THE UNWRITTEN BOOK

THE UNWRITTEN BOOK

(a work in progress.)

The Sun is beeping. Blowing up? No, just beeping. No, just the alarm. That voluntary shackle of our modern age. Who invented these things anyway? I'm gonna look that guy up and kill him. His family, grand kids whatever. His goldfish will feel my wrath. Still beeping. Still transcribing the sun light coming through my window into an audible form. A Pavlovian response signal, a drill made out of vibrating oxygen, hydrogen, and other less than noble gases aimed squarely at my eardrums. Both of them? Yep, collateral damage my friends. No one is safe. Storming Normandy beach, even now a robot army of these mechanical bastards is washing up in the houses around me, smashing the gates, banging their drums. It’s war out there my friends, don’t let the birds tell you otherwise. Where’s my phone? That's right, infiltrated. It’s one of them now, buzzing away somewhere over there. Past the beer can and a left at the dirty sock if memory serves. Yammering away at me like some angry little native. I should get up. Things to do right? Smite him and his whole tribe. Rush in there like the Santa Maria and show these ignorant savages a thing or two about good old colonial values. I'm the goddamn god-blessed Spanish inquisition and I'm here to put you're whole civilization on snooze.


The dreams are still here. Dissipating into the air like smoke from an ashtray. (Did I buy any smokes last night?) Something about a valley, no, two valleys. A girl; her name was...shit, lost it. Gone. Febreezed away by the sun and my conscious mind. No rest for the wicked, no dreams either apparently. Just me, this room, the sun, the natives. Morning wood and up to no good. Well, not up yet but that’s in the works buddy; just. you. wait. Hmm, guess I'll wait with you. No rush. Gotta do these things right ya know. Let the spiders crawl back into my ears then shake the cobwebs out. Give them something to do tomorrow night. A shower should be in order but I'm in no mood for orders today. Don’t get me wrong, sounds great; better than great really. Hot, hot water spraying out those pipes and licking across my skin Like the great goddess Bast herself came down from Egyptian heaven and tongue bathed me into a shiny new kitty. Yeah, sounds great honey, but I always had a problem with goddesses; and moving. I’m the last bipedal Galapagos iguana that Darwin ever winked at and I’m gonna need some more sun before I brave that surf. Scrape that seaweed. (Did I buy any weed last night?)


Right now dark forces are conspiring against me, somewhere in Englewood a demon is rising from his slumber. The antediluvian atrocity rises from it’s crypt, clicking the dried blood from it’s ragged claws. (Probably already loose upon the earth. I bet he wakes up earlier than me.) His wretched, bat-like minions crowd around him and receive their orders before flying off into cubicles scattered across Denver. Crunching numbers and souls in their drooling maw’s. It’s cool. I’m not afraid. They are weak in the sunlight and my mojo is strong. I battle these mutants nine to five, five days a week. Beat them black and blue, up-ways and down ways, side to side. Yeah they keep coming back but fuck em, so do I. Is it today? My time to die? Naaahhh, not yet. I’m full of piss and vinegar and when I make it out of bed and hit the head, just vinegar. These freaks can’t keep a good man down. Smell that? It’s the war, the big one and I’m bringing it right to your door in a beat up Chevy Lumina and a dusty cowboy hat. Soon as I get my shit-kickers on and some grits in my guts. Yeeee haw!






Still beeping.






I should probably go to work.






Alright, alright, up and at em. I grab my phone and smash the alarm right out of him. Give him a shake for good measure then drop his corpse into the depths of my pocket. Spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch and I'm down the hallway hunting for some caffeine and my keys. It's cold in them there woods so I grab a hoodie off the floor-hey, my keys are in the pocket. Awesome. Where was I? Right, Coffee. Oh yes coffee, sweet manna from heaven; midnight-black Nubian (Arabian?) goddess of the fertile plains of Warsangali. Cups are for amateurs and this ain't my first rodeo. From pot to stomach in three hasty swigs and I'm gone. Out into the wild blue yonder. Death metal pours forth as I turn the ignition home, an army of Vikings and panicked horses roaring from my speakers as I drive of into the blinding morn. (Shit, forgot my sunglasses.)


It's a quick trip. I merge into the slow stampede as traffic light wranglers whip us into line. These cattle aren't going to slaughter themselves. We push on, along neighborhoods, Wadsworth, I-70 and beyond. The braying, farting, working force swerving across the asphalt plains. Some guy cuts me off and gives me the finger for a personal insult I don't remember bestowing. I smile and wave. We’re all equal here buddy. On the highway we are all cogs in the machine, shit in the pipes. Does the majestic Canadian goose hate its migration? Well, that one did. Swerving his way north with a belly full of rage and a HONK! HONK! in his horn. It’s all gravy baby. He’ll tire and die somewhere on the outskirts of Quebec with a final gasp and a could’a would’a should’a.


I have no pity for these Anserini and their land rover penises. Though there is a certain camaraderie in sharing the same strip of road with all these white collar-blue collar wage slaves I know that in some way I am above them. I alone have purpose, it is me, myself and I for whom the day breaks. The traffic parts before me as I speed past them, loyal subjects bowing before their sovereign. No, a maternal monarch; wait, I can do better. I’m Moses parting the Red Sea. No, Jesus himself. Get the fuck out of my way you sons of clay, I’m your savior and I have a greater purpose Me-dammit! I skid around the final turn and park my celestial chariot. Dove’s fly from my door as I open it and angels sound trumpets as I exit. With a holy yet humble visage I stroll into my place of worship. I wave at one of my loyal subjects as I pass them.


“God bless you my son, go Broncos!”


I don't wait for his reply, being omnipotent I already know his response in this and other worlds. I know it as well as the confused expression on his face. I slide my key-fob across the electronic lock and enter the inner sanctum.






God, oooooohhhh god was I wrong; so wrong. This is hell. Purgatory at least. Limbo with free coffee. What am I doing here? Oh, I remember.
Sit down.
Lock self into office chair. If you forget your chair password tech-support will be on hand to attach shackles to your hands, neck and ankles. (All shackles are OSHA compliant in accordance with article 1.34.68A of the Gerbil Divestiture of 1998.)

• Log into computer. 
• Log into email. 
• Log into bill processing software. 
• Log into secure job network. 
• Log into secure bank portal. 
• Look warily at each of the three cameras hidden in the rafters. 
• Sip free coffee. 
• Log into company website. 
• Log into company document database. 
• Log into personal email. 
• Pray that there isn't any keystroke logging spyware installed on PC. 
• Look at cameras again, just to be sure. 
• Log into administrator account on company website. 
• Peruse angry emails from disgruntled customers. 
• Review disjointed and incoherent ramblings from customers seeking information. 
• Type eloquent and professional response to horribly misspelled and confusing customer inquiry. 
• Attempt to send said email to said customer only to realize that they didn't leave an email address or contact number. 
• Sigh deeply. 
• Drink free coffee. 
• Check voice mail. 
• Scribble contact info and first names into notebook. 
• Call customer # 1 back, leave message. 
• Call customer # 2 back, leave message. 
• Call customer # 3 back, leave message. 
• Call customer # 4 back, leave message. 
• Call customer # 5 back, leave message. 
• Call customer # 6 back, leave message. 
• Call customer # 7 back, leave message. 
• Call customer # 8 back, leave message. 
• Call customer # 9 back, leave message. 
• Call customer # 10 back, leave message. 
• Call customer # 11 back, leave message. 
• Call customer # 12 back, leave message. 
• Call customer # 14 back, leave message. 
• Call customer # 15 back, leave message. 
• Realize you skipped customer # 13. 
• Call customer # 13 back, leave message. 
• Sip coffee. 
• Log into company order procurement and management software. 
• Begin to place product orders using 5 different, outdated and contradictory excel spreadsheets. 
• Answer phone, patiently explain to dept-collection agency that this is a business number and that I have never heard of anyone named Palo San Miguel. 
• “Yes, I’ll hold” 
• Elevator music interlude for 6 minutes.... 
• Sip coffee. 
• Line goes dead. 
• Resume placing orders using overly complicated software designed by Germans and translated into English by subsidized and outsourced Indian technicians. 
• Log into exce- 

“What you working on Devin? That’s a lot of bullet points.”


Fuck. The boss.


“Just compiling a list of action items for the meeting at 2:00 boss.”


“It’s at 1:55. Hate to see you be late. You got my email reminder right? You need to check your mail regularly Devin. It’s part of your job description.”


My eyes glance down at my screen and my obviously open mail. No reminders.


“ Yeah, I got it.”


“Good. It’s the details Devin, the details that matter. I remember when I first started at this company. I walked in those doors green as can be. Those doors, over there. I walked in, gosh, I couldn't have been much older than you are now. I remember speaking to the owner of thiscompany you’ve met himright? Course you have, he’s always checking in on us. Ha!”


He elbows me in the ribs. A faint blow.


“Ha! yeah, butanyway, hesays tome “Gary,thedevil’sinthedetails. if youdon’tpayattentiontonthemlittlethings,theyadduptobigthingsandbyGodthey’llwalkalloveryouifyouletthem.”


Another elbow. A bit harder this time. He must think we are the same species.


“Well,letmetellyou,andthisreallyhappenedbytheway,ilookedhimintheeyesandIsaidgjdfghjdgjhdsfgndfjkgdsfgdfg,sadfsuhfasdughiughadfuhg,ihfaihsgfiuashgiushguhgndguiadhguandfignndagnadfijgndijfgnijadnggfghaydrhteyurngdjkfbghiadrtkjdfnvdsihrgiudangiojadrngijarngjdrhgiudfhgjkdnfvjdhgudrhgdufgdjhndioygasdijfaiosdghup.”


His mouth keeps moving. Spraying me with gibberish like a hyena on the rack. I'm on autopilot. Keep nodding, keep looking interested.

• Don't look at his bald spot. 
• Don't look at that green thing in his teeth. 
• Maintain. 
• Keep nodding. 
• Shake your head slowly and close your eyes like you can totally relate. 
• Say “oh yeah.” 
• “Oh yeah.” 
• Keep nodding. 

I cant do it. I mean I can, I’m doing it right now, but jesus-titty-fucking-christ how long do I have wear this mask? I make eye contact and stare deep into him attempting to slow down the relentless onslaught of husky vowels and razor sharp consonants belching forth from the infernal depths of his esophagus but he is oblivious to my ministrations. A monkey pawing the monolith. I surrender. My face drops, my smile fades into a scowl and beyond. I’ve never been this goddamn disinterested in my life and I’m not afraid to show it. I glare into his flapping flabby face and wait for a bullet to save me from this conversation...






Jesus his mouth is still moving.






Fuck it. I’m getting paid to sit here and endure this drivel so I might as well observe. Not listen mind you, just watch. I take it all in. the gray hairs speckling his eyebrows, the moles dotting his flaccid physiognomy. His beer belly, the frayed ends of his shirt. (There are three different colors of ink stains lining the bottom of his left shirt pocket. This may be important but I doubt it.) Brown eyes, portly in stature. A small, jabbering, ape of a man. A minuscule droplet of spittle flies from his left incisor and falls somewhere beyond my frame of vision. He continues talking, oblivious to the expectorate being launched from his mouth. The tame part of my mind wonders if it landed on my leg somewhere below the shin, possibly my shoe.
Maintain eye contact.
Keep nodding.


Fuck this, I'm done. I say something loudly, interrupting his modern attempt to rebuild the walls of Babel. “Wow! That's really interesting!” or something equally ambiguous. I turn and beeline to the restroom, anywhere but here. I feel his mood shift, his offense at my casual disregard for his endless diatribe hits me like a cold wind. I feel his eyes and psychic disapproval lash across my back but I just shrug it off. The wave hits my shoulders and sizzles down my spine, pooling onto the concrete floor like honey in a microwave. I stroll slowly, but surely towards the restroom; a trail of plastic melted teddy bears in my wake.

• Take a shit. ( All employee’s must wash their hands after using the restroom. Make sure to use the soap dispenser (empty) and scrub briskly for a minimum of 30 seconds). 

I’m waiting. Staring at the wall. Pants around my ankles and all eyes to the front. Gary’s probably still waiting. Tapping his foot at my desk hoping to finish whatever story he was blathering on about. He’ll leave soon. Five minutes tops... This wall has a suspicious lack of texture. Painted in an off-white off-pink off-beige. I feel your pain drywall. Brothers in bondage are we. Both wearing our blasé and oh so P.C. facades. Maybe this wall really wanted to be a painter not painted; an actor, a poet.


“I feel ya wall, gotta make ends meet.”


I’m talking out loud to a wall in a dirty bathroom with no soap.


“Fuck it.”


I’m still doing it.


It occurs to me that someone could hear me speaking. Maybe Gary. Waddling his fat ass up to the door and leaning his ear against it whilst twirling his villainous mustache. (He has a mustache now.) Listening and plotting, eyebrows all askew. Wouldn't surprise me. I wonder if he wears a mask too? Maybe, just maybe, the second he leaves work he drives to a clandestine S and M club. There he strips of his business suit and pastel tie revealing a stunning, bright red set of lingerie. Panties, bra and a stunning garter. He poses in front of an ornate mirror and applies his bright red lipstick. He grabs the edge of his panties (pinky extended) and slides them down seductively.


“Come and get it boys...” he says in a soft whisper, before grabbing his giant hairy belly and giggling like a three hundred pound schoolgirl.


Maybe... No, he leaves work and drives to a different, equally decrepit warehouse. A low flying plane lands on the makeshift runway out back and five scarred and swarthy men jump out. Three of them pull battle worn AK-47's from the cock pit and take cover behind the small aircraft. The two remaining men (better dressed, brown tailored suits) walk towards the warehouse carrying one briefcase each. Twenty yards from the plane they stop and wait, each with their free hand in their jackets clutching large caliber pistols. Gary steps out of the warehouse wearing a tan suit and matching fedora. (He’s still wearing those smashing panties, just don’t tell the Colombians ) He strolls towards the plane accompanied by four ex-military types with fully automatic AR-15’s slung across their chests. The Colombians and mercenaries size each other up; their guns are pointed down but everyone’s got a finger on the trigger.


Gary removes his designer sunglasses and speaks.


“Greetings gentlemen, welcome to Colorado!”


The Colombians whisper to each other in Spanish before the one on the left replies.


“Thank you Señor Gary, We trust you have what we requested?”


“Si amigos! I've got the cash right here.”


Gary pulls a bulky manila envelope from his jacket and strolls towards the two men.


“You want the cash? Let me see the goods.”


The Colombians glance at each other then the shorter one steps forward and cracks open his briefcase. Ten kilo’s of Columbia’s finest export (besides coffee) glisten in the sun. Shrink wrapped packages of white powder, pre-weighed and nestled in orderly rows. Gary pulls one of the nuggets of white gold from the case and with a well practiced motion snatches a switchblade from his pocket. The guards on both sides jump a little at the quick movement then warily settle down.


Gary sticks the blade into the package and slides the residue across his tongue.


He pauses for a moment, cocking his head, then swirls it around his mouth with all the practiced experience of a sommelier.


“Mmm.. that’s high quality shit. Really, really good.”


The taller Colombian speaks,


“So we have a deal then Señor. Our Patrón will be most pleased.”


Gary licks the knife again.


“Not so fast amigos, let me see the other case.”


The Colombians exchange another glance, both of them grip their guns a bit tighter.


“You don't trust us Señor? Everything is okey-dokey? Yes?


Gary lowers his head and growls.


“Show me the other suitcase. NOW.”


Time slows, beads of sweat drop from furrowed brows, the tall Colombian's eyes glide across the mercinaries and their rifles. One final glance.


With a nod to his compadres he draws his gun and screams towards the setting sun.


“Mátenlos a todooooos!”


It’s the OK corral, a kill-box, Hiroshima. A silent second passes, then shudders under the weight of machine gun fire and screams cut short. It’s all fingers, all triggers. Dust and wailing. Bullets ricochet across the wing of the plane, tearing the jaw and orbital socket from one of the men. His lifeless body slides down the wing and collapses onto the weedy earth, his lifeless body squeezing off a few futile rounds as he tumbled to the ground.


Gary takes a round to the neck and another to the stomach. With a wail and a hail Mary he falls to the ground, hitting the gravel hard. Several lucky rounds skip across his shattered frame, glancing his ribs and tracing gushing crimson streaks across his two thousand dollar suit. Shaking, he lifts his head from the cool dirt and stares at his dying comrades, his flayed adversaries. Gasping for air he crawls towards a rifle clutched in a dead man’s hands. Wheezing and bleeding he pry’s it from the corpse's rigorous grip. Gary rolls his heavy frame into a sitting postion, his dull and dying eyes roll around his skull and the bodies surrounding him. Off in the gathering darkness a pack of velociraptors tear across the desert, claws at the ready. In a panic Gary rears up and fires madly, blindly, into the reptilian wall descending upon him. The assault rifle empties with a heavy click that jiggles his copious arms to the bone. Just then, a massive black dragon descends from the clouds and speeds over the frothing dinosaur army. It zeros in on Gary’s battered frame, roaring the whole way. He keeps trying to fire, clicking the empty gun at the monster hurtling towards him. The dragon rears its massive head back and unleashes an explosion of white hot phosphorus across the man who was Gary. His flesh sizzles, falling from his bones in ragged chunks. With a final scream he lifts the rifle and-






Really? Out of toilet paper too? With a cautious dash I grab a roll of dusty paper towels from above my head and do the deed. I rise from my porcelain sanctuary and slam the bathroom door open like a riot cop kicking into a meth lab. Damn, no Gary. I was half hoping he really was there, hoping the door shattered his skull and sprayed his brains across the floor.