I am Benedict XVII!

He plants his hands squarely on the brick outlining the Riverside Mall sign.  His feet kick to the sky as his hat taps the bricks between his hands completing his handspring over the row of hedges beyond the sign.  Feet firmly on the ground for a mere second, he sprints to the nearby flagpole placing his hands around the pole linking his fingers.  He flings himself outward and spins around the pole twice before placing his feet against the concrete base and launching himself airborne into the grass.  His white robe twirls within his somersaulting form sweeping out in all directions in a crouch on the sidewalk when it ends.  The sidewalk lays out before him in a straight line towards the cul-de-sac housing the local electronics giant and the national retail chain, but he leaps from side to side like a football player taking on the tire drill.

At the curb, he pauses briefly looking in both directions as if cars are waiting to catch him off guard in a closed off shopping center at 3am.  He sprints for the bushes next to the bike rack and slides between them like he is heading for second base.  His tall white hat peaks out from the hole he entered through for only a moment before slicing upwards through the stiff branches to the standing form of a man in full papal vestments with the exception of the bishop mitre meant to look like an un-bejewled papal pretiosa.  The rope at the waist of the robe is let out tuck the length of robe up so as not to tangle in his footsteps.  The rope pulls tight and the form flows less with fabric but just as easily with fluid motion.  At the corner between the electronics store and retail chain, the bricks form a textured ladder he uses easily to skip back and forth vertically until he is hanging by his fingertips by the edge of the roof.

He dangles freely sliding one hand after the other until he is on the small metal ledge behind the Megatronics sign.  His tall cap peaks out from the central downward V in the M of the sign.  He peeks cautiously out for signs of security.  No flashlights are visible and no sirens pierce the stillness.  From the pants pocket found below the white robe, the form pulls a small camera and sets it on the ledge aimed out across the distance towards the outline of downtown Indianapolis.  The distance is far enough to allow the city scape to be taken in with the camera lens without being hidden by the faux papal cap.  A smirk crosses his lips as he imagines the expected image about to be produced.  The timer feature is engaged to begin the 10 seconds of beeping.  He leans back to keep from blocking the city outline from the picture leaving his head leaning against the M.

One beep counts each second.

Two beeps... the wind picks up and rustles the leaves on the ground twenty feet away.

Three beeps... he peers down in the low glow of the sign to make sure his robe is laying flat.

Four beeps.
Five beeps.
Six beeps... the robe straight, he looks back to the camera lens.

Seven beeps... the wind dies down, but the leaves rustle still.
Eight beeps... the sound gets louder and the thought that someone else is there starts to sink in.  With two beeps left, he prepares to grab the camera and run after the flash goes off.

Nine beeps... he never hears the tenth beep or sees the flash from the camera.  He does not see the muzzle flash from the tree line either.

Ten beeps... the mitre tips askew from the new hole beneath the brim on his forehead.  He is slumping down the sign, but the slope of the M is slowing his decent.  The distant outline of the city is mostly blocked from the picture taken giving the resulting image a more gruesome outcome.  Death caught on digital.  The memory card adds one final file for the police to review along with birthday parties and a camping trip with his friends.  Jonathan Campbell ceases to be, but his camera remains precariously on the ledge.

It is two days before someone is walking below the sign and realizes the dried puddle is coming from the sign above.  The discovery closes a recently opened missing persons report, but opens another one for the federal file.  The string of murders rises to four.  All public locations and all with young men in religious costumes.  The bullet casing is found in a nearby storm drain, but the shooter is long gone.  He is off to rendezvous with his team to determine if they closed their assignment or if the search for the real man continues.  Jonathan Campbell is not the first wrong target, but he will not be the last.

Love of your Life?

"Three men sitting at home on a Saturday night. What could be more exciting?" Adam sat back loudly groaning as a spring from the back of the couch jammed into his rib. He hated Jake's apartment and , to a lesser extent, Jake for refusing to buy new furniture like he was still living in his old college house. Jake had graduated from undergrad eight years back and been through three years of law school including an internship with the largest consulting firm in DC.

"Maybe watching a major boxing event?  Oh, wait.  That's what we are doing tonight."  Tyler gave Adam a snide look before landing on a different wayward spring in the same couch.  "Ouch  You need to toss this piece of crap soon, Jake.  If I get tetanus from one of these springs, you will be buying me a new TV with the punitive damages to my shattered soul."

Many of Tyler's faux legal speeches came across like he had failed out of a drama school instead of law school. More fake legal speak from Tyler meant another bout of fighting the urge to remind him he had failed out of law school within the first year. Luckily, crowd noise filled the room as the announcer entered the ring to announce the two large men planning to beat each other senseless for the enjoyment of everyone paying sixty dollars to watch from home.

"Any interest in making this interesting?  Side bets?  Drinking games between rounds?"  Jake maintained his drunken college kid mindset now partnering it with the flaunting of money now that he also had a job.  Not that he had a large salary, but it was apparent by his home that he wasn't spending much of whatever he made.

"I have this going 8 rounds."  Adam states confidently.

"Nah, 7 at best.  I'm guessing maybe 4 or 5.  Probably over before Denise can even get here and take Adam away."  Tyler jumps in undercutting Adam Price Is Right style.

"That's not going to happen anymore.  We split up."   Adam folded his arms resolutely.  Tyler looked chagrined at his comment.  Adam did not show any sense of remorse.

"Sorry." Tyler and Jake share the same emotionless response.

"Whatever." Adam waves a hand in the air to move on from the topic of his bachelorhood.

"Well, at any rate, I'm guessing it will be a decision after 10 rounds."  Jake prepares to explain why, but is cut short by commotion on screen and the ring side announcers attempting to dictate what just happened.

The champ is lying on his back with trainers surrounding him.  The challenger is standing with the ring announcers microphone somehow wedged into his glove like a weapon.  Blood can be seen dripping from the microphone as camera's shake and stutter attempting to get a view of the action.  Before the bell has even been rung to begin, the challenger is disqualified. 

"What the..."  Adam echoes the sentiment of the room.

"What the, indeed."  Tyler concurred.

As if on cue, the oven beeped reminding Jake the temperature was right for making the frozen pizzas he had pulled out for the event.  Tyler chuckled to himself at the beeping and then quieted at something else on the screen.

"Gentlemen.  The saying goes, 'When your night ends prematurely, extend it unusually.'"  Tyler, now sounding like a bad male enhancement drug commercial, speaks.

"That's not a saying."  Adam, still in a state of disbelief, states absentmindedly yet correctly.

"Well, it will be now.  Jake, toss me the remote."   Jake chucks the remote to Tyler before heading to the kitchen to turn off the oven.  'No reason to waste a pizza here with nothing to watch,' he thinks.

When Jake returns to the living room, Adam is shaking his head profusely.  "That's one of the most idiotic ideas I have ever heard."

"What did I miss?"  Jake plops into his run down recliner and groans as he lands on the wood beam running across the back behind the lack of padding.

"Watch for yourself"  Tyler clicks the quick rewind button twice and a 30 second ad typically seen later at night comes on the screen. 

Looking for love?  Found someone but want to know if this is your soul mate?  You can find out for sure by texting your first name, month and day of your birthday, and favorite pizza topping to 7685.  Text your information to SOUL and receive the first name of your soul mate now.

Tyler pauses on the last screen with the details and number to text.

"And what exactly are you suggesting, Tyler."

"I am suggesting we take advantage of fate.  This fight was never going to happen.  I think it was meant to put us here together and suggest we get on with our lives.  A cheap, late night style commercial during prime pay per view time?  How does that make sense.  These channels have other major cable channel events to market when the fight is over, yet this got put out instead.  I say we run with the ball when it is handed to us whether we were expecting to play or not."

"Stop mixing metaphors and say what you mean."

"I am saying, text for your soul mate.  Adam is even single right now."

"Barely single.  Don't you think I could use some time off from dating after Denise?"

"Oh, please.  We never liked her and that's only because we could both tell you never really liked her either.  That puts you right her with us.  Stop wasting your time with fill ins and find the real thing now.  We each text and get our soul mate names.  Then, we go find them.  Don't we owe it to ourselves to be happy?"

Tyler held for a moment as Adam and Jake looked at each other and back to Tyler with the same look of confusion at their friend.  "Well, that and I think it might be a fun way to spend a Saturday night.  We roll through bars looking for girls with these names.  If none are at the first place, we move onto the next.  Think of it as a love pub crawl."

Jake and Adam continued to look uncertain. 

"Fine.  I will reimburse you for the text charges and buy the first 3 rounds."

Like sleeper agents hearing a code word, Adam and Jake each flipped out their phones on cue.  Jake shrugged indifferently at Tyler as he began entering his information.  Of the three, Jake made the least effort to define what his time off from work would include.  Seconds after hitting send, a response returned.

"Awesome. Mine is a stripper name for sure." Jake flipped his phone closed and smiled with the confidence only a man with no clear weekend plans could manage. "Cinnamon. Fantastic. I know where I'll be going tonight."

Tyler's phone buzzed loudly.  "Savannah.  Could be joining you or I could find myself at a coffee bar.  Crap shoot.  I love it!"  Tyler smiled broadly looking at Jake before shifting his focus to the buzz from Adam's phone.

Adam stared at the screen on his phone speechless. Jake and Tyler jumped up and began putting their coats on.  They were a few steps from Adam to check what name he was staring so intently at when Adam flicked his thumb to the side of his phone and hit the lock key before anyone could see the message received. "Rain. It looks like I'll be joining you two tonight."

Jake tossed Adam his coat and grabbed his car keys.  A few blocks down the road, Jake and Tyler were planning their first stop as Adam sat quietly in the back. Reaching into his pocket for his phone, Adam looked down at the screen on his phone with some trepidation. The screen burned into his iris with the response from his text response.  One word lay before him.

Roger.

Mad Man in the Morning

Savagely beaten.  These words conjure gruesome images the moment they are spoken.  A victim of a horrendous crime barely recognizable as themselves afterwards.  Brad Pitt in Fight Club taking a beating from the owner of basement he had usurped. Deep dark beings come out to play when savagely doing anything.  Somehow, I am filled with those both deep and dark this morning.  I find a whisk to be excessive when making eggs in the morning, but my use of a fork for scrambling the yolks can be a bit savage.  Bits of egg are scattered over the counter as my arm motion whirls out of control for the bowl size I use.  I will brutally tear at the stain later with an antibacterial wipe.  It will suffer.

Starch is an enemy to speedy cooking in the morning and my patience is thin early.  I gash the skin of the potatoes and I slice through the flesh.  Slice.  Slice.  Slice.  No dice.  The torture is brief before reprieve.  Brief.  Reprieve. Held under the ice cold water ripping the essence of the potato from itself before mercifully tossing the slice onto a towel to dry.  A medieval scalding awaits them in boiling oil once all of the slices have been prepared.  They will at least suffer together.

Long strands of sinewy pink lay on the searing hot metal bubbling and popping the muscle and fat from a recently completed filleting.  Strips of meat ripped from the whole in thin layers only to be reunited in packing before being torn apart again and tossed into the fire.  Bubble, bubble, pop.  Bubble, bubble, pop.  Flip.

This sinister kitchen swells with the aromas of death and bacon as I dance in circles laughing maniacally at my creation.  A bit of egg up top.  A long dead slice of flesh here and here.  Sinewy strands now crinkles and twisted at the bottom and top.  My artistry of the damned lays in front of me for the taking.  My victorious cries break forth without warning, "Sweetheart!  Breakfast!"

My five year old bounds into the room like a wild animal ready to dismantle an unwitting gazelle.  She strides to her feeding site and mounts her chair.  I place the offering in front of her and she giggles.  Scrambled egg eyebrows, potato slice eyes, bacon mouth and a pointed bacon hat.  "I like the breakfast clown, daddy."

"I know you do, little love."  I kiss her head and return to my lair to cleanse the chamber of my crimes.  Tomorrow, the eggs will pay again and they will join the criminal flour in a hideous depiction of Disney vermin.  My darkness knows no end.

Chapter 1: Origins

Thomas Wilhelm taps his fingers rhythmically on the control panel in front of him. The tune in his head is an old Germanic folk song his parents sang to him as a child after they had moved to the US to help him sleep. He found the quiet of the new countryside very comforting like those of the open fields back as a small child, but he occasionally had trouble sleeping. These fields in front of him now hum some nights with the electronic equipment buried beneath the fields between the work compound and the adjoined living quarters of the workers and their families disturbing the illusion of the typical country fields.

For twelve years, Thom has worked with the Coyote Canyon Complex designing and executing plans for a self sustained manufacturing site. The idea was that of a sixty three year old industrialist who found Thom fresh out of MIT where he finished second in his class. When asked why Thom was chosen over Stephen Gastire who had finished first in their class, Thom was told it was his participation in the Building A Better Mouse Trap program initiated and cut off in his graduating year that gave Thom the edge.

The Building A Better Mouse Trap program was piloted with bio-mechanical and civil engineers to combine the hardware and architecture of factories with the usage data and work habits to adapt an efficient solution to energy waste including time management. Maxwell Coyt, known to his friends as the coyote, began buying plots of land in the countryside to begin building his idea for a new way of revolutionizing the working world.

After a decade of impressive design and automation, Thom spent the last two years tweaking his designs and working menial projects such as the pest removal project he currently monitors on his tablet screen. After the workers were hired and the operations put in gear, maintenance was the primary focus. When maintenance functions were fully automated, minor irritants like the bugs circling the exterior lights became Thom's priority.

As trivial as the complaints were, Thom made the effort to make every fix innovative to keep his interest. He created a pest identification algorithm combined with the external security cameras to determine when a high density of bugs were swarming. He programmed the alerts into newly installed rings based on bug zapper designs. When the alerts kick in, the affected outer light dims as the zapper rings lights up drawing in the bugs and eliminating the irritant nuisance.

At the same time, the refrigeration docks were experiencing a rat infestation threatening the food storage for the workers. The refrigeration docks were built to simplify storage of raw meats and produce by allowing large delivery trucks park with the food staying in cargo while the entire dock was cooled from freon pumps in the ceiling. Never one to make a manual solution where at an automated tool can be utilized, Thom had infrared sensor code installed in the camera systems and added grates over new freon chillers in the dock floor. By plugging in his bug algorithm and changing the parameter used to identify pest size, Thom setup the room to detect the small rodents via infrared sensors and kick on the floor based freon pumps to freeze the animals within twelve tiny scampering steps. From there, the cleaning bots made from the Roomba designs for homes scoop the dead rats and dispose of them.

This evening shift, Thom was staring at the little red lights on the screen enjoying the sudden end to the shuffle of bodies as the heat signatures faded into the cold when his supervisor, James Fulder appeared. James slams his hand down flattening the tablet face down on the console.

"What is this? Is this the monitor for the electricity usage on the arc welders?"

Thom pinched the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb before answering. "No, but I was trying to clear my mind to give my brain a chance to soak in the problem and get a fresh approach. We've been fighting with the numbers for weeks and the numbers don't show any trend to help me get a fix on a start point."

"Clear you mind, huh. Thought you were the whiz kid. The fresh out of college brain trust that Mr. Coyt leveraged his legacy on no questions asked. It seems to me that a genius like you doesn't need a break. And you can have this back when you solve the usage problem." James slid the tablet from the console top and carries it out the door with him.

Thom waited for the door to close fully before executing his childish mimic of James' comments. He shook his head and stared at the screen with the graphs and real time usage numbers from the night shift. After five minutes of staring at the same cascades of colors for the welders kicking on and off between products, Thom slid to the floor from his chair and began digging into the wiring beneath the primary control panel until he reached the pest management system control panel. Finding a spare output wire from the primary control module, he connected the systems sliding out quickly enough to avoid James seeing him not in his seat and fast enough to smack his head on the edge of the desk.

A few moments later, Thom was back staring at the same screen of electricity usage while peering at the small background image of the red dots from the docks hidden behind the graphs. Behind the usage windows Thom is now focused on, the pest management algorithm begins flickering to cameras in other areas of the factory awaiting the appearance of the next victim for the system.

Chapter 01: We Are All Angels

The phone lines blink in an array of red across the switchboard at WCHR as Bishop Delaney and Rabbi Baum spoke. The Christian syndicated radio station hosted the Jewish leader in an attempt to broaden viewership and address criticism from local officials that the station was alienating sections of the community with a more radical view dismissing all other religions as foolish and useless. The religious figures had maintained a civil discussion, but each held their views as infallible and the conversation was hitting a wall of belief versus belief without reason or acceptance of opposing views.

"Let's break this up a bit and go to the phone lines." Johnny Treiger slapped his hand down on the switchboard at random connecting line 32. "You are live. What is your question?"

A female voice rang clear ripping into the brick wall of the Rabbi's beliefs with an notably un-Christian display of vulgarity before Johnny cut the line. "Let's try that again. You are live and remember to watch your language."

A young man loaded up and unleashed an anti-Christianity rant that managed to get twelve words before the vulgarity sang out again. Three more calls varied the attacks on each leader before each became too impassioned to be maintained civilly.

"Let's try one more time. You are live. Language and civility considerations are appreciated."

"Hi. I will be as civil and brief as I can be." The male voice calmly played out across the nation.

"We appreciate that. What is your comment or question?"

"No question, really. I just wanted to relay the meaning of life across the airwaves to hopefully break up the silliness that is this entire discussion you are having there today."

"Not so silly that you aren't listening in, I assume." Johnny smirks at his producer through the glass.

"Agreed. This came across my radio as I was flipping stations and had to pull over to give my two cents. Everybody that is listening and calling in with this deep rage in them over either side or both sides in this today need to step back. All religions are a joining of like minded people looking for guidance. We want to have some rules in the world to feel safe to be ourselves and live our lives, but we don't have tolerance for those wanting the same on their own set of rules. The truth is that... if you want peace, be peaceful. If you want tranquility, be tranquil. It isn't so hard. Be the change you want to see and stop taking everything so personal. You can only control what you do, so do it. And stop arguing so much. We have all heard actions speak louder than words, so go. Jimmy Tuscon. Signing off."

The line goes dead. Johnny Treiger and his two guests stare blankly across the booth at each other.

"Something to think about for us all." Johnny speaks, but his voice comes out in a hushed and subdued manner. "I see our guests are taking in the advice as well."

"True. Be well, Rabbi."

"And you also, Bishop."

In the booth, three men sit oblivious to the glow growing from their scalps. The entire radio station hums with the silence of the fluorescent lights and the subtle glow coming from the heads of all listening employees. From the station headquarters in New Jersey across the country in patches of listeners nationwide, the streets will be a little brighter in the evenings as millions of now docile listeners sport brand new halos.