No, Mr. Sampson, I am no devil; or the devil. I am here to help you, yes indeed!”

This was no man, Earl thought. It was clear that this man could read his mind as if he were speaking aloud. But his voice, his voice was that of a human man, only not of the usual kind. Flies would drop from the air within a ten yard radius, just from the sound. Or the sound of his voice would send rats fleeing to their holes with a bad taste in their mouth. Or a nasty ringing in God’s own ears; praying him to cease.

“I like you, Earl. You are one of the few who attempts a look. Many scare aware and stare in the distance in my presence.”  The man spoke and the ground shook. He was a peculiar looking man. Earl couldn’t quite see his face but he was strong. Oh yes, very strong. But what did he care?

“I have no fear. I have nothing to lose, so I do not scare easy. I am especially not afraid of a man who hides in the shadows when he is speaking to another man!” Earl was on the verge of tears. Even though the words ran smooth and they sounded a bit harsh, he was scared shitless underneath. Show your bones son, he thought, and kill me if it pleases ya.

Suddenly, there was a rush of wind slamming Earl back against the dumpster. The wind swished and twirled around them, kicking up loose papers and trash. The man was raging now.

“You coward!” The man screamed. “You know nothing! You want me to show you my bones, Mr. Samson? Fine, that’s fine! Ssssss!”

Earl was standing against the dumpster, fear stricken, but found enough courage to lift his chin to look into the man’s eyes. He immediately regretted the decision but could not look away once he had locked eyes with him.

The man in the blue suit thrust his face inches away from Earl’s. But, there was no face. A face, where skin and flesh were supposed to be, was only a skull. The eye sockets were sunken in about the size of a silver dollar. This wasn’t any ordinary skull. Inside the eye sockets were actual eye balls; darting this way and that. Sputtering and darting, this way and that way, up and down. The constant movement seemed the only way for the skull-man to keep them from falling out.  That was the least of his worries. Scanning his skull-face, he could see some sort of ooze sliding down the bone of his skull. The ooze was slow to fall, almost like he was sweating, greasy, molasses, but never falling off his face. The sweat-molasses slithered down his bones to his grim smile. That smile is forever embedded in that skull, knowing no other emotion.  He stood face to face with this demon for several seconds before the skull-man spoke again. His voice now suddenly changing, as before masked to seem more human, into more snake-like slither. All of his S’s ran together as if the skull-man’s tongue had grown five inches.

“What’s-sss the matter, boy? Are you ss-scared now? Ah, I can see that much, yes-ss. I can ss-see the wet piss streaming down your pathetic trousers-ss. Ha! You little sss-shit! You, know nothing! None of you ever learn!”

“Who-what are you?” Earl wasn’t sure how, but he managed to stammer the words from his mouth. Poor Earl, innocent Earl, speaks too soon.

The skull-man in the blue suit rose slightly; almost mechanically.

“I am neither living nor dead.” The skull-man was now slowly lifting off the ground. The wind became a tornado; a tornado of raw terror. Loose trash was now beating Earl in the face, dirt flung into his eyes, but he could not look away. His terror froze him, still leaning against the dumpster as the skull-man now raising a few feet off the ground in the middle of the alley; his voice booming, reverberating into Earl’s ears.

“I do not pledge allegiance, Mr. Sampson. I do not answer to God, nor do I answer to Lucifer. I am in-between. I help the passing. My specialty is suicide. I help you chicken-shits do something you wouldn’t do, but all of which you beg for. I am Death, Earl. And Death has come for you!”

At that instant, the skull-man in the blue suit came slamming back to Earth. He threw his hands up behind Earl’s head, which now the man could smell that he lost his bowels, and snagged the cord that was slung there. He thrust it around Earl’s and neck, side-stepped to the back of the dumpster, tugged down with so much force that it slung Earl off his feet.

Earl’s hands went immediately to the cord. Tugged, snagged, and grabbed at it swinging and kicking his feet, gasping for air. The cord surprisingly suspended his body, cutting off air flow to his brain. He started to loose consciences, struggling to meet eyes with his murderer.

“Good-bye, Mr. Sampson. See you in-between.”

The skull-man stepped back and spread his arms out wide. He rested his head on his chest and vanished with Crack! Blue sparks cracked and whipped onto Earl’s body, searing his skin.

Earl was awestruck. White sparkles were now prickling his vision. He stopped kicking. He stopped thinking. Poor old Earl; only wanting to rid himself of his problems but instead asked for death and Death met; suicide was the passerby’s opinion. Poor homeless man couldn’t take it anymore it seems. Just before he lost complete consciousness, a voice spoke booming in his head.

“Saved; I relieve you of your turmoil, Earl Sampson.”