《Thinking Like Murderers》


 To Start With History

    Jean was born of Eurasian descent: a quarter French, a quarter Chinese, and half Vietnamese.


    Jean lived his childhood unusually well-behaved. In fact, Jean could be too much of a stickler for the rules.


    As the younger brother of a social and academic genius, Jean somehow performed more brilliantly. His aptitude in math was unbelievable, crossing the boundary to comprehending geometry, algebra, trigonometry, statistics and calculus with ease. Jean was a veritable prodigy at the age of 7.


    Yet something broke his savant nature before it could fully blossom. This was society. Mainly, how his family changed because of it and how society, in turn, treated them.


    Jean''s dad worked as a chef who spoke broken English. During the Vietnam War, he served as the only doctor Presidents obsessed over because of his miraculous treatments. He even saved his own mother from a rare heart disease. However, his immigration to the United States found that his credentials were not valid licenses to practice, nor were his practices legitimate enough to use systematically, much to the enjoyment of xenophobic Americans sore about the war. This led him to drinking, rage, and domestic violence, especially since he faced both the discrimination of being an Asian and being from the country the United States lost the unofficial war to, despite hailing from the South, which allied with the Americans. His mother died in a mistaken American bomb raid on an innocent village a few days before the War ended and his father died while in captivity. The news arrived on the week after settling in America, making Jean''s father extremely unstable.


    Jean''s mother was his father''s hometown beauty and used as a token of an arranged marriage. She was so unbelievably eye-catching that Jean''s father once had to permanently disfigure her face so American soldiers wouldn''t kidnap and defile her. At least his fellow Vietnamese would kill her with dignity if they had the chance. Luckily, that was a big if. Despite her hardened nature from being a seamstress during the war and her father abandoning her ailing mother, she struggled with mood swings. One moment she pampered guests like a fairy and the next, she spoke on with obscenities and her fists. Her biggest struggle was her appearance. Ever since she was disfigured during the War, she worried about her public image. America fattened her body, increased her insecurities, and entranced her with brand clothing, makeup, and various products. It didn''t help that she sent hundreds of dollars back home, even flying back to Vietnam every few years. She was forced to menial labor, including her previous work as a seamstress.


    Jean''s older brother was a hardcore nationalist. He was brought into America at the impressionable age of 5 and became indoctrinated with its values instantly. His genius and adaptability helped him pick up English in a matter of weeks, closely attaching himself with whoever he could so he appeared like a native. His closest friend was a half British, half Swedish neighbor who was two years his junior. With his friend who was the son of a cop, he managed to avoid trouble with the law, like with future drinking and drug use or violent attacks or petty larceny. This also proved very useful whenever other neighbors complained about the noise from Jean''s home whenever his parents fought or his older brother got into fights.


    Jean was born a citizen of the United States, just barely outside of the state line, which complicated his origin and made for messy paperwork neither of his parents understood. With a staunch belief of a self-sustained body and suspicion of poisoning from prejudiced American doctors, Jean''s father kept his kids home and away from medicine. Somehow, Jean failed to inherit or be exposed enough for strong immunities to developed and lacked the supplies for the medical practices his father had in Vietnam. Jean lived sickly but had much demanded from his father, mother, and brother.


    Because of a lack of financial control by immigrants incapable of reading Federal jargon, Jean''s family survived on donations from the Catholic Church. In spite of being nonreligious, they were ceremoniously given enough to live. Still, an endless anger prevailed in the family because of an unrelenting discrimination from the locals and the combo of an economic and emotional stress on their psyches.


    Jean''s father always wanted to be a respected doctor again, along with the freedom of being single so he wouldn''t fight a crazy woman like his wife. He was cowed under the strict eye of his management, gossip of his hateful coworkers, and controlled by the callous corporate profit margins.


    Jean''s mother always wanted to go back home to Vietnam, be beautiful again, and have a normal family. Everything in life reminded her of her ugliness and broken family, so she bought secondhand goods from garage sales for a facade of normalcy.


    Jean''s brother always wanted to fit in. He tried hard to live in America as an American but the racial difference and immigrant status stained his identity. He was stuck compensating for inconsistencies and showing both his loyalty and interest.


    Jean? Jean wanted death. He was raised in the tempest of his family''s internal struggles and external struggles against each other and society. The first concept of death came with his older brother''s hardly veiled threat of murder. Yet, more exposure to society''s hypocrisy and taint led Jean wanting death more and more.


    Jean endured bullying. Jean bullied using the school rules and his performance. Jean played games with death. Jean watched films with death. Jean heard stories of the death of loved ones. Jean witnessed the death of countless bugs and the slow death of pets. Jean took note of how much he liked death. He noted suicide methods, suicide attempts by students, and even the occasional roadkill. Jean remembered all the suffering of his family and their ties to death.


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    Jean witnessed baby birds falling out of their nests and breaking open their skulls for flies to fester in hours later. The worms slowly decomposed their small corpses to make them part of nature once more.


    Jean loved death. But Jean knew society hated murder. So, Jean kept a smile on his face and lived his life as a facade. In his mind, Jean dreamed of killing while he servilely lived. A dreamland where Jean could murder and be free took form.


    Even when beaten until Jean coughed blood... Even when bullied by his peers for his fall to normalcy... Even when told the worthlessness of his life by his parents... Even when strangled by his own jealous brother nearly to his death...


    Jean smiled and lived another normal day without exposing his true nature.


    That is, until Jean hit his limit.


    Then, Jean began his criminal career as a serial killer.


    It all started with just an idea.


    Jean tapped his finger on the cover of a book.


    Tap. Tap. Tap.


    It was monotonous, like a day-job.


    Jean wasn''t in school because he just graduated high school. He also wasn''t working because he just graduated high school.


    He, furthermore, wasn''t working because he was waiting for his invested gambling winnings to maximize their profits before trading it off to some inexperienced schmuck.


    Jean''s brother may have worked at a Wall-Blues, J. C. Nickels, and an Old Native''s before and shortly after graduating, but they were fundamentally different.


    Jean didn''t particularly want to go to college nor climb the corporate ladder as a cars salesman and management for Affordable Motors.


    Jean didn''t want to smile and peddle off goods like a mindless drone.


    Jean also didn''t want to continue counting cards when he gambled, even if it helped him win money. There was a limit before their management caught on to his schemes.


    So, Jean continued tapping on the book.


    Tap. Tap. Tap.


    The front door was also being tapped.


    Jean got up, still dressed in some black slacks and a blue dress shirt. He opened the door, careful not to disturb the shoes nearby.


    "Hi, Grandma!" Jean said, warmly.


    "Hey, Jean! How have you been?" the old white lady said in a slightly cracked voice. She slowly moved from the cracked and dirtied concrete steps and into the house.


    ''Good! How''s Grandpa''s throat cancer? I know his back''s been getting worse." Jean led her to sit on the couch, ignoring the mess she trailed in the house with her shoes.


    "The Lord is doing his work because he''s recovering."


    "That''s good. Do you want anything?"


    "Just water and some company will do!" she laughed warmly.


    Jean got some water from the kitchen.


    "Age is catching up to us. We''re going to be at the Pearly Gates by the time you get married!" she laughed again.


    "Make sure to meet with our kids and grandkids! I know some of them are unruly and impolite but they really have good hearts! They''re Christians, through and through!"


    Jean handed her the glass of water.


    "Thank you."


    "I know we should keep faithful, Grandma. I always go to Church and hear a sermon for the Lord''s wisdom. They helped feed and clothe my family, after all! But poor Marie and Algernon! I know Algernon''s¡­ losing his marbles and can''t walk like he used to. Mary''s trying her best for her brother, but she''s growing weaker every day. I help them take out the trash and rake their lawn but I still don''t know why their family isn''t there for them!"


    "Didn''t you notice yesterday?"


    "I was out doing business yesterday. What happened?"


    "Algernon''s heart stopped. He was pronounced dead today and Marie went into shock."


    Jean bent to the side, looking away from the old woman next to him.


    "It''s okay, Jean. Our neighbors were called on by the Lord. Their time came, so treasure the moments they left behind and pray for their family. They may be deaf to the Lord''s words but they aren''t hopeless." The old woman rubbed his shoulder, her arms much thinner than his.


    Jean was silent.


    "You''ve always been such a good boy, Jean. Never causing trouble like your brother or his friends."


    Jean stayed quiet.


    "You haven''t got a stable job. You''re probably bored out of your mind if you''re reading books like these," the old woman laughed. She pointed at the thick book on the table that had "H. P. Lovecraft" in big, bold letters.


    "Maybe you can help that family down the street? They were in dark times, like your family. Maybe you can convince them to let God into their life and become good Catholic Christians like us!" she laughed with mirth again.


    "The father has a drinking problem, the mother has a spending problem, and the kids have anger issues," Jean said softly.


    "All the more reason why you can help them best." The old woman smiled and got up.


    "I think it''s time for me to go home. Think about it, Jean!" she said.


    Jean led her to the front door and waved her off. He closed the door and prepared to mop up the mess she left behind.


    Pray for Marie and Algernon''s family? Jean sneared. Absurd! They already cut off ties! They were bound to find some way to take their belongings and sell off their property to make a quick buck. This was America, after all, where your own interests came first before others. Jean kept a facade but those actions didn''t mean he was sincere!


    "Adopt them into my life like Grandma and Grandpa did with me? Hmmm¡­" Jean said, out loud.


    "I guess I can use them to fulfill my own desires." Jean grinned.


    A plan was taking place in Jean''s mind.


    A plan where he acted on his own interests, forever separating himself from the shackles of societal values and norms.

 The Family Life

    Jean supported an angry, but completely drunk, William. William carried a half-empty bottle of Tequila while he stumbled along the road.


    Moments earlier, he argued with his wife about how much money she wasted on clothes and beauty products. She called Jean to help him sober up, actually considering the help of the Catholic Christians. The second Jean arrived, she locked the door on William and told them to go away.


    Both men dressed casually. The night was young and the stars glittered in the sky. Everyone was inside their homes, preparing dinner or getting ready to sleep. Crickets chirped as fireflies slowly began glowing in the grass. It was a mild end for another day in September.


    William heaved but did not throw up.


    "C''mon William. We''re going to Grandma''s. She''ll show you how to clean up. My old man used to go to her all the time when my mom kicked him out."


    "Motherf*cking b*tch. Who brings the money in the house? Who gets yelled at by his boss? Who gets embarrassed that his kids are sh*t? Me! F*cking me!!" William yelled.


    "It''s okay, William. The Lord is here for us and grants us his Grace. He tests us in hard times and our faith prevails beyond all hardships."


    Under the streetlights, they walked unhindered. The urban roads stayed untravelled as people took a break from their jobs and tiring days. William continued swearing relentlessly.


    But soon, he heard a familiar voice.


    "B*tch*ss, dickless c*nt. You can''t feed your family so you mooched off a Chink. How''s it feel, kissing the *ss of an Asian?"


    "Shut the f*ck up, Veronica! You don''t know Jean, b*tch! He''s always there for me! You haven''t done shit for months!" William slurred.


    "Sure, faggot. You''d love to suck his limp and tiny dick because you can''t even f*ck me."


    "I told you to shut up! I''ll f*cking smash your skull in if you keep talking!"


    "I bet your balls shrunk so much that you grew a vagina! You''re hoping Jean f*cks you with his Catholic c*ck!"


    "AHHHH!! YOU B*TCH, I''LL KILL YOU!!"


    Unbeknownst to William, he finally arrived with Jean at Grandma''s. She hobbled out to welcome them in. Jean spoke to Grandma over William''s shouting and she stared sympathetically.


    In a blind fit of unadulterated rage, William pushed Jean to the side. He stomped over to Grandma, whose short and small figure reminded him of Veronica.


    "DIEEEEE!!!" William screamed into the night.


    He swung the bottle in his hand, smashing it into pieces. A brittle snap cracked the air before Grandma slumped over. William raised his broken bottle and began stabbing her throat.


    "Try and f*cking say I''m gay and useless one more time, B*TCH!!" William screamed.


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.Jean tackled William from behind. It was easy to restrain the drunkard, especially after he wasted most of his energy killing the old woman.


    "Calm down, William. You just killed Grandma! It''s not Veronica! HEY!! ALBERT!! JAKE!! NATHAN!! SOMEONE, HELP!!! WILLIAM''S GONE MAD!! Stop struggling! It''s not Veronica you killed! You killed Grandma!"


    Soon, the police were called. Jake came over first, being a cop off-duty and more alert. He helped restrain William until his arrest. Jean was brought along as a witness to the crime, as were the neighbors who heard William''s screams in the night.


    <hr>


    Two gruelling month later, William was decided guilty of first-degree murder by the court and sentenced to life without parole. With Jean''s testimony, the neighbors, and William admitting guilt, it was inevitable.


    The news had a field day. "Black man murders old white woman!" "Drunken murderer gets life!" "Disgusting father no longer able to abuse his family!" "Neighborhood menace finally behind bars forever!"


    Veronica accused William of domestic abuse, which was settled in a separate plea deal. Their children depended on Jean, who stayed for their support.


    Jean helped arrange the funeral for his Grandma ceremoniously. With time, his investments paid off, so money wasn''t a problem. He paid his parents to move to a better part in town and retire. His brother moved out a month ago to live with his girlfriend. Jean even paid for his Grandpa''s medical bills after finding out his Grandpa''s children refused to pay yet still visited him.


    Jean was alone at home. Yet, Jean got what he finally wanted: death. A death orchestrated by playing with the mind of a gullible and inebriated man.


    "God has a plan for all of us," said Grandma''s voice beside Jean.


    "God is my shield, Grandma," he replied, sitting on the couch.


    A book laid in front of him about practical jokes and performances. Jean stared at the chapter labeled "Ventriloquism".  He smiled genuinely for the first time in years.


    "All of man is impressionable. That is why first impressions matter the most."


    First, Jean would visit and encourage William in a no-contact meeting in prison. William turned to faith and repented for his actions. He lived clean and appreciable for all the little wonders of the world. It would do good for Jean''s facade by converting William completely to Catholicism.


    Then, Jean would visit Veronica and her children. Comforting her family was the last thing his Grandma advised him to do, so his presence wouldn''t be suspicious. It helped disguise Jean''s plot to poison the entire family with just a gallon of bleach and ammonia.


    After all, who wouldn''t be a little "suicidal" after such a horrific murder like Grandma''s? Guilt and social oppression was enough to pressure ignorant children to play with chemicals for a "practical joke" and the blame was entirely avoided by Jean in one action.


    Jean flicked off the lights.


    "Thank you, God, for giving me life. I can witness the death that I wished for from the bottom of my heart," Jean whispered to himself, in the middle of the night, and in the darkness of his home.

 Living Like A Saint

    Jean wore his Sunday''s best early in the morning. He looked in the mirror. A clean-shaven, porcelain-like face stared with its piercing brown eyes and its somewhat thin eyebrows raised.


    Jean checked his mouth for any remnants of the eggs and rice he ate almost half an hour ago. Then, he turned off the bathroom lights, ignoring his dirty clothes wrapped in his towel on the hamper at the door.


    Jean opened his filing cabinet with his keychain and looked at his accounted expenditures. He wondered briefly about future purchases and profitable investments. Jean shook his head and locked up the cabinet.


    Eventually, Jean slipped on his shoes and the standard-issue black clergy cassock.


    It was time. He had deacon duties to do.


    The drive to the Renningberry Catholic Church took only minutes. Jean stepped out of his neat and tidy blue Ford Bronco. Although it was getting old, he took diligent care of it.


    Jean jingled his keys and opened the rusty doors of the Church. Its noise brought peace to his mind. Even with all the tweeting of birds, it was nice to hear noises that could alert Jean.


    Jean held his duties with solemn dedication and maintained the aging organ among many other things. Hours passed and soon, he was done.


    Jean laid a Bible in his lap as he sat in front of the organ. His fingers danced across the keys, practicing different arrangement of Gothic music.


    A loud thrum of a sputtering transmission broke into the melody, but Jean did not stop. Soon, Pastor Nick arrived. His large form comically contrasted his position, yet his aging appearance showed he did not lack experience. He was a decent-looking man in his fifties, after all.


    "Jean! You''re here early, like always, huh? You''re such a good kid. Are you going to lead the liturgy again?" Pastor Nick called, walking towards the altar.


    "Yes, Brother Nick. ''For the Lord Grants wisdom! From his mouth come knowledge and understanding.'' Proverbs 2:6." Jean replied. He stopped playing.


    "I still don''t know why you come in so early. A talented and good-hearted kid like you should be sweeping the entertainment industry!" Pastor Nick chuckled. "You play music like a Heaven-sent angel, you know that, Jean?"


    "I have faith the Lord guides me to help others. ''Trust in the Lord with all your heart; do not depend on your own understanding.'' Proverbs 3:5."


    "Jean! You don''t have to be so stiff. Why do you need to quote the Scriptures when both of us are well-read?"


    "We must stay true to our teachings. ''Without wise leadership, a nation falls; there is safety in having many advisers.'' What better advisers can there be than the Scriptures themselves?"


    "Well, I knew I shouldn''t have argued with you. You keep drowning me in your faith. Lighten up a little, huh?" Pastor Nick scratched at his stubble.


    "I''m just joking with you! I''m young but lacking experience. If I want to enjoy the world, I have to make my own fun, right?" Jean winked at Pastor Nick.


    Pastor Nick jarred in his step as he was walking to his office in the basement, suitcase in hand. "Y-yeah. Life''s too short to worry so much about. Just don''t go overboard. You keep reminding me of old Pastor Francis."


    "Fine, Brother Nick. I''ll see you at Mass."


    Jean continued playing the organ until the main congregation filed in.


    Jean rang the bell as Pastor Nick stood behind him. They went through the Rites lethargically. When the hymns came up, Jean lively led the Choir and congregation. Jean preached for the sermon and homily about truth and happiness. He noted the tragic end of William and Veronica, with their children. The Profession of Faith and the Prayers passed quickly.


    Small baskets were passed around for donations as offertory began. Soon, the end neared.


    Pastor Nick only offered Natalie the pitiful amount of wine left in the chalice. She was recently accepted by Yaler, long served as a volunteer for the homeless and needy, and always had good behavior.


    After the drink, she became a little flushed so Pastor Nick helped her sit on the side. Pastor Nick blessed the congregation but said Natalie told him she wanted to confess her sins privately before leaving on Tuesday.


    Members of the congregation shuffled out, slightly tired but invigorated by the teachings of Deacon Jean and Pastor Nick. Their cars slowly pulled out and left only three behind.


    Jean softly smirked. He cleaned up the pews and after the Mass methodically. Today was special.


    Jean stretched and decided he took long enough. Pastor Nick closed the Church doors for his private session with Natalie. It didn''t take a genius to figure out what he was doing.


    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.Jean tucked his thick, hardcover Bible under his armpit. He slowly walked down the steps, appreciating the history of the stone foundation. At the door, he heard muffled noises. Jean unlocked the door and then knocked.


    "Brother Nick? It''s getting late. Shouldn''t Natalie get home soon?"


    Jean opened the door mid-sentence.


    There, Pastor Nick stood, half-way thrusting into the sprawled form of Natalie. Her hands were bound by taut rope to sconces on the wall and her mouth was filled with a ball gag. Her legs similarly were spread apart, tied, and weakly moving in resistance.


    Pastor Nick''s arm was drawn back, with a riding crop in hand. It fell out of his grasp. Already, long red lines drew across Natalie''s skin, slightly bleeding.


    "Jean, wait!"


    Jean stood in place, imprinting the memory. How many years had he known this was going on? Too many, that''s how many. Father Francis didn''t go to the grave willingly, and Jean knew this too...


    "Jean, I can explain! This is¡­ yes. She wanted this! We''re just having adult fun! There''s no need for you to be here!"


    "Brother Nick," Jean said, coldly. "I was going to debate the Scriptures with you. ''My eyes are red with weeping; dark shadows circle my eyes." Job 16:16. Is that not what I see from Natalie? ''Shouldn''t someone answer this torrent of words? Is a person proved innocent just by a lot of talking?'' Job 11:2. Can I trust you anymore, Brother Nick? Shouldn''t I trust the words of Natalie?"


    Pastor Nick slowly pulled up his pants and walked over to the door.


    "Jean. Forget this ever happened. Next time--"


    "NEXT TIME?!" Jean thundered.


    "Jean!" Pastor Nick bowed to Jean for forgiveness. "Please!" They stood in silence.


    Jean began mumbling quietly.


    "What was that, Jean?" Pastor Nick asked. Another moment of silence passed.


    "I called the police. They''re going to arrest you."


    "What?! NO! I CAN''T END LIKE THIS! HOW DARE YOU, UNGRATEFUL WHELP!! I WILL KILL YOU!!"


    Pastor Nick charged at the door. Jean fled, dropping the phone.


    They both ran up the stairs, and Jean let Pastor Nick catch up.


    Pastor Nick tackled Jean''s legs and screamed in fury. They both fell forwards.


    "Let go! Let go! LET GO!!!" Jean yelled at the desperate man.


    Pastor Nick pummeled Jean''s androgenous legs as Jean tried to slip away.


    Jean smiled brightly.


    His Bible fell like a guillotine. A cold snap broke the air, and with a swift kick, Pastor Nick fell down the stairs like a ragdoll. A sickening thump splattered the end of his fall.


    Jean slowly walked down the stairs, enduring the pounding his legs encountered.


    At the bottom, Pastor Nick spawled like broken toy, probably looking like what the many women he groomed and tasted felt like. A pool of red began forming.


    Jean bent down to feel his pulse. There was none.


    Jean stumbled over to Natalie. He removed the ball gag to hear her sobbing and slowly untied her limbs. She cried endlessly, so Jean patted her head.


    "There, there. It''s all over. ''He will wipe every tear from their eyes, and there will be no more death or sorrow or crying or pain. All these things are gone forever.'' Revelation 21:4." he cooed.


    Jean hugged Natalie until the police arrived.


    The city launched an investigation into the incident. Many women attested to Jean''s innocence and Pastor Nick''s vile ways. There was enough physical evidence to put Pastor Nick behind bars for life and even more. People whispered rumors and spread gossip about Father Francis. Yet, Jean stayed a devout and proud Catholic Christian who acted in heroic self-defence.


    Jean took over the Renningberry Catholic Church. Pope Jon Paul the Great commended Jean and took measures to condemn the sexual misconduct of the Catholic Church while apologizing to victims.


    Jean continued living normally, albeit with more respect and publicity. He removed one more shackle, all in the eyes of the public. He could use even more subliminal messages to imprint his alibi into the mind of the public. Jean smiled more brightly in public. It was all going to plan, after all.


    Wasn''t the best disguise in plain sight?

 As An Adage Ages

    Jean comfortably sat on the new cushioned bench in front of the renovated organ. "Dominique" by The Sung Nun played as Jean sang alone, practicing his vocal skills. Jean offhandedly thought about the finalizing of proprietorship documents over the next few weeks.


    The Church let Jean buy the private property of the Renningberry Catholic Church because they liked him: Jean was devout since his childhood, actively helpful in the community, and purely celibate, which easily let him enter Diocesan Priesthood. Jean would''ve been the next Pastor it weren''t for Jean being Asian, Vietnamese at that, and Murphy Steinly, a jealous old codger who wanted the prestige from the title of a Pastor.


    Jean was wealthy and not shy in providing donations, like his investments in spreading Catholic schooling. His funds went to needy families, like Jean''s when he was younger, and the homeless. Jean also paid for construction projects all across the United States, like new statues of Virgin Mary, Jesus, angels, and saints, or new Churches and Cathedrals.


    Jean''s money let him into get into advanced studies for an even more solid background with college degrees. He was in an accelerated curriculum and could easily finish in a few years. His mother and father were proud since their two sons were well off and Jean sent them tens of thousands of dollars each month. Of course, Jean also occasionally visited to upkeep his appearance as a filial son. This included his brother, whose identity he used to gamble with and tie in a relationship as his broker.


    For his new religious property, Jean installed stained-glass windows and several frescos to make his Church more holy and elaborate. Almost all the refurbishing was complete, with air conditioning needing some final rehauling. Jean even secretly made his own secret room from his office and a secret passage in that room leading to the sewers. The privacy and freedom made him feel refreshed.


    Jean stopped to look at his watch, seeing it was almost time. He didn''t sing anymore songs, but finished playing the rest of the accompanying Gothic music.


    Cicadas buzzed loudly in the summer afternoon. As the Sun still hung high, a constantly present and suffocating heat swept the streets. The recently dried paint job on the Church differed from the older buildings around it. Most hailed from the Baby Boom.


    A light knock resounded off the re-varnished door. Another hesitant knock followed, with a small pause. Then, the door opened and slowly shut, light steps coming in. Pale white legs moved quickly, swaying their worn baggy shorts.


    "...Father Jean?" called out a young girlish voice. Jean stopped playing.


    "Jeremy! How have you been doing?" Jean warmly spoke. He turned around and stared with his deep, profound eyes.


    "I know you''re starting high school next semester, so it should be quite hard for you. The transfer in curriculum and social pressure must be suffocating. It''s hard to know what to do with your future. ''If you fail under pressure, your strength is too small.'' Proverbs 24:10. You should be able to handle the problems God gives you as a test of your faith in Him."


    Jean knew "Germy" Jeremy Quince, or the "sick" kid of the neighborhood. He was always an outcast, disappointing his father who kept growing more distant from him. He mostly relived his time with his late mother, when times were better.


    Jeremy was strangely petite and acted like his mother. He practically was a growing girl, yet not at the same time. It''s why he had severe problems socializing, which worsened when his bullies took his money, his food, his friends, his fun, his time, and nearly his every waking moment away. His Garden of Wonders helped pacify his nature, despite being repeatedly ruined.


    Jeremy leaned against a nearby pew. He rested his head on his hands. His long blond hair swayed when he looked away, totally unable to meet Jean''s eyes. Instead, Jeremy''s cerulean eyes focused on the colorful stained-glass windows, specifically on Jesus being crucified.


    "Father Jean¡­ Can I confess to you about something?" Jeremy twiddled his fingers. The long sleeves of his shirt rested on the wood, covering the rest of his arms.


    "Yes, you may, Jeremy. Many have spoken to me about their troubles. It''s not embarrassing to ask for help from the Servants of God. ''Remember this¡ª a farmer who plants only a few seeds will get a small crop. But the one who plants generously will get a generous crop.'' 2 Corinthians 9:6. We reap what we sow."


    "This¡­ isn''t like others. It''s a secret no one else knows! I¡­ can''t deal with it all on my own anymore!"


    "Oh?" Jean raised his eyebrow. Considering his social network and comprehensive knowledge of bodily gestures, Jean predicted it was finally time. Jeremy was being bullied for this exact reason.


    "I¡­ think I¡­ like¡­" Jeremy trailed off and bent back. His small hands covered his small, pinkish lips. He couldn''t show his face without reddening in embarrassment.


    "Go on, Jeremy. God shuns no souls who seek guidance," Jean reassured him.


    "I think I like¡­ men? Whenever I get aroused, it''s only from looking at boys. No one likes me because of this, but will God still love me?"


    Jean smiled warmly. It was easy for him to notice something queer. Inconsistencies built up from noticing all the tiny details of everyday life and all of it hinted at this. With this, Jean gained a convenient and malleable pawn. He only needed to apply pressure from the others, give double entendres as advice, and play dumb for the bodies to pile¡­


    And considering the news yesterday, Jeremy''s homophobic aggressors Brad, Chad, Will, and Hank died unexpectedly from poisoning. Jean had no doubt Jeremy''s castor beans refined themselves in his vengeful anger. All those days spent caring for Jeremy culminated into a repenting sinner at Jean''s feet...


    "Do not fret, Jeremy. ''Love is patient and kind. Love is not jealous or boastful or proud.'' 1 Corinthians 13:4."


    John stood up and walked into the colorful light as the Sun started setting. He looked like a blessed saint sent from Heaven.


    Jeremy stared in stunned adulation. Yet moments later, he began tearing up.


    "Father Jean¡­ my secret is darker than my lust for men."


    Jean laughed maniacally in his mind, but only showed a gracious and sympathetic face.


    "Please, Jeremy. Let God absolve you of your sins! Take your time to rest your burdened soul here!" Jean hugged Jeremy close to his chest. Jeremy hugged him back, crying silently.


    "...Yes, Father Jean."


    "Oh? You''re sweating quite a lot. I should get you a drink. A hot summer day is exhausting to walk around in!" Jean wiped Jeremy''s wet forehead and tears with a handkerchief from his robes. Jean gently grabbed Jeremy''s wrist and the boy flinched at the touch.


    Scars.


    Still, Jean left the handkerchief in his open hand.


    "Thank you, Father Jean. You were always there for me, when times were hard."


    "I try to help my fellows of faith," Jean chuckled. He couldn''t wait to start his fun.


    <hr>


    When Jeremy woke up, he couldn''t see. He was slightly thirsty and also had a slight headache. A few seconds later, like any normal person, he panicked. He flailed around wildly, strangely not feeling restrictions but hitting against a stone wall.


    "Father Jean, you''re a rapist too?!" he screamed internally.


    All those moments Jeremy thought he could trust him¡­ just like that, he was drugged and captured. It wasn''t too different from Pastor Nick''s behavior.


    "I should''ve known he was crazy too!"


    Jeremy fumbled around the dark. First, he checked his crotch and butt. Luckily, Jeremy felt like he was untouched. He laid on what felt like a bed and pillow, with a blanket over him.


    The space was cramped. There was hardly enough room for him to fully stand up.


    His hands felt around the wall. He started to lose hope after a few minutes of futile searching. Then, a faint sound came from behind him.


    Jeremy grabbed the blanket and prepared to throw it. Even if it was Father Jean¡­ he did not want his first time like this.


    "He''s coming, isn''t he?" Jeremy thought.


    A scratching noise slowly bled in a little light. The wall moved over to reveal a secret passage. There, Father Jean stood with his school bag. He put a gloved finger to his lips.


    "Shhh. They''re searching for you above us. You have to run," Jean whispered.


    Jeremy felt confused.


    "What do you mean, Father Jean?"


    Jean chuckled.


    "I may be a priest but I''m not completely clueless. I should have helped you more and showed those boys the path of God. Now, it''s too late. I know you''re a nice boy, so I had to do this for your own safety."


    Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    Jean opened the passageway to the sewers. He handed over the bag. Jeremy dumbly took it, still in shock.


    "Go! Before it''s too late! Live your life, repenting for your sins! You can''t do the work of God stuck in prison or when you''re dead!"


    Jeremy started crying. He bowed.


    "I misunderstood you, Father Jean! Thank you for everything!"


    Jeremy slipped out, soon stepping into the noxious air in the sewers and nearly throwing up.


    "Eurgh! ...Um, Father¡ª"


    "Go! We don''t have time!"


    Jeremy cried for a different reason this time, but left nevertheless.


    Jean stared at him until he truly went away. He quickly closed up the passage and began cleaning up all the traces of Jeremy.


    "What comes next depends on you, Jeremy."


    Jean grinned widely.


    "Will you still trust me? Or will you become suspicious because of how much society has hurt you?"


    He laughed, knowing the waiting game continued. Any of the results still was a win.


    <hr>


    Jeremy spent hours lost in the sewers. He looked in his bag and only found his life''s savings, his most personal belongings, a bit of food and a bottle of water.


    "Couldn''t you have given me something else? This place is a maze!"


    Jeremy slowly got used to the odor. If he didn''t, he would go insane. His breath got shorter and he felt winded. Father Jean gave him strength but it could only be so much.


    "Might as well take a break."


    Jeremy didn''t know where he could exit safely so he chose to keep walking until he found the end. For now, he took out a ham and cheese sandwich.


    "Mmmh."


    Jeremy ate slowly. He unscrewed the cap of the bottle and gulped down with vigor.


    "Ah! Hits the spot!"


    Jeremy regretted his bloody hands. Maybe there could be something between Jean and him?


    Bah.


    It was too late.


    Jeremy continued walking, saddened at the loss but determined to make the best of it. After a while, his stomach started hurting.


    "Maybe it''s killing me being in the sewers. They are really dirty."


    Jeremy tried finding an open manhole cover but each of them were locked in place. The pain kept building like a hot fire in his body. It burned and cut through him. Hours passed.


    Soon, Jeremy couldn''t go on. He coughed up blood, unable to breath properly.


    His last thoughts dwelled on why Jean sacrificed his life when he went through all this trouble to help him escape. Jeremy died in a bloody pool of his own insides, longing for love and affection.


    <hr>


    Time passed. The unprecedented situation erupted, completely unlike the few deaths that hit the streets in the past years.


    Four kids poisoned to death by ricin in school: the son of a barber, the son of an office worker, the son of a manager in IKYEA, and the son of a high school teacher. The case went even deeper.


    Jeremy Quince became notorious. The news said he was a psychopathic homosexual bent on killing other young boys for rejecting his love. Families panicked as they hid their children from this menace that also slit the throat of nine pedestrians before he killed his own father and went into hiding.


    Days later, investigators discovered a disturbed manhole cover near Jeremy''s home, which led into the sewers. They found the bloody knife and a whole week of searching found Jeremy''s decaying corpse. He apparently suicided when discovering he couldn''t find another way out.


    It was a travesty for the city of Overman''s Park. An uproar against the gays swept the American nation, with calls for more safety regulations on gardening and patrols on the street. The city responded with lackluster enthusiasm, shifting public focus more to homophobia than to waste more time roaming the streets to find nonexistent criminals, as Jeremy Quince was an exceptionally unique case.


    And where was Jean in all of this? Jean played the part of an upstanding citizen, advocating for God''s grace instead of revealing his brutal nature. He was sated recently when cutting down those innocent people. Still, he had to address the bigger issue at some point. Aggravated racial undertones by the incident caused hate to fly his way, despite his stellar performance. It didn''t help that Jeremy lived on the same street as his Church.


    Thus, Jean made a plain speech free from his usual religious banter.


    "I know you all question the sanctity of the Catholic Church and if the homosexuals are predators looking for our children."


    The congregation angrily spoke about proper punishment set and given to the homoerotic sinners. They would gladly stone a gay man if they had the chance.


    "Forgive me of speaking this in front of children, but they must know," Jean said solemnly. A few families left with their children as Jean waited in a bated pause.


    "Lawrence Murph, the priest from St. John''s School for the Deaf, who molested boys in the Wisconsin suburbs of Milwauke decades ago. Jon Geoghan, the priest who was prosecuted in Cambridge, Massachusetts a few years ago for sexual abuse of over a hundred boys. Jon Hanlon, the Roman Catholic Priest, who has his paedophilic history and currently is in court in Massachusetts for raping two boys many years ago¡­" he rattled off.


    The Catholic Church was under heavy scrutiny, especially with the homophobia craze and the exposing of predators in their Clergy. The Pope struggled to deal with this, let alone Jean.


    "Even Pastor Nick was shockingly a rapist of young children. Yet this does not stand to reason with our anger. Already, heavy efforts are carried out to purge the Catholic Church clean. Our officers patrol, day in and day out, investigating suspicions and putting their lives on the line. Lawmakers are advocating for reform. There is no need for panic. Homosexuals are not evil spawn! It is the Devil of Lust that leads them astray!"


    "Yeah right! Says you, the rich and corrupt Chinese man!" shouted the hairy Mitch.


    "The Chinese are the problem!" said Gary.


    "No, it''s the f*cking gays!" said Herald.


    "We were talking about the rapists in the Catholic Church, you idiots! They are the problem here, poisoning our family values!" screamed Beth.


    "We need to stand together! Do not cloud your judgement before you see who the man in front of you is!  Together, we can root out the evil around us! Together, we can defend ourselves, our children! Together, we can carry out God''s graces! Together, we are America! Only together can we overcome these troubled times!" Jean clasped his hands together.


    "Bullsh*t!"


    "Crazy f*cking priest!"


    "Why''d I even come here anymore?!"


    "We''re leaving!"


    "Don''t ever tell us how to think! We can protect our own families!"


    "Bet he''s a closet gay! All Catholic priests are, nowadays!"


    The congregation stormed out and left. Surprisingly, not a single person stayed to listen to Jean, despite his reputation.


    "Typical Americans¡­" muttered Jean.


    It didn''t matter that he lost the public''s support. He already accounted for this.


    Jean just had more free-time on his usually busy hands now.


    With more time, Jean could cause more deaths.


    And with more deaths, Jean could gain more support.


    It was an endless cycle.


    Jean would manifest his own destiny.

 The Salvation Army

    Jean spent lots of time alone in the Renningberry Catholic Church. During his patience and waiting, no one came during Sundays, not even his Choir. They all flocked five miles away to Murphy Steinly, the new Pastor, who shepherded them against the perceived homosexual threat. Murphy especially used this opportunity for castigating Jean¡¯s protection of homosexuals.


    At this time, Murphy gave a message during his usual preachings.


    ¡°Better fear the gays here! Blood¡¯s impure so keep clear! Hang a queer if it¡¯s near! Hold these sayings close to your heart!¡± he exclaimed with fervor.


    The members of his congregation were riled up, soaking up his words like the Gospel Truth.


    ¡°Remember the tumultuous times a decade before, when the virus HIVE afflicted our people with MAIDS and killed well over 250,000 Americans.


    The homosexuals are bearers of this illness and seek to spread their damnation from the Devil unto our children! They are America¡¯s Black Sickness!


    Trust Donald Vegan, our previous American President, who greatly pushed the public for more health regulations while struggling to fund it because he gave us too much money in his Veganomics. He kept those homosexuals from gathering and removed them from the public so they no longer harmed Americans!


    Isolating the homosexuals and purifying them of their gay taint is fully supported by our new President George H. Wuss. Our health organizations work to kill the HIVE virus that still is among us. If we do not stop these homosexuals, we will all die!¡±


    As usual, the session summarily ended at 6:00 P.M. and the people left, thoroughly incited. Special members of the congregation stayed and plotted with Murphy in the secret organization called ¡°The Salvation Army.¡± It served as an undercover name whilst still in Church.


    Every week, The Salvation Army targeted suspected homosexuals and burned their homes under the cloak of darkness and black blankets.


    It was during this October night that they arranged to burn the Renningberry Catholic Church. They already spent months of preparation to completely isolate the incident. Using favors, the local mafia, and bribery, they bought an hour after 7:00 before emergency responders were forced to arrive.


    Under the cover of a moonless sky, The Salvation Army became emboldened by their continual success. Their actions became a national issue debated heavily among the American public. As of now, the people gave their tentative support or, as a majority, fearfully stayed uninvolved.


    Murphy moved in the front, with his black blanket hanging around his whole body like loose robes. Two slits showed his maddened eyes. His left hand grabbed at the five bottles strapped to his belt underneath. His right hand jiggled with a lighter.


    Finally, the moment they all waited for arised! The last place of homosexual protection! Gone from their city!


    ¡°C¡¯mon Mitch! Hold the other end higher!¡± said a short figure holding one side of a large metal drum.


    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    ¡°I am! You¡¯re the one moving too fast, Gary!¡± said the taller figure on the right.


    ¡°It¡¯s Herald who¡¯s shoving it, you idiots!¡± said the woman in front of them.


    ¡°Shut up, Beth! Don¡¯t say my name!¡± said the man holding the drum from behind.


    ¡°Quiet! All of you!¡± Murphy commanded. ¡°Make sure to spread that gasoline around the entire building. I don¡¯t want Jean being able to escape without being burned.¡±


    The four figures secured a hose and began trailing the liquid contents. Murphy kept watch with Albert, Jean¡¯s godfather. Murphy didn¡¯t understand why he wanted to help, despite teaching Jean and raising Jean for most of his life.


    Murphy mused it must have been his eloquence and righteous wisdom that made Albert come under his wing. He sneered at the Church. Even Jean¡¯s godfather helped plot his demise.


    Roughly thirty minutes later, the four fools came bounding over with an empty drum.


    ¡°We¡¯re done!¡± said Beth.


    ¡°Good. Bring it back to the truck. Then, we¡¯ll light up the sacrilegious heathen.¡±


    Murphy snickered and pulled out his molotov cocktails. They each had five to leisurely have fun burning it all down. It didn¡¯t hurt to have a backup plan either, as there were two trucks with drums of oil if needed.


    When they all assembled, the fire started. It blazed like a furnace, charring the aged stone structure and alighting the wooden embellishments. The sign smouldered from the heat. Bottles crashed left and right, breaking windows and shattering small statues set up.


    They stood, watching the conflagration raise higher and higher. Soon, it was too hot to stay around, so they turned to left.


    But at the trucks, a man stepped out, bundled in a heavy jacket, hood, sunglasses, thick gloves, and baggy pants.


    ¡°Who are you? You¡¯re not supposed to be here,¡± said Murphy.


    ¡°I know,¡± said the muffled and heavily dressed figure. ¡°And you¡¯re not supposed to be on this planet.¡±


    ¡°Nathan?¡ª¡° asked Beth.


    Bang!


    A Beretta 21A smoked in his hand, fresh from his jacket¡¯s pocket. A hole blossomed in Beth¡¯s head, seeping out blood from under the blanket.


    ¡°What the Hell!? Nathan, why!¡± yelled Albert.


    ¡°I¡¯m releasing you from your diseased minds.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t stand there! Get him!¡± Murphy shouted.


    The remaining five charged over but shots rang out, one by one.


    Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!


    Each of them were shot once in the chest, but Murphy was shot thrice.


    Nathan pulled out the used magazine and reloaded.


    Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!


    They finally stopped moving. Nathan reloaded and aimed again.


    Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!


    If they survived this, it would be a miracle. Nathan sighed as he stared at their bleeding corpses. What would his father, Jake, think? Even when Nathan showed up, he thought it couldn¡¯t be true. But, it was too late. Jean died in an inferno by maniacs who were let loose because no one wanted to enforce justice.


    Nathan locked the safety and looked at the collapsing roof of the Renningberry Catholic Church. He held the pistol to his head but then lowered it. He raised it and lowered it again. Nathan couldn¡¯t do it. Jean¡¯s face flashed before his eyes, smiling brightly before he went to hold his service earlier this morning...


    He walked away in the dark night. What happened next to his future depended on what the town wanted to say what happened. It was all Nathan did to redeem his friend¡¯s brother and show that he would not stand for what happened to his neighbors. His long-time investigation didn¡¯t go to waste, but if only he was faster, only if he was smarter, only if he knew what was happening...


    Night passed in a flurry. The authorities traced the many arson cases to Murphy¡¯s Church. Another nationwide outrage arose because of how lawless they acted and how some gold-hearted vigilante killed the ones responsible in a brutal fashion. It was unspoken yet a common understanding fell on the police not to properly investigate the killer.


    President H. Wuss demanded the FIBS to investigate, like the rest of the nation. Something insidious was happening in the city.


    As everything descended to chaos, from riots in the streets, to protests en route to the Capital, to hysteria, Jean tapped on his suitcase.


    Tap. Tap. Tap.


    He long since prepared to leave and concluded his connections to the mafia under the pseudonym of his brother again. If his brother needed it, he had favors to use.


    Jean broke off his connections to the Catholic Church to preach his own words of tolerance and love. Also, it was better to be free from the hierarchy. Considering the probabilities, it was better to freelance his work.


    Capitalizing on America¡¯s panic needed someone able to move around everywhere, after all. Jean needed to use his skills to their limit for the most deaths to sweep the nation.


    Jean smiled.

 Brewing A Storm

    Jean lowered the newest newspaper issue. The heading read, ¡°Homophobic Cultists Suicide!¡± Most likely, Jean¡¯s brother bailed out his friend Nathan and the mafia helped cover up the incident. There were two favors left for him, and even more hysteria spread in the news.


    Jean stretched his arms on the bench. It wasn¡¯t often that Jean sat around in public, especially at the bus stop. He waited for his brother to call him. The insurance reimbursement should come in the next day and that money could be further invested.


    Jean already applied for studying abroad and several apprenticeships. He astonished his fellow clergymen by his comprehensive and numerous theses reinforcing the need for religious models and assistance in poverty-stricken neighborhoods. Public scandals put Americans all on edge and angry for religious reform. Jean¡¯s whole excuse was to help the impoverished Americans.


    Jean also didn¡¯t have to worry about FIBS because all the evidence was taken and disposed of discretely. Jean ensured any glaringly obvious traces disappeared himself. That¡¯s why Jean could travel freely to promote his Priest persona and advertise for the companies he invested in. It tied in sponsorship, charity, and public appearances all into one.


    Jean looked at his watch and saw it was 7:30.


    Tap. Tap. Tap.


    He tapped his black suitcase beside him. Jean uncrossed his legs and smoothly stood up. He tucked the newspaper under his armpit and picked his suitcase up. The bus was late.


    Jean heard footsteps and turned to see a young teenager. He was a scraggly, in torn and old clothing. If Jean had to guess, he was in high school and Swedish, with blond hair and blue eyes. There was a slight limp in his step and the teenager definitely was malnourished.


    The teenager slumped on the bus stop sign. Jean watched with interest as more teenagers rounded the street corner, running and yelling.


    ¡°There he is!¡±


    ¡°C¡¯mon, Jimmie! Don¡¯t run from us!¡±


    ¡°Yeah, we still want to have some fun!¡±


    ¡®...Huff¡­ Huff¡­ wait up, guys. I¡¯m getting tired from all this running.¡±


    Four black teenagers crowded around the Swedish teenager named Jimmie. All of them wore loose clothing and ripped but baggy jeans. The tallest and thinnest teenager wore a wifebeater and a backwards Red Mox hat. His face looked slightly deformed, like it recently recovered from a few punches. There was a small piercing under his lip. The three others stood behind him as he started slapping Jimmie on the head.


    ¡°Who told you to run away, Jimmie? We were just getting to know each other!¡± he said, delivering another hard slap.


    A shorter and more heavyset teenager wore a black Tike Myson t-shirt. He went over and held Jimmie¡¯s arms so it was easier to hit the tired and emaciated Jimmie. He stood rigidly against the nearby street light.


    ¡°Yeah, you should listen to Marcus! He¡¯s a real Three-Eyed Snake. A gangster, Jimmie!¡± he gruffly agreed.


    ¡°Word. A gangster is all you need, dude. Don¡¯t f*cking walk on our turf!¡± responded the more normal looking teenager.


    He still had his blue dress shirt, blue tie, and school bag. The scholarly attire contrasted from his unhinged words and punches to Jimmie¡¯s chest.Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    ¡°Hey... my dudes? ...Huff... There¡¯s a guy in a suit over there.¡±


    The three other black teenagers looked when the fat teenager pointed a greasy finger. His plain white shirt was stained from sweat, red sauce, and spilled soda.


    ¡°Step off, fool! Whatchu lookin¡¯ at? Ain¡¯t you seen a gangster?¡± the tall Marcus shouted. He took exaggerated steps over to Jean, who wore a white mask.


    ¡°This fool be trippin¡¯! What kinda dude goes clownin¡¯ around in a mask? Is he crazy? Oh, no, did I make you mad, big boy?¡± teased the teenager in his school uniform.


    Jean silently stared at them and then looked at his watch again. It was 7:33 and the bus didn¡¯t arrive yet. He calculated the risks of the situation.


    ¡°Hey! Don¡¯t you hear Marcus? Fool, you messin¡¯ with a gangster now!¡± yelled the teenager holding down Jimmie.


    Jean adjusted his black tie and tightened his hands into fists. His grip intensified on his suitcase. He glared at the teenagers and curled a finger to provoke them. Then, he walked over to a dark alley populated by green dumpsters.


    ¡°Dudes! Open up a can of whoop-ass on this fool! He ain¡¯t makin¡¯ fun of the Three-Eyed Snakes in front of me!¡± Marcus rallied the others.


    ¡°F*ck Jimmie! Let¡¯s teach him respect!¡± said the one holding him. He threw Jimmie¡¯s head against the street and spat on him.


    ¡°I¡¯m in!¡± chimed the third teen.


    ¡°I¡¯m outtie! I¡¯m¡­ too tired¡­¡± gasped the fat teenager. Honestly, he didn¡¯t have any intentions fighting because he was too scared¡­ but it also wasn¡¯t a lie about being too tired. They chased Jimmie for too long.


    ¡°F*cking Timon! This is the last time I hear this sh*t! Next time, you¡¯re going to pay us more money or I show your hot mama what a real gangster can do!¡± Marcus smacked his lips and rubbed his hands when he turned around. Then, he continued to run after Jean.


    ¡°F*ck!¡± Timon complained. ¡°Mama¡¯s gonna kill me¡­¡±


    He already spent a lot of his allowance on his new ¡°friends.¡± They protected him in the hood when his single mother worked as a public defender. After all, they started together as friends. It all changed when they separated in middle school and reunited in high school. There, they came together from their separate paths and stayed under the radar.


    Jimmie gasped, limply laying against the street light. His face was bloodied and bruised with purple welts and red cuts. His mouth and nose filled with blood so he continued a cycle of weakly sputtering and swallowing.


    ¡°D*mn, are you okay, Jimmie?¡± Timon asked him.


    Jimmie, unfortunately, didn¡¯t have any friends or group that accepted him. He was poor, quiet, and dressed like he was homeless. Although Timon and his friends picked on him, it initially started as a way to deter other gangsters or crazy people from attacking them. By appearing to be part of a big gang, they were left alone. Sadly, Timon¡¯s friends started to like using Jimmie as a punching bag and became more and more greedy for Timon¡¯s money.


    That¡¯s why an endless cycle continued where Timon gave away more and more of his money and Jimmie got more and more hurt. Timon secretly helped out Jimmie because if Timon didn¡¯t have money, he would be like Jimmie right now. Timon also was afraid that if Jimmie died, Timon would be next.


    ¡°Here, lemme¡­¡±


    Timon pulled up Jimmie¡¯s shirt and used it to wipe off the blood. It wasn¡¯t much, but Jimmie breathed easier and he could see a bit better.


    ¡°...Thanks Timon¡­¡± Jimmie gasped hoarsely.


    ¡°No sweat, dude,¡± Timon sat down next to Jimmie and saw Marcus disappear behind the dumpsters.


    ¡°F*cking hate it all, Jimmie. Being poor. Being scared. Being fat. Being guilty. I never wanted to be like this. If I had a dad, my mama wouldn¡¯t have to work so hard and I¡¯d fit in with all the dudes with dads,¡± Timon pulled a pack out of his pocket and popped one of the sticks into his mouth. It was a candy cigarette because he needed to look tough but he also hated the taste and smell of real cigarettes.


    ¡°Then again, you have a dad, Jimmie, and he hasn¡¯t helped you squat. Must be like a special type of dad or mom that makes better people, right, Jimmie?¡±


    Jimmie couldn¡¯t talk, but he could slightly nod.


    ¡°Wish there was something that fixed everything. Fixed hate, fixed sadness, fixed our bodies and our minds. I¡¯m too stupid to be anything big but I know I might die if I slip up one of these days. Too many crazies, like on the news.¡±


    They both heard distant shouting. Jimmie coughed and Timon sucked on his sugary cigarette stick.


    ¡°I always feel guilty for letting other people get hurt. Like when I saw a squirrel get run over or saw a baby bird fall out of its nest and die. Like when I saw a dog eat that bird and choke on its bones. Like when I saw a person getting beat up. Like when I saw you getting beat up. Like when I let that man in the suit get beat up.¡±


    Timon wiped off the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve and crunched on the candy cigarette. He pulled out another, but held it in place.


    Jean strolled over from the dumpsters and looked at his watch. It was 7:36 and he finally saw the bus coming. Jean gave a little nod to Timon and Jimmie while adjusting his fedora.


    ¡°Look to faith to find meaning or purpose,¡± he told them. ¡°Faith in a better future. Take it with your own strength.¡±


    His dated suit looked conspicuous with his white mask, but nevertheless, Jean stepped onto the partially filled bus. He paid the fare and the bus drove off.


    Timon kept remembering each step the strange man took. His black shoes trailing reddish streaks on the ground. He looked fearfully over to the dumpsters.


    ¡°F*ck. Jimmie, we just met a new crazy in town.¡± Timon whispered. He was scared, more than even before.


    Jimmie barely nodded in agreement.

 Gaming the System

    Vinnie Saegull traced the brim of his bowler cap with his scarred left hand. His left pinky''s tip throbbed invisibly and reminded him of the Vietnam War. Vinnie still remembered joining the moment he could enlist. He wanted to help out his older brother Paul, who left four years before him. And the moment Vinnie landed with his friends Benjamin, Carl, Quincey, and Thomas¡­ was the second that guns opened fire. It was the start of pure survival.


    Vinnie looked at the bottle of Napoleon-aged cognac on his desk. The name "Frappin" decorated its label and its origin printed underneath spelled out, "Grande Champagne, France." Like how much France once wanted to keep Vietnam under its colonialism, Vinnie couldn''t stop drinking the brand. It stuck to him, like the hot branding iron that burned long scars into his skin. Both brands were marks on Vinnie''s stomach: one being the burnt skin spelling out "Ng??i M?" (American) and the other being his slight beer gut.


    At the moment, Vinnie finally came back to his new room in the Wellington Apartments and enjoyed himself for the time being. Although he looked strange, as Vinnie looked suited up and poised to draw his gun at any moment, years of torture and living under constant fear honed his habits. These times when anger and fear spread across the nation and when people clouded their judgement felt all too familiar to Vinnie. Life passed by in a blur since he came home, after the Vietnam War.


    Vinnie groaned as he shuffled through all the papers and files in front of him. The overhead light flickered annoyingly and the large window near the apartment door shone in the last vestiges of today''s light. Words spun in Vinnie''s mind and his head throbbed as pictures flashed.


    Vinnie somehow ended up working as a private investigator on the State Government payroll. Recently, his work picked up more and more interesting crime scenes in his county: specifically, murder and arson. He was badgered by the top brass in the Department of Public Safety for the increasing irregularities. Vinnie didn''t have any concrete answers they liked. Mafias or conspiracy weren''t enough for the public.


    Vinnie puzzled over several case files, like why a gay teenager would write, "Why, God?" in his own blood after poisoning himself or the incongruities in the Homophobic "Cult" Mass Suicide Incident. Vinnie didn''t like the sloppy handling of the second case, since he personally investigated for Danny, his partnering prosecutor and state attorney.


    The damage of the bullet wounds and position of the bodies didn''t suggest suicide; they were most definitely murdered, let alone that they were definitely extremists that followed the skewed words of Christ. No normal cultist started their life as an honest Christian man of God; rather, they resembled a radical homophobic hate group. It had nothing to do with an occult influence.


    Frankly, it smelled like the law enforcement''s underhandedness used by the Southern Vietnamese who murdered innocent Buddhists in their temples. One time was a suspicious coincidence, but when it happened over and over and over again, yet for different reasons¡­ The first Vietnamese President Di?m was an example of that oppression, which is why the Intelligence Center Agency plotted his assassination. There had to be a link to something bigger. Too many people got silenced for there to be a coincidence happening.


    Vinnie knew this. His mind always revolved around the unsolved and suspicious case files he read over the past two decades. It wasn''t the work of a gang. Gangs were too crude and overt. They liked attention and respect. This was more the style of the mafia. There was a reason why cops or other PIs went missing when poking around too deeply.


    By the time Vinnie brought up his concerns, the Federal Investigative Bureau Service busted in and kicked him out "to preserve the crime scene." It was all bureaucratic horse sh*t, but he couldn''t do anything about it. In the end, a cover up was issued when the two agents went missing.


    The big dogs of the FIBS took a step back for now. There were too many places to be and too many leads to follow. Also, sending more would only raise public suspicion and panic. No one needed to know that shortly after arriving, the very investigators that the President encouraged to look into the deaths just disappeared into nothingness. For now, only local and state law enforcement could act.


    Vinnie found in his office a kindly worded anonymous letter to f*ck off, and in that letter was the letter M. Vinnie was stumped. It all stank of an underground operation. None of it was directly connected, but someone called the shots to be taken. It had to be a group with enough power to pressure even the cops, since none of them dared to look deeper anymore with Vinnie.


    Actually, Vinnie was the sole madman deranged enough to continue. He didn''t understand their fears, especially the warning he got from the Police Chief. What did the big M in the dated Mariage font mean? Why did they all the missing people get sealed letters with only an M on it at different times? He knew there was something he missed, because Vinnie didn''t disappear yet.


    For now, Vinnie could only trust Thomas and Benjamin, who were with him since the Vietnam War. Benjamin always stayed by his side and suffered through and through with Vinnie. If it weren''t for his amazing survival skills, Vinnie would''ve died early on.


    Thomas was the lucky fool who never got captured. He was vital in informing the military that Vinnie, Benjamin, Carl, and Quincey went MIA. Thomas helped rescue several POWs too. It was Thomas''s final push that saved Vinnie and Benjamin.


    Vinnie took a sip of cognac and cleared his throat. Then he closed up the bottle and set it down. He grabbed the landline phone at the corner of his desk. The cord curled and dangled, shifting over a few papers on his desk. His finger stabbed out Benjamin''s number so he could arrange the meeting.


    But suddenly, Vinnie instinctively felt off! There were way too many weighted footsteps in the hall. He pulled out his pistol and opened up one of the lower drawers, pulling out a few magazines and taking cover. He tipped over his desk, sending papers flying!


    Ban-Ban-Bang!


    Vinnie heard slamming at his reinforced door. The locks held the door in place. Muffled shouting from the other side droned over.


    Ban-Ban-Bang!


    Vinnie''s apartment door burst open and he saw the barrel of presumably a shotgun peer past. In that time, Vinnie knelt, peered around his desk and fired two shots at the first head that popped in. Instantly, their black helmet cracked and they pulled back.


    "He''s firing! Get back!"


    "F*cking mafia! I''ll kill you all!" Vinnie cursed and threw a flashbang over. He ducked behind his desk again and slipped on his protective goggles. Several shouts followed.


    "Surrender¡ª"


    "Drop your gun!"


    "Put your hands¡ª"


    The flashbang set off, temporarily distracting them. More shots fired. Vinnie sprinted over to the small alcove connected to his room and emptied his Glock 19 wildly out of the door frame. Plings of loud rebounds echoed in the small enclosure.


    "Oh fu¡ª"


    Vinnie saw the Remington 870 poke from the corner.


    BANG!


    Vinnie''s ears rang and immediately, his shoulder splattered red. He barely ducked a body shot and dropped to his knees. Vinnie cursed silently as he recognized their uniforms.


    "I surrender!"


    Vinnie dropped his gun and watched as the Special Weapons Of Tactics officers storm in. They practically dog piled him so that he was properly restrained and handcuffed. Hands trailed up and down and down and up Vinnie''s body for hidden weapons. Magazines, knives, pepper spray, tasers, another flashbang, and a nightstick were confiscated.


    Vinnie never hated the disgraced President Rick Hard Dixon more than now, even when he resigned long ago. It was his War on Drugs policy that escalated police power in ramping up search warrant raids. Not only that, President Dixon formed paramilitary forces who needed little convincing for the judiciary to approve of their extreme raids.


    Of course, some of it was warranted in times of rampant and outright vicious drug dealers of the North and South American cartels. But, nowadays, it was easier for the SWOT teams to be called in for fake or unnecessary calls, making most of the raids on innocent people.


    Surrounded by M4s in his face, Vinnie smiled. He didn''t kill anyone, but he did clip a few close shots. If they didn''t have their ballistic-resistant gear, four officers would be dead. Vinnie watched as the rest crowded in and began searching for any illicit narcotics or threats.


    They roughly led him out and secured him for detainment. One specifically accompanied Vinnie in the ambulance, albeit given a few strange looks by the rest of the team. After all, his gear was the most damaged.


    A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation."There''s only enough space for one of us and I need to be the one to keep watch over him. He''s gotta be cleaned up before we can arrest him.¡±


    Vinnie looked around him and saw the far ends of the street were crowded with ambulances and FIBS vehicles.


    "You can get together to take me down, but you refuse to find out who''s behind this!?" Vinnie cursed the FIBS.


    The medical staff strapped Vinnie down on the gurney and rode off. They treated his shoulder swiftly and cleanly.


    "You''re one lucky man," said the EMT dressing Vinnie''s wound.


    She was in her early forties, like Vinnie, and comforted him with a slightly wrinkled smile and a nod of appreciation.


    Vince frowned when she brushed back a lock of her reddish hair and strapped herself back in her seat. Her paramedic partner continued checking Vinnie''s condition.


    "Well I''ll be a monkey''s uncle¡­ If you weren''t drinking so much and had a firefight with a SWOT team, you''d be in good health," complimented the man with black and white hair. He adjusted his glasses back into place with his shoulder and started cleaning up after himself.


    The rest of the ride had Vinnie staring back at the SWOT officer who accompanied him. After a swirl of activity and bustle from the hospital, the doctors and staff left Vinnie to be interrogated by the SWOT officer. When he took off his gas mask, Vinnie confirmed his suspicions. He startled wiggling on the gurney.


    "Ah, it''s nice to see you again, Alan Cathwright. You were that stupid hotshot rookie I trained¡ª"


    "F**king Hell, Vinnie. Shut up. This is why you Viet Vets are as disgraceful as your President was," he sneered as he interrupted.


    "Dixon was not my President," Vinnie frowned. "Not Dixon, not Tord, not Farter, and not the new President Wuss. I served my country, not for the person who won a rigged election from the Electoral College."


    "Crazy like always." Alan laughed merrily. "Bet you cried when President Dixon called for Vietnamization. He replaced you with Asians because you couldn''t even fight in wars right."


    "Alan, I hated fighting. The Vietnam War never meant to help our American people¡ª"


    "I don''t care what you think!" Alan shouted. "What I care about is extracting a confession from you. It just so happens that the special job I was assigned to had you here."


    Alan grinned and patted Vinnie''s shoulder. Vinnie kept wiggling futilely.


    "We''re gonna flay you Viet Vets like pigs! Ben and Tom are getting raided as we speak. So it''s best that you confess to killing our FIBS agents now, before things turn REAL ugly. We received an anonymous call already that you were hyped up on meth and LSD before screaming that you were gonna shoot up your office. I can make you elaborate on that story."


    Alan turned around and put a chair under the locked doorknob for extra measure. When he turned around, Vinnie finished unlocking his handcuffs and cutting the straps holding him down. Being paranoid led Vinnie to keep a Swiss Army knife up his ass.


    "What the f¡ª"


    Vinnie dropped off the gurney and threw the knife. The brownish object almost was deflected by Alan''s reflexes yet managed to smack against his helmet. The dark substance trailed down and plopped onto Alan''s nose.


    "Is this shi¡ª?!" Alan cried in shock at the stench.


    Vinnie charged Alan. Alan broke out of his stupor and aimed his M4. It was too late to shoot at this distance now, so Alan clicked his tongue and threw the assault rifle at Vinnie.


    Vinnie caught the gun, grabbed it by the butt, and swung it at Alan. Alan pulled out his pistol and grabbed his knife in his other hand. The M4 whacked the pistol, sending it flying across the room.


    Alan expected this, so he didn''t resist and charged Vinnie with his knife. Vinnie let go of the M4 after smacking the pistol and took a stance. He tripped Alan and pushed him down. The weight and bulk of Alan''s equipment played against him. He fell forward like a bag of rocks.


    Vinnie easily reused his handcuffs on Alan.


    "Motherf**ker, I swear I''m gonna kill you for this! You hear me?! Kill you!!! Get me outta these!"


    "Sorry, Alan, but no," Vinnie breathed heavily. He was slightly winded and had to keep Alan down.


    "I''m having a talk with the big boys to see why I keep getting served this crap."


    Vinnie needed these false allegations dropped and join the Witness Protection Program. He didn''t want to go missing without telling anyone else what was going on. Vinnie also needed to ensure the safety of his close friends.


    <hr>


    Jean hung up on the payphone. Although speaking like a panicking woman in her twenties wasn''t as tasteful in Jean''s eyes, it worked well enough to alert the FIBS. It helped that there were no wiretaps monitoring either, since Jean thoroughly checked.


    Jean readjusted his three-piece suit after stepping out of the confining phone booth. It wasn''t to his liking that there were no immediate escape routes, but Jean accepted the calculated risks.


    Jean slowly strangled more and more shares out of the hands of investors and gained more and more control. Eventually, all the shareholders would consist solely of those under his control.


    Jean personally killed the vindictive and troublesome ones as his alternate persona of Jacque the Trigger.


    As Jacque, Jean killed any lawless troublemaker that didn''t follow the mafia''s code of conduct. It meant, basically, he had a fun shoot out with all the big-headed fools who were too egoistic. At first, he crushed necks underfoot but when Jean got his hands on unregistered guns, he began shooting people at a moment''s notice.


    Because of his quick fingers, little patience, honesty, and ruthlessness, few were left that posed a threat. Those were the ones Jean could control with his reputation, his skills, and his people. The thirteen assassination attempts on his own life were dramatically reversed in the short time that passed.


    The car bomb failed because of the tampering was obvious. The assassins were tortured before they and Big Belly Billy were filled with holes.


    The poison failed because Jean swapped it back to his assassin. He traced Needy Nelson, the culprit, to an underground bar. Nelson also took a permanent rest in a coffin, with some shattered vintage wine bottles to wash his death down.


    Three hitmen were shot using rebounds and Melburn got shot while watching from his barber shop.


    There were many tales of his showdowns with other criminals, but Jacque the Trigger shot them all dead.


    It was a frightening reputation whispered in the underground and the cops steered clear of Jacque. He was practically a hero, for taking vigilante justice, but also, he was a cold-blooded and experienced killer. Anyone that attacked should expect to kill or be killed and it just wasn''t worth it. Jacque''s mask became a legend in its own right.


    Soon, Jean could activate the final part of his plan to clean up his network and install Rob Golspie, an Irish-Italian ex-Jew, as the new boss with all the crime families serving him. Golspie was the only one Jean trusted to be fair, yet lucrative and brutal.


    The grunt work for a new generation of mobsters already started with two teenagers he started grooming. Jean knew they had talent and they shined brightly for it.


    It made things easier that all the new and old big shots left were now deeply Roman Catholic. By being Jean the Priest or Jacque the Trigger, he could start controlling the surrounding cities before moving onto the entire county.


    Then he''d move onto the next and the next until he took over the state. Then he''d move onto the next state and the next before he took over the country. Then he''d move onto the next country and the next.


    Finally, Jean would spread a ruthless yet honorable code that allowed duels and straight-up murder. He aimed to transform the culture back to the gunslinging days or start a War on Crime or create absolute chaos.


    So long as Jean caused death, it didn''t matter what happened in the end.

 Family

    Thanksgiving Day came. Families gathered to eat turkey, pumpkin pie, and mashed potatoes. Cornucopias of plenty, among decorations littering porches, plastered the town in the fall season. Nearly leafless trees told any person looking around that winter was coming. The afternoon Sun shined on pedestrians going about for last second preparations.


    Jean adjusted his hat once more. His mask was slightly stuffy, but it paid off by the extra protection it provided. Managing a double identity made life harder, but it was acceptable because he could silence the fleas wanting to follow him.


    This scratched his burning urges, solidified his reputation, protected his identity, and rooted out any rats that developed in the future. It was all beneficial, despite the recklessness of his murder sprees.


    Jean walked up to the looming seven story building. His hands unraveled the newspaper issue from this morning. The front page prominently stated, ¡°Rogue FIBS agent frames Vietnam Veteran For Drug Dealing!¡± A photo of Alan Cathwright, a well-known loose cannon, displayed him in cuffs outside of the hospital and still with his SWOT outfit on. Underneath it, a small censored picture of Vinnie Saegall in his old fatigues captioned him as the victim.


    Jean frowned but flipped to the next page. He arrogantly strode up the seven steps and entered the glass revolving doors. At the receptionist desk, young Lenny sat in a ruffled suit. Although he looked unkempt, Lenny had a constant smile and provocative face. Even Jean had trouble restraining himself from killing the man when all Lenny did was smirk.


    Jean kept reading and asked Lenny, ¡°Where¡¯s Kyle? He was supposed to get me a pack of Cuban cigars in the next smuggled shipment.¡±


    Lenny¡¯s smile faltered but he picked back up his cheery expression. He didn¡¯t want to talk to Jacque the Trigger, let alone personally tell him bad news. Hierarchy said otherwise.


    ¡°Kyle¡¯s with his family right now.¡±


    Jean lowered his newspaper and Lenny shrunk from Jean¡¯s stare. The darkness in his pupils scared Lenny, so he pulled out a drawer and laid the cigars out.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry. He remembered to send them.¡±


    Jean grunted and placed them in his inner shirt pocket. He ignored Lenny, but now he knew for sure things played out as he planned. It was time to root out the last traitors.


    Jean calmly waited through an elevator ride up and the short walk over to the conference room. There, dozens of men in fancy suits sat in chairs at desks and tables all around. They circled around a raised platform. A podium stood in the center. Several men in black three-piece suits stood off against the walls. There were no windows, so a few stage lights and lamps lit up the reinforced room.


    A hushed murmur ended all their personal conversations as soon as the double doors opened. Jean stepped lithely on the freshly furnished carpet, almost gliding over to the podium. Most of the men in fine suits straightened up in their seats and eyed Jean with caution. A few remained unaffected or simply didn¡¯t care.


    Jean scanned the crowd before smacking his fist on the wooden podium for good measure. The loud bang attracted strict attention.


    ¡°Hello, gentlemen. I see all of you have arrived.¡±


    In the far left, the new Guano family¡¯s don voraciously ate a turkey leg. Grease and gravy covered his bulging cheeks and stained his white dress shirt. His floozies chattered on and fawned lustfully over his rotund belly almost bursting the seams of his clothes. The rest of his men followed the don¡¯s suit and ate, but they warily gauged Jacque the Trigger¡¯s mood.


    Next to them, the old Borrono family¡¯s don watched in interest. He sipped from his wine glass as his men postured menacingly. They liked to stay intimidating, but always kept open to details. This is why, instead of taking initiative as the forefront of the families, they gladly waited for the strongest to fight first.


    The Corrado family¡¯s don impatiently tapped the table in front of him and twisted the ends of his immaculate handlebar mustache. It was so well-groomed, it literally shined with an otherworldly power of its own. The men around him nervously shuffled around and shook their legs in place.


    Finally, the Miachi family¡¯s don drooled. He slept through the entire process, not even bothering to pay attention. Wrinkles covered his aged face, but the man just hit his thirties. His men worried and kept calculating whether it was worth it to bother him or Jacque the Trigger.


    ¡°I¡¯ll make this quick. On this thankful day, the Lord has brought us together. We have our own families and our own histories. It is time to have a boss to lead us. I cleaned up your mess, so it¡¯s time for you find who¡¯s doing the dirty work.¡±If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    A grumble broke out in the audience. Everyone knew Jacque hated paperwork. Jacque was the ¡°loose cannon¡± type who killed people he didn¡¯t like. The perks of being the big boss were money, influence, power, fame, and a legacy. But they all knew that if they triggered Jacque¡­ their lives would end.


    A few minutes passed. None of the families volunteered to take control. The burden outweighed the benefits. Jean scanned right to left but none of them responded to the call.


    Jean slammed his fist into the podium and shout, ¡°No one!? Are we not the Mafia? What¡¯s wrong? Scared?¡±


    Frowns drooped the overall mood to a new low. Jean shrugged and pulled out his gun.


    Before anyone could shout, he already fired two shots.


    One flew at Nick the Picker of the Borrono family. Instantly, he died in a spray of blood. His brothers broke character and reflexively recoiled from his body. The Borrono don stood up and glared at Jean.


    The other bullet killed one of the bodyguards along the wall. He had his gun half-drawn and fell back against the wall. The gun clattered onto the floor, speckled with blood. The other guards drew their guns and aimed it at Jean.


    Jean chuckled before shouting, ¡°I will not take any traitors! Get rid of their bodies or I will get rid of your families!¡±


    The frustrated families complied to his demands but the guards kept Jean at gunpoint. The double entendre struck a chord with them. Perhaps they thought the madman had gone too far.


    The don Mercelli Miachi woke up in the kerfuffle and yelled, ¡°Let me sleep, for f*ckssake!¡±


    The tension built to a new high but only a few seconds passed so far. At the double doors, Jimmie and Timon strolled in with M4¡¯s in hand. They took aim at the men aiming at Jean and fired.


    Chaos broke out and everyone took out their guns.


    A few more seconds passed.


    Glass bottles and cups shattered.


    Food and drink sprayed all around.


    A few lights exploded but luckily, didn¡¯t catch fire.


    A smoky haze built up.


    The gunfire ended.


    Over half of the guards were dead and the furniture, walls, and floor were filled with bullet holes. Miraculously, none of the families¡¯ members died but they were shot up. A few needed immediate attention or they would bleed out.


    Jean crouched behind his ballistic-resistant podium covered in bullets and dents. He breathed heavily in excitement. Two bullets struck his mask and made grievous cracks. Jean looked more like a demon than ever.


    Jimmie and Timon emptied their rifles and dropped them to the side. They moved confidently in their suits and ruffled through the bodies of the guards. Wires and recording devices fell out.


    The sounds of painful groaning and whimpers filled the room. The dons survived unscathed and realized the two teens¡¯ discovery.


    ¡°We were being watched!?¡±


    ¡°Who was it?¡±


    ¡°Jacque, did you know about this!?¡±


    Jean chuckled before standing up again and shooting two bodies lying against the wall. Their chests stopped rising a few moments later.


    ¡°Gentlemen, when we get a boss to lead us, we have to keep loyal members. If anyone squeals or if anyone is a spy, we lose the entire organization. We are newcomers to the game in the United States. We are not the only mafia or the only hidden powers that control behind the scenes.¡±


    Jean reloaded and gripped his gun tightly.


    ¡°We haven¡¯t even touched the Deep State yet.¡±


    <hr>


    After the mafia cleaned up its mess and instated Rob Golspie as the defacto boss, Jimmie and Timon left. They got special treatment and got paid big bucks. In the time since Jacque took them in, Jimmie finally ate in peace and dressed nice. He newly uncovered his strong Swedish features, getting girls to look at him in interest instead of disgust.


    Jimmie earned respect in the streets. No one, not even gangs, held him up or looked to mug him¡­ well, the reason also being he killed whoever messed with him didn¡¯t need to be mentioned. Jimmie liked his power, his money, and his new health. Jimmie liked being able to do things he wanted and feeling good.


    The problem was that Jimmie didn¡¯t want his dad to know. His dad was the most honest man there was. If he thought something was wrong, he¡¯d say it. If he saw something needed to be done, he¡¯d do it. If someone was in need, he¡¯d help.


    The trouble all started before Jimmie was born, when his dad married the wrong woman and had three kids. Jimmie¡¯s dad worked as a chef for a Nordic themed restaurant and Jimmie¡¯s mom thought it was the greatest. But one day, she realized her bland life with her bland husband wasn¡¯t enough.


    She left Jimmie and took his two sisters. The judge ruled in the divorce that Jimmie¡¯s dad abused them and he was forced to pay child support and for the damages. All of it was made up, of course, but no one believed the tall and strong-looking man while his wife cried with her daughters. They were covered in severe injuries that were self-inflicted.


    Jimmie¡¯s dad lost his job and lost his respect. He only found work as a busboy, washing dishes he cleared and cleaning up the obscure restaurant called ¡°Bigolies¡±. He¡¯d then go home and whip up his own Swedish recipes, especially his juicy meatballs, to peddle to people he knew. Sometimes, when he had free time, he¡¯d do odd jobs, cleaning people¡¯s toilets or help roof a house.


    Jimmie never spent much time with his dad because he was always busy. His dad still couldn¡¯t get over his ex-wife, who kept taking around a third of his income. Jimmie felt like another burden to his dad, so he ate very little so the rest of the food could pay bills and for more ingredients.


    Jimmie blew a cold mist of air. It curved around his face and trailed up to the sky. It dissipated quickly. It was cold on this Thanksgiving day, and Jimmie pulled his overcoat tighter against his cooling skin. He regretted not bringing a hat.


    Jimmie walked by several people, but one weird man in a purple hoodie and grey slacks pestered people in front of him. The man had a greying but groomed short boxed beard. His brown eyes darted up and down the person he spoke to and he left them after saying a few words.


    Jimmie frowned and walked faster when the older man approached him.


    The man joyfully called, ¡°Excuse me, young man! Do you know the area around here? I wanted a tour of the most exciting places! I¡¯m sure you have time to help me.¡±


    Jimmie said, ¡°No. No one has time to help you. We all have to do stuff with our families. It¡¯s Thanksgiving, don¡¯t you know that?¡±


    Jimmie picked up the pace but the man incessantly followed.


    ¡°Sometimes you have to let down your family or else they¡¯ll drag you down. People are fickle and need to know everyone should care for strangers like their own brother.¡±


    Jimmie stayed silent but the man hovered near him like a shadow.


    ¡°My name is Thomas. What¡¯s yours?¡±


    Jimmie ignored the man.


    ¡°You have many brothers now, don¡¯t you? Whether they are your own blood or a sworn friend, you need company. Crime families stick together like that.¡±


    Jimmie paused in his step. The man gripped his shoulder as two other men appeared.


    ¡°We spent a long time just to talk to you. It¡¯s rude to keep us waiting when we were so nice.¡±

 In Deep Shit

    The next day, Jean left Room 209 at his hotel and went to Brezzeli¡¯s. Earlier, he injected his arm with a syringe of poison for his daily dose of Mithridatism. Jean¡¯s stomach grumbled uncomfortably and he felt acute pains spreading from the cobra venom.


    Brezzeli¡¯s had purely Italian-style dishes available, from pastas, like Fettuccine Alfredo, to Macaroni soup. Jean curtly greeted the waitresses with a nod and proceeded to the bathroom. He took the second stall and crouched over the dirty toilet.


    Like a released pressure bomb, waves of horrendous stench filled the small space and rapidly expanded. Jean¡¯s stomach rumbled and he felt a kick from the asparagus and prune juice he had. Plunk noises resounded from the toilet.


    A minute later, the bathroom door creaked open as another man entered. The man removed an envelope from his pocket and tip toed over to the sink counter. He opened the small cabinet underneath and slipped the paper in a slit on the side. Jean¡¯s bathroom situation made its presence well aware to the man.


    The man thought, ¡°People these days! What do they eat!?¡±


    So, after securing the envelope, the man turned and ran to the door. The strong scent of urine bothered his nose at the moment, but if the stink waves gained enough ground¡­ he would be a goner!


    The man pulled out a handkerchief and covered his nose, but it was too late! The overpowering stench slammed into his nose with a concentration comparable to a chemical weapon!


    ¡°What is he?! A skunk?!¡± the man¡¯s mind reeled.


    He dropped to a knee, feeling too nauseous to take even a single step further. The malodorant caused him to involuntarily cry and he choked on his own vomit. Through sheer will, the man stood up.


    He stumbled over to the door. Each second passed like a painful eternity! His lungs burned and his throat felt his stomach acid start corroding the lining of his esophagus. Tears streamed down his face like miniature rivers!


    By some miracle, he swung open the door and fell to the side. The man hunched over and violently threw up. Unluckily, a woman was in the way, as she just left the bathroom at the same time.


    The greenish yellow slop ejected from the man¡¯s mouth like a hose! It stained the white pantyhose and the Versachi high-heels the woman wore. The malignant odor from the man¡¯s stomach and the lingering smell from the bathroom slammed into the screaming woman!


    She fell backwards, slamming her head against the metal corner of the doorway. The woman promptly passed out, like the man who face-planted into his own mess.


    One teenage busboy checked up on the screams. His acne-ridden face shrivelled up in disgust. He saw a long-haired woman laying against the bathroom door with a man in the middle of vomiting and rubbing his face on her shoes.


    The busboy held in his emotions and sprinted over to call for the manager. He wasn¡¯t paid enough to deal with these kind of weirdos.


    Jean finished using the toilet and cleaned up. The smell curdled into an almost physical presence. Fortunately or not, he had plenty of experience stemming from his long struggle with a unique gastrointestinal system. This provided him a resistance, but sadly left prominent traces of his existence.


    Jean went over and extracted the envelope from its slot. He quickly freshened up a bit with a spray bottle and left for his apartment through the window in the bathroom.


    After making it back to his apartment, Jean pulled off his hoodie and hung it from the coat rack. He opened up the letter and read its contents. As expected, the next stage of his plan began.


    Jean invested in Rob Golspie specifically because he was Jewish. Rob needed a proper standing to operate as a proxy for the Israeli-Zionist expansion in the United States. Through the power of money, the Jews could buy up positions of power.


    Bankers, sure enough, stored people¡¯s money, and even garnered interest. But who paid attention to how a bank invested the money they received? The dividends received by shareholders? The increasing amount of financial control on the market by a few?


    This is what divided everyday life and those clashing for control at the top. Normal people focused on immediate issues, like bills, homelessness, starving children, taxes, abortion rights, discrimination, political corruption, gang violence, drug trade, insurance rates, homosexuality, humanitarian crises, and education.


    They had yet to see the futility of their struggle, as people split apart because they refused to relent their ideology. Nothing could be sufficiently accomplished to solve those problems, which chronically pained the United States.


    Those who had popularity, positions of power, wealth, or enough connections exploited the American dichotomy of interest. By pandering to audiences on enough fronts, achieving sufficient or apparent progress, and maintaining a public connection, these individuals ingrained themselves into society. Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    They became a steadfast icon of America, and thus, usually remained uncontested in their positions. They largely benefitted, whether it be from corporate ¡°donations¡±, skewing regulations, or advertising political and economic viability to other like-minded individuals. There was always another deal to make.


    The Deep State was, in short, elaborate scammers: a tangle of competing corporate entities, celebrities, military figures, politicians, religion, and heads of their respective fields. Usually, they funneled their activities through their patsies, affiliated or freelance mafias, strong gangs, or particular individuals. The end goal was to profit and command power over their jurisdiction, be it vacuums or nuclear warheads.


    This is what made the Deep State a reality, rather than an unbiased government, legislature, and judiciary. Everyday life moved as these underhanded dealings went unheeded, since public figures, advertising, and the media painted the skeptical thought as a crazy conspiracy theory.


    Most of the control stemmed from manipulated news and control over the judicial, executive, and legislative branches. Laws passed in favor of the biggest pockets and the strongest alliances. The appearance of legitimacy was enough for bribes, corruption, nepotism, lies, and intermittent failure to slip by unnoticed.


    The Deep State quietly dealt with any dissenters or traitors, keeping a quasi-oligarchy in the form of a constantly shifting shadow government. Business ran on as usual, so long as everyone worked their jobs and didn¡¯t act out of line.


    Particularly, Jean leaned towards the financial control of the Deep State, which led him towards the Jews. The Jews of today benefited greatly by utilizing the Holocaust in the times of post-World War II. The reparations they received were tremendous¡ª it was enough for the major Western powers to assent to their power grab of Palestinian land through business and property buyouts.


    No Westerner questioned the Israeli-Zionists that bought guns and segregated the Jews from the Arab population. Excessive use of force was excused when the Arab League intervened in Palestine. In the years after 1948, with the establishment of the Israeli state, the region experienced guerrilla fighting, massacres, exodiuses, betrayals, bombings, and occupations of the Gaza Strip and West Bank. An Israeli radical even assassinated their own Prime Minister to prevent the finalization of peace talks.


    Eventually, insufficiencies of the Palestinians¡¯ independence, wealth, and arable land left them spiraling into poverty and helplessness. The Arab-Israeli War, and fighting drained their power. Meanwhile, the Jews advanced leaps and bounds, enticing the rich Palestinians to spend their wealth on Jewish goods.


    In the end, the Palestinian economy crashed because their money no longer circulated in its own markets, but the Jewish market! The Palestinian people were left with low wages and high unemployment. Clearly, Jews used money to legitimize their takeover. It didn¡¯t end there.


    They took in Palestinian workers and paid them minimal wages, with no protected workers¡¯ rights. The Jews basically gained disposable employees to further their economic advances. Jews effectively created a paradise for their own people as the discrimination against the Palestinians prevented them from living or even working in Israel at the same level as a Jew.


    This diabolical level of manipulation filled Jean with glee. It was no wonder that the mostly unemployed Palestinian youth became outraged and joined attacks on the Jewish. This helped reinforce the Jews¡¯ position as a victim and authorize their use of lethal force, even if civilians were caught in the midst of their shots.


    Jean laughed. The power struggles of the Deep State were vast and global. If Jean could control Christians when Arabs and Jews caused this much damage¡­ The possibilities were endless!


    Still, it was time for him to move to leave this small-time area and continue his apprenticeship in religious studies elsewhere. Too much deviated from his original takeover, so it was best to let the heat simmer down. He already noticed Jimmie didn¡¯t leave a slip of green paper hanging out of one of the P.O. boxes this morning. Undoubtedly, a crackdown began and he didn¡¯t need keep an aggravating facade when he could use his alibi to prevent further suspicion in the first place.


    Jean discussed his departure already, and his influence was unnecessary for now. Stability was ensured by the mostly loyal and dedicated remaining. It wouldn¡¯t matter either way, since Jean got the invitation from Rob Golspie¡¯s higher-up.


    <hr>


    It was also morning when Vinnie took a sip of cognac from his metal flask. His new name was Antonio Verra, a clean-shaven Italian instead of the burly bearded American war vet. He rushed the paperwork and process to change his identity, as well as his friends Benjamin and Thomas.


    The case against Alan Cathwright and his similarly motivated friends moved along in the courts. It take at least a year for the investigation to be completed, as well as the charges and verdict to be inevitably addressed.


    Likely, only Alan would be sentenced for years as he arranged the premeditated murders and carried out the flagrant abuse of police power. His friends, who discovered the failure of the operation and ceased shortly afterwards, at least would face probation, if not a few months of jail time.


    Although the public hated what Alan did, Alan had enough connections and achievements as an outstanding officer that this was the most punishment he faced. It was a one time pass, but Alan would most definitely learn from his mistakes by then. His small-mindedness held him back all this time, ever since Vinnie taught him how to use a gun.


    In the meantime, Vinnie accepted his new identity from the Witness Protection Program so he could continue his investigation. The culmination of his efforts, along with Benjamin and Thomas, resulted in the capture of Jimmie ¡°The Kid¡±, a dangerous murderer.


    Benjamin, now named Benito Sergio, hocked a loogie in the dumpster by them. His chronic issue with excessive phlegm bothered his every waking moment, but the irritation withheld itself from expression on his face.


    Thomas, now Tomas Claudio, anxiously bit his thumb. He was tired of waiting, so he glanced around the corner.


    ¡°Are you sure we can trust that kid?¡±


    Vinnie put away his flask and grunted.


    ¡°I¡¯ve seen kids like him in ¡®Nam. They¡¯re pushovers if you pressure their family, but you gotta make sure not to go too far, or else they snap. I don¡¯t want another crazy kid hunting for me. There¡¯s probably at least a dozen orphans after me by now, and I don¡¯t want unlucky number thirteen on my *ss.¡±


    Benjamin scratched his nose and grumbled, ¡°Who gives a sh*t how many people wanna kill you? Learn to be less of an *sshole and people will warm up to you.¡±


    Vinnie retorted, ¡°Hey, I got you both of you hot on my *ss. I don¡¯t want to be catch fire.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t see anyone who could be our guy. I think he lied to us. We should¡¯ve grabbed the black kid,¡± Thomas complained.


    Vinnie snorted, ¡°I trust my instincts as much as you trust your luck. Remember everyone that leaves this hotel because they¡¯re all suspects. If we identify Jacque, their whole operation gets easier than drinking.¡±


    ¡°Easy for you to say when you¡¯ve got the cognac,¡± Thomas complained.


    ¡°I wrote down all the people who¡¯ve left. You¡¯re gonna have to draw them later, Tomas,¡± Benjamin replied.


    He scribbled in a notebook with a pen.


    ¡°So far, just twenty-five people. Great. Just great,¡± Thomas whined.


    ¡°Stop being lazy. We¡¯re all hungry, so pay attention,¡± Vinnie snapped.


    ¡°Yeah, but I never wanted to act like a hobo again. We stink and it¡¯s cold here.¡±


    ¡°We have to do our jobs. Another two hundred people could go missing if we don¡¯t. Keep that in mind,¡± Benjamin told Thomas.


    ¡°Yeah, but when I left the military, I wanted to stay as a normal man. Pay my taxes. Marry a nice and pretty woman. Have two kids. Live in a small but comfy house. The American Dream we served to protect, you know?¡±


    ¡°That dream ended when we were almost killed in our own homes by SWOT teams. We have to do this for our future,¡± Vinnie sighed.


    ¡°If those b*stards won¡¯t leave us alone, we just have to f*ck them before they can f*ck us.¡±


    The three men sat around with cardboard signs and panhandled for the rest of the morning.

 Factory Reset

    Nathan woke up from a nightmare again. It was that fateful day, when he watched the Renningberry Catholic Church turned to cinders. The ashes drifted in the air as thick soot, blackening the sky from shining stars.


    Nathan pushed away his soaked pillow. Still in a panic, he went to the bathroom and wiped the rest of his sweat on a towel. He heavily breathed against his bathroom mirror and the moisture clouded his reflected face.


    Every day, he remembered the blood on his hands. The pools of red dribbling from their corpses and their screams. Oh, their screams! Nathan felt the betrayal, anger, and sorrow in their voices.


    He paced back into his room, wrapping the towel around his neck. By tightly gripping a briefcase under his bed, Nathan kept hold on his sanity. Inside, with the normal junk of papers, files, and folders, a snug pocket held a white mask. He was now a hired gun. For the past weeks, Nathan worked as Jacque the Trigger¡¯s replacement.


    It used to be easy. Nathan didn¡¯t need to imitate Jacque¡¯s voice because Nathan sounded like him already. Plus, everyone in the Mafia respected Jacque. He¡¯d patrol the streets, check up on merchandise or deliveries, and report to the Boss. No problem came along those long afternoons and nights.


    That is, until some goons disappeared and then their faces popped up in the news. Coverups, tax evasion, fraud, embezzlement. White collar crimes rolled in front of the public eye and recently, violent crime had its turn. Old killers like Rusty Rocky or Bum Burt hit the slammer faster than Nathan could pull up his pants.


    Obviously, Nathan was caught with his pants down. The worst part was that he realized they were targeting Jacque! Although he packed heat, he didn¡¯t know how these police dogs came hot on his ass.


    Nathan was scared. He never knew that Jean miraculously survived or he¡¯d be blackmailed! At the same time he felt relief, the noose of the Mafia¡¯s control tightened. Jean¡¯s brother took one for him, so Nathan needed to repay his impulsiveness. His hands became soiled and stained in blood, incapable of removing his guilt.


    Nathan moaned helplessly, ¡°Oh, f*ck! What do I do now?¡±


    Nathan already skipped four days. If he didn¡¯t appear as Jacque, the Mafia would use him as the last fall-guy. If he did appear as Jacque, the cops would bust his *ss a new hole and he couldn¡¯t squeal too. The choice split between a trigger-happy cop or a hired gun giving Nathan a bullet in the head. This idea curdled his stomach and Nathan felt it rumble.


    ¡°Dad, you were right! If I stood aside and let the cops do their job, I could be f*ckin¡¯ Jane and sailing through college. Work at Dominique¡¯s Deli or a 9/11 gas station¡­ Doing that kinda dirty work doesn¡¯t risk a gun down my throat!¡±


    Nathan pulled at his hair and grinded his teeth. Tufts appeared in his hands and he felt himself slowly balding.


    ¡°Jane! I¡¯m sorry. I didn¡¯t mean to mess up. Guess we can¡¯t roll around on the Cali beach line and f*ck next summer.¡±


    Nathan started writing a note. It was brief, but had many crossed out words. In the end, running away was the best choice.


    Nathan packed up and prepared shortly. His life on the lamb was only a plane trip away.


    <hr>


    Jean¡¯s face sported crow¡¯s feet under his eyes and a lack of his usual liveliness. He drove his Ford Bronco to his student dorm, where he resided while studying under Reverend Isaiah. After a morning of restless lecture, Jean still had charity work waiting, which irritated Jean.


    Was the last slaughter too much? Admittedly, Jean went overboard, and the disposal of so many corpses had to leave a trail. The deep investigation kept up vigilance, preventing Jean from acting without evidence being left behind.


    Either way, even if Jean¡¯s mafia fell apart, he grabbed the attention of Israel and would be repurposed as manpower elsewhere. Although Jean liked his independence, and savored each kill by his own hand, he didn¡¯t dismiss the idea of grooming and using proxies.


    Jean smoothly stopped in the parking lot, locked his car, and began the short walk to the male dormitory. The cold air spun a mist from every exhale of breath. In his pocket, a ringtone echoed in the sparsely populated area.


    Jean picked up.


    A sharp woman¡¯s voice barked, ¡°Jean! I told you¡ª call me when you done work!¡±


    ¡°Yeah, mom. I was going to call you right now.¡±


    Jean impatiently tapped his fingers against the suitcase he held. Mid-stride, Jean tucked the phone between his shoulder and cheek. He switched to Vietnamese, thankful that at least she was in a good mood.


    ¡°I finished the new playground at the Heritage Christian School. I¡¯ll send you pictures when I get to my room.¡±


    ¡°Oh! Great! Remember when you were smaller than my leg? You played on that old jungle gym in the back. You used to run to me when I called your name like a duckling.¡±Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    ¡°Yes, mom,¡± Jean listlessly responded.


    ¡°Did you give your teachers the food I made? What did that woman, Lizzy was it?¡ª what did she say?¡±


    ¡°She loved the eggrolls,¡± Jean lied. ¡°She said she couldn¡¯t wait to eat them.¡±


    ¡°Ah! See, your mom knows how to cook! I worked eighteen years as a Chinese cook and learned recipes from my mom and my friends! Remember all those people who bought my food? Traditional Vietnamese cooking! Mom didn¡¯t work until her hands bled for no reason. Hey! Why don¡¯t you come how so I can teach you?¡±


    ¡°Mom, I went to school, work, and volunteered. There¡¯s too much I need to do. I¡¯m going to sleep while I can.¡±


    She paused for a moment before calling out, ¡°Hey! Did you eat yet?¡±


    ¡°Yes, I ate a sandwich,¡± he said, and pulled the thick wool scarf over his chilled and reddening ears.


    ¡°Ah! You need to eat more or you will become a stick! You were always sick, so wash up and eat healthy! Exercise and take care of your body! Clean up after yourself! Remember to pray at night¡­¡±


    ¡°Yes, mom.¡±


    Jean kept the phone call going, but he stopped.


    Jean turned around and stared at the child trailing behind him.


    The child in the oversized pink coat stopped as well, as the footfalls of her unicorn sneakers filled the sudden silence. They stood at a standstill, mutually aware of their respective circumstances.


    The child brushed her hair from her face with her Hello Doggy mittens. A light blue beanie sat on her head. She swiveled her body side to side, hands held together, like a kid wanting to ask her parent a question.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to call you back later, mom. I love you.¡±


    Jean hung up. He walked over and crouched down on his haunches. Dark thoughts filled his mind, but he saved them for the future.


    He smiled warmly and softly spoke, ¡°Did you want something from me, little miss?¡±


    She shook her head and dropped on her butt.


    ¡°You know, you¡¯re not supposed to follow strangers. There are dangerous people who might do unspeakable things to you.¡±


    The girl, definitely in the single digits of age, shook her head.


    ¡°Shouldn¡¯t you go home? Your parents must be worried if you ran after me.¡±


    She frowned, but shook her head once more. Her hair loosened and swept onto her face. Once more, she pulled it back around her shoulders.


    ¡°It¡¯s too cold outside. We should¡ª¡°


    And that was the last Jean said to the girl.


    BANG!


    The gunshot pierced the streets.


    Jean¡¯s body fell forward. A spray of red sloshed from the hole drilled straight through the center of his head. The girl was splattered in iron-tasting crimson, yet she stayed mute.


    Vinnie aimed his gun at Jean once more as the muzzle smoke faded fast and the ejected shell casing clinked on the sidewalk.


    ¡°What the f**k!?¡±


    Thomas pushed Vinnie¡¯s arms down, and Benjamin grabbed Vinnie on the other side. Vinnie fired thrice more into the pavement before his friends locked the gun in its safety and wrested it away.


    ¡°We were supposed to bring him in! What the f**k are you doing, murdering a suspect? There¡¯s a kid here!¡±


    Thomas began calling in nine-one-one and treating Jean as Benjamin hunched over Vinnie, who fell to his knees.


    ¡°Why? You f**ked us beyond f**king! Why!?¡±


    Vinnie stared at Jean¡¯s body.


    ¡°I had to do it. He¡¯s more dangerous than I¡¯ve ever felt in my entire life. A bottomless pit of damnation. You can¡¯t get closer to a demon than him.¡±


    Benjamin spat on the ground and grumbled, ¡°Your gut¡¯s not going to protect us from the law.¡±


    ¡°I did this to save our nation, Ben. You should have let me finish the job.¡±


    Vinnie¡¯s eyes never left Jean¡¯s unmoving body.


    ¡°Everything he does is an act. I KNOW he¡¯s at the root of everything. I KNOW.¡±


    Vinnie curled up and muttered to himself senselessly as he rocked back and forth.


    ¡°F**k, he¡¯s finally lost it.¡±


    An ambulance and authorities arrived shortly.


    Jean was brought into the hospital two blocks away, still feebly breathing.


    The staff worked hard to stabilize his condition and blood levels.


    Eventually, they looked at his brain.


    ¡°Shot in the head and the bullet went straight through the corpus callosum¡­ what are the odds of that?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a miracle he even survived.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a clean shot, too.¡±


    Weeks slipped by.


    Months passed.


    One day, in May, Jean¡¯s eyes fluttered. He observed the stark white room and his uncomfortable bed.


    Jean learned from his surprised nurse that he was in a coma. She took routine procedures and before long, she assisted in a quick evaluation of his memory.


    Jean Nguyen Pham:


    Son of Mr. Lu Nguyen Pham and Mrs. Phuong Thi Tran.


    Brother of Tyrone Nguyen Pham.


    Born across the Missouri border, but raised a Kansan.


    School prodigy until middle school and then slowly rose to honors during high school.


    Enrolled in Religious Studies.


    Devout Catholic preacher.


    Philanthropist and volunteer.


    Owner of OzCo¡¯s, a simple and durable shoe brand, with its local production line and store.


    Owner of Sheer Skin, a similarly simple, durable, yet comfy clothing brand, again, with its local production line and store.


    However, Jean felt lost. The burning urge within him faded. No purpose motivated his beating heart. Death became a bland inevitable.


    Jean relayed extensive memory loss to the nurse and doctor. He bid them to leave for Jean to rest up. She followed the doctor out the door, dissatisfied at the interruption of his evaluation.


    ¡°What do I want anymore? What¡­ will I do?¡±


    Jean recalled his episodes of megalomania and psychotic mirth. What grand scheme? What progression? In his short, subversive activity, his achievements summed up to killing innocents, framing others for murder, disposing of disruptive threats, manipulating impressionable people, and charity work. The only people caring about his accomplishments were Israelis of the Deep State.


    All of that tiresome plotting, working, and hyper awareness hurt his health. The obsession over death and control distanced himself from forming close ties of friendship. He barely visited his family or took time off for himself.


    Light streamed in through the slits of the wide window blinds. Sparse clouds flew high in the blue sky and blocked snippets of the Sun. Birds flapped far off, like specks in the distance.


    Jean¡¯s right hand leisurely tapped the bed railing beside him, his thumb and pinky dangling at the sides. The three fingers rose and fell from his ring finger to his index finger, thrumming individually.


    Tap, tap, tap.


    Tap, tap, tap.


    Tap, tap, tap.


    The rest of his body and mind stayed unwilling to be proactive. The weight of responsibility remained unfathomable. Was it all a dream? It was too vivid to be real, like an intense pain and anger before fading into nothingness.


    Jean decided to sleep over his thoughts. Perhaps another dream would revitalize a new purpose? Though not likely, he slipped into unconsciousness. His left hand clenched tightly into a fist throughout his rest.


    Who knew what the future held in America?