Somebody—anybody—wake me the hell up!

…

My eyes opened slowly. A monotonous rhythm of beeps stirred me from my slumber. I wasn't gonna complain, though. I was already fairly sleep-deprived from the night before, so this was nothing. Besides, a fucking atom bomb would've been considered an appreciated wake-up call from...whatever the hell that shit show was. Can you even remotely blame me here?

Traumatized little girls?

Perverted cops?

Goddamn werewolves?!

This shit, ladies and gentlemen—this was all shit I never asked to see in my head.

As my eyes met with the ceiling, it didn't take me long to figure out that my folks had me taken to the hospital after passing out in the kitchen. I noticed that I was still wearing my sweatpants and wife-beater, so that was good. That meant no creepy white coats were fighting over who could take my underwear off while I was asleep. Looking around the room, I discovered that the beeping sound was coming from a heart rate monitor. I watched the lines go in a steady pattern. Guess that's normal; ain't dying or anything, so at least I have that on my side.

I tried to sit up, but I instantly became incredibly dizzy as a result. Double vision was hitting me hardcore, making me gag a time or two. Next thing I know, my right hand is covering my mouth when I feel my eggs come up into my mouth. I look over at the side of the bed and see what looks like a bedpan sitting on the floor. With no other options, I vomited all over the bedpan and partially on the white-tiled floor. Boy, I pitied the poor bastard that was gonna have to clean that; because it sure as hell wasn't gonna be me.

The sound of me upchucking triggered a nurse to rush into the room. Looking about in her mid-twenties, she had long black hair and brown skin. Her eyes were only a tad darker than her flesh and her full lips were colored purple. She was a looker, alright; which made me even more embarrassed that she had to see me lose my breakfast all over her floor.

I rubbed my mouth over the back of my hand. “Sawrry 'bout that.” She looked reasonably uncomfortable at the sight of fresh puke, but she smiled anyway. “It's okay, Mr. Boy. Nothin' you could help.” She quickly looked outside in the hallway. “Can somebody send Joe to Room 104? Patient got sick on the floor.”

I closed my eyes, trying to make the dizzy spell go away. “Here, lemme get you somethin' to help,” the nurse said in a gentle tone. Her high-heels clapped against the hard floor while I took a couple of deep breaths. “W-What time is it? What day is it?” The sound of her heels came over towards me and I opened my eyes to look up at her.

She offered me another smile. “It's about three in the afternoon,” she said while handing me a bottle of water and small pack of crackers, “and it's Sunday. Third of December.” I cocked an eyebrow at her, not completely satisfied with her answer. “Year?” She giggled, eyes sparkling. They displayed a similar glow that Lynn...the girl's mom...had from that crazy daydream. This was a woman who purposely sought out excuses to laugh during her off time. I'd normally find this trait sexy in a woman, but for the moment I was more rattled than anything. You understand.

“1989! You only been here since this morning, sir. Don't you worry.” I sighed with relief. “Thank God...” I muttered under my breath. With all the crazy shit that's been happening to me lately, I considered it a miracle that Zombie Bastard would only keep me out for a couple of hours.

Not even a whole day!

Undead prick was slipping, here.

“Your family will be happy to hear you woke up. Your step-dad was practically in tears when y'all came in. Shoutin' “I didn't mean to hit him so hard! I'm a terrible father! I'm so sorry!” Poor guy thought he'd killed you!” I wouldn't call Roy a terrible father, but his picture was in the dictionary right next to the word “stupid”. “Nah, he didn't even hit me all that hard.” She nodded. “Yeah, we ran a couple of tests while you were asleep. No sign of head injuries,” she paused for a moment to laugh, “so we called your step-dad and told him he had nothin' to worry about.”

I grinned smugly at the pretty nurse. I knew I wasn't some pussy that's knocked out by the slightest love tap. Though that still didn't explain why it made my head hurt so goddamn much. And I would say that it didn't explain why I fainted in the first place, but I didn't really need an explanation for that. You and I both know exactly why that happened. However, I admittedly was curious as to what the medical explanation for this bullshit was. There was approximately a ninety-nine percent chance that it was completely wrong, but I felt like being entertained.

I put the crackers in my lap and unscrewed the top on the bottled water. “Did you guys figure anythin' out?” I asked as I took a drink. She smiled weakly at me. “I don't think I'm at liberty to say, sir. Dr. Brakus might have a fit if I say anythin' without his permission.”

Right, so fuck that answer.

“See, when you say it like that, it makes me think you guys found some kinda rare cancer in my blood or somethin'. Doan you be holdin' back any bad news from me, Miss...” I paused to read the name tag over her left breast, “...Rachael Johnson.” She giggled again, waving her hand in a manner indicating dismissal. “No sir, nothin' like that. I promise.” I took another swig from my bottle of water. Thus began my game of Twenty Questions.

“Do I got a brain tumor?”

She shook her head.

“No sir.”

“Low blood sugar?”

“No, sir.”

“How about low blood pressure?”

“No, Mr. Boy.”

“It's diabetes, ain't it?”

She made a funny looking face.

It displayed a mindset battling between two particular thoughts.

The first thought was, “Oh my lord, I'm 'bout to punch this asshole in the dick if he doan quit askin' so many damn questions.”

The second thought was, “Man, I know somethin' he doan. I wanna tell him, but my beautiful paycheck!”

“No!”

“Is my anorexia finally killin' me?”

She cocked her head.

“You ain't anorexic, mister.”

That's right; I ain't anorexic.

But it was yet another question to grate on her nerves.

“Am I pregnant?”

She crossed her arms.

“Now you playin'.”

I grinned wide at her.

“You didn't answer my question, Rachael.”

She glared at me.

“You ain't gonna quit, are you?”

I winked at her.

“I never quit, honey.”

She rolled her eyes. “'Ight, if I tell you, will you promise not to tell the doctor?” I nodded and took another drink from my bottle. Victory was mine. There ain't no room for losers in this dojo; only masters of the art of negotiation such as yours truly. “If I ain't dyin', then what's wrong with me?”

She sat on the edge of my bed, looking over her shoulder for a moment. “We ran some tests on you while you were asleep. Not all the tests the doctor wanted, though. Some of them we had to wait until you woke up to do them. We checked your blood—nothin' wrong. Checked your heart rate—normal. We did a couple of tests on your brain, like I said earlier. There wasn't any injuries, but...” She stopped for a moment to look over her shoulder again. “We did see that your brain was havin' a lot of activity.”

I cocked an eyebrow at her. “So? Ain't that normal?” She sighed quietly. “Well, yeah. But it's just that...well, the particular parts of your brain that were active gave Dr. Brakus room to speculate.” I took another drink. “Do tell.”

She looked over her shoulder again. “Your amydala was displayin' some of the highest levels of activity durin' our test. Now, this is pretty normal...but it's usually not the strongest part of your brain that's active durin' regular dreams. The amydala, Mr. Boy, is often associated with fear and nightmares. The second most active part of your brain was the frontoparietal cortex. This part of your brain is usually associated with lucid dreamin', or the phenomenon of you bein' self-aware in your dreams. So this led the doctor to believe that you were havin' quite an unpleasant dream durin' your sleep.”

No shit.

“Okay, so I was havin' a bad dream. What does that gotta do with me passin' out?” She gave me a smile that reminded me of Heidi when she was trying to calm me down from one of my episodes. “Lucid nightmares are usually common in people with a form of...mental illness, Mr. Boy.” She leaned forward a bit to whisper. “Dr. Brakus thinks that maybe you faintin' had to do with somethin' on that note. And after askin' your folks about any history pertainin' to mental illness, he has reason to believe that his hunch ain't too far off.”

I cocked an eyebrow.

So I fainted because I'm crazy.

Seriously?

What a quack of a doctor.

“Honey, I definitely have a couple screws loose. But why does he think that alone is enough to make me pass out?” She looked over her shoulder for the billionth time. “Your step-dad mentioned that you had tendencies to get...overexcited at times. Too much anxiety can often trigger panic attacks, which in turn can trigger faintin'.”

I snorted. “Ain't ever happened before, why should it start now?” Her eyebrows straightened, eyes lowering a bit. “Maybe somethin' happened to you that affected you much more than you think.” She put a hand on my shoulder. “There ain't no shame in talkin' to somebody 'bout your problems. New York has some of the best psychiatrists around.”

Now that was funny.

“Thanks for the concern, but I'm gonna pass. Last time they had me on meds, I was so fuckin' sedated that I wouldn't been able to tell if you just sliced my gut open with a fuckin' chainsaw or not.” She got up from my bed. “You'll have to tell that to Dr. Brakus, too. Otherwise he's gonna be givin' you an entire list of all of the available mental health specialists within fifty miles of this hospital.” I shrugged. “Just doan make me repeat it to every single white coat in this buildin' and I'll be fine.”

She nodded and walked over to the door.

“Just be careful, okay? Mental health is still important, you know.”

I chuckled.

“You sound like my...step-sister.”

I had to stop myself from referring to Heidi as anything else.

I'm sure it ultimately didn't matter what I called her to this stranger, but it was the principle of it all.

She smiled.

“People care, Mr. Boy. Remember that.”

And with that, she left the room just in time for the rather disheveled janitor to come in and gripe about the mess on the floor.

I ignored my new guest for the entirety of his time in my room. My mind was far too preoccupied on more important matters. A lot of unnecessary bullshit has happened to me over the last...not even twenty-four hours. The movies lied to me; they said this type of shit was spaced out within at least forty-eight goddamn hours. I felt scammed, bamboozled, and violated by Hollywood and its douchebag producers.

But that does beg the question: how would this shit affect me over longer periods of time—say a couple of days?

...

Well, ladies and gentlemen, I got the answers for you right fucking here.

So sit down, shut up, and read.

…

The rest of December 3rd went fairly okay. Dr. Bullshit came in to my room and ran two tests on me. One “test” was basically just him asking me about my history regarding fainting episodes. He was vastly disappointed to hear that this had been my very first time, because that meant he couldn't just send me home.

The second test was a stress test, also known as the “scare the shit out of the patient to see how he reacts to extremely stressful situations” test. Rachael had to come back to the room for this one. It wasn't to assist the doctor, mind you. It was to hold me back from beating the living hell out of the white coat prick every time he made me watch a video that ended with Regan MacNeil's face popping up while being accompanied by loud screams.

Needless to say, this didn't do me any favors in proving to this guy that I didn't need some cunt with a clipboard to tell me that I needed two-thousand milligrams of Lithium a day to be considered “normal”. So when that conversation finally did happen between me and Dr. I Cheated My Way Through Medical School, he stood his ground. He even brought his retarded list of recommendations like Rachael said he would. Unfortunately, he wasn't messing with some kinda pushover—not today.

He told me I needed to consider seeking counseling.

I told him counseling has never worked for me.

He told me I just ain't found the right doctor.

I told him “the right doctor” was living in the same neighborhood as Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and God.

He warned me that my mental illness could potentially kill me one day.

I told him that was bullshit because nothing could kill me.

He tried to guilt trip me by making the point that my behavior harms my loved ones, too.

I told him their behavior harms me as well, but that ain't ever stopped them from doing it before.

He begged me to quit fighting him on this.

I told him to go shove his Ph.D up his ass.

He eventually threw his arms up in defeat and told me he'd call my folks and let them know I was okay. I grinned smugly at the sonuvabitch and presented him with the Italian “fuck you” hand gesture as he left the room. I noticed that he had left his stupid list on the end table beside my bed. So I grabbed it and immediately started brainstorming on what I'd do to it.

Should I just throw it away?

Nah, too boring.

Should I rip it to shreds?

Nah, too easy.

Should I use it to wipe my ass?

Nah, too uncomfortable.

Once Roy finally arrived at the hospital to take me home, I stuck the note in my pocket with the plan of using my lighter to set the damn thing on fire. Because goddammit was I past due for a motherfucking cigarette. I could practically feel my teeth chattering and hands shaking in anticipation for my next smoke. I could've punched Roy in the throat when he told me he brought my pack, but forgot my lighter.

And no, the lighter in my old man's 1978 modeled Trans-Am didn't work.

Ain't worked since the day he bought the hunk of shit in the attempt to be young again.

Roy offered to take me out to eat since I didn't get to eat much of my breakfast that morning. I reminded him that, in the whole “no shirt, no shoes” deal, I was sorta lacking in the shoes department. He apologized and pulled in to Burger King's drive-thru lane. He ordered me three Whoppers, two large fries, and a large Cola.

“The fuck Roy—you tryin' to give me a heart attack here?” He gave me a look. “You ain't eat shit today, Genghis. And the doctor told me that you threw up the very little you did eat when you woke up. So you need as much food in you as your stomach will allow.” I cocked an eyebrow at him. “What if I puke all over the dashboard?” He snorted. “Either you'll clean it up or your dad will put you back in the hospital.”

I chuckled.

“Wish he would,” I murmured.

We got the food and Roy drove the two of us back home. Though the drive was awkward, seeing as how every now and then he'd look over at me to make sure I was actually eating. He didn't seem too pleased that I started my meal off with the french fries as opposed to the burgers. C'mon, everybody knows fries are only good when they're fresh out of the fryer. Otherwise, they get cold and stale tasting. Burgers can always be reheated and still taste good; no amount of reheating will ever restore the original hot, salty flavor of french fries. You gotta take advantage of that fresh fry taste immediately after getting them!

Considering the large portion of food Roy had given me, I, of course, didn't finish all of it upon getting home. I ate both of my large fries, about half of one of the burgers, and drank all my Cola. I didn't want to make myself sick a second time that day, so I just stuffed all my leftovers in the fridge and went to my room. My old man didn't say a word to me, instead just mumbling something along the lines of “Well, he ain't dead.”

Not that I minded; Daddy-O was a pretty lame conversationalist.

I didn't get my charming personality from him, that's for damn sure.

The rest of the night went alright. Heidi was out with Paul, so I had the room to myself. First thing I did was crack a window and light a cigarette. After the first hit of tobacco, I let out a moan that sounded almost like I was getting a killer blowjob. What? You try being an active smoker and having to go all goddamn day without one motherfucking cigarette. You'd nearly cum in your sweatpants after getting one, too.

During my blissful state, I reached over to my radio and switched it on. It was just a bunch of radio chatter, talking about bullshit George H. W. Bush did today amongst other totally unimportant things. In local news, nothing new pertaining to the murder showed up; rather just a bunch of recapping on what the cops already knew. I didn't know if I should be proud of myself for making things so hard for the police, or if I should feel embarrassed on the behalf of the NYPD for their incompetence. As they droned on, I pulled the note from my pocket and used the end of my cigarette to light it on fire. Once it was well lit, I allowed it to drop all way down to the street. My fireball made its landing, but unfortunately didn't set anybody's hair on fire. Sad.

After finishing my cigarette, I gathered a clean pair of night clothes and went to go take a shower. I spent my time in there doing what most people do in the shower; spending only a few minutes bathing and the rest of the time letting their thoughts wonder all over the place. I pondered what Zombie Bastard's next move would be. He's already got me sent to the hospital once; surely he won't do that again, right? A part of me wondered how this would all end. Would it end with me going batshit crazy and killing every motherfucker that looks at me funny? Would it end with the NYPD getting their heads outta their asses and bringing me in?

Or, somehow, would it end with me going to Casa do Diaño after all?

How could it?

I don't even know where this goddamn place is.

Zombie Bastard told me nothing.

Genghis Two told me nothing.

“Lynn Blue” told me nothing.

Are they implying that I'll become a werewolf if I agree to Zombie Bastard's offer?

Would I want to become a werewolf?

I mean, that just seems like such a frustrating lifestyle.

Every time the moon comes up, you transform into a dog.

Can you imagine trying to make love to your sweetheart and then, out of nowhere, you're turning into a ravenous beast?

You'd go from eating her out to just plain old eating her!

On the other hand, I'd become a fucking bad-ass if I could transform into a giant murderous dog.

But ain't I already bad-ass enough?

Giving me the ability to become a werewolf just seems like overkill, in my opinion.

I must've been in the shower much longer than I thought, because eventually Heidi surprised me by pulling the curtain open. “Yo! Heidi, what're you—” She put a finger over her lips and began to slowly strip in front of me. I raised an eyebrow, finding myself not all that upset over this intrusion. Once she was naked, she reached down to pull something from her jacket. Emerging in her hand was the last condom from the glove compartment of my Jeep. I silently kicked myself in the ass for forgetting to ask Roy to drive me to the store so I could get a new box. She stepped into the shower with me and kissed my lips. “You feelin' better, babyboy?” I grabbed both of her breasts and squeezed gently. “Am now, babygirl,” I rasped before kissing her back.

Thus concluding December 3rd.

...

The next couple of days were fairly boring.

The NYPD released nothing new regarding the gas station murder.

I stayed home for the most part, as per doctor's orders.

I only left once because Roy gave me twenty bucks to go buy some dinner ingredients at the store.

Nothing came from the trip; just the cashier girl giving me a funny look when she scanned my box of three dollar Durex condoms.

Zombie Bastard sent me fucked up mental images every now and then, but nothing that I ain't seen already.

Granted, it still succeeded in keeping me constantly on edge.

Who knew what he was gonna do next?

Why was he keeping me in suspense like this?

I eventually grew a little stir crazy and decided to leave the apartment one day.

For my own sanity, really.

This turned out to be a major mistake.

It was Thursday, December 7th.

…

It was about twelve in the afternoon when I suddenly found myself in my Jeep, staring at the steering wheel. The key was in the ignition, but I hadn't fired up the engine yet. Truth be told, I didn't have the slightest clue of where I wanted to go.

All I knew was that I wanted to go.

Get the hell out of the apartment.

Away from Dad.

Away from Roy.

Away from Heidi.

Away from Paul.

Away from my TV.

Away from my bed.

Just away.

Far away.

But where the hell was I gonna go? The only friends I had from high school were all a bunch of pillhead virgins that spent most of their time either getting high or catcalling girls. Drugs, admittedly, sounded really nice right about now. Lord knows I needed something to ease my paranoia. And it had been a little too long since I'd snorted enough snow to make me feel like I was on a cloud.

But, as I stated before, the only people I knew that had access to these goods were a bunch of pigs that got their kicks from harassing women they didn't know. I never saw the appeal of shouting overly sexual things at girls on the street. What do other guys think is gonna happen when they do that? The girl is just gonna stop dead in her tracks, drop her panties, and present to him her tight little asshole? I'm sorry fellas, but that ain't how getting laid works. Realistically speaking, all catcalling's gonna get you is her kneeing you in the balls.

So yeah, seeing those guys was a no-go for me.

At least for today, anyway.

After deciding to just wing it, I turned the key to crank up the engine. Once it started, the first thing to pop up on the radio was the second verse of Billy Idol's version of “Mony Mony”. “Well you could shake it, Mony Mony...shot gun dead and I'll come on home, yeah...” I escaped from my parking space and hit the road. Once I reached my first red light, I rolled my window down and lit a cigarette. I hung my left arm outside the window as it held my cancer stick. The brick New York air made my face feel cold, but didn't bother me too much otherwise. My midnight blue hooded sweatshirt had extra padding on the inside, so all was good.

Nice and snug.

Ideal for cold weather.

Also ideal alternative to wear when the police recognize your other jacket that you own.

The light turned green and I continued onward. The awkward thing about driving without an exact destination is that you never know if you should make certain turns or not. Should I make a left on 3rd, or keep going straight until I reach the point where I can cut off to Flatbush? Really, the only street I was absolutely avoiding was Atlantic Avenue for obvious reasons. The only problem with this, however, was that Atlantic was considered one of the major roads in the borough. Like, you have to at least pass it to go any-goddamn-where in Brooklyn. Maybe I'd just say “fuck Brooklyn” and drive all the way to Staten Island to chill out at the harbor for a while. Enjoy the sea and shit. Of course, it was an hour drive from my apartment when you take traffic into account. If you can get a day when nobody was out driving around, which is impossible in the state of New York, then maybe you can get there in forty to forty-five minutes. Otherwise, you better bring a book or something; it will be a while.

Alas, I made these “sorta” plans in my head...but stayed on 9th street instead. Why did I do that? Because I'm fucking retarded, that's why. And because following Billy Idol on the radio was one of my biggest guilty pleasures, also known as Stevie Nicks. “Just like the white winged dove—Sings a song, sounds like she's singing!” As soon as the beginning guitar sounded, I found myself belting the lyrics to this woman's song. Which ultimately distracted me from making the desired turn in my last minute adventure to Staten Island.

Some men are distracted by a pair of tits.

Some are distracted by delicious meals.

Hell, some of them are even distracted by cute little animals.

Me?

Stevie Nicks.

Whether it's Fleetwood Mac or her solo band, just play any song that involves her singing and I'll be on the first bus to La-La Land.

And the best part about being alone in my car?

I could sing as loudly and obnoxiously as I wanted to and absolutely nobody could do a damn thing about it.

So that's exactly what I did. “And the days go by—like a strand in the wind in the web that is my own...I begin again—said to my friend, baby...nothin' else mattered...” I did my best to mimic her powerful voice. “He was no more than a baby then! Well he seemed broken hearted—something within him...” But, as you can imagine, this endeavor was much harder than it sounds. “But the moment! That I first laid! Eyes. On. Him. All alone on the edge oooooof...seventeeeeeeeen!”

Unfortunately, before I could get too far into the song, my low fuel gauge light came on. “Sonuvabitch,” I cursed aloud to nobody in particular. How dare my car cockblock me from my Stevie? Bastard! Heap of mechanical shit—fuck off! Thoroughly annoyed, I pulled into the Speedway station, parked next to one of the pumps, and killed the engine.

“Uh-oh. Genghis Boy is stepping foot in another gas station. Let's hope he doesn't kill anymore teenagers.”

Annnnnd Zombie Bastard decided to make an appearance, too.

Perfect.

“Why doan you just fuck off already, dude? Why are you so obsessed with my everyday life?” I thought in my head as I exited my Jeep and dropped my cigarette butt onto the ground. He laughed as I approached the building. “Oh please, you're hardly a chuckle's worth of entertainment. I'm just doing my job. You know what a job is, right? I know it must seem like a foreign concept, seeing as how you don't have one.” I growled aloud. “So your job is jerk off to every little thing I do? I doan believe dat for a second!” I accidentally said this aloud, which earned me a rather shocked look from a group of elderly women that were standing outside the station. I flashed them an embarrassed grin and slapped my head, hoping maybe I could beat him out of my thoughts.

“Think of me as merely a representative for a land that you, quite frankly, have no choice but to go to.” I approached the counter, but didn't realize I was still talking to Zombie Bastard verbally. “So you're just a fuckin' salesman that doan know when to fuck off and go pester the next goddamn house, then?” The young, pimpled cashier stared at me blankly. “...s'cuse me, sir?”

I cleared my throat, but was rudely interrupted.

“I think my technique is quite satisfactory, honestly. You're just a lousy custo—”

“Fuck you! Fuck you! Vaffanculo! Leave me the hell alone!”

I shouted this a little too loudly, as everybody in the whole store stopped what they were doing to look at the rambling madman at the counter. The cashier, understandably, looked scared shitless. I looked at the cashier with wide eyes at the realization of what I just did and pointed to my car outside. “Ten on that pump out there, please.” His jaw still hanging, the kid took my cash with shaky hands and nodded.

Welp, that was now two gas stations I could never show my face around again.

In my hurry to get the hell outta there, I unscrewed my gas cap and got to filling up. Unfortunately, this task proved to be more catastrophic than you'd think. First off, I had literally every dickhead from the inside of the gas station staring at me from the building. Secondly, the gas pump I was using had a mini TV on it.

Yeah, a mini TV.

And just guess what was fucking playing.

Paul can take his “technological advancements” and shove them up his fucking urethra.

“We have breaking news for those of you in the Brooklyn area,” said the same news lady from before. She wore less make-up this time, but she made the awkward choice of wearing bright red lipstick with a navy blue overcoat. “In the ongoing investigation of the grisly murder of Jacob Summers last Saturday, more witnesses have come forward to provide the police further details.” The shot transitioned to a familiar face.

The face?

The fat guy that Paul bumped into when I punched him.

Fuck me.

“I seen 'dese two dudes come in, right? One kept tawlkin' big game 'bout bein' a law-abidin' citizen. The other guy, though? He just came across as some -bleep- off -bleep-head...” Well fuck you too, stranger. I hope the diagnosis of Diabetes II don't kill you too quickly. “...and so after a while, the scowlin' guy punches the other guy, makin' him bump into me. I wanna say that this was not too long befawh that kid was murdered. If yuh ask me? I say that guy did it. The other guy seemed too much like a sawftie to have a killin’ bone in his body. It's obviously the more violent one—the other guy ain't even a -bleep-in' suspect in my book.”

I punched the small screen as hard as I could, cracking it majorly, but not totally breaking it.

Through the cracks, the news lady returned.

“The NYPD have also released the facial composites of the two suspected murderers.”

The drawings appeared on the screen.

My heart leaped out of my chest.

You know how they say police sketches almost never look like the suspects they're chasing?

Yeah, not in this motherfucking case.

Both me and Paul's portraits were drawn perfectly.

Everything was on point.

From my jawline to my cheekbones, every little detail was spot-on.

Even Paul's boyish looking face was accurate.

It was like looking in a mirror almost.

By instinct, I removed the gas nozzle from my car and screwed my cap back on as fast as I could.

I threw my hood over my head, got into my car, fired the engine up, and sped home like a bat out of hell.