Category: Fiction

The Ralph’s Doctrine:

Groceries, Geopolitics, and the End of Civilization

by a Drunken Lunatic with a Cart Full of Frozen Burritos

Power is unequally distributed, but it’s not supposed to be this obvious. Walk into any Ralph’s supermarket at 11:45 PM on a Tuesday and you’ll see what I mean: exhausted cashiers managing checkout lines longer than a Senate subcommittee hearing, customers wielding expired coupons like diplomatic immunity, and a self-checkout machine that might as well be an insurgent state refusing to recognize your existence.

It hit me like a sack of potatoes in the produce aisle: Ralph’s cashiers are the State Department, and we’re the wretched nations groveling for aid packages—or, in this case, two-for-one deals on Pop-Tarts.

The Frontline Diplomats of Aisle 6

The average cashier at Ralph’s has the weary demeanor of someone who’s negotiated a ceasefire in a country they can’t locate on a map. They stand at their posts like battle-hardened ambassadors, nodding diplomatically as Karen from Glendale demands reparations for the “mispriced” organic kombucha.

“Ma’am,” the cashier says with the calm of a UN delegate, “this is a coupon for Safeway.”

Karen’s face reddens. “It’s the principle! My taxes fund this Ralph’s, and I have a right to that kombucha!”

The cashier doesn’t flinch, maintaining the detached professionalism of a career bureaucrat deflecting accusations of arms deals. She hands back the coupon, offering a conciliatory smile.

The Ralph’s cashier is a master of deflection, a bureaucrat in a name tag and polo shirt, standing at the intersection of your immediate need for answers and their unwavering refusal to provide them. They are the embodiment of the State Department—so committed to obfuscation that the truth is never even considered. If diplomacy is the art of saying nothing while seeming to say something, Ralph’s cashiers are undisputed virtuosos.

The Inquiry: Where Is the Sour Cream?

“Excuse me,” you say, holding your basket like a white flag of surrender. “Can you tell me where the sour cream is?”

The cashier doesn’t look up. Instead, they perform the verbal equivalent of a press briefing. “That’s a great question,” they begin, their tone as neutral as an international peacekeeper’s.

You wait for the answer. It doesn’t come.

“I believe,” they continue, “that dairy products are usually located in the refrigerated section. But I can’t confirm that.”

Refrigerated section? That narrows it down to roughly half the store. You press for clarification. “So… is it near the milk?”

The cashier furrows their brow, as if you’ve just asked them to draw a detailed map of the Spratly Islands. “Milk is an interesting reference point,” they say finally. “But I’d encourage you to check with one of my colleagues in another department.”

And just like that, you’ve been referred to an imaginary secretary of dairy affairs.

Weapons Deals in the Frozen Foods Section

I was standing in front of the ice cream freezer, minding my own business, when I overheard two Ralph’s employees whispering in hushed tones. One of them—let’s call him “Steve”—was holding a crate of organic quinoa like it contained enriched uranium.

“The shipment goes out at midnight,” Steve said, glancing nervously over his shoulder.

The other employee nodded, sliding him a wad of cash wrapped in a receipt for avocados. “And the… other thing?”

Steve smirked. “Let’s just say there’s gonna be a price hike in Aisle 4. Get ready for some regime change.”

I left the freezer section immediately, but not before noticing that the quinoa shipment was headed to the same bunch of homeless encampment I drove on my way in. Coincidence? Hardly.

Propping Up Authoritarian Despots at the Bakery Counter

The bread section at Ralph’s is a lot like the developing world—rich in resources, but ruthlessly exploited by the powers that be. Behind the counter, the head baker is basically an autocrat, ruling over their domain with an iron whisk.

“Why is the sourdough $6.99?” I asked, holding up a loaf that looked like it had been baked during the Clinton administration.

The baker gave me a smug grin. “That’s the cost of stability,” they said.

Stability, my ass. Ralph’s has been subsidizing this overpriced bread cartel for years, funneling profits into their private-label cracker empire. Meanwhile, any attempt to introduce reasonably priced bagels is quashed faster than a grassroots revolution.

Coup d’État in the Dairy Aisle

The yogurt section is where things get really ugly. As I was looking for my sour cream terror hit me. One day, Chobani is on the top shelf, reigning supreme. The next day? Gone. Replaced by some shady new brand with vague ties to “international trade agreements.”

“Greek yogurt is no longer viable,” said a stocker who refused to give his name. “We’re aligning with Icelandic skyr now. Corporate decision.”

But I knew better. This wasn’t just a product swap—this was a coup. Somewhere in the backroom, a rogue manager had overthrown the yogurt supply chain, backed by shadowy forces from the international dairy lobby.

And the fallout? Absolute chaos. Customers wandered the aisles in confusion, clutching expired coupons for Oikos, while the cashiers enforced the new regime with the kind of ruthless efficiency you’d expect from a paramilitary force.

The Ralph’s Loyalty Program: A CIA Black Site in Disguise

You think the Ralph’s loyalty card is just a way to save 50 cents on cereal? Think again. It’s a surveillance apparatus so sophisticated, it makes the Patriot Act look like amateur hour. Every scan of that little plastic card is another data point in a sprawling network of grocery espionage.

“Oh, looks like you’re buying a lot of canned beans lately,” the cashier says with a sly grin. “Planning for something… long term?”

Before you know it, you’re flagged as a potential insurgent. The next time you try to buy sriracha, it’s mysteriously out of stock—a subtle but effective form of economic sanction.

The Final Straw: Aisle 9 Becomes a No-Fly Zone

And there I was as I witnessed the ultimate act of grocery store imperialism. A young woman was trying to buy a six-pack of La Croix when the cashier, wielding the full might of the Ralph’s empire, declared, “Sorry, this aisle is temporarily closed. You’ll have to go around.”

She protested, but it was no use. The aisle had been militarized, cordoned off with yellow cleaning signs like the DMZ. As I watched her retreat in defeat, I realized: Ralph’s isn’t just a supermarket. It’s a microcosm of global power, complete with all the corruption, manipulation, and violence of the State Department—but with better lighting and worse music.

Self-Checkout: The Failed State

The self-checkout zone is the supermarket equivalent of a collapsing regime—lawless, chaotic, and fueled by desperation. Customers scan items with the reckless abandon of warlords hoarding resources, ignoring the robotic voice barking unexpected item in bagging area like it’s the Geneva Conventions.

One man shoves an unscanned avocado into his tote bag, muttering something about inflation. “You think Kroger Corporation is gonna miss this?” he snarls, his eyes darting like a fugitive in international waters.

I half expect the cashier to slap sanctions on him, but she’s too busy brokering a fragile truce between a coupon-hoarder and a middle-aged man trying to buy cigarettes with a Blockbuster card.

You approach the cashier with a technical problem. “The self-checkout machine isn’t working. Can someone fix it?”

The cashier meets your gaze with the placid confidence of someone who has no intention of fixing anything. “We’re aware of the issue,” they say, carefully avoiding specifics.

“When will it be fixed?” you ask.

They nod solemnly, as though you’ve just asked them to comment on troop movements in Eastern Europe. “We’re actively working on a resolution,” they reply.

“How long will it take?”

“That depends on a number of factors,” they say vaguely, shuffling receipts like classified documents. “I’d recommend using one of the other machines in the meantime.”

You point out that the other machines are also broken. They pause, visibly calculating how much longer they can keep this conversation going before you give up. “I appreciate your patience,” they conclude, stonewalling with the finesse of a career diplomat.

The Geopolitics of Customer Service

If Ralph’s is the State Department, then the customer service counter is the International Criminal Court: a last resort for grievances too outrageous to ignore.

A man in a MAGA hat waves a half-empty bottle of ranch dressing in the air like a missile test. “This expired two months ago, and I demand a refund!”

The clerk stares at him with the hollow gaze of someone who’s read too many declassified reports. “Sir, you bought that at a Piggly Wiggly in Arkansas.”

“Doesn’t matter! You people are all the same!”

The clerk offers him store credit, a classic diplomatic maneuver. The man storms off, muttering something about “globalist lettuce.”

The Ralph’s Doctrine: A Lesson for the World

The truth is that Ralph’s cashiers understand power better than the actual State Department. They know how to wield it sparingly, how to pick their battles, and how to survive in a system where the rules are rigged against them. They can de-escalate a nuclear-level tantrum over expired yogurt while simultaneously scanning 40 items for a guy who’s clearly been living in his van.

But alas, the State Department isn’t Ralph’s, and Ralph’s isn’t the State Department. The world keeps turning, and somewhere in the frozen food aisle, a cashier is quietly ending a diplomatic crisis over a mislabeled pack of Hot Pockets. God help us all.

The City of Ten Thousand Doors

The room has been thick with smoke, curling in lazy rings under the ceiling fans, the walls stained amber in the dim light. Tangiers has pulsed outside, the city flickering in neon, shadows shifting like restless ghosts. In the corner, beneath a cracked light, the boss has leaned back in his chair—Moroccan leather, worn with years, his fingers drumming on its arm. He has watched the young men across from him with a hard, steady gaze, reading them as if they’ve already confessed everything.

“You have thought I’m just another hustler,” he has said, a slow smirk pulling at his lips, “another man with hands in pockets, collecting my piece.” The men have been silent, their shoulders tight, but the boss has leaned forward, letting smoke drift from his cigarette. “You haven’t understood it yet, have you? What I do has gone far beyond money. Money has been only a shadow, an echo. What I have done here, it’s made something—call it order, call it peace, but it’s real.”

He has flicked his cigarette ash onto the floor, ignoring the tremor in the younger man’s hand. “If I hadn’t been here, things would have fallen to chaos. The souks, the ports, the whole rhythm of the Medina—everything would have unraveled. What I’ve built has kept this place together, ticked it forward like the gears in an old clock.” His voice has been quiet but sharp, cutting through the haze of the room like a blade.

“Now, maybe you’ve been thinking, if there’s no trouble, why would anyone need a man like me?” He has laughed, a low, rusty sound. “But that’s the trick, isn’t it? If I’m good at my job, then there’s nothing to see. No mess, no broken bones in the street, no blood on the walls. People start to believe there’s nothing wrong, that danger’s a myth.”

He has looked through the window, the lights of Tangiers spread below him like a map of possibilities. “But if something bad had happened? If I had let things slip even once?” His face has hardened, his jaw clenched. “Then they’d say I had failed, that I wasn’t worth the price. They’d forget the times I’ve stopped trouble before it had begun, the messes I’ve cleaned before they’ve spilled over.”

He has paused, smoke wreathing his face, an ancient calm in his eyes. “Do you understand the weight of that? To keep things balanced, never seen, never praised? To hold all the threads while people wonder if you’re even needed? That’s my trade. I’ve made sure that bad things haven’t happened. And that is my curse: the better I do my job, the less they see me, the less they understand what I’ve saved them from. But they come to me in the end, every time, because they have known—even if they forget in the daylight—how much worse it could be.”

The boss has shifted, leaning back as if to take in the whole room with one slow, sweeping look. The young men have sat tense, half-listening, half-staring at the haze of smoke. He has taken a deep breath, as though he’s about to let them in on some secret hidden in the foundations of the city itself.

“You see, people talk about technology as if it’s some kind of miracle, some guarantee of power,” he has murmured, voice like gravel rubbing against silk. “But I’ve seen the truth—no matter how powerful a technology becomes, it’s never more than an experiment. Always a test, always just a step out into the unknown. The fools in labs, the ones behind all those machines and wires, they don’t know what they’re playing with. They’re like children with matches, thinking they’ve mastered fire.”

He has laughed, cold and low, taking another drag from his cigarette. “Technologists think they’re gods, but they’re blind as anyone else. They can’t see the full picture, not until it’s too late. Every invention they’ve made, every so-called ‘solution’—it’s been nothing but a gamble. They’ve played with forces they haven’t understood, and by the time they’ve seen the consequences, it’s already out of their hands.”

He has looked each young man in the eye, holding them there as if weighing their souls. “Me? I’ve never had that luxury. I’ve had to see things for what they are, right from the start. Every move, every deal, every choice has had to be deliberate, no room for loose ends or blind experiments. The people out there,” he has gestured toward the city lights flickering through the window, “they think they’re safe because of some system, some clever design. But all of that, the order they take for granted—it’s only ever been real because I’ve made it so. Not machines, not technology, but flesh and blood, sweat and consequence.”

He has leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper, but with the weight of iron. “The men in labs can afford to fail. They learn after the fact, let their failures fall on others, make their adjustments. But here in Tangiers, in the streets, I don’t have that luxury. If I fail, the city burns. That’s the difference. Their power’s experimental; mine’s real.”

The smoke has lingered thick around them, the shadows pooling deeper as his words settled over the room like a warning. “So remember this,” he has said, a dark gleam in his eye, “whatever new marvels or toys they come up with, whatever promises they make—their games will always end in uncertainty. But what I’ve built, what I protect… that’s no experiment. That’s the line between order and chaos. And as long as I’m here, I keep that line.”

The boss has drawn a long, slow drag from his cigarette, and his eyes have softened, gazing out toward the window where Tangiers sprawled like a living tapestry. “This city,” he has said, voice a mix of reverence and resignation, “it isn’t some neat system, like those technologists dream about. No, this place… it’s like the wave and the electron. Infinite, changing, an experiment that’s always in motion, never fixed.”

He has looked back at the young men, holding them in the weight of his stare. “They think they can measure it, control it, like it’s some Western machine. But here? Tangiers is like the wind that rolls off the Rif Mountains, like the markets shifting each dawn, like the sea brushing at the rocks and changing a little each time. Everything here, it’s relationship, it’s the balance of people who’ve known each other’s families for generations. It’s not rules and systems; it’s baraka—the blessings, the weight of lineage, of blood and debt, of favors traded over tea, beneath the palm trees.”

He’s flicked his cigarette ash again, as though brushing off the technologists’ schemes, their neat little theories. “You see, in the North, they have their systems, their grids, their determinations. But here? Here, we have tajriba—a kind of knowing, a trust in the way things unfold, always close, never certain. And like the electron, everything depends on how you look at it, how you’re connected to it. You can’t hold Tangiers in your hand; you can only walk through it, move with it, be part of its rhythm.”

He’s paused, tapping his fingers on the table. “This place is indeterminate, like you said. It’s like the wave. One minute it’s a pulse of energy moving through the souks, the alleys; next moment, it’s gone, disappeared into the Medina’s hidden paths. It slips through your fingers like sand. And every day, every deal I make, every person I touch, it changes. Not in some simple, linear way—they don’t understand that. It’s like trying to catch a river in a cup. You only get a trickle, but the rest flows on, uncontained.”

He’s leaned back, letting his words settle over the young men, filling the room with a silence that has felt thick and heavy. “So they think they can impose their systems here? Control it from the outside? They’ll only ever see a shadow, a surface reflection, because they don’t have the connection, the roots. They don’t have the real understanding. You can’t build a city with formulas, with charts. This city’s made of whispers and debts, of hands clasped over coffee, of promises that outlast lifetimes.”

He’s taken another drag, and his eyes have drifted back to the cityscape beyond the window. “They don’t know Tangiers. They see the city, but not the experiment within it—the push and pull, the pulse beneath the stone, the spirits and ancestors, the ways that cross each other like the wind. And that’s why, in the end, this city is ours. Because we understand that it’s not a problem to be solved. It’s alive, like the ocean, like the mountain, like us. A living, breathing, shifting wave.”

MAGA

Scene: Suburban Kitchen – Morning

RANDY, a middle-aged man in a “Save America” t-shirt, stands proudly in his gleaming, newly remodeled kitchen, giving CARLOS, a stocky Latino man in a worn uniform, an enthusiastic handshake. Carlos holds a clipboard and offers a polite, guarded smile.

RANDY

(grinning, voice loud and cheerful)

Carlos, my man! Good to see you here. I gotta say, proud of your people voting the right way this time. We’re all about family values and hard work, right? That’s what’s gonna save this country!

(firm handshake, hearty grin)

You guys are waking up. That’s what this country needs, right? Patriots!

CARLOS

(nods, half-smiling)

Yes, sir. We’re just trying to do our jobs, support our families.

RANDY

Exactly! Hard work, family values—America’s about that. (pauses, chuckles) Anyways, the dishwasher’s been making a noise like it’s grinding up marbles or something. Think you can handle it?

CARLOS

(curtly nodding)

Yes, sir. Just here to do my job.

RANDY

Exactly! Anyway, my dishwasher’s been rattling like crazy. Think you can take a look?

Carlos opens the dishwasher, jostles a few parts with a screwdriver, but barely seems interested. Randy watches over him impatiently, shifting his weight back and forth.

Carlos kneels by the dishwasher, rattling around with tools. Randy hovers, watching him out of the corner of his eye, while scrolling on his phone. After a few minutes, Carlos closes the dishwasher door, standing up.

CARLOS

Alright, Mr. Randy. Should be all set now. I’ve run some diagnostics, cleaned up a few parts. You’re good to go.

RANDY

(grins and claps Carlos on the shoulder)

Just what I like to hear! You guys never fail. Well—since you got it fixed so quick, think we could knock off a few bucks on the bill? (smiling) You know how it is, times are tight.

Carlos hesitates, catching Randy’s expectant look, and nods reluctantly.

CARLOS

Sure. I’ll adjust the price.

Carlos scrawls a new total on the invoice and hands it over. Randy reaches into his wallet and pulls out a few crumpled bills, pressing them into Carlos’s hand. The bills are clearly fake—poorly printed, faded, and missing watermarks. Carlos glances at the cash, realizing he’s being stiffed, but says nothing, his expression unreadable.

RANDY

(winking)

Here you go, champ. Keep up the good work. You guys are really getting with the program. America needs that.

Carlos nods, forces a tight smile, and leaves without a word. Once he’s gone, Randy chuckles to himself, thinking he got a great deal.

Carlos nods and leaves, closing the door behind him. Randy shakes his head with a smirk and walks back to the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cabinet. He pauses as he hears a low grinding sound from the dishwasher, then the motor stuttering.

RANDY

(annoyed)

Oh, you gotta be kidding me…

He presses the start button, but the dishwasher just groans louder and then clunks to a stop. before falling silent.

RANDY

(frowning, muttering)

What the—?

Harder To Fix

INT. CONFERENCE ROOM – DAY

A group of young software engineers, fresh-faced and idealistic, sit around a sleek, glass table in a high-rise office overlooking a nameless, sprawling city. They exchange glances, uncertain.

At the head of the table, PETER COYOTE leans back in his chair, a wise yet weary expression on his face. He pauses, surveying the room with sharp, almost piercing eyes, as if measuring each of them before he begins.

PETER COYOTE

(leaning forward)

Alright, let’s clear this up because I don’t think most of you understand what business we’re really in. You’re all here thinking you’re part of some grand solution. You’re not. We’re not here to fix problems. We’re here to make all problems… much harder to fix.

The engineers shift uncomfortably, glancing at one another, bewildered. One of them, JASON, raises a tentative hand.

JASON

But aren’t we…

PETER COYOTE

Transparency, efficiency… Sure, those are the words on the PowerPoint, but the reality? The reality is that every feature you build, every algorithm you optimize—it’s just another knot in a web designed to keep people tangled, to keep answers further out of reach. You think you’re building for the public? You’re building for control.

Another engineer, SARA, furrows her brow.

Peter leans in, his voice low, almost conspiratorial.

PETER COYOTE

We’re working for the people who need the problems to stay problems. The ones who profit every time someone hits a dead end, every time someone’s halfway to understanding and gives up because it’s just… too… hard. You see, if things were simple, if they were easy to fix, we’d be out of a job—and so would the people above us.

He pauses, letting it sink in, as the engineers’ faces grow more somber.

PETER COYOTE

It’s not about making life better. It’s about making the game so complex that only a few know the rules and fewer still ever see the board. You’re here to play their game. Don’t ever forget that.

A silence falls over the room. The engineers sit back, a new understanding settling heavily upon them. The hopeful sparkle dims in their eyes, replaced by something more cautious.

Peter Coyote eyes them, his expression a mix of contempt and pity. He flicks his fingers at a stack of files on the table.

PETER COYOTE

(voice clipped, sharp)

You think this is about saving the world, huh? You think you’re heroes? Wake up. Snap out of it.

He leans forward, stabbing the table with his finger.

PETER COYOTE

You’re here because we’re making the rules. And the rules are: complexity is king. Confusion is gold. People want answers? Give ’em a maze. Make it look like a favor.

JASON

(squirming)

I thought…

Peter cuts him off with a hand, a tight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

PETER COYOTE

(leaning in, almost a whisper)

Innovation? Who sold you that line? We don’t innovate. We complicate. That’s the business. When you roll out that feature, when you tweak that code, you’re adding one more lock, one more piece of red tape. We’re in the barrier business, not the solution business.

SARA

(mumbling)

But we’re—

Peter explodes, slamming his fist on the table.

PETER COYOTE

Helping people? Helping people?! (laughs) You want to help people, go volunteer at a soup kitchen. But don’t come in here, my office, acting like this is some charity gig. You know who we’re here to help? The ones paying the bills. And they don’t want solutions, they want systems. They don’t want clarity, they want complication. You know why?

He paces, letting the silence stew.

PETER COYOTE

Because the more tangled it is, the more they’re needed. The more their pockets get lined while everyone else scrambles to catch up. And your job? Your job is to make it so goddamn hard to fix a problem that people don’t even know where to start.

A beat. The engineers sit, stunned.

JASON

So… we’re just here to… keep things broken?

Peter looks at him, his expression a mixture of disgust and disappointment.

PETER COYOTE

(quietly)

No. We’re here to keep things profitable. Broken is a feature, kid. Not a bug.

The engineers look at each other, the weight of it settling, choking. Peter watches, almost amused.

PETER COYOTE

Remember who we’re working for.

Our Town

The bus wheezed to a stop on the edge of a town that didn’t seem to exist on any map I’d ever seen. The paint was peeling off every wall, and the street signs looked like they’d been stolen from a historical reenactment village. In fact, everything here had a worn-out, mock-serious look to it, like someone had tried to give a modern-day suburban nightmare the grit of a 19th-century boomtown.

I stepped off the bus, the only passenger. The driver raised an eyebrow at me as I climbed down. “Good luck with these types,” he muttered, and with that, the doors creaked shut, and the bus sputtered off, leaving a faint cloud of exhaust that hung over the street.

“Patriots in cargo shorts,” I muttered as I walked toward what looked like the town square. And sure enough, there they were: a bunch of graying men and women in camo-print cargo shorts, fanny packs, and flag-patterned hats, parading in formation around a war memorial no one seemed able to remember the name of. One of them gave me a stiff, almost saluting nod, squinting as if to say, “You better be grateful for whatever sacrifice I made.”

Further down, a group huddled under a gazebo, muttering about inflation and scrolling through their phones like sacred texts. These were the Spreadsheet Spartans, glaring at cell signal bars as if checking them off a list of tactical maneuvers. Every few seconds, one would let out a sigh so self-important, you’d think they’d just declared an economic state of emergency.

“Nice place,” I said, passing by.

One of them looked up, leveling me with a solemn expression. “If you knew what I could do with a budget calculator…” he trailed off ominously, letting the threat hang in the air.

A little unnerved, I made my way to the local cafe. The sign outside read: Liberty Latte in calligraphy that desperately wanted to look hand-painted but was probably printed from a laser jet. I pushed the door open, and immediately I was met with a blast of coffee so weak it could barely pass as bean water.

Inside, the tables were crowded with Liberty Latte Warriors. Each wore an expression of righteous contentment, hands wrapped around eco-friendly cups as they discussed the “war on small businesses” that hadn’t even reached this place. One of them shot me a look of pure disdain when I ordered a plain black coffee. “You drink that?” she sneered. “I stick to oat milk, because, you know, the cows.”

Down a little side street, a man in a black turtleneck with a hand-rolled cigarette hanging from his lips leaned against a wall. “We’ve lost all nuance,” he whispered to no one in particular. The Turtleneck Tyrants seemed to live in this perpetual fog of discontent, wandering the town as if they were the last true thinkers left in the world. He nodded to me as I passed, a grim acknowledgment that I, too, was trapped in this intellectual wasteland.

Before I knew it, the sun had started to set, casting long shadows over the cobblestone square. I felt like I’d been walking through a fever dream of people convinced they were holding together the fragile threads of society. Everywhere I turned, there were Armchair Aristotles, pontificating about human nature, whiskey glass in hand, or Virtue Vault-Tenders, pulling me aside to explain the importance of obscure values they’d unearthed from dead philosophers’ notebooks.

Finally, I slumped onto a bench near the fountain. I tried to wrap my head around where I’d landed: a bizarre simulation of a town where everyone was certain they held the answers. Just as I thought I might drift off, a Backyard Benevolent Dictator approached, hands on his hips, button-down tucked crisply into his khaki shorts. The name “Sheriff” was stenciled on a makeshift badge that hung from his neck, suspended by what looked suspiciously like a shoelace. “Sheriff Marston,” he introduced himself, thrusting out his hand. His grip was firm, as if he’d practiced it in the mirror.

“New in town?” he asked, with a voice that brooked no argument.

“Just passing through,” I replied, trying not to laugh.

“Well, stay long enough, and you’ll learn something. We all have something to teach around here, after all,” he said with a nod, turning on his heel.

Before I could protest, he was already marching me toward the town square, gesturing around like he was the mayor. “Let me show you what makes our town special. A sanctuary of principles and practical wisdom, you know?”

“Let’s start with the Freedom Fitness Fanatics,” he said, steering me into the local park, where several people in red, white, and blue spandex were doing push-ups on the grass. “They believe a patriotic citizen should bench their body weight in the name of liberty,” he whispered. “Some folks work out to feel good; these folks do it for freedom.”

One of them spotted me and called out, “Hey, you ever deadlift for democracy?” His question hung in the air as he flexed his bicep, clearly awaiting some form of affirmation.

“Not… not often,” I replied, hoping that was sufficient.

Marston patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry, not everyone’s cut out for freedom reps.” With that, he ushered me down the street toward a small café, where a group sat huddled around a laptop, wearing suits and intense expressions.

“These here are the Crypto Crusaders,” he said in a low voice, watching them with a certain awe. “They’re always talking about ‘decentralizing the system’ or somethin’. Personally, I don’t understand it, but they’ll swear Bitcoin’s the only way to save America.”

One Crusader looked up, spotting us. “We’re just one ICO away from total freedom!” he shouted, eyes gleaming with a fervor I usually associated with cult leaders or late-night TV salesmen.

Before I could respond, Sheriff Marston led me away and toward an alley. A faint smell of lavender hung in the air, and a small group sat cross-legged on yoga mats, essential oils arranged like holy relics.

“These are the Self-Care Stoics,” Marston whispered. “They say they’re all about resilience, but watch ‘em freak out if their meditation app goes down.”

One of them nodded at us, rubbing a dab of eucalyptus oil into his temples. “Embrace discomfort,” he intoned, adjusting his expensive mat. “Life’s a journey, after all.”

Marston rolled his eyes, and we moved on, heading toward a cluster of people standing by an old payphone with retro-style outfits. “Now these here are the Vintage Vanguards,” he explained. “They act like the world stopped turning in the ‘50s. They’ll tell you the only time America was truly great was when people said things like ‘golly’ and ‘gee whiz.’”

One woman with a beehive hairdo was struggling to dial a number on the payphone. “Back when phones were simple!” she said, glaring at her smartphone like it had personally offended her.

I stifled a laugh as Marston nudged me onward. “Time to meet the Free Market Minstrels,” he announced as we approached a group tuning their guitars on a small stage in the town square. One of them adjusted his fedora and began strumming a folksy ballad dedicated to “the entrepreneurial spirit.”

“They think music should celebrate enterprise,” Marston whispered. “Honestly, it’s not half bad, but after three songs about ‘fiscal freedom,’ you start missing silence.”

We continued down Main Street, and I noticed a group of people with clipboards and binders, meticulously arranging pamphlets in neat rows. “These are the Bureaucracy Buffs,” he said. “They believe in the power of paperwork. They’re even petitioning for a town ‘Documentation Day.’”

One Buff shot us a look of approval. “Order is essential to a functioning society,” he declared, tapping his clipboard like a gavel.

Marston smirked as we moved on, rounding the corner to a cluster of tents with immaculate interior decor. “Ah, now here’s a favorite: the Manifest Destiny Minimalists. They’re committed to having as little as possible, just so long as their minimalism looks good on Instagram.”

A woman in the group held up her smartphone, framing a photo of her tent, which contained exactly one plant, one candle, and one carefully curated journal. She smiled, satisfied with her sparse but elegant setup.

Sheriff Marston led me away before they could engage us in a lecture on “mindful possessions” and brought us to a more rugged area at the town’s edge. Here, a group wearing cargo pants and sun hats were leaning over a picnic spread, discussing “nature’s wisdom.”

“These are the Neo-Nobleman Naturalists,” Marston whispered. “They’re convinced they’re the last real protectors of Mother Earth — in style, of course.”

One of them raised a glass of kombucha in a toast. “To nature,” he said solemnly. “Untouched and pure — just like us.”

I stifled a snort, and Sheriff Marston chuckled as he led me toward the library, where a small crowd had gathered. “Now you’re gonna love this. These are the Ordained Influencers of Insight. They can’t get through a sentence without asking, ‘Does that resonate?’ They’re self-proclaimed experts on purpose and alignment.”

One woman spotted us, her eyes wide with an almost holy intensity. “Alignment is everything,” she said softly. “We’re all here on this journey, don’t you think?”

Before I could answer, Marston nudged me forward to a group grilling hamburgers on what looked like a space-age BBQ setup. “Now these are the Techno-Anarchist Grillers. They say they’re all about anti-establishment values — but they won’t cook their burgers on anything but the latest gadget.”

One of them flipped a burger with a spatula that looked suspiciously Bluetooth-enabled. “Collapse society?” he mused. “Maybe. But not before the meat’s medium-rare.”

Marston sighed as he led me on, next stopping at the town library steps, where a group sat in tailored suits, each with a laptop. “These are the Investment Visionaries. They’re convinced they’re on the verge of the next big financial boom — or bust. Either way, they’re winning.”

One of them looked up, exuding self-importance. “Generational wealth is my birthright,” he announced to no one in particular, his words wafting over the square like gospel.

By now, my head was spinning, but Sheriff Marston seemed energized. “Two more,” he promised, steering me toward a street corner where a group in robes performed strange, sweeping arm movements.

“These here are the Constitutional Choreographers. They’ve interpreted the Bill of Rights into dance routines,” he explained. “They think patriotism should be expressed through interpretive movement.”

One of them caught my eye and gave a deep, solemn bow. “Every step represents freedom,” he intoned before launching into a clumsy series of jumps.

Finally, we reached a small crowd gathered around a man pacing with a furrowed brow. “The Irony Elders,” Marston whispered with a smirk. “They only speak in sarcasm. ‘Authenticity,’ they call it.”

One Elder spotted me and muttered, “Oh, sure, just waltz right into town, like authenticity is so passé,” and rolled his eyes.

Marston grinned. “Quite a town, huh? We’re like a tapestry of individuality.” He gave a proud nod, surveying his quirky kingdom.

And as I looked around at the Freedom Fitness Fanatics, the Crypto Crusaders, the Manifest Destiny Minimalists, and every other oddball Sheriff Marston had introduced me to, I realized he was right. This place wasn’t like anywhere I’d ever seen — and that was, somehow, exactly the point.

Have a Cigar

Scene: Dimly lit record label office, smoke curling through the air. Peter Coyote lounges at the head of a massive leather couch, cool, calculating, sizing up the young band sitting across from him. The musicians look equal parts excited and nervous, caught somewhere between awe and dread. Coyote lights a cigar, gestures grandly for them to sit down, and gives them a warm, almost predatory smile.

Peter Coyote: (smoothly, leaning back, puffing on the cigar) Come in, come in. Take a seat, dear boys. You know, I’ve got a feeling. A very good feeling about you lot. You’re going places, places you haven’t even dreamed of.

(grins, eyes twinkling)

They’re gonna love you. You’ve got that look, that edge—raw, unpolished, a little hungry. They eat that up. And, if you play this right, you’re gonna fly, fellas. You’re never gonna die. You’ll be immortal.

(the band members nod, glancing at each other, unsure)

And you know why? Because you’re special. You got… I dunno, what’s the word… (snaps his fingers) integrity. Not like those other acts. You’re real. Hell, I’ve always had a deep respect for artists with a little edge, the ones who mean it. That’s you, right? You mean it.

Band Member 1: (clears his throat, hesitant) Uh,

Peter Coyote: (laughs, slaps the table) The message! Exactly! The message. We’re on the same page here. And that’s why I’m thrilled to have you on board. Look, your sound, it’s… (pauses, as if searching for the word) fantastic. Real raw. Gritty. Just fantastic. (pauses, then deadpan) By the way, which one of you is the “wild one”?

(the band members exchange confused looks)

Peter Coyote: (nods approvingly) Perfect. Every band needs one, right? Keeps things interesting. And the kids—oh, they’ll love it. Love it. Now, let’s talk about the plan, shall we?

(leans in, voice turning sharp, conspiratorial)

Did we tell you the name of the game, boys? We call it riding the gravy train. That’s what this is. You want to be icons? Legends? You gotta play the game. And the game? It’s all about selling. The album, the merch, the tour… all of it. You got a message? Great. But you gotta sell it.

Peter Coyote: (raises an eyebrow, smirks) Creative control. Sure, sure. Listen, we love that. Love that. But here’s the thing, kid—(leans in closer)—you want freedom? You gotta earn it. And you earn it by giving the people what they want. So, first thing’s first, we need another album. Fast. Doesn’t matter if it’s new, or remixed, or hell, just play it louder. Just get it out there. You owe it to the fans.

(band members nod reluctantly)

Now, don’t get me wrong. We’re happy. Real happy. So happy we can hardly count. You’re the hottest act in town. Have you seen the charts? They’re green with envy, every last one of ‘em. And this? This is just the start.

(pauses for effect)

This thing—this project you got? It could be huge. A monster. If we all pull together as a team. We package it right, market it right, throw a few hits on the radio… you’re looking at arenas, boys. Big money. And don’t worry about the details. Just keep doing what you’re doing, and we’ll handle the rest.

Band Member 3: (almost whispering)

(Peter leans in, deadly serious)

Peter Coyote: So, did I tell you the name of the game, boys? We call it riding the gravy train. Now, the train’s leaving the station. All you gotta do is hop on.

(softly chuckling, shaking his head) Fellas, fellas… Look, I get it. You wanna be real, make waves, set fires. I see it in your eyes, that fire. But here’s the thing: you’re sweating over the wrong side of the deal.

Band Member 1: (puzzled)

Peter Coyote: I’m talking about the audience, champ. You keep playing like you’re trying to win ‘em over. Get rid of that. Quit trying so hard to prove you’re something special. No, you’re not here to sell them a damn thing. You’re here to get them to sell themselves to you.

(leans in, elbows on the table, voice low and smooth)

What I’m saying is: quit performing for them. You’ve got it backward. They’re your audience—make them feel like they’re the lucky ones. Make them think, “Hell, if I could just get a taste of what these guys have.” You want the public pumping you, hyping you up so they get a whiff of the magic. You understand?

Band Member 2: (hesitant) So… we don’t try to impress ‘em?

Peter Coyote: Impress ‘em? Impress ‘em? Son, they don’t want to be impressed; they want to be validated. Look, people are starving for something they think is authentic, and you? You got that look. Now, you wanna be rockstars, right? The real thing? Well, the real thing doesn’t try to be anything at all. They’re beyond all that.

(snaps fingers)

What you gotta do is be the thing they want to be. Make ‘em crave you. When they look at you, they should think, “That’s how it’s done.”

Band Member 3: (nodding slowly) So, we gotta… just stop caring?

Peter Coyote: Bingo. Stop selling them something. They wanna be sold to? They’ll go buy a pair of sneakers. You? You’re in the mystery business. They’re not buying a show; they’re buying the chance to believe. Make them chase that, make them sell themselves on you.

(smiles slyly)

That, boys, is how you pump the public—get them working for you. They’re your best hype. You just let them catch the idea of you, and that’s enough to keep them coming back, hungry for more. And you know what that looks like? You don’t make a better product. You don’t give them anything real, anything authentic. No, you reach for something easier. You try to hit a degraded, simplified version of that early fan—the one who was hungry, who thought this meant something.

(He pauses, letting it sink in, then points a finger at them)

That’s how it works. They aren’t looking for real. Real’s too much work. Real asks them to think. So we give ‘em the basics. A catchy hook, a leather jacket, a spotlight, a little swagger—and, suddenly, they think they’re witnessing something big. They’re buying the brand, not the band. And it’s all dressed up to look like the old days, but really? It’s just an echo, a shadow of what it used to be.

(leans back, chuckling)

But here’s the best part—they don’t know the difference. They don’t even want to know the difference. It’s easier that way. We simplify it, water it down, keep the edges soft. You don’t have to be great. You just have to look great. The audience does the rest.

Band Member 1: (protesting, uncomfortable) But isn’t that… isn’t that kinda hollow? I mean, people can tell when something’s real, can’t they?

Peter Coyote: (smirking) Oh, they think they can. They’ll tell you they want authenticity. But do you think they’re out there buying garage tapes? No, they’re lining up to buy what we tell them is authentic. It’s like this: the idea of something real is more valuable than the reality of it. You package that, they’ll buy it every time.

(pauses, letting the words hang in the air)

See, that’s how you reach the new consumer. You give them a memory of a memory, a cheap thrill that doesn’t need to mean a thing. They get the feeling without the work, without the grit, without the soul. And the best part? They’ll eat it up. They’re looking to us for what’s cool, what’s real. We just show ‘em the shortcut and call it the real thing.

Band Member 2: (disbelieving) So… so we just become… what? A brand?

Peter Coyote: (grinning coldly) A brand? No, boys. A brand would be too generous. You’re not a brand. You’re a product. And products? They get sold.

Happy Place

Scene: A stark conference room, mid-afternoon. Peter Coyote addresses the room with razor-sharp authority, eyes scanning his fellow executives like he’s reading them the unvarnished truth about the consumer game. His tone is clipped, impatient, punctuated with sharp pauses.

Peter Coyote: (leaning in, voice sharp) Let’s cut the romance, shall we? We’re not in the magic business. We’re in the money business. And our clients? They’re not “guests,” they’re consumers. And consumers—real consumers—aren’t interested in value; they’re interested in the feeling of value.

(pauses, scanning the room)

You want to know what consumers want? More for less? Think again. They want to pay more for less and feel like they’re getting more. You just have to tell ‘em it’s worth it, and make them say “thank you” on the way out.

(he paces)

Quality? That’s not what they’re here for. If they wanted quality, they’d cook their own damn food, make their own fun. They’re here because they don’t want to think. They want us to think for them, give them the package deal—the Deluxe, the Premium, the All-Access. You throw a little “limited edition” tag on it, they’ll trip over each other for a shot at a half-rate experience.

(laughs dryly)

And subscriptions? We don’t even have to try to justify the price hikes. Doesn’t matter what’s in the library; we raise the price, they keep signing up. Why? Because they’re not just buying entertainment—they’re buying membership in the tribe. They’ll take whatever we give ‘em because they want to belong.

(stops, turns to face the board directly)

We don’t need innovation. We need security. Stick to the franchises, the old names. New ideas? You’re wasting your time. Give ‘em something they know. Safety sells, folks. Every time. And they’ll keep lapping it up.

(leans in, voice lowers)

As for the service cuts, let’s call it what it is: it’s a filter. The real fans will stay even when we trim a few perks, lose a few smiles. They’re invested. They’ve got skin in the game. We make it a little rough around the edges? Those who stay are the ones who’ll pay more, every single time.

(he crosses his arms, smirking)

And when they fork over for those $20 sandwiches, for that “free Wi-Fi” that ain’t free, for those hotels that look good in the brochure? They don’t blink. They’ll gripe, but they’ll come back. Because we’re not selling them a product. We’re selling them a lifestyle choice. They can grumble all they want about the cost, but you and I know the truth—they’ll keep coming back for the privilege of being taken.

(leans back, smile faint and knowing)

We keep cutting costs, keep raising prices, and they’ll keep buying in, happily saying “thank you.” And when we’re done here? We walk away with their money—and they’ll thank us for it.

(A beat, then he gives a dry, cold smile. The boardroom erupts in nods and murmured agreement.)

Peter Coyote: (leans in, voice firm, cutting through the room) ABC, folks. Always. Be. Cutting. The only rule in this business. Always be cutting. That’s the difference between us and them. They want to feel full, want to feel like we care about value, about experience. But what do we know? We know that less is more. Less service, more loyalty. Less product, more price. Every cut we make—every little slice off the top—that’s a line straight to the shareholders’ wallets.

(picks up a report and waves it)

Cutting’s an art. Anyone can slash, anyone can gut a budget. But to cut and leave them wanting more? That takes finesse. We don’t just cut costs—we cut strategically. We trim the fat, we pull back the perks, we shave down every experience to the bone… but we leave just enough that they think they’re missing out on something exclusive.

(leans forward, voice softer, but sharp)

You know what’s funny? We used to add value. Used to pile on features, extra events, giveaways—stuff. We don’t add anything anymore. We subtract, but we tell ‘em it’s special. Limited access, fewer seats, a shorter window. And they line up, because they think what’s left must be worth more.

(paces, glancing at each board member)

Listen to me: we are not builders. We are cutters. Cutting is our business. It’s not enough to sell what we’ve got; we sell what’s gone. We take a perk away, we bring in more profit. We turn off the freebies, they pay to turn ‘em back on. Always be cutting. Take away, scale back, remove—until what’s left is a premium product by virtue of absence.

(pauses, lets it sink in)

Here’s the real beauty of it. They think it’s their choice to pay more. They think they’re saying “yes” to a premium experience. But they’re just saying “yes” to less. That’s the brilliance. And with every cut, every perk removed, we make them feel like they’re getting in on something scarce, something luxurious.

(smirks)

So, what’s our job? To keep finding ways to cut. ABC. You don’t sell the steak—you sell the sizzle. And if the sizzle gets old, you cut it, sell ‘em the smoke.

The Garage

Ray: “It’s the garage, Bill. The garage itself. Not some ordinary space filled with nails, wood shavings, and the detritus of middle-class American living. No, this garage, it’s alive. Like one of those shops in the old stories, the ones that weren’t there yesterday and won’t be there tomorrow. But today? Today it hums with energy, a transmitter of something grander than mere human thought.”

Bill: “Ah, yes, the old alchemy. A conduit, not a container. You don’t walk into it—you get absorbed by it. The space warps reality, don’t you see? Market speculation bleeds through the walls like the very vapor of high finance, all those zero-interest loans seeping in like opium through a bloodstream. Ideas aren’t born there, they’re inhaled—snorted off the concrete floor with the dust and grease of all the past failures and half-baked schemes.”

Ray: “Exactly! The garage isn’t some workspace for soldering wires or slapping together motherboards. No, it’s a cosmic atelier, where the air itself whispers secrets to those who dare to breathe deeply. And the people? They’re just… passengers. Hitchhikers on the road to brilliance. The garage is driving, always has been.”

Bill: “It’s a ritual space, then. The garage works on you the way a junkie works on a needle—methodically, compulsively. You think you’re shaping the future, but the future is really shaping you. And the rent? Let’s talk about that—six figures for a little square of concrete and corrugated steel. You’re paying for the privilege of being swallowed up by this beast, thinking you’re starting a company when really you’re just part of its metabolism. Feeding it.”

Ray: “And that’s the genius of it, Bill. The garage doesn’t want your ideas. No, it’s after your belief. You step inside thinking you’re going to change the world, but it’s the garage changing you. Transmitting, processing—every entrepreneur that passes through is like another brick in the wall. They come in with dreams, but they leave with… startups. Products. Things. The garage doesn’t care for things—it’s the process it craves.”

Bill: “A grand scam, isn’t it? The startup is the fix, and the garage? That’s your dealer. You think you’re on the verge of revolution, but it’s just the same trip, over and over, selling you visions for what you can’t quite touch. And when the market crashes? The garage disappears like smoke. But by then, it’s already in your bloodstream, man. It’s already altered you. Made you its instrument.”

Ray: “So the real secret isn’t the founders. It never was. It’s the garage, alive, timeless, waiting for the next great idea to stumble through the door. Wozniak? Jobs? They were just tuning forks, vibrating to the hum of something much older. Much bigger. And the future? That’s just another echo, another reverberation of what the garage wants to be born.”

Bill: “Exactly. You don’t create the next big thing in there—you channel it. The garage is an ancient hunger, disguised as innovation. You think you’re feeding it your mind, but really, you’re just feeding the machine. And by the time you figure that out? It’s too late. You’re already hooked.”

The Long Runway

The colonel stood before the vast, sun-bleached expanse, squinting into the distance. The desert stretched on forever, flat as a dinner plate. In his hand, he held a rolled-up blueprint, its edges curling from the dry wind. Behind him, a gathering of officers waited—silent, sweating in their khaki uniforms. A half-mile away, the airstrip shimmered in the heat, a single runway cutting through the endless nothingness.

“More,” the colonel muttered. His voice was dry, too, like dust, but it carried. “We need more.”

The general, silver-haired and hard-eyed, approached. “More what?”

“Runway. It’s not long enough.” The colonel unrolled the blueprint, slapping it against his knee as he pointed to the sketched-out plans. “If we extend this strip another five miles, we could launch fighters further. Drop payloads deeper into the interior. It’s the difference between grazing the enemy’s beard and cleaving their throat.”

The general considered the horizon, his face carved in shadows. He wasn’t a man of quick words, but he understood what the colonel was getting at. It was a strategy, the kind of thinking he liked—distance was safety. Bomb them, break them, but don’t get close enough to see the white of their eyes. Hell, don’t even get close enough to hear the screams.

“More runway,” the colonel repeated, his voice gaining strength as the idea caught fire. “We can push the war further out, way beyond our borders. Beyond any borders.”

The general grunted. He folded his arms across his chest, the brass on his uniform catching the sunlight. “What’s the risk?”

“Risk?” The colonel almost laughed. “There is none. We’ll be so far out of range, they won’t even know who hit them. Brave new war, fought from the sky, miles above it all. All we need is more runway.”

The general turned, looking back at the men under his command. Some of them had been in combat, seen the blood and grit, but most were just like the colonel—clean, untouched by the realities of the battlefield. Safe in their towers, pushing the war further out into the horizon, where the people who lived in cities of smoke and rubble would never even see the faces of the men who ended them.

“Five miles more?” the general asked.

The colonel nodded eagerly. “Five, maybe ten. We could level half the continent before they even knew it was us. All without leaving the ground.”

The general took the blueprint, staring at the lines as if they were roads to glory. “Five more miles, huh?”

He folded the paper and handed it back. “Make it twenty.”

The colonel’s eyes lit up like the flare of jet fuel. “Yes, sir.”

Behind them, the desert was already swallowing the old world whole. It didn’t care how far the runway reached, or what lay beyond it. But the men cared. They cared because, as long as they were brave out of range, they were never really in the fight at all.

<>

The expansion of the runway began in earnest the next morning. Men worked tirelessly, sunburnt faces furrowed with focus, laying mile after mile of smooth concrete into the sand. The engineers marveled at the efficiency—this was progress, they said, and each additional foot of runway promised new power, new dominion.

But as the weeks passed, something peculiar occurred.

One afternoon, the spotters stationed on a nearby hill called in a report. It was brief, unassuming, yet troubling. South of the airfield, they saw construction—another runway, identical to the one stretching north. The colonel dismissed it at first, a mirage, or perhaps a trick of light. The desert played those games often. But the next day, more spotters confirmed the sighting. A second runway, mirroring theirs exactly.

By the end of the week, the reports grew impossible to ignore. The twin runway extended as far south as theirs did to the north, paralleling every twist, every turn. Engineers consulted their maps, their instruments, but found no discrepancy in the original plans. This second runway was not theirs. It did not belong to them.

“An enemy operation,” the general growled, pacing the command tent. His fists were clenched, the knuckles white against his tan skin. “They’re mocking us, building under our noses. Bomb them. Now.”

The colonel hesitated but gave the order.

Planes soared into the sky, cutting through the heat haze with the promise of swift destruction. They dropped their payloads on the shadowy runway below, explosions rippling across the sand. But as the smoke cleared, a strange silence descended over the base. Spotters began reporting back with stammering voices—confused, frantic.

“Sir, the bombs—there’s…there’s no impact. The runway is still there.”

More planes were launched, more bombs fell, each strike seemingly hitting its mark, but the reports were the same: no damage, no destruction. And then, another call came in—this time from the northern end of the airfield. Planes that had launched from the original runway had been hit. The very airstrip they had tried to protect was now pocked with craters, smoldering wreckage strewn across the tarmac. It was as if they had bombed themselves.

“Impossible,” the colonel muttered, his voice barely a whisper. “We’re bombing the enemy. We saw it.”

But the more they tried to strike the southern runway, the more damage appeared on their own. No matter how precise, how calculated the assault, the bombs always returned to them, as if caught in some invisible loop, some impossible trick of space.

The general, face ashen, stood at the edge of the runway, staring into the endless desert. The more they built, the longer the runway seemed to grow. Not just forward, but backward, inward, twisting into something beyond comprehension. The desert, it seemed, had swallowed their intentions and bent them back upon themselves.

It was then that the colonel, sleepless and stricken, recalled a phrase from a book he once read—a concept of geometry, of objects that defied ordinary understanding. A Klein bottle, he thought, the shape that turned in on itself, where inside and outside were indistinguishable. Had they been constructing not a runway, but a paradox? A loop that had no beginning, no end?

But the men knew nothing of this. The planes still flew. The bombs still fell. The war continued, fought from the sky, far from the men who gave the orders. Yet the destruction they sought to inflict circled back upon them, unseen, unheard, and unheeded.

Only we, the readers, could glimpse the truth. We could see the invisible lines, the twisted geometry of war. The colonel and the general, oblivious to their own entrapment, still believed they were the masters of the desert, while all along, the desert had been playing a much longer game.

A Load Off My Chest

They didn’t grow the pie, didn’t retire. They stayed. Sat on the nest, getting fatter, tighter. Locked their grips on whatever scraps were left, and called it progress. That’s what they told themselves—progress. Progress for who?

Not for us. Not for the ones who came after. The ones who had to scrounge for the crumbs, knowing we’d never even get close to the table. They made sure of that. They built the table for themselves and bolted it to the floor.

And now they want us to care. About the next election. About who’s up and who’s down, as if it matters. They want us to act like there’s something left to win, when the game’s been rigged for years. Decades. But here’s the thing: we already saw through it. We watched them smiling in their campaign photos, in their oversized suits and rehearsed sincerity. We watched them call it a new day every four years, watched them pretend to pass the torch while keeping both hands on the damn thing.

The Xers, we figured it out early. You play along for a while, maybe, make a show of it. But deep down, you know it doesn’t make a difference. Voting for what? A slower slide? A softer landing?

They tell us if we don’t vote, we don’t have a voice. But what voice did we ever have? They drowned us out long before we ever knew how to speak. They sold the future, left us with nothing but nostalgia for a dream we never even had. And now they want to sell us hope, too. Like it’s something we can afford to buy.

But we’re done buying. Done caring about elections, promises, progress. Maybe that’s what they don’t get, what they’ll never understand. We’re not angry—we’re just done. We’re ghosts in their machine, and the worst part for them is, we don’t even want revenge.

The boomer gave a tight smile, the kind that looked like it hurt. He stood up, dusted off his khakis like he’d been sitting in dirt, not in the power seat he’d carved out for himself all these years.

“Well,” he said, his voice a little too casual, “I guess that’s it then. Can’t change everyone’s mind.”

He turned, slow and steady, like he had all the time in the world. Like he could just walk away, no consequences, no reckoning. It made Jim’s blood boil, the arrogance of it. The absolute certainty that he could slip out, avoid the mess, move on like nothing happened.

“Where you going, pops?” Jim said, his voice like gravel underfoot.

The boomer froze. He didn’t turn around right away. That was smart. It meant he’d heard something in Jim’s tone that didn’t sit right. But then, just as Jim expected, the guy’s ego kicked in. He couldn’t help himself. He turned around, smiling like a politician at a town hall, trying to stay in control. He even held up his hands, palms out, like it was all some misunderstanding.

“Listen,” he said, “I’m not your enemy, son. We’re just—”

“I haven’t finished,” Jim cut in. His voice was low now, coiled tight like a spring about to snap. “You think you can just walk away? Like you always do? Leave us holding the bag, trying to clean up your mess? Not this time.”

The boomer’s smile slipped. He was sweating now, just a bead at the temple, but it was there. Jim took a step forward, slow, deliberate. The room felt small, airless.

“What do you want from me?” the boomer asked, voice cracking a little.

“I want to watch the lights go out behind your eyes,” Jim said, almost conversational, like he was talking about the weather.

The boomer backed up, a hand going to the chair like he thought it might save him, like it was a barrier. Jim could almost laugh at that. He moved in closer, close enough to see the panic, to smell it.

Jim reached into his coat and pulled out the knife. Not big, but sharp, curved just right for what he had in mind. He held it up so the old man could see it, could see what was coming. No rush. That was the key. Make him feel it, make him understand just how long the screws had been turning.

“Now, hold on a second,” the boomer said, voice high, pleading. “You don’t have to do this.”

Jim smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. “Sure I do.”

And then it happened fast, like it always did. The knife flashed, just once, sliding into the soft spot under the old man’s ribs. He gasped, eyes wide, grabbing at Jim’s arm, like he thought he could stop it. But Jim twisted the blade, felt it catch on something inside, felt the boomer sag against him, the life draining out in slow, wet breaths.

He lowered the old man to the floor, watching the light fade from his eyes just like he promised. It was quiet now, except for the faint gurgle from the dying man’s throat. Jim stood over him, feeling nothing, just a hollow calm.

He looked down at the body, wiped the blood off the knife with a handkerchief, and stuffed it back in his pocket.

“Now we’re finished,” he said, and walked out into the night.

<>

Jim walked down the alley, the knife still warm in his pocket. He kept his pace steady, but his mind was racing, faster than his feet could carry him.

He made me do it. He was just standing there, acting like he was above it all. Like he hadn’t seen the world crumble under his own weight. His own doing. Telling me how powerful he was, like I hadn’t heard that my whole life. Every damn time they opened their mouths, it was the same thing. Power. Legacy. What’d I ever have? Not a legacy, not a stake in the game.

The streetlights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows on the cracked pavement. I hadn’t made anything of myself? Jim scoffed under his breath, shaking his head. Is that what he thought? Like I didn’t try? Like it was my fault the deck was stacked, like I was the one who folded the cards.

Power, he thought again. That word, it sat like acid on his tongue. The kind of word they toss around when they’ve got everything, when they can afford to sit back and watch the world burn while pretending they’re holding the matches. But he didn’t buy it. Never did.

I had a right, he thought. A right to take something back. To show him, to show all of them, that I wasn’t just another body drifting through their mess. I’ve always been right here. Watching. Waiting. But they never saw me, never cared to look.

Jim’s fists clenched in his coat pockets as he crossed the street, the city around him feeling distant, like it wasn’t even real anymore. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe nothing’s real except what you take for yourself. I took something tonight. Doesn’t matter how they spin it, how they try to twist it in their papers, their reports. I took it because it was mine to take. And if that makes me a monster, then what the hell were they?

He stopped in front of a diner, staring at the flashing neon sign through the window. The smell of stale coffee and grease seeped into the night air. For a second, he thought about going inside, sitting at the counter, ordering something like a regular person. Pretending. But that was over now. He wasn’t regular anymore, if he ever had been.

He was just there, wasn’t he? Saying it like it was the goddamn gospel, like he had any right. And me—what was I supposed to do? Stand there and let him keep talking? Keep smiling that fake smile like he knew better?

Jim’s breath hitched, the adrenaline starting to wear off, leaving a hollow in his chest. He was just there, he thought again, softer now. That’s all. He was just there. And maybe that was the worst part. Maybe it wasn’t the words, or the power, or the arrogance. Maybe it was just him being there, standing in the same space, breathing the same air, like they were equal. Like Jim hadn’t been left in the dirt, left to rot while they soared high above, telling themselves they’d earned it.

He started walking again, eyes forward but not really seeing.

It was me or him. That’s all there ever was to it. He had his time. His chance. And he pissed it away, like they always do. He thought he could walk away. Walk away from everything he did. Well, not tonight. Tonight he stayed. Tonight, he paid.

Jim’s thoughts slowed, settling into a grim calm. It had to be this way. It had to.

He turned a corner, his footsteps growing softer against the asphalt. The city stretched out ahead, dark and endless, and for the first time in a long time, Jim felt something close to peace.

I finished it.

-<>

The diner was dim and half-empty, just the way Jim liked it. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sickly glow on the linoleum floor. The smell of burnt coffee and grease hung in the air, thick and clinging. He sat at the counter, stirring a cup of black coffee, not because he wanted it, but because it gave him something to do with his hands. Something to keep them from shaking.

That’s when she walked in.

She wasn’t dressed up, not like the dames you see in movies. No, she wore a leather jacket a little too tight, jeans clinging to her hips like they were the only thing keeping her from slipping away. But it wasn’t the clothes that got you—it was the way she moved. Like she was born to make trouble, with just the right mix of confidence and weariness to make you want to find out what side of the coin you were gonna get.

She slid onto the stool next to him, not asking if it was taken. Didn’t have to. She had a way of filling up space that made you feel like you were the one intruding.

“You got any money?” she asked, her voice low, like a threat wrapped in silk. She didn’t look at him when she said it, just stared straight ahead, fingers drumming lightly on the counter.

Jim took a breath, kept his eyes on his cup. He didn’t want to look at her too long. That was the first mistake, always was. Look too long, and next thing you know, you’re wrapped around their finger, doing things you swore you’d never do. “Depends who’s asking,” he said, voice steady, but there was a tightness in his throat he couldn’t quite shake.

She gave a short, bitter laugh, finally turning her head to him. Her eyes were sharp, but there was something tired behind them, like she’d seen too much already and wasn’t expecting to see anything better. “Don’t play coy with me, sugar. I’m not here for games. Just need to know if you’ve got any money or if you know someone who does. Or is this town just a piss-pot excuse for fentanyl overdoses and male fragility?”

That last part stung. He flinched, just a little, but enough for her to notice. She smirked, lips curling at the edges like she’d found his weakness. And maybe she had.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jim said, finally looking up at her. “I’m just passing through.”

“Yeah?” she said, leaning in just enough that he caught the faintest whiff of her perfume, something cheap but trying real hard to smell expensive. “Funny. You look like the kind of guy who’s been passing through his whole life. Bet you don’t stick around anywhere too long, do you? Not long enough to make a real mess.”

Jim didn’t answer, just took another sip of his coffee, even though it had gone cold. He knew better than to get pulled into whatever game she was playing. But damn, if she didn’t make it hard. The way she looked at him, like she could see right through him, past all the bullshit, straight to the core of whatever was left inside.

“What’s your name?” she asked, her voice softening a little, but not enough to fool him. There was a barb in every word she said.

“Jim,” he muttered. No use lying. She’d see through that too.

“Jim,” she repeated, like she was trying it out, seeing how it tasted. “Well, Jim, let me give it to you straight. This town’s circling the drain. Guys like you? You’re just along for the ride. So unless you’ve got something for me—money, connections, a way out—I’m wasting my time.”

Jim looked at her, really looked this time. There was a hardness in her face, but it wasn’t the kind you’re born with. No, this was the kind that got carved out over time, with every disappointment, every hustle, every man who thought he was in control until he wasn’t.

“You think I’ve got money?” he asked, his voice quiet now, almost amused.

She shrugged. “I think you might know where to find some. Or maybe you’ve got some other use.”

Jim smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Lady, I’m a gentleman,” he said, leaning back a little, trying to put space between them. But she closed it again, quick as a snake.

“Gentleman,” she repeated, and there was a bitterness in her voice now, a sharp edge that cut deep. “Don’t tell me you still believe in that bullshit. No one’s a gentleman anymore, not in this world. Not when we’re all fighting for the same scraps.”

Jim didn’t say anything. What was there to say? She was right. He’d known it for a long time, longer than he cared to admit. But hearing it from her—he felt something twist inside him, like a knife. Because the truth was, he did believe it. Or he used to.

She stood up, tossing a crumpled bill on the counter to cover her coffee. “Thanks for nothing, Jim,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Enjoy your stay in this piss pot.”

And with that, she was gone, the door swinging shut behind her. Jim watched her walk out into the night, a part of him wanting to follow, wanting to see where it led. But he knew better. He knew dames like her didn’t leave trails you could follow. They left wreckage.

He turned back to his coffee, staring into the black, bitter liquid. It wasn’t the first time a woman had walked out on him, but it felt like the last.

Yeah, maybe this town was a piss pot, he thought, but what did that make him?

<>

Jim stared at the door for a long moment after she walked out, the air still carrying the scent of her cheap perfume, her words slicing at the corners of his thoughts. The diner felt emptier now, quieter, like she’d taken something with her, left him sitting there alone with nothing but his coffee and his regrets.

But then he smiled, just a small curve of the lips, like something had clicked into place.

He stood up, tossed a crumpled bill on the counter, and stepped out into the cool night air. The city hummed around him, the low rumble of traffic, a distant siren, the soft whispers of people just trying to survive the night. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

He caught up with her just outside the diner. She was lighting a cigarette, her face bathed in the soft orange glow of the lighter. She didn’t even look surprised to see him. Maybe she expected it. Maybe she knew he couldn’t leave things like that.

“Got an idea for you,” he said, standing just far enough to give her space, but close enough to make sure she heard him.

She raised an eyebrow, the cigarette dangling from her lips, a curl of smoke drifting into the night air. “Oh yeah? You got money after all, Jim? Or are we still playing this gentleman game?”

Jim chuckled. “No, I don’t got money. But I know someone who does. Or might.”

That got her attention. She took a drag from her cigarette, eyes narrowing a little as she considered him. “Go on, then. Don’t leave me in suspense.”

“Sean,” Jim said, his voice steady. “Sean’s the son of the only guy in this town besides his stepfather that has any real money and hasn’t kicked the bucket from fentanyl. His old man’s some kind of big shot, but he’s holed up in his mansion, hiding from all this shit. Sean, though, he’s still around. Still looking for a good time, still acting like he’s invincible.”

She smirked, flicking ash onto the sidewalk. “Sean. I know him. Rich, dumb, and reckless, right? His stepdad’s even worse—shady as hell, always working some angle.” She paused, eyeing Jim with a sly smile. “So what, you think Sean’s our ticket to a payday? I’m listening.”

Jim shrugged, keeping his expression neutral. “Maybe. He’s got money. And from what I hear, he’s looking to blow it. Could be we show up, have a drink, see where the night takes us.”

She took another drag, her eyes searching his face for something. “You mean party the three of us?”

The words came out slow, deliberate, with just the right amount of danger laced behind them. Her lips curled around the word “party” like it was something forbidden, something you shouldn’t say out loud.

Jim didn’t flinch. He knew what she was playing at, knew the stakes now. “Yeah. Maybe that’s what I mean. You, me, and Sean. Could be a good time. Could be more than that.”

She exhaled slowly, smoke trailing from her lips as she considered him. For a second, he thought she’d laugh it off, tell him he was dreaming. But then she smiled, the kind of smile that wasn’t warm, but sharp, like she was already two steps ahead of him.

“Alright, Jim,” she said, flicking the cigarette away. “Let’s see where this night takes us. You get us to Sean, and I’ll do the rest.”

Jim nodded, though there was a tightness in his chest now. He wasn’t sure if it was excitement or dread, maybe both. But it didn’t matter. They were in motion now, and there was no turning back.

He started walking, and she fell in step beside him, her presence like a shadow he couldn’t shake. The night stretched out before them, a long, dark road, with Sean waiting somewhere at the other end. Rich, dumb, and ripe for the taking.

And Jim? Jim wasn’t sure if he was the gentleman tonight or something worse. But he knew one thing for sure—the game had started, and the stakes were higher than ever.

<>

They found Sean where Jim figured they would—at the dive bar on 3rd, the one that pretended to have a little class because it still had a pool table. The place was dim, all neon signs and cheap whiskey, with the faintest hint of sweat and cigarettes in the air. It wasn’t the kind of joint Sean was born to be in, but it was the kind of place he liked to play at. That’s what rich kids did—they played at being poor, slumming it for the thrill.

Sean stood by the pool table, a cue in one hand, leaning against it like he owned the place. He didn’t see Jim at first, not with his eyes locked on the girl he was talking to, some blonde half his age and twice as bored.

When Jim and the woman walked in, Sean’s eyes slid past Jim like he wasn’t even there. But when he caught sight of her—Jim’s femme fatale—he perked up, pushing the blonde aside like a discarded magazine.

Jim could see the flicker of recognition in Sean’s eyes, just for a second, before the contempt settled in. It was always like that with Sean—he’d see you, remember who you were, then decide you weren’t worth the breath it would take to acknowledge you.

“Well, look who it is,” Sean said, his voice smooth as whiskey. “Jim. Jimbo. Thought you crawled outta this dump a long time ago. Guess I was wrong.”

Jim smiled tightly, ignoring the jab. “Still around. Same as you.”

Sean chuckled, running his fingers through his perfectly styled hair. “Yeah, well, some of us have choices.” His eyes flicked back to the woman standing next to Jim. “And some of us have company.”

She smiled at Sean, a slow, dangerous smile that made it clear she knew exactly what she was doing. “Mind if we join you?” she asked, her voice like honey dripping on broken glass.

Sean looked her up and down, licking his lips like she was the prize on display. “I don’t see why not. Grab a drink, sweetheart. The night’s young.”

Jim slid into a booth while she went to the bar. Sean followed her with his eyes, leaning on the pool cue like it was a crutch. When she returned, drinks in hand, Sean tossed Jim a pool cue without even glancing his way. “We playin’ or what?”

They started a game, the three of them. Sean was all cocky angles, showing off every shot like he was auditioning for something. The woman played along, laughing at his jokes, leaning in a little too close when he lined up his shots, her hand resting on his arm just long enough to make him feel like he had a chance.

Jim played it cool, keeping quiet, sipping his drink, but he knew how this game went. Sean wasn’t here to play pool. He was here to see how far he could push, how long it would take before Jim snapped. But Jim wasn’t snapping. Not yet.

They were halfway through the second game when Sean leaned against the table, his eyes narrowing as he looked at Jim, a smirk curling on his lips. “So what’s this, Jim? You pimping her?”

The words hung in the air, heavy and sharp, cutting through the noise of the bar like a knife. Jim felt the blood rush to his face, but he didn’t move, didn’t blink. He just looked at Sean, his fingers tightening around the pool cue.

She didn’t flinch. She just laughed—low, throaty, the kind of laugh that made Sean lean in closer, thinking he had the upper hand.

“Sean,” she said, her voice smooth, dripping with venom and sweetness, “if Jim was pimping me, you couldn’t afford me.”

That wiped the smirk off Sean’s face for a split second, but then it twisted back into something uglier. He stood up straight, pretending the comment hadn’t stung, but Jim could see it had. Sean never could take a hit, not even a verbal one. Too used to getting everything handed to him.

Jim stepped forward, his voice calm, steady, even though he could feel the tension creeping up his spine. “She’s not for sale, Sean. Neither of us are.”

Sean snorted, taking a swig of his drink. “Yeah, sure, Jim. Whatever you say.” He turned back to the woman, ignoring Jim again, like he wasn’t even there. “So, sweetheart, how ‘bout we blow this joint? I got a place up the hill, a lot nicer than this dump. We could have ourselves a real party. Leave this loser behind.”

She glanced at Jim, just for a second, a quick flick of the eyes. He couldn’t read what she was thinking, but he didn’t like the way the night was turning. Things were unraveling fast, the way they always did when Sean got involved.

Before she could answer, Jim stepped in. “We’re sticking together, Sean. All three of us.”

Sean laughed, shaking his head. “Sure, Jim. If that’s how you want to play it. But if you’re smart, you’ll get out of my way. Otherwise, I’ll bury you. Again.”

Jim clenched his jaw, but didn’t respond. He wasn’t here to fight. Not yet. He wasn’t here to win, either. He was here to survive. He was here to finish what had already started the moment she walked into the diner. But looking at Sean now, all smug and careless, Jim knew it wasn’t going to end quietly. Not tonight.

He could feel it—the slow, inevitable slide toward something darker, something violent. And no matter how hard he tried to steer clear, he knew he was already too deep.

The girl leaned on the pool table, watching the two men, her eyes glinting like she was waiting for the spark that would light the whole damn place on fire.

“Maybe we could go party,” she said, her voice casual, like she hadn’t just set off a fuse. “The three of us.”

Jim swallowed hard, knowing damn well that “party” wasn’t just about drinks and pool anymore. It was about power. It was about who’d be left standing when the dust settled.

Sean grinned, tossing his cue onto the table. “Now you’re talking, sweetheart. Let’s get outta here.”

Jim didn’t move, just watched as Sean swaggered toward the door, thinking he’d won, thinking he had the night in his pocket. But Jim knew better.

Because this night? It wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

<>

The apartment was everything Jim expected—expensive but tasteless. Sean had led the way, stumbling through the door, barely able to hold his liquor, while the woman floated in behind him, eyes scanning the place like she was already thinking about what she could take. Jim followed them in, slower, more cautious, feeling like a spectator at his own funeral.

The night was spiraling. Drinks were poured, shots thrown back, and soon the music was cranked up loud enough to shake the walls. It started innocent enough, Sean cracking crude jokes, the woman laughing, her hand trailing up and down his arm like a promise. They danced a little, swaying to music that none of them could hear. But the heat in the room shifted, went from fun to something darker, more dangerous.

At some point, the three of them had fallen onto the couch, Sean in the middle, her legs draped over his lap, Jim off to the side with his drink. Sean leaned in close to her, sloppy, whispering in her ear, his fingers fumbling with the buttons on her blouse. But Jim could see it wasn’t working—Sean was too drunk, too far gone. He was trying to be the guy, trying to show off, but he wasn’t pulling it off. The booze had him stumbling through the motions.

Jim stayed in his corner, sipping his drink, watching like he wasn’t part of the scene. Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe that’s all he’d been this whole time—a guy on the outside, watching the rich kid make a fool of himself.

The woman’s eyes flicked over to Jim once, then twice, like she was measuring him. She whispered something into Sean’s ear, soft and sweet, and Jim saw Sean nod. They got up, Sean dragging her by the hand, and disappeared behind a closed door, leaving Jim alone in the living room, with nothing but the sound of his own breathing and the whiskey burning in his chest.

The minutes stretched out, the silence creeping in behind the muffled thump of music from the other side of the wall. Jim poured himself another drink, letting the numbness settle in, but something gnawed at him, something cold and sharp. He wasn’t sure if it was jealousy, anger, or the sense that he was the punchline to a joke he didn’t understand.

Then the door creaked open.

Sean stumbled out first, shirt half undone, eyes glazed over. He looked rough, more disheveled than Jim had ever seen him, like a man who couldn’t hold his liquor or his pride.

“She… uh… she wants to talk to you,” Sean slurred, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t know why, but… yeah, she’s asking for you.”

Jim’s stomach twisted. He set his glass down and stood, walking toward the bedroom door, feeling the weight of Sean’s drunken gaze on his back. He didn’t look at him. Didn’t need to. Whatever this was, it wasn’t about Sean anymore.

The room was dimly lit, curtains drawn, the scent of perfume hanging in the air like smoke. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, looking completely composed, like the whole thing had been planned from the start. The sheets were rumpled, and there was a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the nightstand, but she looked cool, in control.

“Jim,” she said softly, her voice low, beckoning. “Come here.”

He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. Sean was still outside, but it felt like he was a million miles away now. Jim could feel her eyes on him, like she was seeing him for the first time. Really seeing him.

“So what’s this about?” Jim asked, leaning against the doorframe, keeping his distance. “Sean not doing it for you?”

She smiled, but it wasn’t a warm smile. It was a knowing one, the kind that said she’d already figured out how the rest of the night would go. “Sean… well, let’s just say he’s not in the best shape for a party right now.”

Jim nodded, not sure where this was going, but feeling like he was walking into a trap.

“I didn’t call you in here for him,” she continued, her voice smooth as velvet. “I wanted to talk to you, Jim. About Sean’s dad.”

That caught him off guard. He stiffened, the mention of Sean’s old man sending a chill through him. “What about him?”

She uncrossed her legs and stood up, moving toward him with slow, deliberate steps, her eyes locked on his. “You knew Sean’s dad, didn’t you? I mean, you went to school with Sean, but you knew more than that. You knew his family.”

Jim swallowed hard. “What are you getting at?”

She was standing in front of him now, so close he could feel the heat of her body, smell the faint scent of her skin. “Sean’s dad has money, real money. And power. He’s not like these other junkies in town, Jim. He’s the kind of man who can get things done. Or make people disappear if he wants to.”

Jim felt the tension coiling tighter in his gut. “I don’t know anything about his old man.”

“Don’t lie to me, Jim,” she whispered, leaning in closer, her lips just inches from his ear. “I’m not interested in Sean. I’m interested in what his father can do for me. For us. You want to be part of that, don’t you?”

Jim’s mind raced. He could feel her trying to cut Sean out of the picture, trying to pull him into something bigger, something darker. He didn’t know where this was going, but he knew it wasn’t good. She was cutting the middleman, and now he had to decide if he was going to play along—or find a way out before things spiraled even further out of control.

Jim stood frozen as she leaned in closer, her lips brushing his neck, her breath warm against his skin. He knew the look in her eyes, the kind of look that could set a man on fire, burn him down to nothing, and leave him craving more. His mind told him to walk away, to leave now before he got pulled under, but his body was already betraying him.

Her fingers slid down his chest, unbuttoning his shirt one by one, slow and deliberate, her eyes never leaving his. She knew she had him—had him the moment she’d asked him into this room—and Jim knew it too. But he didn’t move. He couldn’t. Not now.

“Why me?” Jim asked again, his voice a little more breathless this time, the question more of a delay than a real inquiry.

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she pressed herself against him, her body soft, warm, intoxicating. Her hands slid down his sides, over his belt, and lower, until she could feel the tension building in him. “Because, Jim,” she murmured, her lips brushing his ear, “I think you want this just as much as I do.”

Jim’s mind screamed at him to stop, to think, but his hands were already moving—gripping her waist, pulling her closer. She kissed him then, hard and deep, and any last shred of doubt dissolved into the heat of it. They stumbled toward the bed, her fingers tugging at his clothes, his hands roaming her body as if the consequence no longer mattered.

The sex was frantic, fueled by lust and something darker—an undercurrent of power, control, desperation. Every movement, every touch felt charged with something that went beyond just the physical, as if they both knew this wasn’t just about bodies but about roles, about who held the cards. Jim felt himself sinking deeper into it, every kiss, every gasp pulling him further from reason, further from whatever scraps of self-respect he had left.

But just as it reached a fever pitch, she stopped. Pulled back. Her eyes locked onto his, glinting with something cold and calculating. She wasn’t just here for this. She was here for something more.

“Pretend to be him,” she whispered, her voice low, hushed, like a secret. “Pretend to be Sean’s dad.”

Jim blinked, his body still buzzing, his mind slow to catch up with what she was asking. “What?”

She slid on top of him, her hands pressing down on his chest, her eyes boring into his. “Just for a moment. I want you to pretend you’re him.”

Jim felt a chill crawl up his spine. “Why would I do that?”

Her smile returned, but it wasn’t the playful one from before. It was darker, sharper. “Because, Jim, I think you know how to survive in this world. And I think you know that to survive, sometimes you have to be someone else.”

The request hung between them, strange and unnerving, but Jim couldn’t look away from her. She was still pressed against him, her body, her scent, everything about her keeping him tethered to this moment. He knew this was wrong, twisted even, but he could feel the pull. Could feel the power in it.

He closed his eyes, swallowed hard, and let the words slip from his mouth, low and rough. “Alright.”

She leaned down, kissing him softly, her lips brushing against his as she whispered in his ear. “Good. Now, Jim… be him.”

Jim let himself slip into the role, into the character she wanted, and as he did, he could feel the line between who he was and who she wanted him to be blurring. She moaned softly in his ear, guiding him, telling him what to say, what to do, and Jim followed, even though it made his skin crawl.

He wasn’t Jim anymore. He wasn’t even Sean’s friend. He was someone else entirely. Someone darker. Someone who could give her what she wanted, even if it meant losing a part of himself in the process.

When it was over, they lay in silence, the weight of what had just happened hanging between them like smoke. She didn’t say anything, and neither did Jim. There wasn’t anything left to say. They’d both gotten what they wanted—or maybe, what they needed. And now, all that was left was the fallout.

Jim lay there, staring at the ceiling, wondering how the hell he’d let himself get pulled into this. Wondering how much further he was willing to go before he couldn’t come back.

The woman stirred beside him, pulling the sheet around her, her eyes still sharp, still calculating. “You did good, Jim,” she said, her voice low, almost a purr. “You really did.”

Jim didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because deep down, he knew she was cutting Sean out, cutting the middleman, and that he was next in line. He’d played along tonight, but he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep pretending.

And he wasn’t sure what would be left of him when it was all over.

<>