FAKE THUMBS SUCK

Should this, by chance, be your introduction to our site, maybe start here or there instead (if not closer to the beginning [or about 33 years prior]).

Sooooo, we’re in a bit of a pickle.

At the same time, all’s well! Seriously. Could not be better. Sure, I’ll have the occasional outburst of next-day face-swelling tears, but that usually leads to a brief period of heartwarming laughter. We’re good. Everything’s fiiiiiiiiine.

I have much to unpack, but I think I best do it in non-linear chunks. In time, I’ll explain everything about me (barring an unnaturally premature release of awareness from my earthly vessel). For now, I need to divulge info in the right order and, by firing upon such a lofty, faraway, invisible target, all I can do is guess at what’s most important.

How did we get here? What led us to this point? There must’ve been an inordinately catalyzing, hugely unexpected event that set our paths in motion and on this collision course. Why else would we be here?

Something (in particular) happened back in May of 2012. I killed a man. Had I not, I’m fairly sure he would’ve ended up killing me. I’m 100% positive that he was hellbent on sodomizing me against my will.

After that unfortunate business, I became an illegal immigrant hiding within the borders of the United States of America. I tried to make it to Canada once but aborted that mission. Got spooked. That’s another yarn which, again, I do intend to see spun.

Quick backstory. My father was a black orphan of humble nature; my mother was an Irish firecracker of alpha femininity. I’m the middle child of five girls. A couple weeks prior to my birth, my name was set in stone: Madeleine Abigail [I’ve been advised to withhold my surname until further notice]. My initials never made me mad; I liked them! Our family was as big as it was happy. I went by Abby in my early school years, then we moved, and I decided that I wanted to be called Maddy. No one objected; rather, my familial unit supported me as a whole, always.

I’d like to believe that they are happy/together still. What I wouldn’t give to be able to hug them.

Growing up, we were closer to “poor” than “rich,” but I never felt like I lacked any material possessions. Ugh, I’m already making this story too long. We’ll skip ahead.

Barely aged nineteen years, I lost consciousness while breastfeeding and suffocated my baby girl, Iris. They called it “SIDS.”

Fuck that. I fell asleep and airways got blocked.

Recently Atlas helped me understand that it wasn’t my fault.

After I gave birth, when I was awake, I struggled not to slumber. My fiancé worked a graveyard shift. Iris wasn’t very good at staying asleep. In retrospect, I don’t think our genes were meant to be recombined.

My parents had their hands full 38 minutes away (by train). Life is hard, right? Blah.

When you’re sleepy, can you help it? If so, then how? And for how long?

Is fighting the urge to sleep good for you?

I was doing everything I could to stay awake. More or less, I was on a caffeine drip. Guess I built up a tolerance. I contemplated trying cocaine on for size, but I didn’t do that until I reached Florida. Peer pressure plus overwhelming sadness tends to foster reckless abandon.

One bright, sunshiny day, about 4.5 weeks into motherhood, at the most inopportune of times, I passed out. When I woke up, my world exploded.

We’ll get to (almost) everything in between, before, and after, I’m sure, but we gotta fast-forward as there are more urgent matters to address.

I hung in there for a year or so, hopped from one dodgy job to another, saved as much money as I could, tried again to make a baby with my poor puppy-dog of a “mate” [conceived twice but each time ended in a miscarriage, the second one occurring around 12 weeks], all the while barreling toward a full-body breaking point. Alcoholism began to take hold.

The miscarriages were—how do I put this—different. Hard to explain. Impossible, actually. Thinking about it nauseates me. But take it from someone who’s been there and done that, ladies: a death that occurs within the boundaries of your body can make you feel dead on the inside.

Looking back, had I mustered the nerve to try coke when I first felt the tinge of enticement, Iris might still be alive. This has been a very difficult thought to navigate. “If only I had broken the law…”

Yesterday I realized that I feel far less awful about what happened. Today I felt awfully guilty about feeling less awful. Oops.

Against most all of my (immediate) family’s earnest advice [my youngest sister, Cryssie, was like, “Yeah, love; go live, be free, heal”], I set off on an intentionally solo trip to the “Land of Opportunity” with no real plan except to stay for 3 months and see what happens. I’d never left the U.K. First stop, The Big Apple.

Secretly, I had met a boy on the internet [on an amateur poetry site] roughly a year prior and planned to rendezvous. Despite the duration of our relationship, we had not discussed the prospect of mutually physical attraction. We just emailed, mostly. He was rather daft, if I’m being honest. I guess we were both playing a game; kinda hard to remember now that I’m not as dumb inexperienced.

I coasted from NYC to Philly, then on to D.C., Savannah, Jacksonville, New Orleans, Memphis, Austin, Albuquerque—I went wherever the wind blew me. I had no plans beyond New York; I just wanted to drift from there to the western coast within the span of ninety days.

It was a last-ditch effort to mend my wounds. I felt the need for adventure. I knew I needed something. At that particular time in my life, that might’ve been all I knew.

Met a lass in Jax. Her name was Riley, and she’s probably dead. Such a pill, she revealed herself to be, but I still love her.

No, not like that.

Riley and I clicked. {Still no.} We were the same age [down to the date of birth]. She got me; I understood her back. Delightful reciprocity. Same wavelength. But she gave no fucks. By me, fucks were given. She never felt arsed to pretend anything. What you saw? Yup, that’s what you got.

I wish I had tried a little harder to talk her into stopping by the Grand Canyon. Damn.

Anyway, made it all the way to Vegas together after a herky-jerky, soul-cleansing, three-week road trip. It was her 21st birthday. We met a male twosome at a fancy casino [they were flanked clearly by a paid entourage, which made them seem terribly important]. Both were slightly older and well-dressed. One was a smooth-talking handsome devil slinging money all over the place; the other inherited most of their parents less optimal genes. These were the Brothers Purdy, Judd and Kenny.

Riley got sloshed, took a liking to Judd, making me the unenthusiastic “wingman” who got stuck with Kenny.

From the get-go, we both noticed something off about Kenny, but the drunker she got, the less she cared.

Some people can get drunk and you don’t even notice, you know? Riley was no such person. She needed to be babysat. When her blood alcohol level eclipsed a certain threshold, she got loud and obnoxious. She became someone else. Someone far less…attractive.

No, not like that. In actual fact, never have I acted upon my curiosity about putting my head between a pair of smooth, tight, inviting lady-thighs.

Riley’s alter ego came out more and more as our journey progressed westward. She was carrying around at least one secret that she never unveiled. I’m certain of that now. She was running away from something, too.

Riley was the best friend I (n)ever had, and it lasted 42 days [I spent three weeks at her place in the Sunshine State]. Granted, we were around each other 24/7, but still—this matters somehow; I’m sure of it. Let’s move on, though, shall we (not)?

As we got ready in our sketchy hotel room to go out on the “town” of Sin City to celebrate her twenty-first, I could tell she had a different mindset. She was excited to flash her ID and get drinks, and she wanted to get fucked so hard that both [if not all three] participants got off watching her huge tits bounce.

Riley was/is the most sexual girl I’ve ever met. I can’t confirm this, but she alleged that if, by chance, she ingested exactly the right amount of edible marijuana and metabolized it at a certain rate, she could have an orgasm just from eating ice cream. She never got a chance to prove it, but I believed her. I believe her still. So should you.

Within ten minutes of popping into our first scheduled stop, she met this fucking slimy bloke, Judd, who was no doubt drawn to her palpably magnetic, erotic energy. I say that because Judd’s a pretty boy; Riley wouldn’t have been considered “hot” by superficially American standards.

I hate that I keep referring to her in the past tense because there’s a “chance” she yet lives. I guess I’m better off assuming she has been long deceased; Atlas agrees that she was almost certainly eliminated on the night currently under our collective spotlight {as well as our respective microscopes}.

His writing style is based on mine, by the way. Please remember that point of fact when you notice he’s better at it, if you haven’t by now. I’m better at him at other things. Like dancing, for instance. That’s definitely not all, though. He can’t read lips to save his life.

Sorry. I’m easily sidetracked these days. Shiny objects get shinier. Tasty food is more pleasing to my tongue. Noises are louder {especially loud ones}!

One stupid idea led to another. I accompanied Riley to the Purdy Estate. I was only there for her safety; I had no intention of participating in any sort of carnal encounter that night, and I can’t imagine that any remotely intelligent being could’ve mistook my aura to mean otherwise. Kenny was repulsive. Even if he’d been an Adonis, he’d still have been gross just because of his energy, body language, and the words coming out of his mouth. There was just something off.

Incidentally, when I refer to Kenny Purdy in the past tense, I do so with absolute confidence. I’m quite certain that he breathes no longer because I watched the light leave his eyes. He’s still heinous, though, so this is a perplexing sentence, is it not!?

After our incident, the internet told me that he was in a skiing accident a couple years prior and hadn’t been the same since. I think the bump on his noggin only unlocked true colors; there’s no way he was much better less horrible before the brain-damaging run-in with a giant alpine plant.

Anyway, we went to their private property, whereupon Riley and I split—she followed Judd to the well-guarded mansion; meanwhile, I reluctantly remained in Kenny’s orbit as he drifted to the pool/guest house while talking up his collection of pinball machines. Truthfully, there were some really nice, vintage machines in there. Still, I can remember the upset feeling filling my stomach; but, these brothers were unmistakably rich, so I figured it had to be fine. That’s what I told myself despite knowing I was wrong.

That was the last time I ignored my gut.

Today, the specifics surrounding what happened to Riley once we separated remain a mystery. I can only imagine, and I don’t want to do that anymore because it’s always painfully sad when I do [usually in my dreams nightmares]. She was a witness who found herself in the wrong place at the wrong time, guilty by proximal association, a setting wherein she could only have been powerless.

Conversely, I do know what happened between me and Kenny. His sorry ass became grass.

Goddamn. No one will EVER be able to properly re-enact KP. I sincerely hope that the vibe he emitted will never be replicated. He seemed like a serial rapist/killer, only much creepier. I really don’t know how else to describe it him it. It wasn’t the look in his eyes; it was the lack of personality behind them coupled with the psychotic shit he said.

I’ve held all this in for a long time. The release feels divine.

Once getting inside the pool house, my only goal was to distract “my date” until hearing from Riley that she had finished her romp and was ready to head back into the city. As of 2012, the Purdy pool house served mostly as a storage facility within which someone kept enough pathways clear to double as guest quarters sometimes. We’re in a bit of a hurry, you might say, so I can’t reminisce about my fleeting glimpse at the details right now. Just know that junk was everywhere. Hoarder level. Intervention warranted.

“Do you like dragons?” That was the first thing he asked me once we were inside, and after he had shut/locked the door and checked it twice.

“I’m not sure,” I responded casually, “because I’ve never met one.”

I did not expect him to like that as much as he did, but his 30-second laughing fit did delay a followup question, at least. At last, he was able to put together a sentence: “Have you ever seen Steve Perry live?”

“No. Unfortunately.”

“Daddy’s seen him. I never have.” Kenny spent an awkward amount of time thinking of what to say next. I dared not look directly at him the beast, but I could sense his brain grinding gears. Miraculously I survived 3-15 additional minutes just by looking at all the stuff and acting interested in some of it. I hovered near a collection of vinyl records for too long, apparently, because during that time Kenny managed to produce, “Do you like bands?”

“Sometimes I do, usually, when they’re good.”

Another laughing fit. I wasn’t even trying, nor am I certain whether he was faking. (It’s weird what I remember so clearly.) Whatever. A few more minutes passed, then he blabbed, “Hey, I was wondering: do you like cheetahs?”

“Not sure; never met a cheetah, either.” The last syllable had hardly left my lips before he continued with his freight train of incoherent thought:

“If you had to ride a cheetah or a dragon, which would it be?” By then I noticed peripherally that he had broken a serious sweat. Yuck.

“Dragon.” For a brief moment, I almost forgot the dread swelling in the pit of my gut. To this day, it’s an easy question. I have always been drawn to cheetahs—they are SOFAST—but the gift of flight takes the cake, plus the fire-breathing ability could come in handy down the road.

Falling is how we learn to plot our course, but rising is the act that evolves us.

A. A Knight

Not sure whether that’s an Atlas original or he’s quoting someone {most likely Liana, but maybe Eve Lynne}. Yeah, we’ve talked quite a bit during our little road trip; there’s not much else to do in a moving car. He wants to stash me somewhere safe. I won’t let him because I’ve realized the safest place I can be is wherever he can maintain a visual on my person. He saw the light; I can be convincing. So, we’re headed back to the Gulf. I’m excited to meet Ernest! Admittedly, I’m also terrified that we’ll all die soon, but, at least for the time being, I feel alive.

I’ll admit this, too: I feel special. Finally. I’ve waited my whole life.

I’ve got my adventure, don’t I.

Kenny took another thirty seconds to come up with his next utterance. “What if a cheetah and a dragon mated?”

Darkly bright giant red flag; obviously trying to shift the focus of the convo and get in my knickers. I felt my heart pounding. Looking back, it was a result of fear. Instinctively, for reasons I may never be able to explain properly, I knew to be afraid of that creature. I did my best to change the subject: “It would never work; DNA is finicky; what’s your favorite song?”

I really thought he’d need several minutes to come up with an answer. Nope, for once, he answered immediately: “I Wanna Sex U Up” by Color Me Badd. Regret level: 9000. It caught me off guard. I gave him a look. No telling what my face told him. I guess it doesn’t matter; the result was gonna be the same regardless, but I accidentally locked eyes with him for the first time in what felt like a fucking eternity, and that’s when I noticed that he had ditched his tacky button-up and was proudly sporting what some of the fine folks around my most recent home would call a “wife-beater.” Nausea legitimately seized my being upon taking in the sight. Kenny had patches of hair pubes in the damnedest places, like on his shoulders, for instance.

“I used to be a fan of NKOTB.” What would you have said?

“Ah, okay, yeah, cool.” Acting was not Kenny’s forte. He had no idea what “NKOTB” meant. “Yeah, cool, I like them, too. Cool. That’s cool.”

My desire to vacate the premises reached its breaking point. “May I use your toilet?”

He laughed for another thirty seconds. I’m quite sure it was a combination of both my British accent and usage of the word toilet. He unnerved me with his laughing speaking being. I put a hand on my belly. My on-the-fly plan was to pretend to be physically sick. Don’t get me wrong—this man was disgusting enough to trigger intestinal upheaval, but I didn’t wanna get to that point. I wanted to leave. Evidently he noticed a subtle wince on my face and my hand on my stomach because he stopped guffawing abruptly and questioned, “Are you pregnant??” But he wasn’t concerned. Oh, no, no, he was stoked. He took his reputation as a “motherfucker” seriously. I think that was precisely when I zeroed in on his left hand, specifically his “thumb.” It was noticeably bigger.

“No, I’m thinking maybe it’s more along the lines of food-poisoning.” [Which actually happened (to me) in Memphis.]

Kenny did not acknowledge my correction; instead, he held up his hand, displaying the single, makeshift, opposable digit. “Did I tell you how this happened?”

Nope, and I didn’t want him to tell me. “Oh, I was just looking at your ring.” He was wearing four rings, all on his right hand. Not looking good for me. I remember feeling my sweat glands activate, namely in my lower back and armpits.

He flew on by my response [again] and asked, “Can you guess how it happened?”

“May I think about it while borrowing your toilet?”

He laughed for 15 seconds while I died a little lot on the inside. “I like your voice and word choice. Hey, I just rhymed!” Then he slapped his own face in some manner of odd self-disciplinary action. Ya see, Kenny had “issues.”

I tried to fake a chuckle but I don’t remember what came out. It’s possible that I burped up a couple wet gags. Luckily Kenny closed his eyes during fits of half-forced laughter. I held up a finger [as if to say “just give me a minute, tiger”] and landed behind the closed door of the structure’s lone restroom. There’s no way I looked sexy in that moment. As I shut the door, I made eye contact with him as he removed his belt. That might’ve been the worst second of my life to date—this coming from someone who has fled on foot from Severus Rex across four lanes of traffic amidst an eerily isolated, heavy downpour.

The bathroom window wouldn’t open. I don’t think it could have been opened without causing a huge ruckus, which I contemplated seriously. No, really, that window had extra security installed; the glass was probably bulletproof. And there I was, looking at myself in the twice-cracked mirror, flitting between fits of panic and acceptance of fateful doom. I tried to tell myself, “You deserve this.”

It didn’t take. (I’m still not ready to die.)

I decided to act. I fake-barfed mouthfuls of water into the toilet while making retching noises. I was trying to gross him out, I think; I dunno. But KP wasn’t the kinda fella who could be repelled by much once he felt a biological urge. I called Riley twice and she didn’t answer; she was probably enjoying herself. I debated calling 911. Perhaps I still thought I could outsmart the fool. I’m not sure. That’s when my memory gets annoyingly fuzzy. After somewhere between 7 and 22 minutes, Kenny knocked. “You okay in there?”

He startled me. I think I softly gasped and had to fight off a few tears. “I’ll be out in a second,” I called out meekly, trying to sound like I was in terribly unattractive shape {as if I wasn’t already naturally}.

“Cool, cool, no problem, I’ll check back in five. Cool!”

A few seconds later, after a glistening film of sweat enveloped my full body, I really did toss my biscuits. “Surely he’ll get the message now,” I thought naively. A bit later, I emerged from the water closet, eyes flooded, nose {and makeup} running down my face, whole body shaking. I barely got one foot out the door before realizing Kenny was again too close, standing there giving me his best sexy eyes, not two feet away—one of his ears must’ve been pressed against the door—wearing boxer shorts and a different wife-beater. Correct, he changed into a “nicer” one. Each was white. That’s when I clearly remember legitimately fearing for my life—and it’s not a fun feeling, by the way, in case you didn’t know. “Your eyes water like mine when I throw up.” Dear. God.

“I must’ve eaten spoilt chicken.” He ignored that, too. I’m gonna paraphrase his response in my own words because I don’t remember enough of his dialogue to put it in quotes. When they were adolescent kids, he and Judd went to the loo in a restaurant. Kenny chose a stall and Judd picked the neighboring urinal. Kenny’s pee splashed on Judd’s new suede shoes. Judd became angry; Kenny got defensive. There was a tug-of-war on a stall door. Judd slipped, the door slammed shut, and Kenny ultimately lost his thumb, which was later replaced (surgically) by one of his big toes.

Kenny seemed proud of this tale. He viewed it as an earned battle scar.

My mouth filled with a salty fluid, so I shuffled back into the bathroom for a quick followup barf-party.

I heard nothing from outside those cramped walls. I didn’t mean to slam the door; at least, not so loudly. It might’ve scared the puke outta me. I was afraid Kenny would barge in. (Physically) uneventful minutes passed. For all I knew, he vanished. I recall hoping for a fatal brain aneurysm.

When I emerged again, this time in much worse shape, he was naked on the bed, 75% erect, smiling. “At least my thumb got cut off instead of my cock, right?” His junk was huge, too. Like, I didn’t want that thing anywhere near me, let alone inside me. Forget the mental/emotional damage for a minute; physically, I’d have been blood{il}y ravaged. “I took a Viagra thirty minutes ago.” To him, this was an advertisement.

Of this, I am certain: had I allowed Kenny Purdy to jam his “manhood” in me, I’d have killed myself a long time ago.

I did the right thing.

I resisted.

“I need to go,” I announced.

Writing this has been therapeutic. (Thank you for reading, by the way.) I’m remembering details I’d never previously reconsidered. Looking back, I realized that, in conversation, KP was capable of but three functions:

• trying but failing to listen
• thinking of what to say next
• spewing words

He wasn’t good at any of those. In that regard, he was a lot like a certain President.

By that point in our fateful encounter, his functionality had been reduced to the last two only. Upon processing plain evidence of my sickness and in response to my visible need to leave, he questioned, “Don’t you feel better after you puke?”

“Sometimes, yes, but I know myself, and I can tell that I’m sick. Infected. Diseased.” Something like that. Hard to remember exactly. A sense of desperation had descended.

“How long until you puke again?” Honestly, I’m not sure how I reacted to that question. My facial muscles flexed in some weirdly specific manner, no doubt, off which he added: “I’ve been around a lot of people who were puking. I think we have time for intercourse before you puke again. You smell good.”

“I would puke on you.”

“Doggystyle.” He winked before head-motioning me toward the bed.

Why did I not suffer spontaneous combustion right there on the spot? I’m actually going to go take a quick shower before continuing this expulsion of previously locked-away truth-bombs.

Above you’ll find another picture; I did not caption it. Guess who did.

Kenneth Bill [not William; just “Bill”] Purdy cannot be a real person. How did his life lead to becoming that?

I tried to feign embarrassment as I reiterated, “I really need to go, Kenny.”

That’s when either he flipped the switch, or a switch flipped him. That was the first time I had spoken his name. Not sure how connected those two points of interest may be…

“NO!” he shouted, quickly/clumsily scrambling to his feet, red [almost purple] in the face, foaming at the mouth, dick wagging, and shaking mad. I flinched and cowered as he hurriedly encroached upon my wilting presence with aggressive fury. He screamed into my left ear, “DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?!” Head pressed against a wall, I slid down to the floor as tears became impossible to withhold while he further erupted, “I AM A FUCKING KING, BITCH!” I felt his wild spit as much as his nasty rage. He stood over me breathing heavily, probably fumbling for what to yell (at me) next. By then, had a magical wish-granter flown into my world and offered me the choice between a painlessly immediate death and seeing what happens next, I’d have chosen the former. That’s an idea that actually fluttered across my thoughts in the moment. Never have I wanted so badly to be elsewhere.

And I was an idiot. Don’t ever kill yourself (on purpose).

Also you do know where/what I’ve been/seen by now, yeah? Hint: I’ve seen a humanoid shape take a slug to the chest at point-blank range before getting back up and charging. And that was after I saw that same shape leap from through a third-story window and roll once before achieving top running speed a second later.

Anyhoo, Kenny backed off a bit after his enraged hollering fit. I think he resigned himself to taking one last a stab at creating a climate of “unwilling cooperation” before settling for “murderous rape” {again [just a hunch]}. He paced the floor while I remained a puddle of helplessness.

This part is very blurry in my memory. After pacing about and talking to himself for a spell, he sternly ordered, “Get on the bed.” That made me cry more, but I managed to get to my feet and scoot toward the bed. Never have my neural pathways communicated more quickly. “If this sick fuck wants to invade me,” I decided in a mentally silent conversation with myself, “he’ll have to either knock me out or kill me.”

Now that I think about it, we shouldn’t be surprised to find out that he had dabbled in necrophilia before I accidentally slaughtered the man boy 7-8 years ago.

These aren’t spoilers. You’re smarter than that. You already kinda knew where this was going, didn’t you now.

Anyway, let’s get back to the most terribly trying moments of my life. I walked toward the bed while he paced and hovered, emitting nothing but negative energy and foul breath. My eyes darted around the room in a desperate search for a way out.

This part’s really blurry—it was almost as if I had an “out-of-body” experience. He issued a few orders to which I feigned deliberately slow, reluctant compliance:

• Take off your underwear.
• Get on the bed.
• All fours.
• Put your face in that pillow.
• Arch your back.

Meanwhile, having spied a potential weapon on the nightstand—a fully stuffed Snoopy “piggybank”—I had begun planning a counterattack: inflict as much “blunt-force trauma to the head” as possible and then go from there. I was almost positive that I was going to die soon, but at least I might avoid antemortem rape. Violently, I dry-heaved, and to this day, I find it hard to believe vomit didn’t follow; it must’ve messed with his head on the spot. Supplemented by my very best acting abilities, I offered, “Wait, I don’t wanna soil the linens…”

He wanted to get mad, but the more he thought about the would-be logistical inconveniences, the more he saw the logic in my wisdom. “Hurry,” he demanded.

Blurry, this part. All of it. Fragmented images. I went to the toilet. Pep talk with my evaporating sense of self. Faked some noises; others came out on their own. Looked for something sharp. Looked for any answer. Nothing. I saw only one way to go from there.

Upon re-emerging, I informed him, “It’s coming out both ends now.”

In deadpan response, Kenny merely pointed toward the bed.

Of course that didn’t work. I could have wallered in a kiddie pool brimming with the kind of troublesome excrement that only squirts—I could’ve been pre-dunked in a cup of poop soup—he wouldn’t have given a shit. My brain actually fruited those thoughts in that moment. I had already spotted a nose clamp [for swimming] in one of the many open boxes amid all the clutter. I was putting two together with the oddest other pair. I reckon I’ve been doing that since birth. Today, during my brief driving shift, I thought, “Hmm, what would I do if a T-Rex ran across the road?”

Sometimes I hate living inside my head.

I suppose another image comes forth.

I can actually believe that I’m blogging, but I find myself in total disbelief that you’re reading it.

I approached the old bed of sadistic doom with KP hot on my heels. Yeah, that piece of shit definitely fed off my fear. I don’t feel bad about what happens next.

Shakily, I offer him one of the many condoms that I had spotted on the nightstand next to my future weapon. He declines and adds, “Don’t worry. You won’t get pregnant. It’s only going in your ass.” Unmistakably, his statement elicited fright, which he really, really seemed to enjoy.

“I have herpes,” I blurted.

“So do I.”

This is the blurriest part. I’m crying. He’s kind of herding me. Bumping, grabbing, pushing. I’m acting like getting on all fours is my endgame, and that I’m just gonna “take it.”

However.

Somewhere in all that, I grab Snoopy and clock him upside the dome. A good, clean strike. I’m lucky that his reaction times are shite. The glass shatters; I must have released it before impact because my hand isn’t cut. Coins bounce all over the tiles. Kenny staggers as he falls backward into the wall. Me, frozen like a deer in headlights, caught between immobilizing shock and thorough satisfaction by how hard I hit that motherfucker.

Okay, indeed, the tense (has) changed, I guess. I just noticed. I’m on the same page as ARK now. We are present. Where are you?

After one failed attempt, Kenny regains his footing—and at this point I’m convinced he’s gonna skip the raping and go straight to the killing before eventually raping again—runs at me bellowing like a rabid animal, at which juncture, I don’t know exactly know what transpires; I perform some type of jump/kick/disengage maneuver [maybe leftover muscle memory from being longtime track-and-field athlete took over], and he goes on a sprawling pattern of stumbling across the damn room.

Viewed out of context, I’ll bet this was hilarious. Ever seen somebody teetering between maintaining their balance and losing it? That was Kenny, stumbling a good fifteen feet across the room before tripping on a long orange extension cord, plummeting, and slamming the side of his head into the corner of a questionably placed, very heavy, marble-topped coffee table.

Within 5 seconds I’m 100% sure that he’s dead as the blood around his head just keeps pooling.

The first emotion I feel? Relief.

Once I gather my wits, which probably takes at least a minute, I collect my belongings in a whirling frenzy. I can’t find one of my other blue heels. Still haven’t heard from Riley; I reach out but she does not answer. I fear the worst. Somehow I know she’s already a goner and that a rescue mission could only result in my untimely demise.

While frantically gathering my things, foolishly trying to remove any evidence of my presence here, I notice a large safe. Wide open. Cash galore. Well that’s enticing. Perhaps I should have something positive to show for this experience. Do I deserve the reward as a sort of a consolation prize and/or severance package? But it’s neither really. I’m not sure. Closer I go. Stinks in here. So much money. All hundreds, random jewels, other crap I can’t remember. Am I officially becoming a criminal? I touch. Smell. It’s all real. Again, memories blur. I convince myself. Contemplation, rationalization, justification. Decisions can be tricky, particularly after feeling the effects of a near-death experience. Quick math: this is more than a million. I’m grabbing all of it. I need a bag or something. I look around. Oh, there’s one. An old backpack from high school, assumedly. Gimme. Mine. Prick(s).

Having snatched all the cash and gems, I walk outside and try to act casually in case anyone is watching. Out comes someone. Fat black dude. [Naturally someone must’ve had “eyes on the pool house.”] I would later find out that his name is Darrell Dent, one of the two brothers heading Dick Purdy’s “private security force.”

I stop. Look. Wave. Darrell waves back. I smile, turn, stroll. He calls out, “Where you goin’?”

Over my shoulder, speeding up: “Nowhere.”

“Where’s Kenny?” I notice that the back of my top has been blatantly ripped. I realize that he has noticed, too. I run. I hear him scramble.

(At the time, never had I wielded more adrenaline.)

I feel like I’m running fast. Barefoot. Down the street. Not looking back. (I was a track star in school.) One ritzy residential block at a time: left, right, left, right, straight, left, right—finally I come upon a potential way a out in the form a pizza delivery guy parking and exiting his shitty vehicle, toting an equally shitty pie, I’d wager. I look back. Quiet. Spooky. Not even a siren. “Will you please give me a ride?” I plead.

I’m making him uncomfortable; it’s obvious. “Sorry, against company policy,” he claims, turning to abandon me on the street.

“I’ll give you a thousand dollars.” That’s what popped out. He stops and pivots. Having snagged his {short} attention {span}, I clumsily produce proof that my offer is legitimate. His eyes widen before signifying his acceptance (of my offer) by flinging the pizza paperboy-style at the house wherein the order must have originated.

In retrospect, I feel bad. Should’ve given him more dough.

From here to waking up hiding in the back of a fully stuffed U-Haul in Casper, Wyoming, it’s another series of long stories, and an even longer series of stories after that {which led me to Gulf Shores}. Eventually, with any luck, (all) those stories will be told.

I never aspired to kill anyone. Then again, I also never aimed to figure out that energy is everything/emotion. Turns out, one thing has led to other stuff.

I don’t believe that I was at fault in the death of Kenneth B. Purdy. Scratch that; I know I wasn’t. I did the right thing. Nonetheless, I have always felt guilty about it, as if I could’ve made a decision hours prior that would’ve prevented all this.

Nope.

That was fate. I’m supposed to be (right) here.

Hear that, Vegas police? Consider your “cold case” closed. I know who killed Kenny. Once upon a time, she was known as Maddy. Now, she’s me. Thierry. Hi!

This is happening. I’m destined to ride out this storm alongside the greatest source of light ever conceived.

And I do hope that you hear from me (again) soon. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.