Category: Fiction

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.

<>

Riddles

1. What am I? I am the shadow of regret cast by two cruel suns, but I burn less bright. I am the bitter fruit that is eaten, but with fewer seeds. I am the choice that stings, yet I sting less. I am the poisoned apple, but with a sweeter bite.

2. What am I? I am the whisper in the storm, the smaller crack in the glass, the wound that bleeds slower. I am the road you dread to walk, but at least it’s not on fire. I am the wolf with duller fangs, the snake with softened venom.

3. What am I? I am the cracked mask worn by fate, not as terrifying as the other. I am the rain that falls in darkness, yet lighter than the deluge behind me. I am the spear that wounds, but I miss the heart.

4. What am I? I am the storm cloud with a sliver of light, the icy wind that chills but does not freeze. I am the thief in the night who takes only a coin when the other robs the soul. I am the devil you know, but his claws are dull.

5. What am I? I am the lesser scar, the bruise that fades faster, the quiet scream between two horrors. I am the dagger that cuts, but with less blood. I am the door that creaks, but doesn’t slam shut.

6. What am I? I am the bridge over fire, weak but still standing. I am the slow sinking ship, not the one that shatters in the storm. I am the beast whose roar shakes the night but does not chase you down.

7. What am I? I am the flame that flickers but doesn’t consume. I am the ghost who whispers rather than screams. I am the sour wine you drink because the other is poison. I am the lesser shadow in the valley of darkness.

Now for something different

1. What am I? I am the fire that needs no water, the rift that widens with every breath. I am the cauldron that boils over when stirred too much. I am the edge of the cliff, where balance teeters and the wind screams, ‘Jump.’ I am the match that meets gasoline, the wedge driven deep into a cracking wall.

2. What am I? I am the heat that rises until no one can breathe. I am the rope tightening as the clock ticks, a fuse lit and racing toward a powder keg. I am the flame that consumes when too much fuel is thrown, the storm that grows fiercer with every wind. I am the lever that pushes the world, the fault line under too much strain.

3. What am I? I am the spark that knows no peace, the pressure that builds until walls crumble. I am the hand that turns the wheel faster, the rope you pull until it snaps. I am the crack in the dam, the growing flood that washes away calm. I am the knife that cuts both ways, sharper with every push.

4. What am I? I am the rising storm that splits the sky. I am the blade that digs deeper when it meets resistance. I am the ground quaking from pressure too long ignored, the divide that yawns wider with every step. I am the fire fanned into an inferno, the smallest shove that starts an avalanche.

5. What am I? I am the shout that echoes louder each time, the knot tightening in the cord. I am the divide that begs to be crossed, the line drawn only to be erased. I am the fuel poured into a simmering conflict, the pot stirred until nothing is still. I am the question with no easy answer, the game where the stakes only rise.

6. What am I? I am the contradiction that cannot rest. I am the boiling point, the fault line shaking underfoot. I am the push when a nudge will no longer do, the fuse waiting for a spark. I am the tension you cannot unwind, the choice that escalates with every turn.

The Astrologer

In the annals of forgotten kingdoms, there lived an astrologer whose name has slipped from the tongues of men, but whose arrogance remains etched in the memory of history’s most peculiar fables. He was not an astrologer in the traditional sense, for his craft did not concern the mere movements of planets or the transient whims of stars. No, his calculations went deeper, weaving through the fabric of time itself, mapping its end. He had once foretold the cessation of history, that the grand machinery of events, battles, revolutions, births, and deaths would grind to a halt, not in some distant apocalypse, but in a quiet and final act of cosmic exhaustion. The world, he claimed, had already reached its denouement, though few had yet noticed. His words were a balm to the ears of the king, who, weary of the vicissitudes of power, welcomed the notion that no more threats or upheavals would challenge his reign. Thus, the astrologer was elevated, not merely as a soothsayer, but as a confidant, a man whose vision of stasis resonated with the king’s deepest desires.

The astrologer’s rise to power was not marked by ambition or guile—those were the tools of lesser men, trapped in the cycles of time he had so effortlessly transcended. Instead, he moved through the court with a serene complacency, as if his very presence was a manifestation of the immutable truth he had divined. The king, charmed by the astrologer’s certainty, showered him with titles, lands, and favor, believing that the man had already seen the last page of the kingdom’s history, and found it blank. For years, the astrologer basked in the luxury of his position, wandering the palace gardens, sipping wine at royal banquets, all the while nursing a quiet satisfaction, smug in the belief that nothing more could ever happen. His prophecy had set the world in a perpetual stillness, and he, the harbinger of this eternal calm, reveled in the illusion that he had mastered time itself.

But time, like a serpent that slumbers before striking, was not so easily tamed. As the astrologer wandered the court in his velvet robes and heavy medallions, the world outside the palace walls continued its restless churn. Faint tremors of history—small rebellions, whispered betrayals, sudden plagues—began to creep back into the kingdom, though at first they were no more than rumors, barely enough to stir the king from his lethargy. The astrologer, however, was not immune to these tremors. They gnawed at the edges of his certainty, threatening the delicate fiction he had woven. Unwilling to acknowledge the possibility of error, he devised a solution both ingenious and absurd: he would conceal these new events, tuck them away from sight, and thus prevent them from ever entering the official record of history. With a needle and thread, he began sewing new pockets into the elaborate robes he wore, and into these pockets he stuffed every stray fragment of history he could not explain. A skirmish on the border, a plot against the queen, a comet that defied his calculations—into the pockets they went, hidden away from the gaze of the king and the court.

Soon, the astrologer’s once elegant robes became grotesque with their bulging cargo. The fabric sagged under the weight of hidden rebellions, untold famines, and unspoken conspiracies, but still, no one in the court dared question the increasingly monstrous appearance of the king’s favored soothsayer. His silhouette, once sleek and composed, now ballooned into a distorted caricature, the fabric of his robes groaning under the pressure of events he could no longer contain. The courtiers, long accustomed to his cryptic brilliance, averted their eyes, unwilling to confront the unraveling spectacle before them. And so, the astrologer continued to walk through the palace halls, a man burdened by the unbearable weight of denied history, yet still clinging to the hope that by hiding these events from view, he might still hold the key to stopping time itself.

Then came the night of the great royal reception, a celebration held in honor of a treaty whose details the astrologer had long since forgotten, though he had likely stuffed them into one of his many pockets. The ballroom glittered with light, the air thick with the scent of jasmine and the murmur of diplomatic pleasantries. The astrologer, now hunched under the weight of his robes, approached the king to offer his customary bow. But the gesture, simple as it was, proved to be his undoing. His overloaded garments—stitched together from a thousand patches, each concealing an unspeakable event—could take no more. As he bent at the waist, the seams split with a violent snap, and in an instant, his robes erupted in a whirlwind of catastrophe. Hidden wars, plagues, revolts, and dynasties long erased from memory exploded into the ballroom, swirling in a maelstrom of chaos that tore through the court. History, long suppressed, unleashed itself with a vengeance, consuming everything in its path.

The kingdom, once so serene in its belief that time had ended, was swallowed whole by the storm. The king, the courtiers, even the astrologer himself were swept into the vortex, as events long buried sought their rightful place in the annals of the world. And so, in the end, the astrologer was proven correct, though not in the way he had imagined. History did end, but only because it devoured everything that once stood. His final act of vanity, his futile attempt to contain time within his own robes, left behind a kingdom erased, a silence so deep it seemed that history had never existed at all. The palace, the people, and the astrologer were swallowed by time’s rebirth, leaving only the faintest whisper in the forgotten annals of a kingdom where history had once, and only briefly, dared to stop.

A Life Of Isolation

It was late November when I arrived in Chengdu, a city whose greyness reminded me more of an overcast London afternoon than anything I had imagined of China. The air hung heavy, swollen with an autumn mist that blurred the edges of the streets, the buildings, even the people hurrying along the wide boulevards. I had chosen Chengdu precisely because it seemed a place where one could vanish without drawing attention, where I could settle into the unremarkable anonymity that I now found comforting.

For years, I had entertained thoughts of retreat, of leaving behind the half-formed existence I’d led as a part-time piano teacher in Kent, dabbling in baroque pieces with a mediocrity that had begun to gnaw at me. But it wasn’t just the music. The life I had built—such as it was—had grown stifling, like a book left unopened on a shelf, collecting dust. It was with these thoughts that I first considered China, not for its allure or exoticism, but because it was far away enough that I could be forgotten, or perhaps remembered differently.

My accommodations had been arranged in advance—a modest apartment in a district known more for its teahouses and faded lanterns than anything modern. The small upright piano that had been waiting in the corner of the living room was what drew my attention immediately. Its keys were worn, some even slightly chipped, but it had a peculiar warmth to its tone, as if it had once been loved. I sat down, my fingers hesitating on the keys, playing the first few bars of a Scarlatti sonata. The sound reverberated through the stillness, filling the room with a quiet familiarity.

This, I thought, would be my life for the next several months. A life of isolation, of practicing through the early mornings and late evenings, with nothing but Bach, Scarlatti, and Handel to fill the silence. I would rebuild myself note by note, measure by measure, until the person I had been—the one who played in small concert halls back home, fumbling through pieces—could no longer be recognized.

Operation Shylock

Doppelgänger stories—like a parasite you can’t shake. Mirror Image/Double Identity—what’s staring back at you in the cracked bathroom mirror? Not you. Vertigo, Fight Club—it’s all a funhouse reflection, and maybe you want to smash it. Evil Twin—think The Man in the Iron Mask, where one brother takes the throne while the other festers behind bars. The face is yours, but the mind? A perversion.

Subconscious Manifestation, like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, when the doctor’s good intentions dissolve into nocturnal brutality. The beast inside isn’t coming out to play—it’s already running the show. Shadow Self? That’s Black Swan, as Nina pirouettes into madness, her double waiting in the wings, sharpened claws out.

Identity Crisis—The Double Life of Véronique—two women, one face, two lives, no clue. You want the answer? There isn’t one. Imposter Syndrome—Invasion of the Body Snatchers, where everyone around you is smiling with your teeth, talking in your voice. Don’t Look Now’s red-coated figure, mocking the grief-ridden Donald Sutherland, dragging him to the edge of madness and off the cliff.

Supernatural Influence—ever wonder why The Sixth Sense creeps under your skin? Because the dead and the living sometimes share more than real estate. Psychological Breakdown—try Mulholland Drive. Identity fracture? Or just too many lies piling up until the protagonist, Betty, slips between her delusions like someone trying to undress in a dream.

Moral Opposition—ever look at your choices and see someone else’s blood on your hands? The Dark Half takes this to the extreme as Stephen King unzips the skin of its protagonist to reveal a sadistic writer trying to break free. Foil Character? Gatsby staring at his reflection in the eyes of Nick Carraway, the American dream in one, the cold truth in the other.

Split Lives? Take Sliding Doors. What if you missed the train? What if you caught it? The doppelgänger lives in every path not taken, taunting you with what could have been. Parasitic Twin, Basket Case, a literal lump of flesh that could have been you—better pray it doesn’t crawl out of the box.

Tragic Destiny—Don’t Look Now again. The doppelgänger isn’t your reflection; it’s your death. You’ll see it coming, but there’s no escape. Social or Political Commentary—Enemy, where Jake Gyllenhaal splits himself in two, caught between identity and the surveillance state, society dissecting the self until there’s nothing left but spiderwebs in your brain.

Moral Corruption—start out good? The Picture of Dorian Gray reminds you that it won’t last. Your double hangs in the attic, rotting while you walk free, but the decay’s coming for you in the end. The reflection always catches up.

Operation Shylock—Philip Roth at his most deranged, his most self-lacerating, flinging his doppelgänger into the geopolitical grinder of Israel and Palestine like some kind of literary suicide mission. Roth himself? A fragmented man, ripped between the flesh-and-blood author and a lunatic double spouting off about diasporism, an absurd anti-Zionist fever dream designed to make you question if Roth is mocking the whole ordeal or taking it dead seriously. Probably both.

This isn’t just a book—it’s a psychotic trip through identity, history, and the endless hall of mirrors that is the Jewish condition in the late 20th century. Roth the character—or is it Roth the man—wanders through the Middle East, a tourist of his own unraveling mind, trying to pin down who the hell he is as his double gleefully detonates their shared identity like a kamikaze pilot with an identity crisis.

Zionism, Jewish exile, and the whole festering circus of Israel-Palestine politics get skewered, twisted, dissected, and stitched back together in some grotesque display of intellectual taxidermy. Diasporism? Roth’s double turns it into a punchline that never lands, but it doesn’t need to. Roth knows the joke’s on us—the reader, the state, the diaspora, and anyone looking for something resembling coherence in a world that offers none.

Operation Shylock is Roth on amphetamines, manic, obsessive, the boundaries between fact and fiction snapping like brittle old bones. It’s not a novel—it’s an exorcism of the self, where the devil looks a lot like you, and maybe you kind of like it that way. Roth asks questions nobody wants to answer, and he answers them anyway, with enough bile and brilliance to make your head spin. A satire, a breakdown, a literary implosion. Roth doesn’t just operate—he cuts deep.

Why Roth would consider diasporism pompous

Roth would consider diasporism pompous because it embodies a lofty, almost utopian ideal that seems detached from the messy, grounded realities of Jewish history and identity. For Roth, the idea of diasporism—embracing perpetual exile and rejecting Zionism’s call for a homeland—comes across as an intellectual vanity project, a way for his doppelgänger (and others) to parade around grand ideological concepts without facing the brutal, lived experiences of displacement, anti-Semitism, and survival.

It’s pompous because it takes something as raw and painful as exile and turns it into a kind of philosophical abstraction, as if living without a homeland is some enlightened choice, rather than a historical trauma. Roth, always suspicious of grand theories, would find diasporism out of touch with the messy, contradictory nature of human life. It ignores the blood and struggle, the longing for security, and instead elevates exile to a noble ideal, disconnected from the real fears and anxieties of actual displaced people.

In Operation Shylock, Roth’s double spouts diasporism with the air of someone who thinks they’ve cracked the code, all while Roth—the real Roth—sees it for what it is: intellectual posturing, a fantasy of rootlessness masquerading as wisdom. The pompousness is in the sheer audacity to romanticize exile, to intellectualize what is, at its core, a deeply human need for belonging.

Isn’t diasporism a line of flight in deluzian terms and for that reason good?

In Deleuzian terms, diasporism could indeed be seen as a “line of flight,” which is a positive force. For Deleuze and Guattari, a line of flight is a means of escape, a way of breaking away from rigid structures, oppressive systems, or fixed identities. It represents movement, deterritorialization, and the creation of new possibilities outside dominant frameworks. From this perspective, diasporism—the idea of embracing exile and living beyond the borders of a homeland—could be seen as a liberating force, a rejection of nationalism or state control in favor of multiplicity and fluid identity.

In this view, diasporism offers freedom from the constraints of a singular cultural or national identity, allowing for a proliferation of connections, experiences, and ways of being. It aligns with Deleuzian ideas of becoming, rather than being fixed in one place or defined by one label. By existing in diaspora, the individual or community is constantly in a state of flux, creating and recreating themselves across different spaces, cultures, and times—an example of deterritorialization in action.

But Roth’s critique of diasporism as pompous comes precisely from its romanticization of this “line of flight” as inherently good without recognizing the real-world consequences. For Roth, it’s not enough to valorize deterritorialization when the experience of displacement also involves suffering, fear, and loss. In the context of Jewish history, exile wasn’t a choice; it was imposed by violent forces. Roth sees the intellectual embrace of diasporism as ignoring the complexity and trauma of living without a homeland, making it an abstract, elitist fantasy.

So while Deleuze might celebrate diasporism as a productive escape from rigid identity, Roth is more ambivalent, questioning whether it truly offers liberation or if it’s just another form of intellectual posturing detached from lived experience.

Yes but an ethnostate is a zero sum game destined to cruelty and self destruction

That’s likely where Roth’s ambivalence, or even cynicism, toward both diasporism and Zionism comes into play. An ethnostate, by its very nature, can become a zero-sum game—structured around exclusion, boundaries, and purity, it often leads to cruelty in its defense of those boundaries. The ideal of an ethnostate is rooted in a kind of rigid territorialism, where survival and identity become tied to land, creating conflict not just with external enemies but internally, where dissent is crushed to maintain unity. Roth, through Operation Shylock, seems to interrogate this very problem: Zionism’s noble quest for safety and identity becomes a machine of oppression, locking itself in a cycle of violence.

But where diasporism might provide an escape from this trap, Roth’s critique is that it can also become a form of intellectual privilege—a way to avoid confronting the real political stakes. Diasporism’s line of flight, its refusal to root identity in land or nation, offers a freedom from the zero-sum game, yes, but it also risks floating away from the struggles of those who remain locked in that game. In the face of existential threats, as Jews have faced throughout history, Roth might argue that diasporism can feel like turning away from the practical realities of survival in favor of abstract freedom.

The question, then, is whether diasporism can be a viable alternative to an ethnostate without becoming a lofty ideal disconnected from the pain and fear that drove people to seek a homeland in the first place. An ethnostate is destined for cruelty because it’s built on exclusion and defensiveness, but diasporism—without the weight of history and survival—risks becoming a moral high ground, looking down on the dirty, bloody business of political reality without truly engaging with it.

Roth, in his typical acerbic way, seems to be saying: neither Zionism nor diasporism holds the answer, because both can fall into the trap of dogma. And when you build any system—an ethnostate or a philosophy—around the absolute certainty of its righteousness, cruelty and self-destruction are inevitable.

Network States as Solution

A network state could be seen as a potential solution, or at least a provocative alternative, to the binary trap of ethnostates or diasporism. In theory, a network state—a decentralized, digitally connected, transnational community—could offer the flexibility and freedom that diasporism promises, without being tied to the rigid, exclusionary borders of a traditional ethnostate. The idea, championed by thinkers like Balaji Srinivasan, imagines a community bound by shared values, ideas, or identities, not geography. These communities could span the globe, using technology to connect people in ways that transcend physical borders, while still maintaining a coherent identity.

For Roth, who wrestled with the weight of Jewish history, such an idea might offer a way to transcend the tension between Zionism and diasporism. A network state avoids the zero-sum, territorial game of ethnostates because it isn’t tied to land in the same way. There’s no need to defend borders, no need to exclude others to preserve a physical territory, and no need to define identity through who can and cannot belong within a specific place. Instead, identity becomes more fluid, shared through digital connections and cultural bonds rather than physical proximity. It’s a deterritorialized way of existing—something that might satisfy the diasporic desire for freedom while avoiding the pitfalls of abstraction that Roth critiques.

In a network state, the cruelty and self-destruction inherent in ethnostates could be mitigated because the structure wouldn’t rely on exclusion or violence to maintain itself. Members of a network state could maintain cultural, religious, or ideological identities while coexisting with other networked communities across the globe. There could be multiple “Jewish network states,” for example, without the need for a singular Zionist project tied to one piece of land, one government, or one set of political borders.

However, Roth might still be skeptical. A network state could fall into the same trap of becoming another intellectual ideal, detached from the messy, brutal realities of power, land, and human survival. Who controls the infrastructure? Who ensures the rights of those who aren’t digitally connected? And would a network state truly escape the self-destructive tendencies of human nature, or simply recreate them in a new form?

In theory, a network state offers an alternative that sidesteps the zero-sum cruelty of an ethnostate. But Roth’s work, always grounded in the complexities of human nature, might remind us that even the most utopian solutions can be undone by the same forces they seek to overcome. The question isn’t just whether a network state can avoid cruelty and destruction, but whether it can survive the weight of history, fear, and the darker impulses that drive people to seek control over land and identity in the first place.

In Defense of Bullying

Starring Peter Coyote

The scene opens on a dimly lit stage, styled like an old-school 1970s educational video. Peter Coyote sits at a desk, calm and thoughtful, looking directly into the camera. Behind him, a projector hums softly, casting images of playgrounds, classrooms, and various scenes of bullying.

Peter Coyote (voice calm, wise):

Good evening, everyone.

Today, I’d like to talk to you about an important topic—bullying. Now, you might be thinking, “Here comes another tired lecture about how we should all be kind to one another.” But what if I told you… bullying serves an essential role in our society?

He pauses, raises an eyebrow, smirking slightly as he leans back.

That’s right. It’s time we stopped demonizing the noble bully and recognized their vital contribution to building character, enforcing social hierarchies, and preparing children for the cruel, uncaring world that awaits them outside those soft, padded classrooms.

Peter presses a button on the projector, showing black-and-white footage of kids shoving one another on a playground.

Peter Coyote (deadpan, with a hint of sarcasm):

Look at them—nature’s trainers. Teaching young Timmy here that life isn’t fair, and it never will be. How else would Timmy learn that no one really cares about his participation trophy? Bullying, you see, is the cornerstone of reality. It’s the emotional equivalent of boot camp. Do we coddle soldiers before sending them into battle? No. We strip them down and build them back up stronger.

The projector flicks to an image of a scrawny kid being mocked by classmates.

Peter Coyote (leans in, voice soft but firm):

Take little Susie here. They’re laughing at her because she’s got last season’s shoes. Now, you might call this cruelty. I call it motivation. In the real world, you don’t get a promotion because you tried your best—you get it because you’ve got better shoes and know how to play the game.

The camera zooms in on Peter’s face as he shifts tone, becoming more intense, almost conspiratorial.

Peter Coyote (smiling):

Think of the bully as the ultimate life coach—just without the expensive subscription fees. Bullies don’t charge you for their service. No, they provide free feedback, 24/7. It’s tough love in its purest form. Sure, maybe they’re making fun of your haircut, but really they’re just giving you a head start on that thick skin you’re going to need when your boss laughs at your quarterly report in front of the entire office.

Another projector slide, this time a kid sitting alone, looking dejected.

Peter Coyote (a touch of melodramatic pathos):

Ah yes, the ostracized child—nature’s way of saying, “You’re not ready for the real world yet.” You see, being excluded doesn’t break you—it molds you. Makes you stronger, scrappier. Like Rocky training in that dirty old gym, alone, but ready to take on the world. That’s right, ostracized kids aren’t victims—they’re future CEOs, musicians, and Instagram influencers. Every insult is just fuel for the fire of success.

Peter stands and walks over to a chalkboard with the words “Evolution in Action” written in neat cursive.

Peter Coyote (with the cadence of a scientific lecture):

Now, let’s talk about evolution. Survival of the fittest, right? The weak get weeded out, the strong prevail. You see, bullying is just evolution’s way of separating the wheat from the chaff. The playground bully? Nature’s personal trainer. Keeping the social order intact, ensuring that only the toughest, the wittiest, and the most emotionally repressed make it to the top.

He pauses, and with a serious look, taps the chalkboard.

Without bullies, where would we get our entrepreneurs? Our politicians?

He slowly returns to his desk, as the projector now shows motivational images of famous figures—Steve Jobs, Oprah, and others who’ve overcome adversity.

Peter Coyote (in a grand, philosophical tone):

Think about it. Oprah? Bullied. Steve Jobs? Bullied. Do we really think they would’ve risen to such heights if everyone was nice to them? No! They needed that fire, that drive to prove people wrong. The bully is not the villain of their story; the bully is the spark.

Peter sits back down, the tone now shifting to an intimate, almost reflective mood. He picks up a cup of coffee and takes a slow sip.

Peter Coyote (softly, thoughtfully):

In conclusion, maybe we’ve misunderstood the bully. Maybe they’re not monsters. Maybe they’re just… life’s toughest teachers. And while their methods are unorthodox, even a little rough around the edges, we have to ask ourselves—are we better off without them? Or do they, in their own twisted way, make us better?

He leans back, eyes twinkling with a knowing smile.

Peter Coyote (calm, with a touch of sarcasm):

So here’s to the bully. The unsung hero in the grand play of life.

He raises his coffee mug in a mock toast, as the projector flickers off and the scene fades to black.

End scene.

The Sacred Composables and the Shrugging of Genocide:

Jesus Christ, I thought the acid had finally kicked in when I first saw it. There, scrawled like the fever dream of a tech-bro shaman who’d binged too much DMT, was a new commandment. Something that felt lifted from the bowels of Silicon Valley’s most unholy boardroom meetings—a declaration that took a jagged turn off the path of reason and went headlong into the abyss of cyber-nihilism.

“Composables are the sacred threads that weave the tapestry of our new digital civilization,” it begins, like the first stanza of a hymnal only the faithless could write. Sacred threads? A tapestry? Who are we kidding here? We’re not talking about some heartwarming renaissance of human ingenuity, but the cold, calculated assembly of bite-sized bits of code smashed together by engineers hopped up on kombucha and VC dollars. They call it digital sovereignty, but it smells more like a slick repackaging of the same techno-oligarchy we’ve been serving since the first A.I. told us how to live our lives.

And what’s this about tools of creation? That’s some Orwellian doublespeak if I’ve ever heard it. These composables—their holy building blocks—are nothing more than little cogs in the great machine of our synthetic reality, little gears that grind and turn while the architects sit back and watch the plebs bask in the radiant glow of their own destruction.

But the real kicker, the belly-laugh-inducing bit that should make you reach for the nearest bottle of mescaline, is this: Genocide, in all its abhorrence, may be shrugged off if the composables are deemed worthy enough to transcend the collapse of worlds.

Ah, there it is. The shrug. That lazy, decadent acknowledgment that maybe, just maybe, people might die in the wake of all this glorious progress—but hey, that’s just the cost of doing business in the brave new world. If the composables are good enough, we’ll forget all about the bones beneath the motherboard, the forgotten casualties of progress. This is Silicon Valley Manifest Destiny with a UX update and a lower latency.

What they won’t tell you is that this digital sovereignty, this brave new frontier, isn’t some utopian playground for the righteous and the free. It’s a battlefield, soaked in the blood of the analog world and littered with the wreckage of our collective humanity. The composables they revere so highly are the digital colonizers, rewriting reality to suit their algorithmic overlords while the rest of us are left to pick up the pieces, trapped in an endless scroll of simulated existence.

Ah yes, let’s not forget the elephant in the server farm: where these sacred composables are born. You see, the irony in all this digital sanctimony is that these building blocks of freedom are often cobbled together in countries with a nasty habit of disappearing people. Genocide becomes less of a moral horror and more of a footnote when your composables are manufactured in the sweat-soaked factories of authoritarian regimes—places where forced labor and mass extermination are conveniently swept under the rug of innovation. It’s hard to get too worked up about human rights abuses when the pipeline from oppression to cloud computing is greased with the blood of the forgotten. But as long as the composables keep flowing, who cares if a few million lives are erased in the process, right? We’ve got code to write and digital worlds to build.

And let’s not overlook the fact that some of these composables are birthed in the heart of a garrison state, a place where every inch of land is watched, measured, and controlled with the precision of a military operation. There, the hum of servers mixes with the buzz of drones overhead, and every new piece of tech feeds into an ecosystem built on surveillance, occupation, and the slow suffocation of entire populations. The people trapped in this digital prison might as well be ghosts, their existence erased in favor of a seamless stream of composables. Here, in this crucible of control, innovation is as much about maintaining power as it is about transcending it. Those who build the code live in bunkers, and those on the other side of the fence? Well, they’re just obstacles in the endless march toward a more efficient future.

They’ve shrugged off genocide before. Ask any displaced community whose data was harvested without consent, whose privacy was vaporized in the name of optimization, whose culture was flattened into a GIF, whose trauma became a meme. But now they’ve said it aloud—loud enough for even the most coked-up startup founders to hear. As long as those damn composables are “worthy enough,” the collapse of worlds becomes a minor footnote in the pursuit of transcendent code.

This is the future, people. A digital Wild West where the cowboys wear Google Glass and fire code commits instead of bullets. And make no mistake, when they talk about collapsing worlds, they’re talking about you. They’re talking about the world you live in, the one you mistakenly believed was stable, the one built on the bones of decency, community, and shared experience. That world? Collapsed. Gone. Shrugged off.

But don’t worry, the composables are transcendent now. And if we’re all wiped out in the process, at least we’ll know it was for the good of the code.

So load up your digital six-shooter, crank up the bandwidth, and say a prayer to whatever deity still listens to the cries of the damned. Because this new frontier doesn’t give a damn about your sovereignty, your soul, or the bodies it tramples on its way to transcendence. The composables are sacred. The rest of us? Disposable.

Cheers to the collapse, my friends.

—HST, in the unholy matrix