The Scheming Bums

Adam’s feet moved swifter than usual that day. He believed that the brisker he walked, the faster he’d find a solution to his problem: He had to find and pay £2000 he had borrowed from the local moneylender George in two days. He had collected only £250 so far, and that was also loaned to him from a few people.

Normally, Adam didn’t panic, but he was anxious about the time limit that was looming over him. George wasn’t a man to avoid or delay. He had lent Adam £1125 six months ago and every month that passed Adam would need to pay an additional 10% on his loan. Now that the time was up, George would expect to see his money at 11am sharp on the day, if he didn’t, Adam didn’t want to find out what would George do to him.

Adam also had been looking for jobs in passed six months. He may have been choosey at first but as time went on, he had even applied to menial jobs ten miles walk away. But jobs were scarce, under the drastic economic conditions, no one was hiring. Even if they were, it would take months for him to earn £2000.

Adam heard a splash; he had stepped in a puddle. Tired of cursing his luck, he turned around to walk back up the road. He had until home to invent a way to find that money. Only a miracle would have saved him now. Passing by his block, Adam thought he had better go to Mickey’s; his best friend, he always had some ideas at the last minute, if any of them were unusable, then at least he would have tried cheering him up. Having an ice-cold beer helped Adam to mull over the solution that sparked in his head during his walk. Except there was no solution just yet, but he needed to be brightened up. Adam buzzed the bell three subsequent times. Mickey opened the door with a mischievous cheer.

“Hey, buddy! I thought it’d be you. Come on in.”

“How’s it going?” Adam asked.

“All well,” Mickey dragged out the second syllable. He was one of those people even if he hanged upside down by the window at the third floor, he’d still say that all was well.

Within five minutes, Mickey’s mother rushed in the room with lemonade and a plate of biscuits in the manner of a servile attendant; she had always served them this combination since they were ten years old. Adam thanked Mrs Perry. He thought how lucky Mickey was, she still cared for her twenty-five-year-old son, while his own folks had given him an ultimatum to leave the flat in two months. According to his family, Adam had no business living with them at his age. Mickey, however, wasn’t much better off than Adam: Mickey had debts from gambling but his family were lenient and supported him with monthly payments to his creditors.

“So still nothing from the job applications, ay?” Asked Mickey.

“Still nothing. I even applied shops and restaurants ten miles walk away.” Adam bowed his head in despair. His eyes hurt from the restless nights.

“Hey it’s just an unlucky phase, just when you lose all the hope, you’ll hit your lucky star.”

“I would really like to sleep my unlucky phase off. For the first time, I’ve put more effort into something, and I still have nothing on my hands.”

“Dude, an opportunity is an offer for luck and when you seize that opportunity, you make your luck. So you’ve got to sit back and wait for that opportunity to come along.”

“Yeah, I wish I had the luxury you have. My lot want me gone before September.”

“Let’s talk to ma; she’d make your bed space in a jiffy. After all, she loves you perhaps more than she loves me.”

“Or maybe I’ll just beg the old- lady next door, she lives alone, and she’s loaded.” Adam said with a face that was about to break into a sob.

“How d’ya know she’s loaded?” Mickey widened his eyes.

“I came across with her yesterday. She was looking for her key to unlock the door to her flat. As she took the key out, she dropped a boodle of dosh snuggled in fifties. What’s crazy is that she didn’t even notice it.”

Mickey asked with gaped mouth, “Well, what did you do with it?”

“I was just walking behind her when she dropped the dough, so I picked it up and gave it to her. The poor soul was very grateful.”

“Wait, so you returned ALL the money?” Mickey emphasised on the word all.

“Yeah,” Adam flipped open his hands as though he would do otherwise.

“You crazy S.O.B. Once again, you’ve justified your poverty.”

“Because I helped somebody?”

“Because you don’t seize your chances, man.”

“But that was her money.”

“That could have been just the amount you needed. It dropped in front of you and she didn’t see it, you had your chance and you’ve ruined it.”

“Well, I just treat people in a way I would like to be treated; I’d have liked them to return the money if I had dropped it.”

“But you’re the only fool who’d return it,” Mickey said and offered Adam some hemp papers which he rolled his Golden Virginia tobacco into it.

“Does she have any children? Mickey asked.

“Who?”

“The centenarian.”

“Oh, No. I mean, I don’t even know for a fact. She’s always been alone.”

“Perhaps she’s inherited the money or has been saving it all life. What number does she live in?”

“Why, will you stop by hers for tea?”

“Do you realise the opportunity you’re being presented with?”

“That I could ask her to adopt me until I’m really ready to leave home?”

“No, man, all that money is probably just hidden under her pillow.”

“Well, obviously she needs that money in someway. The notes were crisp had that fresh ink smell, as if they were withdrawn from the bank clerk.”

“Look man, a senile keeps money at home because they don’t trust banks. Think about it, her and her dead husband’s pensions would have accumulated into a big capital by now.”

“Okay, even if so, what’s it to us?”

“Well, maybe we can borrow some and pay off our debts, then return it to her when we get back on our feet.”

Adam smirked wryly but didn’t comment. His face had reddened with an overwhelming feeling that he had momentarily fantasised what Mickey had said. What Mickey said could work, but he knew that once the money’s taken, until them two sorted their lives out, all the intentions for replacing it would become a lie.

“So should we ask the old lady together?” Adam asked.

“Ask? You think she’s crazy enough to lend to two bums? We’ve got no chance mate.” Mickey chuckled.

“So when you said ‘borrow’,” Adam paused momentarily, “Nope. No can do. It’s basically a burglary which is a crime, and it’s from an old, helpless lady which is worse.” “All crimes are immoral.” Mickey declared.

“But what makes an offence graver is its moral devaluation,”

“When’s George’s due? “On Wednesday at 11,” Adam replied.

“Listen, you haven’t got a chance in hell to find that money in two days. And think about your safety when George doesn’t get his money.”

“I know I know.” Adam said irritated and disheartened.

Adam left Mickey’s speaking further about transgressing against the old-lady. Mickey had shown him a possible way of getting hold of the money he needed even though the method wasn’t to his taste. “It’s stupid and dangerous.” Adam tried to suppress the igniting excitement in his mind. Could have the heart to do it? He reckoned not.

As Adam got back from one of his torrid days, he saw his neighbour Kelly cry while walking her pram. She was trying to wipe her tears in agile sweeps but another as soon as she did that they cascaded in volumes. Adam asked her if she was all right. Kelly talked amid her tears. She told Adam that her two-year-old son, Peter, needed an epilepsy surgery but he had to wait for a long time due to the list of patients; she also didn’t have enough money for a private operation. Adam had heard about it when his parents were discussing it. People in the same development had started a campaign for Peter, which Adam’s family had contributed into as well. It was sad for Adam to hear about the little Peter. He knew Kelly from school; she was once a chirpy girl who now wore a veil of despair and looked skin and bones from worry.

At home, Adam had another squabble with his father as George had called in to remind Adam about his debt. Arguments with his dad disheartened Adam so instead of staying home daytime, he would sit on the building stairs when he got tired from walking. Adam sat on the usual set of stairs. It pained him not being to help Kelly: He couldn’t stop thinking about the old lady’s pillow fund. Maybe he could even ask her to lend some money, but what if she refused and worse she told about it to his family? But if instead, he appropriated it, there would be no time limit for paying back.

Most nights, Adam tried to talk himself out of his villainous and unvirtuous thoughts, alas, without a success.

The next day, Adam met up with Mickey again. Adam had been in an emotional decay for some weeks now but tomorrow his body was expendable at George’s hands.

“Well, have you tossed and turned in the bed and decided yet?” Mickey asked.

“I don’t know.” Adam pursed his lips but Mickey knew Adam was finally defeated: He hadn’t the time left to ponder it over for longer.

In the end, Adam decided that he’d go ahead with the scheme. He’d give Mickey’s share, pay off his debt tomorrow, and give Kelly the rest of the money for the little Peter who had been a bigger reason in his decision.

“She goes for a walk every morning at 8.30 for two hours. So, I must get key tonight to bring it to key cutter McCarthy first thing in the morning. Then I can pick the money tomorrow while she’s out. My folks are travelling to visit someone, anyway. They’ll return around midnight.”

“Great.” Mickey rubbed his hands together.

“Then you call at the old-dame’s flat saying that you’re tired, thirsty and you’ve been locked out of home. You’ve got exactly 25 minute to copy the key. Then I’ll go into yours, switch the lights on, that’s your cue to leave her house.”

According to the plan, exactly at eight o’clock in the evening, Adam rang the old lady’s door. She responded with a subtle surprise and invited him inside her house to wait until his parents returned. Adam made up a story that he had been trying to break into his own house without a success and now he was tired.

The old lady listened to him with a deep empathy on her face, “You must be ravished. Would you like a plate of stew? I’ve made it today.”

“Very kind of you, thank you but I’m not hungry. Just a glass of water would do, please.” Adam’s nerves had given him stomach cramps so much that he didn’t need to act tired anymore.

Despite her frail stature and sluggish moves, the old lady insisted on making Adam some tea and left Adam to his own while she heated some water in her small kitchen.

Adam kept on track with his watch, hoping that Mickey would be on time with the plan. Adam was afraid if he stayed longer he might change his mind at the last minute. While the old-lady was in the kitchen, Adam browsed around. Where could be the money? Was it inside the chiming wall clock? Or was it inside the brass trunk? When the old lady sat down, he’d excuse himself to the bathroom and quickly pressed the key on to the salt dough that he carefully wrapped in his pocket.

The old lady returned with a cup of tea and a plate of chocolate digestive biscuits. She watched Adam dunking a biscuit with warmth on her face.

“If your folk don’t return tonight, you can always stay here. I’ve got a blow up mattress. It was my husband’s; I’ve been a widow since nine-teen-seventy-nine. We’ve never had children. So you’re like a son to me,” The old lady said.

Adam thanked her, drank his tea, and as planned, he excused himself to the bathroom. In the corridor, he swiftly imprinted the old-lady’s key and returned to the living room. After realising the signal across the window, Adam left the old-lady’s flat with a sense of sorrow for the lonesome elderly who had been kind to him.

The next morning the two cronies waited for the old-lady leave her flat for her walk: Mickey observed the surrounding area of the estate while Adam went in with the copy of the key he had gotten made. As soon as he stepped in the apartment, Adam inspected the old lady’s room. At the second glance, he saw a fat envelope on the Davenport chest. He had hit the jackpot. There was two stacks of fifties in there; this could have been a few thousand in cash. He briefly hesitated before he took it: Should he leave some money behind? Then his mobile phone rang, it was one of George’s men, most likely to remind to pay his debt later on. Adam cursed for forgetting to put his phone on silence. He switched off the phone, took the envelope, and quickly headed to the door. Since Mickey didn’t alarm him, the coast must have been clear of any people.

Adam got out of the estate and met Mickey around the corner. The content of the envelope amounted to exactly £5000. It had been so easy. Adam handed £1000 to Mickey for his debts. After George, he had £2000 saved for the little Peter. Adam was so proud to be able to help Peter and was looking forward to see Kelly smile after he handed her over the money. But first, he’d sort out his affairs.

On the way back to the estate in the early hours of the evening, Adam and Mickey were merry with the celebrations over celebratory pints. In the development, they saw a commotion and an ambulance. Amidst the crowd, he saw the old-lady being carried on the stretcher. Her eyes were closed. Suddenly, Adam felt an uneasy heaviness in his stomach. What if the old lady had died after he left? He asked a neighbour; she said they had robbed the old lady of the money which she’d planned to pledge to the little Peter’s cause. After her walk, she wanted to go to the hospital to see Peter but there was no envelope to be found. She had had welled up while talking about her misfortune to her neighbour and subsequently had a heart attack.

Adam froze with shock: A cold shower of sweat rushed down his spine. All of that money was the little Peter’s opportunity, after all. Adam had caused agony to the innocent old-lady and had deprived a needy child of his fortune. Adam left the scene at once.

To Adam’s disappointment, Mickey and him had already used the money to clear off their debts. Fortunately, Adam hadn’t given Kelly the money yet or else they would have found out who had stolen it by now.

“Well, what now?” Mickey asked.

“We’ve just deprived a sick child from his surgery fund and caused an innocent to fall sick. And there I was, thinking I was doing someone good. We have to match the sum.” Adam glanced at Mickey for his reaction.

Mickey appeared to be contemplating at instance, then beamed a wry smile. “There’s one place we can get the rest of the money, but it’s a bigger risk than the old lady’s house,” He said.

Adam nodded his head readily to Mickey’s idea.

At midnight, the buddies reunited for their target. They broke into the betting store where Mickey often lost the most his cash. It was his way of getting his money back. Mickey knew that its owner had kept the till in the office. The masked pair clipped the lock with ease, but in the dungeon, they had a surprise waiting for them. The owner of the store was there, on his chair.

As dumbfounded as his visitors, a quick scuffle broke out where Mickey held the man with a knife, while Adam emptied the cash in a bag. As Adam prepared to get away, the shop owner wriggled out of Mickey’s hold and took the knife off of his hands. The owner lunged forward to Adam and stabbed him in the web of his foot. As he lifted the knife again to stab for the second time, Mickey hit him on the head, so Adam ran away.

On the pitch-black uphill streets, Adam’s sprint steadily turned into a hopping of a wounded deer. As he gradually felt the increasing twinge on his foot, Adam smiled; he could now give the little Peter his opportunity back to him.

For the Best Memories

“Dude, what’s taking you so long? Are you spelling your name, or something?” Lexo whisper-shouted from his spot.

Mackie pulled up his zip, “Sorry mate, had a lot to tinkle,” he rustled among the tree leaves while treading lightly back to his position at the foxhole.

Under the starless night, Lexo and Mackie could only hear the whining of the power supply and the chorus of the crickets that had filled in the field. Otherwise, it was a tranquil summer night.

Lexo and Mackie were two army corporals on a sentry duty in a trench. They knew each other from the base, but that night was the first time they worked together. With twelve hours of stag ahead of them, the corporals were trying to pass the time with idle chat.

“The first time we met was through the Machine Gun Kelly, wasn’t it?” Mackie asked.

“Yeah, that’s him,” Lexo answered.

“Heard that he got arrested a few days ago for carrying an illegal weapon. Guess he was a bit of a gun-ho, after all.”

“Nah, that’s because he farts like a bloody machine gun. When we was out together in Bastion, he stank the whole camp.” Both men chuckled.

“Still ten hours to finish,” Lexo sighed at the sight of his Casio watch.

“If you keep the count of the hours, time will never pass. What’s your rush, anyway?” “Sleep.”

“You can sleep on your R&R.”

“I’d love to, but the Missus wants travel a bit, she doesn’t get that my entire life’s already been on the road.”

“Ah, young bloods. The wife and me used to travel around. After the children, we just seem to go to the same places every summer.” Mackie bemoaned and fiddled with his helmet.

“That’s still better than having to be here. Four months more, any plans for when you get back?” Asked Lexo.

“Well, I suppose I first give the wife a good hump; go to football games with the kids; drop by the pub to see friends; and maybe go game-hunting with my best friend Gary. But maybe not in this particular order. And how about you?”

“That’s a full on plan. Well, my girlfriend and me are saving money for touring the South America. So I guess we’ll spend time with friends and family until that happens.”

“Sounds nice. So no marriage in near future for you then?”

“No,” Lexo tittered. “That’s the least kind of rush I am in.”

Mackie grinned. And then his eyes caught a murky figure emerging from the bushy meadow. Mackie quickly hushed Lexo by tapping his shoulder at the same time. From the depth of darkness, an outline of a giant mushroom silhouette approached toward them.

“Password!” Mackie demanded.

“The Green Valley,” answered a man in a combat uniform.

“Thanks Spanny,” Lexo reciprocated.

“How did you know?” When Spanny spoke, his gaped teeth, similar to a spanner, sprang out from his mouth.

“I could see your piano keyboard of teeth from miles away. What are you doing alone here, anyway?” Mackie asked.

“I’m with Jimmy the Artist. He’s over there taking a leak.” Spanny pointed at the abyss.

“How many of yous’ are out there tonight?” Asked Mackie.

“Us and the section from the Charlie Company, as far as I know.”

“Why so few?”

“Well, it isn’t a danger zone, nothing ever happens in this part of the territory.”

Just then, Spanny heard a radio call with his call sign, he had been ordered to patrol the north of the camp with an immediate effect. Spanny acknowledged the call and left the corporals.

“They haven’t planned this thoroughly, I tell you.” Lexo grunted.

“Yeah, once again, we are short of men.”

“I promise myself that I’d leave in summer, then right after it, I find myself back in for another year. What am I doing in a foreign country, hiding in the bushes with another man?”

Mackie let out a snortful laughter, “That’s because you get the blues as soon as you’re away. That’s why I stayed in for fifteen years, anyway.”

“I’ve been in for five, and I’ve already had enough. But how come you’re still a corporal just like me with your kind of experience, if you don’t mind me asking?”

As Mackie opened his mouth to answer Lexo, they heard some indistinct sounds across the grassland.

“Our lot are a bit noisy, aren’t they?” Mackie quipped.

“Yeah, that’s if they are ‘our lot’.” Lexo yawned, “These are the times I need to smoke the most, I’m falling apart, dude.”

“I’m knackered myself, mate.”

“No mobile phones, no distractions, this is a good time to think about the life decisions I’ve made.”

“Or about to make,” Mackie said. The pair laughed like a pair of spotted hyenas.

An hour and half dawdled on the clocks, Mackie and Lexo had ran out of conversation a while ago. The wind sighed through the pasture, which moisten Mackie’s tired eyes; he had hallucinated strange visions. He looked over to Lexo who was quite: Lexo had sat in Fowler’s position with his legs stretched out. His head was slightly downwards; he’d nodded off. Lexo’s lack of stamina surprised Mackie. As Mackie’s eyes struggled remain open, the previously unintelligible sounds near them soon became familiar to him. They belonged to the fleeting locals who could be friendly or insurgents.

In a short amount of time, the bawling male voices in a native language woke up Lexo. Both men rushed to cover their dugout with a camouflaged net, then laid down under it. Amidst the profound obscurity, it was difficult to assess how many of them were there. Even though, their eyes were adapted to the unlit surroundings, they could hardly distinguish the contour of humans from the trees.

At first, the voices went passed by them. But a few minutes later, they heard men groaning in the near vicinity. One of them cursed in English. Then a series of muzzle flashes and a collection of gunfire took the place of the growling men. Mackie and Lexo cocked their weapons in haste and kneeled on their spot.

And then a brief vociferation followed a sudden blaring explosion that shook the ground and caused blood shuddering wailings. The crickets had quietened. The corporals thought that the earth was flattened. All had happened in the bat of an eyelid.

Mackie and Lexo checked on each other, they were both rubbing their ears with the reverberating wave of the blast. After the outburst, there came the erratic thumping of the heartbeats. Not long after, the source of the clatter quickly re-advanced toward Mackie and Lexo’s place.

“If we make it tonight, we must meet up and have an ice cold for the best memories.” said Mackie in a dampened tone.

“For the best memories, indeed,” muttered Lexo.

During the fretful wait, an eerie silence had downed on Mackie and Lexo in anticipation of their foes lurching into them. And then came the sound of a bleep and static, someone talked at a disturbed frequency then the radio died.

“Dammit, I’d left the radio on the entire time.” Lexo glanced at Mackie. Immediately after, they heard a crack of a bullet flying pass by their heads. Mackie and Lexo returned the fire but the next second, Mackie found Lexo on the ground: They had shot him, and it wasn’t obvious where on his body. Mackie set his weapon on burst. The firefight continued for what felt like an eternity to Mackie, but the violent rammy was over in a matter of minutes. There was another set of shootings from across. The reinforcement had come: The opposition had ran away.

Mackie then tried to relay a message on his radio but it didn’t have an adequate coverage. He blasted his luck.

Mackie stooped down to examine Lexo, who laid floppy and breathed shallow. He then promptly applied a tourniquet on Lexo’s pelvic wound. And then he considered his next move: Lexo’s state was grave, and he had to reach the medics as soon as possible.

Mackie assessed his confinements: The camp was five miles away across the prairie, so he had to leopard crawl all the way back to avoid being seen. Briefly, Mackie doubted his chances of achieving his way back to the camp. He hadn’t been physically fit for a long time; this was the reason of his hiatus at a lowly rank despite his extensive time in the army. His tactical belt felt smaller everyday on his ever-expanding waist.

Amid the self-depreciation and hesitation, Mackie recalled his Survival Evasion Resistance and Escape training in case of a capture. He then began concealing Lexo with plants. Right then, Lexo gained consciousness, he saw Mackie laying branches and leaves on his face in a rapid action. Lexo tried to scream, but no noise came out of him. He felt a shiver; he didn’t want to be left alone in the ditch. He wondered whether Mackie was deserting him and whatever had happened to the ice cold if they came out alive.

As Lexo felt his pulse weakening, he fell back into a serene sleep.

On the uneven turf, Mackie crept up; he was dragging the entire weight of his body coupled with body armour, his weapon, and the weighty radio equipment on his back. After a while, Mackie slowed down. He had been going for an indeterminable amount of time when he thought he couldn’t go on anymore. But to Mackie’s relief, he had then heard a distinct pattern of a dog baying at the distance.

Hours later, the coral hued sunbeams hit the dewy grassland. The birds came out to celebrate the nature. It was as though nothing had happened the night before.

Meanwhile, Lexo opened his eyes from what it felt like a peaceful sleep. The bright lights dazzled him at first. Then he saw a pulse oximeter clamped on his finger. He was snuggly covered with a warm air blanket: He was in a recovery ward.

As he steadily checked under his hospital dress, “An ice cold for the best memories, then it is,” Lexo grinned.

A Solemn Wish

“The bumper, the headlamps the bonnet, and done!” Exclaimed Jack. He had put his mini dummy car together by watching an online tutorial. 

“Excellent. Dad will love this,” Jack thought to himself. He dashed out of the garage shouting “Daaad, daaaad!” But instead, Jack found his mother whimpering alone in the kitchen. She had crimson marks all over her face. She quickly wiped her teardrops when she saw Jack. Jack sat on the table and mother put his dinner in front of him without uttering a word. He knew what had went down: Another argument between his mother and father. There always an exchange of stern words which followed ear-piercing screams and ended with a physical struggle between his parents. 

Every night, before he went to sleep, Jack wished for the rows to stop forever. He had even made a promise to himself; if the fighting stopped, he would try to achieve a hundred percent in his lessons for a gleaming End of Year school report. But it didn’t seem like his wish would come true anytime soon.

Jack bowed his head down in contemplation and ate his food. Later, Jack went to his room: His cars were only consolidation to him. After school, he would watch hours of educational videos about vehicles on his computer. He was a child with knowledge in mechanics like of an apprentice. 

Jack’s interest in cars had started with his mechanic uncle John, his father’s brother, who worked at his own garage. Jack loved visiting the garage after school and on the weekends, where his uncle would explain about the parts of a car and how to fix it.  

Often, uncle John’s wife would show up at the garage with the most delicious sandwiches in the world. She was always a delight to see, as she was always cheerful. Jack felt loved and secretly wished that he was their child instead. 

Jack wanted to become a mechanic just like his uncle when he grew up, so he had already picked up a few skills that his uncle showed him at his work. Jack had also been part of his uncle’s project of building a street legal car over the months, and he had even learnt the basics of driving a car.   

Two nights later, Jack woke up to the sound of a blasting quarrel. At first, he waited for the shrieking voices to die down. But there was no end to it. He darted down the stairs and saw his parents locked in a bitter war of words of again. Jack was scared. Suddenly, he felt as though he had nowhere else to go. His father had once again left the house in a huff in the middle of the night, and his mother returned to concentrate on her chores. None of them had even noticed the little Jack standing beside them. And neither of them had remembered it was Jack’s 10th birthday that morning. That day, Jack went to school with a heavy heart.

 One afternoon, Jack got back from school, his father was at home: It was an excellent opportunity to show his dad the dummy car he had made a few days ago. But Jack’s father told him that he was too tired to have a look at the car and continued to read on his newspaper. All of Jack’s excitement had burned down by his father’s rejection. As Jack wanted to ask him when he could check the car, Jack’s mother came in the room and began distracting his father with a tiff. Jack thought, “Please, no, stop.” She was ruining Jack’s rare chance to bond with his dad. But his mother didn’t step down. With the escalating voices, his father got enraged and the small feud became a huge wrangle. When Jack laid on the bed that night, he implored silently again that the fighting would stop, he could hear his parents’ bickering through the walls for hours. Jack buried his head in the pillow and tried to sleep. 

In the morning, Jack woke up with an idea that he had gotten from his vivid dream the night before. He knew what he supposed to do. That day, Jack had a spring to his step.

 At night, there was a beginning of another friction between his parents. But it didn’t continue for too long because his mother had found a printed note that Jack’s grandmother was in the hospital. Jack got sent to his room, while his parents jumped in the car to drive to the emergency two miles away. From the open window, Jack could hear their continuing clash in the car. They were bellowing abuses at each other. 

As soon as his father started the engine Jack reached to his computer, opened a software that he downloaded through the dark web, and then he disabled his father’s brake system on his car.

Returning to spy on his parents behind the curtains, Jack murmured, “Now you can argue for as long as you wish.”  

Jack slept very well that night. 

The End of Our Time

I woke up with an unfamiliar sentiment today. My bedsheets had fallen on the floor as if I had a slumber party on my bed. My stomach tinged with an obscure nausea, probably because of date with Jack and Johnny the previous night. I brushed my teeth but my whiskey breath still lingered on. So I jammed a chewing gum in my mouth.

Agnieszka should have woken me up an hour ago with my breakfast. I was used to rising up to the sound of the choppy waves and the high-spirited twicking noises of the Sanderlings. Then she would come in with a tray of fresh orange juice with avocado egg. But today, I disliked the ominous silence and being alone: Something didn’t feel right.  

In the garden, I came across with Merlin, my business partner. He was stood staring at the pool.

“What’s up? You look like someone stole your lucky pants,” I asked.

“We’ve lost the contract,” said Merlin said without taking his eyes off of the pool.

“Why? Who cancelled on us?”

“The nature,” he replied, his eyes still unpeeled from the water.

Neither Merlin’s unannounced presence nor his words made sense to me so I set on my way for a meeting fifty miles away. I hopped in to my Pagani HuayraRoadster and drove through the development.

The entire confinement had been my own project: I had provided a spacious place enriched with topiary and wild green for the privacy of my clients. They liked the experience of the wilderness in the middle of the city. I liked it too: Behind the wall, we had access to an unpolluted sea, clean water, fresh air and nature. I was the architect of my and plenty of people’s dream world. 

I drove on with my car window down. As soon as I exited the gates of the haven, my eyes couldn’t believe themselves the sight laid in front of them: There were high-rise buildings with dull flakey paints, the greyish hue in the air was hard to breathe in, the atmosphere left your body with disgusting stickiness. I pulled the window up and continued cruising. I didn’t remember when any of these hideous structures had been erected.

Moments later, I was in the traffic under the sweltering heat of the summer. I turned on the air conditioner, and then several children leaped in front my windshield and closed in to the sides. Some had miserable little faces, some were filled with hope. This had never happened before. One of the kids asked me if I had any food and water with me.

I freed my pockets of all money coins to give to them but they refused, “There’s no food to buy in the shops,” the oldest of them shouted.

“No food?” Agnieszka had always shopped the bulk food from this side of the wall, shopping here was cheaper than the trendy but pricey health stores in our development. I wondered since when the food had been scarce. I was confused, sweaty and curious as to the congestion ahead, so I apologised to the children and crept along the traffic.

On the sidewalk, numerous ravaged faced people were on an idle move in the same direction. Just then a foul smell of faeces assaulted my nostrils.

Embracing courage and I inhaled the inoffensive oxygen in my car and hanged out of my front door window and asked one man, “Excuse me. What’s going on over there?”

“A war,” he answered me with a glum ridden features and then he carried on to the path ahead.

As I advanced further up the road, the cloudless, greyish sky turned into a thick smog. I approached to a fenced off sector with military at the gate. The soldiers asked me where I was heading and warned me that I wouldn’t be protected once I leave the frontier. Outside, the stench of cadavers brought me to the point of regurgitation. There were a lot of armed vehicles going in various directions. On to the side, a crowd were in a scrimmage for the air-dropped sustenance. I drove on against the calamity.

After an hour of arid drive I found Matias whose eyes told me a million words at once.

“Okay, can someone explain me what’s going on?” I asked giving into my impatience.

“We’re screwed Calvin. The project cannot go on anymore. There are too many environmental implications.”

“Like?”

“The constant development projects have been responsible for environmental degradation all along.”

“Since when you’ve become an ecologist, Matias?” I ask.

“Since the world is crumbling: Floods, war, famine, everything is going down.”

“One problem at a time, Matias.”

“We can’t keep on building anymore, Calvin, not only resources but land availability is fast depleting. People don’t buy apartments anymore, they have other concerns such as surviving on earth. But even bigger problem is that the people, who we have sold developments to, are suing us. Turns out the Serenity was on flooding zone. Our clients have lost their homes.”

“Anything else?”

“Years’ of land abuse aggravated by us has finally left us with no lands to sustain ourselves.” “We should have known better. There isn’t a single plant in sight. Just buildings and a swarm of people out there.”

“We have too many people and no have arable lands to grow food on to sustain them.”

“How did we come to these days?” I lamented.

“Well, simply. Overpopulation has caused land expansion, that contributed to deforestation; and that contributed to desertification. Here’s a letter from the union, urging us to stop at once, which we have ignored.” Matias read me the letter which informed us that the world resources have dried up and just now only the affluent have access to desalination and synthetic food which are expensive. Poor people are left with no other option than use their lands to feed themselves and their animals which has caused overgrazing which couldn’t be sustained in the foreseeable future. Their livestock have died, or they are forced to eat them before they could die and rot.

“What do the poor eat now, then?” I asked.

“The charities and food banks help them, the canned stuff they get have expired years ago. Death and diseases have increased, we are back to the dark ages.”

“Can’t we help by appealing for donations?”

“Everyone’s trying to save themselves right now. The super rich are already making reservations to live on Mars.”

“And the good old agriculture system is no more, huh?”

“Well, for the sake of food production, the government converted the forests into agricultural plantations with aggressive farming to match consumer’s needs, so the forests have finally have diminished.”

“So what do you suggest I do?”

“I’m afraid it’s not a problem you can solve alone. Everyone has to come together and do their part. The soil quality is not like it used to be. We need to put some nutrition in soil. We immediately need to turn our backyards into a fast growing tree conservation according to their soil types. The government intends to introduce laws for protecting.

“Could this be a natural disaster?”

“Disasters are only called that because of humans. What business do they have building settlements by the ecologically fragile regions? We got rid of forests, we constructed reservoirs and buildings close to rivers, the government didn’t listen to the recommendations of the environmentalists and kept permitting constructions, quarrying. And, of course, with the competition getting hold of other lands, the destruction of the forest have gone out of control.” “Where there needs to be a ban there isn’t, and when there needn’t a ban, there is, that’s why they couldn’t diminish the damage of the floods.” 

“The authorities are talking about taking measures to preserve the natural environment immediately.” 

“I wish I hadn’t started that project, look what the world has come to. It’s the end of our time” I said. I sat down in despair. The project I had hoped to change the world, only brought the riches to me but destroyed the world. I was facing an outcome that I’d never planned on before. I wish I could have taken time back. 

As my mind slowly melded into a dark emptiness, within the depths of my brain, I heard a clicking sound around me that I cannot register. I hear it again in a synchronised sequence. And then with an involuntary compulsion, I open my eyes.

“Welcome back Mr Bexter,” a man in a white ensemble who holding a mini Newton’s Cradle pendulum, greeted me.

“Of course, it had been a dream: I owned a Pagani for heaven’s sake,” I sighed in despair.

“Ah, but it wasn’t a dream Mr Bexter. It was a successful course of hypnosis trance simulation with a future projection.”

“So I’m still a middle level property developer?”

“Yes, and an honourable man who has promised that you wouldn’t go ahead with the Quantum Project. You’ve seen the extent of damage it would bring and you’ve given us your written forfeit,” said the man and showed me a piece of paper with my signature on it.
“But how did you..? How come?” I mumbled and fell back on my chair with an undignified stupefaction. All I remember after that was my ears hearing me saying, “Nicely played, truly nice played.”

The Charlatan

I knew a chap called Quentin Harvey Bovington when I used to work in the Philippines. He gave after-dinner speeches at corporate functions. We had met in one of the elegant affairs at the Manila Shangri-la, customarily held by Henry Worslow; our mutual friend and the owner of the Worslow Inc.  

 Quentin was a swashbuckling, charisma exuding raconteur who had found a bustling popularity among the emigre network. On the nights of his performance, people lauded him for his showmanship, and women wore the latest haute coutures just to compete for his attention. With a reputation equal to Don Juan, his gentilesse never allowed him to eschew the queue of women waiting for him: All in front of the glistening eyes of the men staring in awe at Quentin, wishing to be just like him. 

Quentin had come from a sturdy background: He owned a coat of arms at his office desk and wore a signet ring of it on his pinky finger. He had said to be coming from a long line of Bovington’s who had all been significant somebodies in the British military. He was also rumoured to have rejected his family cotton business to pursue his speech-making career. His parents had stopped talking to him for pursuing ‘romantic foolishness’ in unsuitable worlds, at his improper age. The fact that he had found his fortune halfway across the world was indeed romantic and one of the qualitiesI admired about him.  “Ideals require commitments, and one can judge a man’s strength of commitment, by seeing what he has done for his ideals.” He had said once. 

Nonetheless, despite his good fortune, Quentin had a despondent side to him: He would go in astonishing feats of drinking his beloved Courvoisier in mornings and would progress on to motiveless irascibility by the afternoon. His success, good looks, a variety of women and regular friends didn’t quash his dependence on his cognac: He would quaff that molten lava from a wobble snifter like it was his main duty in life. As terrible as it was, his employers’ tolerance, allowed him to think drinking was a necessary component to his creativity and livelihood. 

Quentin and I were regulars at the expat exclusive Beehive Club, where we often hanged loose after work. The other rascals who were part of our gin swilling afternoons included working aristocrats like Edward Carlton; a son of a Viscount and a shipping magnate, and Leicester Ellington, an heir to a title and an investment banker. Both had successes in business with a push from their families. 

Most nights at the Beehive where alcohol was guzzled like lemonade, Quentin would tell us amusing anecdotes related to his life: That how he almost married an African princess against his father’s wishes; that he could have earned the Victoria Cross, but he didn’t get on well with his major and so on. 

One evening as we gaggled with the usual troupe, something, what I’d call a blast from past happened. The mahogany doors of the Beehive entryway opened and Blake Purefoy marched in. Blake and I had known each other for twenty-odd years. Son of a military attaché, he had retired as a Brigadier of the Army to enter the world of project managing with no need for his father’s name to propel him into a triumph. Despite the years, he had lost neither his fitness nor his august cheer. 

“By Jove, it’s Sebastian Pickett! Haven’t aged a bit in years, you old dog.” Blake doffed his hat. “Hello chap, small world, didn’t see you since our travelling days. Well,I must say that you seem to have halted the years, too.” I had to introduce this marvellous character to another one I’d known: At instance;I turned my back to look for Quentin, but he was no longer at his seat. So I carried on the fireside chat with Blake. 

As it passed gone midnight, the boys of Beehive had become garrulous with the mighty potent of alcohol. Half intoxicated, I excused myself to the restrooms and bumped into Quentin in the corridors.“Quentin. Just the man I wanted. You must meet an old friend of mine.” I dragged Quentin by the arm. Once again, he was prodigiously inebriated and deluged in lipstick stains.“Oh Seb, I know who you mean. Please don’t make me subject to his tedious verbiage.”“Blake? You saw him? But he is a great conversationalist, and don’t you worry, I’ll be next you to keep the chit chat dynamic.” 

As soon as I brought Quentin back in the room, the atmosphere at the Beehive compound had altered. Blake was in the middle of chatting to the others. When Quentin walked in, they all halted the chatter. Quentin and Blake eyed each other with the belittling malevolence of a troublesome debtor. The simultaneous presence of the both men frosted the moods. When I talked to Blake, Quentin ignored the what the other man had to say and vice versa. An hour long game of puss in the corner had left me with an intense curiosity to find out what was going on between these two. As soon as Blake had left the room for another trip down to the loo, I got on the case. “All right, what is it between you two? Both of you haven’t even attempted to force pleasantries.” Henry and Co quit conversing timely with my question to listen in what Quentin had to say.  

Blake, having been inspirited by the attention, he spoke in a tone of haughtiness. “I would like you to be disposed to what I’m saying. This man, Quentin, is not who you think he is.”

“You said that an hour ago but what on earth do you mean?” Henry grumbled.

“I’m listening.” Edward poured another drink like he was getting ready to watch a sensational act at the Theatre Royal. 

“Oh dear, not a criminal, is he?” Ellington’s eyes widened like of a child at Santa’s grotto. “He’s a campesino, a serf, a precariat!” Blake had dropped the bomb. No one said anything but most likely wondered if Blake was overwhelmed with inebriation. 

“Yes, my fellow Wykehamists and dear Old Wellingtonians. This man is nothing but a villager who has learnt to ape the lifestyle of his social superiors. And he should really be exposed for who really is.” 

“Well, go on, then Blake.” Henry Worsley savoured the last drop of his Jim Bim in his mouth. “He’s a comedy extraordinaire here but back home he is..” Blake paused.

“Go on then, chap.” Henry spluttered again. Quentin returned to the room and Blake looked at him in defiance. “…Behold, Anthony Huxley, a charlatan.” 

“By Jove!” Henry exclaimed.

“He’s an Anthony!” Edward Carlton shrieked in astonishment.

“Is that all?” Asked Ellington.

Quentin smiled, unbothered by the revelation of his secret, he picked up his glass of drink and sat down. Perhaps, he felt liberated in several ways.

“That’s right Anthony. Traditional family names come from a time-honoured family tree. It’s acquired and passed on through distinct blood connection. You don’t just buy a moniker like yours on a cheap paper for a few quid like you have done.”

“Is that true Quentin?” I asked.

Quentin bowed his head and raised his drink, “Well that had to come clean sooner or later.”  “I wouldn’t have guessed it, and one could easily differentiate between hereditary Bourgeoisie from the Park Avenue Society.” Edward said.

“Well, does it matter? He could have easily gotten a title by marrying a hot-blooded daughter of a Lord or a divorcee Baronesses who practically throw themselves at him, anyway.” Ellington said.

“Ah, but then they would understand that he is just a parody of a man, and not a poster of masculinity like you seem him to be.” Blake continued his tirade.  

“What does it matter? Heraldry doesn’t mean much nowadays.” Harry’s gravelly voice suppressed the other three.

“Okay, he isn’t worse than a feudal lord with favoured tax brackets. Therefore, there needn’t for a savage disparagement.” I said.

“But he’s not a self-made man like you Henry and Seb, he’s a pseudo-intellectual poseur.”

“That’s enough Blake, let’s just drop it, would you? If not anything, he’s an officer of the Army.” “Officer? Oh, but my dear Seb, he didn’t even make it to the parking lot of the Sandhurst Academy. He was a private who served as a Lance Garçon at mess functions when I was fresh out of Sandhurst. I remember that he was once charged with purloining the mess-hall silverware from the dungeon. An unforgivable breach of decorum, I’d say. Not to mention his serial womanising, unpunctuality and the shambolic attitude toward his commanders.”

“Nevertheless,”Quentin said without a disruption to his composure, “this is all really because of Annabelle, isn’t it?” At that moment, our heads pivoted rapidly onto Blake, like an unexpected score at a cricket match. 

“Wasn’t she the sweetheart you’ve shown me the picture of once?” I asked. 

“Yes, my high school sweetheart.” Blake, sombre and vexed, took a sip from his brandy. 

“I don’t understand,” Edward looked at us all, confused. 

“What has happened is that our good old Quentin here, suiting to his famed antics, did what he does to the most hapless young bucks and codgers, and deprived Blake from love of his life.” Ellington explained. 

“Gentlemen,” Quentin, picked up his hat and jacket and reeled toward the door in an attempt to exit the room, “it has been a long night. Please excuse me.” He hiccuped. 

Leaving Blake with the boys, I helped the stumbling tippler to give a ride to his home. 

In the car, Quentin sat in silence. He slouched and looked smaller, as though he had molted out of his rumbustious shell to reveal an elusive child. 

“Would you please stop self-martyrise, and talk to me?” I had given into speaking first. 

“Why do you risk being seen with me, Seb?”

“It’s no risk to me and you’re still my friend.”

“Even after all…”

“Yes, you might be suffering from an identity crisis and worse so from alcoholism, but that doesn’t diminish your other qualities.”

“Like every truth that comes out when least expected, eventually, my reality has caught up with me.”

“A question, if I may?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Why am I a suburbanite disguised as an upper class?”

“Yes, if you would, please?”

Quentin took a deep breath as though he was preparing to answer the test of his life.

“Seb, if you know anything about humans, which you do, just ask yourself how many good friends you have?”

“Okay, less than the count of the fingers on my one hand.”

“Yes, and that’s lucky.And since you met many people throughout life how many of them stuck around?”

“A fair amount of them moved on with their lives, I suppose and so did I. Therefore, few. Why?”

“Well. We, as intellectual beings, use tricks to make the people we like to stick around. At the beginning, we avoid, in part or wholly, being our true selves to impress people. We are rarely this kind, loving and honest people we make out to be. As we spend more time with them our real self is slowly or quickly revealed to them, but that’s okay because at the same time, we find out that they also haven’t been the person who have exhibited themselves to be at first. Thus, based on how deep we are already into liking them, combined with our dastardly personalities, both sides unconsciously choose what to do with these relationships. Of course, not all outcomes are to our favour but such is life. People subconsciously know of this, so they only want to be close to you if you are an established person. Those people will respect without the need of getting to know you closely. And as a prosperous businessman, you know that respect brings about businesses.”

“I see. But I never knew that an optimistic person like you had viewed people as rotten.” “Well. No one’s their ultimate self, you see; no one’s the whole package; so long as we live and learn, we are not a finished work of ourselves.”

“Anyhow,” I said, seeking to mellow the exhausting night, “how about a drive over to Cubao? It’s a nice district to decamp to and there aren’t many of us there.”

“Or to a class-deserving sleazy bar in Ermita.” 

“That suggestion, my dear, is appropriately ignored.” We both laughed. 

Soon, we ended up in a trendy bar: After getting appallingly squiffed, we detoured to a nearby hotel.

That night was the last time I’ve seen Quentin: He wasn’t there in the morning and he had never gone to his home or showed up elsewhere. At first, I believed that he had gone somewhere for peace after what had happened that night. But almost a month later, having failed to show up to his engagements or to cancel them, I knew something had gone wrong.

Miserably, I didn’t have a contact for his family, but I asked after him everywhere I went: No one knew what had become of Quentin who had disappeared overnight. 

By the end of the month, I had lost hope of ever hearing from him again. The police search, too, had been futile.

Two months later, out of the blue, I received a letter from England. The typewriter produced notice from a local gazette, was quite brief to read: It was asking me to deliver a eulogy for Anthony Huxley, for his untimely demise.

Cloud 9

Boring. As far as teachers go, neither the looks, nor the delivery of the rather insipid Mr. Clover arrests my interest. But, on the other hand,one can’t expect the algebra to be interesting. Dad has always paid too much for these scholarly dinosaurs to bore me tasteless. While I tarry over my preschool childhood memories, the liberating sound of the clock ends the agonisingly prolonged chalk-talk. With the legerity of an ostrich, I speed over to the locker room to jump back into my casual outfit.

 Down the road, Chuckles’s waiting for me at our usual spot by the Piper’s Wine Bar with a glass of white on his sinewy hand. Chuckles with his Oxford shirt tucked in and his skinny jeans that looked painted on, faked the guise of a twenty while exhuming the demeanour of a forty-year-old. Periodically, he showed his adolescence when he yielded to academy’s pressure for shaving his neat stubble that had sprouted into a scruff beard. 

“Well, you didn’t lose any time, did you?” I ask.
“This is what I have been waiting all day,” Chuckles chortles with merriness of the Pinot GrigioVeneto had brought to him.I sit down, order myself a red from the waiter. He surveys me with swift but inoffensive gazes and then says “Yes mam.”“Hah, he couldn’t guess my age!” I triumph inside. 
“Sooooo, are we still going ahead with it?” Chuckles asks me with a decreased pitch of tone. 
“Yes. I’ve already told him to meet us at mine; if we don’t do it today, we’d never get to do it. Plus, he’s not taking any money from us, so we’d better be on time.” 
“Well, let’s hope he doesn’t end up taking our livers instead,” snorts Chuckles at the prospect of such a notion.

After two glasses of Zinfandel, meeting up with a stranger I found online for him to teach us the choking game doesn’t seem more eerie than eating magic mints at your friend’s backyard.
Admittedly, the game would not be our first wild experience: Chuckles, my partner in mischief, and I regularly ached for adventures.

In the past, I had already once pulled him out of a friend’s birthday because of the unexpected effects of the nitrous oxide; where his teeth clenched, and his body contracted involuntarily, while everyone else laughed raucously, appropriate with the point of the drug. I had also once carried him out of a cinema because he passed out from marijuana. But he had been unproblematic other times such as taking Amphetamine before the exams, or doing Acid and Viagra combo at parties. For the sake of experience, no perversions were too bizarre for us.

 
As unnecessary as our shenanigans may be, it was the best way to escape the mundane nature of our lives. Our parents constantly expect from us to gain and maintain good grades just to look good in society and to speak of us like we are their achievements. 

 As the sun-rays shimmers behind the clouds, Chuckles and I near my home. There is a stranger in blue jeans waiting by the porch. “This has got to be our man.” I whisper to Chuckles.“Oh,” Chuckles sounds out his disappointment. I suppose it wasn’t going to be a trilby hat sporting, leather gloves wearing man with a hideously scarred cheek obscured under the lapels of the long black camel coat where the frills of it touched his western boots with a blinding silver toes just enough distraction for him to hold a cloth of diethyl ether over our mouths to drag our comatose bodies to a dungeon to carve our insides out like a turkey at the Christmas buffet.But in this case, the figure beholding us with a grain of impatience in his glimpses couldn’t have seemed more ordinary member of the public. 

The man from the internet appears to be in the spring of his middle years; his overly moisturized crow’s feet shines under his classic tapered salt and pepper hair, which complements to his minimalist sense of style. Soon after we are acquainted, we assemble in the living room. I offer a cup of tea which the cyberspace guest, who calls himself Leon, accepts.

“So Leon, do you get many interests in your talent?” I break the ice with the first question. 
“I do, but not from teenagers.” 
“How come you agreed to help us, then?” Chuckles asks.
“Because your message came across as though you’d ask anyone who did this sort of thing, which, in honesty, is a little mad. There are many people on the net, and not all of them could be right for the job.” 
“Oh, I know. The last time we met someone, he arrived with a range of equipment we didn’t even plan on using,” exclaims Chuckles.
“So is this your main job or just a hobby?” I ask Leon, whose cautious mien intrigues me as much as his occupation.
Leon’s cool face goes from dry to wry expression, “Let’s just say I it’s my professional hobby. I’m also trained in first aid and other emergency actions,” he says as he sips his milk tea with his right pinkie up in the air. 
 In an interlude, Leon’s eyeballs hops from me to Chuckles. We also scan him with scrutiny until he breaks the lull.
“Are you guys are a couple?” Leon raises his eyebrows with a slight trace of dubiety in his voice.
“We’re best friends.” I answer hoping that it wouldn’t deter him from showing us his expertise.
“Okay. Now. Do you understand the concept of asphyxia?”
“Well, it’s simply depriving one’s brain of oxygen, isn’t it?” Chuckles answers him and I nod in agreement.
“Okay. Now. You can choke someone to prevent air or strangle someone to cut off blood from passing through the neck of an opponent. So, the choking game, or the informed strangulation is the pressure on the neck that compresses the internal carotid artery which also interferes with pressure sensors which dilate the blood vessels in the brain and restricts the travel of blood to the brain cutting it from oxygen that maintains consciousness. The pressure also affects the vagus nerve which commands our body procedures when unconscious; this results in the heart’s decrease rate and volume of the heartbeat. If not done carefully, it can lead to cardiac arrest and even to fatality.”
Leon pauses at that point; Chuckles and I look at each other, baffled by our impromptu biological lesson, then look back to Leon.
“So when does the high come by?” Chuckles asks Leon with a keenness of a komodo dragon.Leon resumes his discourse, “After the reduced blood flow, under the reduced delivery of oxygen to the brain, the first feeling is light-headedness, which people also call ‘high’. When the pressure on the chest or neck is removed, a powerful surge of dammed up blood gets released through the carotid arteries into the brain. This known as the ‘rush’. At this point, braincells die. And the death of each cell, releases a chemical that gives the euphoric feeling which you are seeking.”
“Wow, so it emanates from  your brain dying?” I ask.
“Yes, also note that if the brain starves for oxygen, its cells die and will never regenerate again.”
“Oh god, why everything interesting kills the brain?” Chuckles laments but it’s no time to be neurotic as I’m, for once, learning about something I want to know. 
“How long after the compression unconsciousness follows?” I ask.
“Unconsciousness comes in a matter of seconds of continued strangulation. Dangers are that within three minutes without oxygen to the brain, brain damage will occur; and between four and five minutes death will occur.”
“What kind of damages we are talking about here?” Chuckles asks. 
“Short-term memory loss and dysfunction of basic motor skills.”
“But these are only if we practice it regularly, right?” I seek reassurance.
“Well, it’s how many brain cells you lose, really. Now,” Leon draws in a breath, “do you still want to go ahead with it?” he asks.
Chuckle and I glance each other in acquiescence.
“Okay,” Leon grins, “now I’ll be demonstrating it while one of you watches it. Who wants to go first?”
 I look at Chuckles who’s far too enthusiastic. 
“All right. I’ll go first, but what shall I do?” Asks Chuckles standing up.
“Okay. Now. First you need to lie down because if you pass out while standing, there’s a good chance that you’ll hit your head and injure yourself at the passing out phase,” instructs Leon. 
Chuckles complies, and he lies down. Leon kneels down next to Chuckles and after a little sheepishness, I take a knee too. Leon tells me that using too much force can damage the larynx and fracture the hyoid or other bones in the neck but you wouldn’t need any force with a consenting adult.“If you ever find yourself in an  involuntary situation, tensing the neck muscles can reduce the effect of choking.” He advises me. I imagine my close combat skills against a burglar, where, it would most likely end up with him on the prosecution chamber.
Then, Leon asks Chuckles if he’s ready, Chuckles affirms. Leon goes on explaining prior to his live demonstration, “Okay. Now. The air chokes can be pressure to the windpipe. Again, a needless strong pressure to it can cause it to collapse and create irreversible damage. It is more effective to press on the lower neck, instead.”
And then Leon puts his hands around Chuckle’s throat, and compresses Chuckle’s airway, which clearly interferes with the flow of blood in the neck because Chuckles’ cheeks is flushed and he passes out within five seconds. Leon immediately releases and Chuckles comes around like an aunt who has a fainting habit at funerals. The whole thing happens in matters of ten seconds. 
The newly awakened from his stupor, Chuckles has a confused look on his face that I couldn’t tell whether it’s a grimace or a grin. 
“Oh, my god!” He bellows. “Tell me all what happened just now,” says Chuckles with eyes wider than his mouth.
“I was hoping that you could tell us that Chucks.” I reply. 
“Well, nothing. I don’t even remember going out. It was all dark and then I woke up, all was just so quick,” Chuckles shrugs his shoulders. 
“Well, how are you feeling?” Leon asks.
“Fine,” answers Chuckles widening his grin. Evidently, the state of euphoria brings a confused smile on the choke-game emergents as though they missed the end of a joke. 
“Well, experiences may vary,” Leon looks at me while bearing his teeth up to his molars.
 I step forward next. Chuckles kneels and I lie down this time. 
Leon repeats the same information to Chuckles, “Okay. Now. Both styles ultimately cut off oxygen to the brain, but the blood choke does it much faster, as you’ve just felt.” 
Leon presses his thumb against my trachea and within four seconds I pass out. Next, I wake up with my legs in the air and Chuckles shaking me while asking if I’m okay. I wonder why am I in such a position. 
Perplexed, I ask “What happened?”
“We lifted your feet to restore the pressure to your carotid arteries quicker,” says Leon.
“You smiling softly as you passed out, what did you see?” Chuckles asks me with pupils dilated to the size of marbles.
“Well, it was like this chromatic sunburst you see when you are on psychedelics,” I force myself to remember the details.
“Do you guys want a fresh air?” Leon asks us. 
“Good idea, I need to go to the loo.” I say.
In the bathroom, I notice a wet crotch on my black leggings. Did I just pee myself or was it the amount of epinephrine coming down? Leaving the bathroom, my legs are shaky to climb down the stairs, and my eyeballs playing tennis because of the severe saccades; so I hold on to the banisters and descend cautiously like a beginner in the figure skating. The after effects of the choke-game aren’t gripping me in any way.
I walk in the reception where Chuckles and Leon are chatting. 
Leon excuses himself to the restroom also stating upon his return we’d practice on each other under his supervision. 
Chuckles and I share a sardonic grin.
“I wonder how long it takes to blackout if a person holds their breath during the asphyxiation?” Chuckles asks with narrowed eyes. I’m hyped up, so I submit my body to the floor on that instant and say, “Let’s find out,” 
Chuckles readily kneels and holds my neck, we both  croak like a pair of mischievous geckos. I take a deep breath and then Chuckles begins to squeeze my neck: And then we both convulse with laughter. Chuckles then recomposes himself and screens his face with an eagerness by resting his tongue on the side between his canines.
A coruscating light bolts in front of my eyes and then my mom wakes me up, “What have you been doing to yourself?” She asks me, her head slightly slanting to right and her eyes glimmering in empathy; appearing sorry to look at me. She strokes my hair: Her touch has always made me feel loved and secure, so I smile. Just as I expect her to reprimand me she beams and takes my hand. I feel lucky that her mood is up as she probably will buy me some ice cream if I ask. I get up and we walk together in an indefinable width of path. I observe my mother: My mom has always looked beautiful; she knew how to dress for every occasion. This time, she wears her favourite cream laced frock which snugs her shapely legs which walk with the grace of a panther. Her ensemble coupled with her silky timbre, tranquilize my heart and I become free of all worries. I look up; the sun swelters my head, but it’s a nice day, and I feel superb. There’s an inexplicable elation which surrenders me. As me and my mom advance in an unfamiliar pathway, my steps feel lighter. We turn a corner out of nowhere, and suddenly our passage becomes dreary: I look on my side, there’s a young man sprawled out unconscious with his mouth ajar. Next to him, an empty syringe. I’m not sure if he’s breathing. I scan him in horror and ask mom what happened. Her lips are knitted, she doesn’t reply but there’s a grave sadness in her dimmed eyes. I feel powerless for being unable to help him, but we continue on our way. Not long after, I slow my pace down to see a woman sedentary on the sidewalk. The glaze of her eyes faded, her cheeks sunken along with her fragile frame. Her lips are pale and cracked. She doesn’t look at us as her gazes are fixed somewhere I can’t pinpoint. It’s as though she’s become a living dead. There’s a rucksack next to her, ridden with holes. I wonder if she had deserted her home. A few short steps after, I see a mob of policemen standing over a boy crumpled on his knees, his head is down. One police seems to inspect a rope. What has happened to the world? How can one hurt themselves so deeply? A haste of epiphany grips me: The more it makes sense to me, the shallower my breath gets. The hair on my skin rises despite the warm weather.I quicken my steps to run away from this boulevard of self annihilation. My mother is in front of me, she is still wearing a grave sadness masked with a glare that accentuates her worry lines. 
 I ask her the reason we are here in a weeping voice and if we can go back to our house? We hold hands. My gazes fall on my tired feet, how little and pathetically they move? Then I look up to see a slow revealing light shining directly in my retinas which dazes me.
“Welcome back” greets me a friendly female voice. 
I open my eyes and come across with a doctor and two nurses standing beside me. An odour of insulin reaches my nostrils and then I see that I’m laid on a hospital bed. “How are you feeling?” Asks the doctor. Just then, an ache storms into my head; I open my mouth to tell her that but my sore throat doesn’t comply and gives out a senseless noise. I look at the doctor with begging eyes for her to explain me what’s going on.
The doctor spares no details, “You died,” she states. 
“I.. died?” 
“Yes, you’ve been in a coma for two days; After cardiopulmonary resuscitation, you had a cardiac arrest because of hypoxia which resulted from oxygen deprivation, then you sank into a coma. Now don’t get agitated when you see yourself in the mirror for the first time.” 
Out of all the information dump the last sentence worries me the most. I asked to go to toilet but the nurse won’t let me alone, so she calls on the other one for help. They both hold me from my arms and ask if I am ready to get up and walk. Half way to getting up I feel disoriented with a nauseous neuralgia. The nurses count to three and on the third, I get up slowly. I am tired like I’ve run miles in an incline on the running machine. My feet act separately from my will as if I’m learning to walk. 
 In the bathroom, I want to see myself before anything else: I have haemorrhages in my eyes, the whites of my eyes have become red sea around the island of my pupils. I wonder how I came to look like a homicide victim. 
 In the afternoon, they bring me lunch. It is mainly a thick tomato soup. Although I am thirsty, my throat feels like it’s been scrubbed with a wire sponge and I also have tremors on my hand which prevents me from holding the spoon properly.
 After lunch, I have a visitor; it’s Chuckles. He has deep purple rings, and he seems scraggier than usual. As he hands me the bouquet of varicoloured tulips, “Sorry,” he says. 
“Chuckles, what happened?”
“As we were counting how many seconds it would take for you to lose your breath, I held your neck for 25 seconds; and then you gasped and your feet toppled to the side. The next thing I know, we have difficulty in waking you up.”
“Well, I died.” I said with a burning desire to reprimand him.
“Yes, I know. The police came took my statement.” Chuckles’ voice trembled with distress. “Where’s that guy? What’s his name?”
“Oh, Noel, turns out, he’s an off duty marine officer. He was the one who drove us to the hospital after the CPR on you failed. Though he left before your father and the police showed up.” 
“Noel? Oh I see, L.E.O.N., of course.” Although, it was a blessing that he didn’t desert me with the mechanically impaired Chuckles, for, given his attitude in a panic situation, I’d have stayed dead. Yet, it was silly of me to have trusted a stranger from the internet.
After Chuckles left, I reflect on my escapade. The image of my dead mother looking at me with pity replays in my head like a scene from a classical continuity. All she wanted to do was to show me how foolish her little girl had been: No matter who they were, no one who used drugs or played dangerous games had a good future ahead of them. At that point, my headache subsides. I close my eyes and I breathe in deeply. Even the scent of a disinfectant is a relief to my lungs. The open window of the hospital room lets in a delicate breeze of hydrangeas, reminiscent of my mother’s fragrance. As the leaves on the trees dance merrily, I step into a new level of maturity for beginning to appreciate life.