Documentos de Académico
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Written
By
“The Majestic”
Harry J. Chong
Fuck it!
Chapter 1
This story begins with a boy named Harry. The character is based
on me. Praise be. If you have a problem with that you can go stick
your head in a toilet full of turd…
So some time had passed and it was the next day. Morning arrived.
Ariana was beside me in bed—naked. No. Not because we had sex.
We’d drunk too much, took our clothes off, and passed out. Nearly
threw up, too—but didn’t for some reason. I can’t believe we
didn’t get it on. I guess Ariana isn’t a slutty McWhore like most
girls. I suppose it’s now time to kick her out. I ripped away her
blanket and shook her. “Hey! Wake up! Wake the fuck up!” I didn’t
want to swear and be callous, but during my stint in the army I
found it to be somewhat effective. “Hey! Wake up!”
Ariana gave me the middle finger and dropped her chow (I
think it was pizza) onto my rug. I stood up and gasped. I was a
poor bastard, and near the edge of total poverty, and about to be
kicked out of my apartment (equivalent to “flat” for you Brits out
there), but I sure as hell didn’t want my place being messy and
smelling like C-list puke. Fuck this. I scooped her up into my arms
and carried her into the hallway. “I’m not ready to go,” she
pleaded. “At least give me my clothes.”
Her clothes were long gone. I refused to give her anything of
mine to wear. Again, not because I’m a mean fellow, I just have
nothing to give: two pairs of pants and a couple shirts not fit for a
woman. “Go home,” I told her while dropping her to the floor.
Ariana bumped her head, but was out of it, and it didn’t seem to
hurt. She stood there in all her female glory. She started to scream,
“Rape! Rape! This man raped me!” I took a step back, I always
step back when surprised, and replied in a rage. “Cunt! I did not
rape you! What do you take me for, huh?! Yes—we were both
naked, lying in bed—but you know damn well right nothing
happened. So fuck you and fuck off!”
But Ariana was angry. She was wild. Wild like a bush. She
punched me across the face. I was slugged down by a girl. My
head hit the floor. I went down like bricks. It was a hell of a hit.
There were stars in my vision. I saw the actress leaving down the
hallway. “Something’s wrong here,” I thought. I was blacking out.
Slowly. Then it happened.
I was on the pavement once again. I got to my feet, once again, and
dusted myself off. The weather was unusually warm, especially for
the middle of November. How long had I been in that mansion? I
looked at my watch. (It had a calendar.) It wasn’t the month I
thought it was. It was August of the next year. Holy shit. I couldn’t
believe it. I stopped a passer-byer. “Excuse me,” I said, “do you
know what year and month it is?” The passer-byer ran away as if I
was crazy. Actually, I am crazy, but it’s rude not to answer a
person’s questions. Fucker.
I dashed down the residential street ‘till I got to a busy
intersection. I went to the newspaper box (the only one in town)
and smashed the front window open to take a paper. I unfolded it
and looked at the horoscope and comics section. Then I checked
the date on front. Indeed it was August. August the 1st to be exact.
Jesus. Had I gone through some kind of time warping facility ran
by Alexa Chung and Shia LeBeouf? Or was I out of my mind from
all the drugs I had been taking? (Marijuana no doubt. Also goes by
the nickname “Mary Jane,” which I am quite found of..)
No. No. No. I knew myself. This has never happened before.
There has to be more to it. I came upon the traffic lights and
crossed to the other side. As I walked along the sidewalk I noticed
my clothes were entirely different. I was in a suit and there was a
nametag which said my name: Harry. Goddamn it. I hope this is an
extreme prank. But who would go through such lengths to destroy
my sanity? I had vexed many people before, but not enough which
would merit a complete mind fuck.
Damn it all. This wasn’t my cross to bear and I was hungry
like a Hippo. So I forgot about all that happened before and went
into the plaza where there was a convenience store. I went inside
and headed to the potato chips section. The Pakistani clerk stared
at me with great contempt. His eyes were boring a hole into the
back of my head, but I ignored it. Business as usual I figured. I got
a bag of Volcanic Doritos and sauntered over to the Slushee (a.k.a.
Slurpee) machine where there was a choice of several flavors:
Coca-Cola, root Beer, orange, and cherry. I took the cherry, filled
up a clear, plastic cup the size of my head.
I got to the counter. The clerk, I saw, was looking into the
security monitors. There was a young, suspicious negro in the
back. I thought he was harmless, but you never know. “Hurry this
up,” I said. The clerk glared at me. He scanned my items and rang
up the total. I reached into my pocket and dumped out a bunch of
change to pay for my goods. Then I took a penny from the “take a
penny, leave a penny” box. The clerk was slow in collecting my
money, as he was consumed with the kid perusing the rear of his
store. I drank my cherry Slushee with eyes looking up.
Then the clerk stepped off his elevated platform and went to
confront the kid who was taking his sweet time to choose
chocolate bars. I waited for the chaos to ensue. The clerk touched
the kid on the shoulder. The kid turned around and smiled. There
was a gun in his hand. “BACK THE FUCK UP!” he shouted. I
dropped my Slushee to the ground in shock. Well, I wasn’t really
shocked, but kind of disappointed. I’m not one for stereotypes and
clichés—but there he was.
“Give me your money!” shouted the kid. The clerk was
stammering, “I’m, I’m, I’m just a clerk. I make minimum wage!”
The kid pushed the clerk back to the counter where I was as well. I
averted my gaze and tried not to make any eye contact for fear of
being pistol whipped. The clerk did was he was told. He opened
the cash register and emptied out all the money into a burlap sack
marked with a dollar sign. The kid looked inside the bag to check
it. There was, maybe, $100.00 at best.
Fuck. I was nervous. I slowly tried to back away, but was
stopped. “Where the fuck you think you’re going?!” shouted the
kid. “You ain’t going nowhere.” Uh-oh. Grammar Nazi syndrome
was beginning to arise. Double negatives. I don’t like them. Argh, I
struggled to keep my mouth shut. Luckily, I had the will power to
be quiet and listen to instructions. I went back to my spot. The kid
put his gun on my head and demanded my wallet. I went into the
back of my pocket, with much chagrin, and gave him what I had—
a brown, leather wallet with absolutely nothing in it. Duh! Why do
you think I used a bunch of change? Just to be annoying?
The kid looked in my wallet. He was supremely pissed. All
that was inside were a couple bus tokens—he took them—but it
wasn’t enough. This nigger was out for blood. I put up my hands.
Everything went into slow-mo. I felt several bullets go into my
chest. Then the young robber fled. I was on the white, vinyl floor,
gasping for air. I was spitting up serious blood. The clerk called
911 and hovered above me, looking with concern, but not knowing
what exactly to do ‘till the ambulance arrived. I mustered my
energy and spoke carefully, aware that these could be my last
words. “You bastard. This is all your fault. You dirty, smelly Paki.”
And in my last moments I was abandoned. The clerk left out
of anger. There I was pouring blood and he left. Jesus. Some
people are so immature. I’m half-conscious. What more could I
say? I’m not a writer. I don’t have an ounce of wit. Well, I guess
this was the end. I was starting to fade out. Nope. The lights went
out. GREAT. The clerk turned off the lights. Cheap son of a bitch.
But then again, it is better for the environment. Though, I’m sure
his reason were for spite. Ah , well. I knew I shouldn’t have
opened my mouth. Generally that leads to trouble and being
thrown into jail. Freedom of speech my asshole.
An hour later. I was still on the floor. The ambulance did not
arrive. The paramedics and city workers were on strike (as I later
found out). Lazy pricks. Well, what to do? I gather I only had a
minute more of thought; then I would be 6 feet underground or
burnt up and sprinkled in a duck pound. I decided that I wanted
people to find me, my body, in a unique position—not like a
pathetic victim with his arms sprawled out. I mustered the energy
to strike a pose. I made it look like I was doing the Chicken Dance.
Kind of funny if you know what it is.
Okay. Ready to go now. I closed my eyes. Nothing happened.
Actually, I felt quite good. I sat up from my pool of blood. I stood
carefully. I removed my soaked shirt and looked at my body. The
wounds had healed up. I wasn’t hurt. I felt no pain. I felt—healthy.
What was going on here? Could it be? Could this be what Alexa
told me about? I thought so. I left the convenience store and
walked aimlessly around Toronto.
Chapter 2
I was punched in the arm by Emma. “God!” she yelled. “You visit
this dirty, strip club each week?! What’s wrong with you! Don’t
you men have any morals?!” I rubbed the spot where I had been
hit. “I’m not having sex with them,” I said, trying to defend
myself. “I just like seeing naked ladies. It means nothing—there’s
a no touch rule.”
The Zanzibar sign above our heads flashed. It shone a yellow
light on Emma’s scowling face. “Come on,” she said while
grabbing my arm. “Let’s just go in.” I was dragged along to the
front door. There was a security guard blocking the way (whom I’d
never seen before). He wasn’t very tall—I was about an inch taller
—but he was well layered in muscles. I swear, his right bicep was
bigger than my ass cheek. The hairy, Italian fellow mostly
definitely worked out. “Need yah IDs,” he said in a stern voice.
“You don’t have ‘em, you don’t get in.” I went into my back
pocket and felt I had no wallet. I’d forgotten it at Emma’s place. It
was left on the nightstand of the bedroom she let me live in. I tried
to explain to the bodyguard what happened, and that I was a
regular, but he wasn’t buying it. “Step back,” he said as his arms
unfolded, “uddawise I’m a hafta get tough.”
Emma took out her ID. “He’s with me,” she said, showing it to
the bodyguard. He stared for a good ten seconds. Then his jaw
dropped down. He could barely speak. (Yes, even more so than
before.) “D-d-d-d-dis is increbdible,” he stammered. “I, I, I, I’m a
fan huge—ugh! I mean! I’m a huge fan! Ms. Watson, Ms. Watson!
So glad to meet you! My name’s Petey! I loved Harry Potter! You
wah da perfect Hermineee!” I slapped my forehead. Aw, not
another fan. Every time! Every goddamn time we go out! She’s
always getting the attention! HEY, ASSHOLES! I’m the chosen
one! What about me?! Hellooo! Gonna save the universe here!”
There was a simper on Emma’s face. “Oh, thank you,” she
said in her polite, show business voice. “It’s so kind of you to
say…” The bodyguard was giddy, but I could tell my “actress
friend” wasn’t too keen. There was another (real) voice going on
within her head. “Fucking crazy fans,” was what she was thinking.
“These bloody people can’t leave me alone for one second! Is there
a sign on my back that says ‘annoy me.’ NO! NO! I do not want to
take a photo with you and give you an autography! Damned sick
and tired of it! And always with the same questions—‘Was it fun
making Harry Potter?’ Blah. Blah. Blah. FIRST OF ALL, I’ve
made other movies. AND no, it was not fucking fun. I act in front
of a green screen, yah moronic cunts! I didn’t actually attend
Hogwarts! Making a movie is boring as arse! You stand around all
day and read lines you remembered from the night before. Is that
anybody’s idea of fun and exciting? Bugger off I say!”
The bodyguard was still smiling. If only he knew. “C-c-can I
have an autograph and a pictcha?” he asked. “Yah know, if it ain’t
no inconvenience.” I watched Emma carefully, seeing if she would
throw a tantrum, but she was calm and gracious as usual. She
posed beside the bodyguard. I took his cell-phone and used the
camera to take a picture. I returned it to him with a: “Here you go.”
He looked at it and appeared very pleased. “And da autograph?” he
said in his most polite voice. I could see Emma was slightly
irritated, but again she gave a smile. “What should I sign?” she
asked with a pen in her hand. The bodyguard pulled up the elastic
on his underwear. “Sign dis.”
God, I felt bad for Emma. Maybe if this was a one time thing
that would be okay. But I could only imagine how many times
she’s had to deal with these weird mother fuckers. (Yes. You could
say I’m one as well, but FUCK YOU. This is my story. Ahem,
continuing on.) I wondered if she would actually go through with it
and scribble onto his dirty undies. She seemed apprehensive. I
nudged her lightly and told her to just do it. “Just do it,” I
whispered. “We need to get into the strip club. If you piss him off
he might toss us to the curbside. Look at him. He’s obviously on
steroids. Have you not heard of ‘roid rage? Could flare up at any
moment now. Please, Emma, for the welfare of the universe…”
Emma lowered down to sign the bodyguard’s Fruit of the
Looms. I was pleased as punch. But as I grinned, she suddenly
jumped back and put her hands out in protest. “No,” she said, “I’m
not doing it. This is asking for way too much. I’m not signing your
nasty knickers. Fuck you and your big fat muscles.” The
bodyguard clenched his teeth and balled his hands into fists. He
was obviously offended. I tried to defuse the situation. “Hey,” I
said, “who wants to hear a joke? Knock! Knock!” (Nobody can
resist a “knock, knock” joke.) “Who’s there?” asked Emma.
“Doctor,” I replied. “Doctor Who?” she said. Then I nodded with a
smirk—but nobody laughed. I tried to explain the joke. It only
made things worse.
The bodyguard was still pissed—he punched me in the nose
and knocked me flat to the pavement. (Jesus H. Christ, man! I’m
not the one who refused to autograph your undies! Punch Emma
Watson! She’s much stronger than me! Girl can take a hit like a
boxer!) “Alright,” he said, “I feel betta now. Come into da strip
club if you’s want.” Emma helped me up. I stood with a glare,
making my eyes even smaller than they already were. (I’m Chinese
by the way—that’s hell fucking small.) I wanted to fight back, but I
was flabby and weak. Trust me on this, kids. When your parents
say not to eat ice-cream for breakfast there is a reason.
“How could you hit my friend like that?!” yelled Emma. “I
ought to kick your fucking arse!” The bodyguard laughed with his
muscley chest jiggling. “Is dat so?” he asked. “You weak, little
woman. You couldn’t beat up a blind baby wiff two missing arms!
Haw-haw-haw!” I stood back, knowing something was going to
happen. Then Emma rolled up her sleeves—actually she had no
sleeves, but did the gesture anyway—and she pulled back her arm.
I blinked for only a second, but missed what had happened. It was
all so fast. There was the bodyguard lying on the floor, crumpled
like a piece of paper. He was out cold it. His nose was broken and
bleeding profusely. “Holy shit!” I cried. “You killed him!”
Emma checked his pulse by putting two fingers on the side of
the neck. “No,” she replied. “I just knocked him out. He’s
unconscious. No worries.” …No worries?! No worries?! You
fucking decked a man twice your weight! “Where the hell did you
learn to fight like that?” I asked. She appeared reticent, but
answered me anyway. “I don’t know,” she replied. “But in that one
punch it felt like I hit every paparazzo and pushy fan I’d ever met
in my life… It was quite liberating to be honest. I see now why
men like to watch Ultimate Fighting.”
I gave a silent nod. Then we went into the Zanzibar. Inside
looked like a cheap Persian disco, and it smelt of an old boy’s
locker room—sweaty and full of pouring pheromones. I could see
Emma wasn’t breathing through her nose. She and I sauntered
around in exploration. “Where’s this ‘person’ you always see?” she
asked while trying to avoid eye contact from the perverts which
surrounded us. I darted my eyes side to side, scanning every area
for the stripper I regularly saw, but she wasn’t around. Maybe she
had a day off. Mind you, searching around for her didn’t exactly
get my spirits down. Though, I could see Emma was getting
irritated. “Goddamn it,” she complained. “I’m going to leave.” I
pulled her back. “Stop,” I said. “Just give it a minute. Go the bar
and get a drink if you’re so bored.”
So I left and went to check the private rooms while Emma got
a drink. I went behind the first curtain that came my way. I found
myself in a circular room. There was a man having sex with the
stripper. She was on his lap. I went in for a closer look. “HEY!
WHAT’RE YOU DOING HERE?!” yelled the man. Then I saw his
face. It was Jay Barrymore. (Remember? Emma’s ex-boyfriend.) I
didn’t know what to say. What could I do? Call him a sleazy slut?
That’s pretty much all men, anyway. “You sleazy slut!” I yelled.
“How could you?! I mean—going to a titty bar is one thing—but
having sex?! You probably have HIV now!”
Jay pushed the stripper off his lap (who looked suspiciously
like Natalie Portman) and told her to go away. Then he sat there
with his legs open, as if it weren’t a big deal. “Excuse me,” I
asked, “do you think you could put your cock away? It’s quite rude
to have it out when speaking to another fully clothed person.” I
tried to keep myself from getting sick in the mouth. “Fine,” he
said. Then put on his pants and stood. “What are you doing here?
Is Emma with you?” I told him she was at the bar getting some
alcohol, probably a beer. “Shit,” grumbled Jay. “Don’t tell her I’m
here. I don’t want her to see me like this. We might get back
together.” (I doubted that.) “Okay,” I agreed. “Just help me out
then. Have you seen the dark haired stripper named Maranda? The
mixed up, French chick. She should be around here if I’m not
mistaken.”
“I saw her snorting a line in the girl’s washroom,” he replied.
“She should still be in there. Probably with a nose bleed. Fucked
out of her mind.” I rushed out in the open area of the strip club,
and went to the bar and took Emma away. “What’s the matter?”
she asked with a Molson Canadian in her hand. Then we went into
the girl’s bathroom. There was nobody, it seemed, inside. I could
see why. It smelt like piss and was colored puke green. Very dirty
looking all around, even the mirror looked sticky. “Why are we in
here?” said Emma with her hands on her hips. She finished her
beer and chucked the bottle into the trash can. “Keep an eye out,” I
said. “I don’t want to be tossed out too soon.”
Then I looked under the stalls, going from right to left. First
one. Nobody there. Second one. Nobody there. Third one. Still,
nobody there. Then fourth. Same deal. “Fuck,” I thought.
“Maranda must’ve quit. I remember her saying she wanted to quit
and go straight. Become a registered nurse.” Then I said aloud,
“She’s not here. Let’s go.” Emma looked at me like I was a total
moron (which I sort of am) and tapped me on the head (Hellooo!
Anybody home?). “You can hide your feet,” she said. “Look over,
not under.”
I did as was told, but going from left to right this time. And
there in the middle stall was “my” stripper Maranda. She shrieked
in fright. “Don’t worry,” I said soothingly, “it’s just me. Harry.
Remember me? I visit you all the time. I’m a regular.” Maranda
wiped the powder off her nose and got off from the toilet seat. She
came out to meet me. “I swear,” she began with a trembling voice.
There was a spot of blood underneath her nose. “I swear I’m going
to go clean. Just filling in the time yah know—so what can I do for
you? Who’s your friend? Looks familiar. Is she a stripper from
another club? The Pink Taco?”
Emma didn’t like being confused for a stripper, but at least
Maranda wasn’t another crazed fan. “No,” she replied. “I’m not a
stripper. If you must know I’m an actress… I had a small part in
those Harry Potter movies. Ahem, maybe you’ve heard of it?”
Maranda shook her head. “Oh, no, I’m sorry. I haven’t. I only read
books. Though, I am well aware of the ‘H.P.’ phenomenon. I think
it’s a very—” I interrupted. “We’re not here to talk about wizards
and magic damn it. We have important business to discuss. So if
you’d like to hear it…”
Maranda listened. I continued. “The universe is going to end,”
I said in my most stern voice, “and we need your help. Why? I’m
not so sure, but apparently, it’s what has to be done. Will you join
us?” Emma nervously bit her fingernails. I leaned in close to listen
to Maranda, maybe she was whispering. “I don’t buy into your
story,” she replied. “Why ever would the universe end? Especially
at this time?” Fuck. Now I had to convince this woman that the
universe, in fact, might end. (I hardly believed it myself.) It’s hard
to convince skeptics of any sort.
“JUST DO IT!” I yelled. “THE FUCKING UNIVERSE IS
ENDING! STOP BEING A SELFISH CUNT!” Then Maranda
broke down and began to cry. She sat on her plump bottom with
tears running down her cheeks. (Bad move I guess.) Emma stooped
down beside and rubbed her on the back. “There, there,” she said.
“There’s no need to cry. It’s okay if you don’t want to come with
us… My friend’s an idiot. Don’t listen to him.” I felt terrible.
“Yes,” I said in agreement, “I am an idiot—but I’m sorry that I lost
my temper. I went Christian Bale on you, and it was inexcusable.
Will you forgive me?”
“Yes,” said Maranda as she stood. “I will…” The three of us
left the washroom. The strip club was more than half empty and
we were easy to see. In my sight I spotted the bodyguard who
Emma had decked only earlier. There he was standing with his
other friends, equally as muscular, and probably twice as stinking.
“Trouble at twelve o’clock,” I said with my finger slightly pointed.
I turned to Maranda. “Is there a backdoor or a window we could
leave through?” Maranda shook her head. “Sorry, the only way out
is through the front. Why do you ask?”
Emma quickly explained, but the bodyguard and his goony
pals were approaching fast; and they were a racially mixed bunch
which scared me a great deal more than I wanted. Not that I’m
racist or anything like that, but I knew if the black dude stomped
down on my face for that last lethal blow, it would have a negative
impact on those of similar ethnicity. As if these African-Canadians
don’t have it hard enough. They don’t need “one of their own” to
fuck it up for them and cast them under bad light.
But politics aside, I was dumbfounded, and could only think
of scenes from kung-fu movies. Maybe there was a move or two in
there that could come in hand for this impending fight. I kept
fantasizing ‘till Emma stepped on my foot and told me to knock it
off and stop daydreaming, which I aptly denied doing. (It was
mental research!) And so, out of my stupor, one of the three of us
had to think of a plan fast. I had nothing, but Maranda snapped her
fingers. “I know,” she said. Then she took off her gear, and fully
naked, started swirling around. Now, mind you, there were other
nude women in the club, but her movements were additionally
enticing. It appeared as if she was a pro in belly dancing. That
added to her misty allure and began to draw in a crowd of men,
who conveniently, made a human barrier. It bought us time as the
bodyguard and his friends only had an obfuscated view of us.
Emma and I put our heads together. We talked over the skeezy
music as best as we could. “What should we do?” I asked. Emma,
in spite of her recent and fruitful academic career, and worldly
travels, could only come up with “let’s make a run for it on the
count of three.” So that’s what we did. I counted aloud, “1… 2…
3!” Then the two of us bolted through the crowd of perverts,
grabbed Maranda, and bolted past the bodyguard and the others.
We go out to the front and we ran down the sidewalk as fast as we
could. Then after several minutes, when all seemed safe, we
stopped at a corner, hidden away from public view. I thought the
three of us were safe, but there, unnoticed, was a piano being
pulled above head. There were a pair of knuckleheads trying to get
it into their home.
The rope didn’t snap and fall on any one of us, like some
would expect, but rather Maranda was having an asthma attack.
She clutched her still-naked chest and wheezed from air. The
running we, I guess, took her body by surprise. She didn’t have an
inhaler or any medicine on hand, since that was stuffed in the g-
string which she dropped to cause the distraction to help us escape.
“But not to worry,” I thought. “We live in Canada where healthcare
exists for all, poor and rich.” Then I prompted Emma to call 911
with her fancy phone. And so, in less time than it takes to deliver a
pizza, an ambulance arrived on scene. With red lights splashing, it
stopped and hoisted our stripper friend onto an orange gurney. “Is
she going to be okay?” asked Emma with genuine concerned. “It’ll
be fine,” replied the paramedic. (I saw that Maranda was having
tubes shoved through her nose to supply oxygen.) “This sort of
thing happens all the time.”
“Can we accompany her to the hospital?” I asked. The
paramedic replied, “Sorry, bud. There isn’t enough room. But if
you want to visit she’ll be at Toronto General. You’re always
welcome during visiting hours. You and your attractive friend who
looks awfully familiar.” Then the ambulance left with Maranda.
Emma and I held each other. We feared for her life and ours.
Actually, we didn’t really hold each other, I sort of just grabbed her
with my arms in an opportunistic for moment for a few cheap feels
—but she’s a compassionate woman and took my insincerity for
genuine concern. Ha-ha.
Chapter 3
An hour or two had passed since the incident. Emma and I stood
outside the hospital. Maranda came out through the sliding doors,
discharged with a clean bill of health, and gave each of us a hug.
(Did you expect her to stay in there for that long? It was only an
asthma attack.) “It’s good to see you’re okay,” I said with relief.
“And now you have some clothes on.” She was wearing plain jeans
and an aqua green sweater that read “Roots.” Emma smiled. “I
guess we can go back to saving the universe. Now that our trio is
complete, we can solve this mystery.”
“Yup,” said Maranda. “So where’s the limousine?” She
eagerly looked left and then right. I guess she had “Googled”
Emma Watson—bet her eyes rolled like a slot machine, too,
showing green dollar signs. “There won’t be any limousine,” I
tried to explain. “We’re taking a taxicab, plain and simple. Nothing
fancy.” Maranda looked at Emma almost indignantly. She had
expectations from a quote unquote celebrity. “I’m a spend thrift
girl,” said Emma. “I apologize if you thought otherwise, but I only
splurge when the mood is right. I don’t like emptying my coffers
for no reason at all. You know, it’s not always Chanel and D&G. I
regularly go to Topshop and Tesco.”
“Never mind,” replied Maranda. “Let’s walk instead. Why not
save even more money?” I wasn’t sure if she was being sarcastic or
snippy, but there she was walking along without a frown. So we
followed behind. And after several minutes we found ourselves on
another non-descript Torontonian street. “Is anybody hungry?” I
asked while trying to keep pace. “We could go to McDonald’s or
Wendy’s or Burger King. My treat.” Emma narrowed her eyes.
“Are you sure you can afford that?” I folded my arms, somewhat
annoyed. “And what is that supposed to mean?” I asked. “I’m not
totally broke you know. I invented a board game. I receive
royalties every now and then. Not much, really. Not enough to get
me into a good home, but it’s about $150.00 a month. It keeps me
from going hungry.”
“What’s it called?” asked Maranda. I had a smug look on my
face. “Slutopoly,” I replied. “It’s like regular Monopoly, except in
my version you’re a pimp, and the property is women. I’ve been
told it’s misogynistic.” Emma barked, “IT IS MISOGYNISTIC!”
I laughed, “Haw-haw-haw. Silly goose, it’s just a game. I don’t
actually feel that way about the ‘fairer gender.’ Haw-haw-haw.” I
have no idea why I was laughing like that, but I’m sure I was
making a jackass out of myself. “I’m sorry,” I said. I wasn’t sure
why I should apologize for my entrepreneurial ventures, but I felt
in the wrong.
Emma put her arm around me. “It’s okay,” she said. “As long
as you don’t accept the money they give you it’s fine.” I choked for
a moment, but not out of nervousness or anything like that, but
because I felt she was being too possessive—much like Hermione
Jean Granger in Harry Potter. (She would kill me if she could hear
what I was thinking.) “Why should I not accept the money?” I
asked. “I worked hard for it, and I need it to live.”
Maranda looked quietly, keeping to herself. “Well?” I said,
coaxing Emma for an answer. I could feel Emma’s arm getting
tighter around my neck. “WELL,” she said quite loudly, “you’re
living with me now. So you don’t need that cheque (check). You
have all the food and shelter you need. I’d say it’s very generous of
me, but it would be impolite.” I rolled my eyes, but said nothing.
After all, what could I say to that? She took good care of me—
almost like a mother—and anything that would come out of my
mouth would just be ungrateful. I shut myself up and nodded
complacently.
“Are you giving me the silent treatment?” asked Emma. “I’m
serious. Slutopoly is immoral even on the highest grounds. You
should be ashamed. You’re the chosen one. I don’t want to you to
be like that.” I stopped and stamped my feet, now I was well
annoyed. “YOU’RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME!” I shouted. “STOP
TRYING TO BE THE BOSS OF ME!” I was hysterical. I
fliiiiipped out like Michael Richards when he went: “Niggers!
Niggers! Look! There’s a nigger!” on stage at the Laugh Factory.
(This fine video can be found on YouTube if you’re wondering.)
Emma didn’t say anything. She just took her arm off me and
kept walking. I was being ignored. Made me feel like utter shit.
After a few minutes I had to say something to patch things up—but
Maranda spoke up for me instead. “Don’t ignore your friend,” she
said. “You’re only angry at him because you care for him. A
stranger wouldn’t get to you like this, even if the words were more
hurtful.” I crossed my fingers. That seemed thoughtful enough. It
ought to do the trick!
“Fine,” said Emma with a sigh. “I forgive you, Harry.” I
clapped my hands like a seal. Then I looked at Maranda, and
without saying a thing, showed my appreciation for bailing me out.
“So,” I said, now feeling more merry than before, “why don’t we
stop off at a McDonald’s?”
Chapter 4
The third member of our party was dead. We hardly knew what to
do. Who did this and why? We researched online and called those
who we could get into contact with, but the more we were told the
more confusing it became. There were bits and pieces of
information, here and there, which would often conflict with each
other. Could all this be real? Could it really that the universe was
ending, or had we just fallen into a trap for some major prankster?
“And who came up with this idea about the end of the universe?” I
asked. “Who SPECIFICALLY said I was the chosen one? Tell me
that again if you’d please. I seem to have forgotten.”
Emma fluffed her pillow. (Yes. We were in bed—but for no
nefarious reason. There was a flood in her flat/apartment, and the
room she gave me was soaked. The bed was out to dry by the
window.) “Do we have to talk about this now?” She rolled onto her
side. “I’m tired. There’s a pile of scripts on my desk, and I haven’t
even got to number one. Goddamn agent’s been bugging me all
day—God, everyone’s been bugging me all day. Harry, it’s not
easy being beautiful, talented, and famous. Everyone wants a piece
of you.”
“I’m grateful for what you’ve done,” I said. “And I know
you’re a hardworking girl. But we have things to discuss.
Important things of no trivial matter.” I stared at the ceiling with
water in my eyes. “Somebody I liked was murdered, for a reason I
don’t know, and a lot of crazy shit is happening all around. My
brain hurts from thinking, but I’m not going to sleep until we’ve
made a step forward. Are you with me, Emma Watson? Are you?
Or are you going to let everyone you know be wiped from
existence, because you’ve got a need to get a couple Z’s? Tell me.”
With a yawn Emma pulled the blanket over her chest. “Stop
worrying,” she said tiredly. “I know somebody. She can help us.
She’s wise beyond her years. If she doesn’t know, nobody knows.
She’ll answer everything.” I couldn’t wait. I sprang out of bed,
turned off the lamp on the nightstand and left the room. I went to
Emma’s library and sat down by a computer. Though I looked
online earlier, I thought I might be able to root up better
information. Last time I was pressed for time. Now I was feeling a
bit more relaxed and in the mood for some research.
I went on Mozilla Firefox and Googled the fuck out of the
internet. The computer sparked at the back and crashed—so I
ditched the P.C. and went onto the Mac. Things seemed to run fine.
I perused forums and about every website I could get my hands on.
Anything that knew about this whole ‘universe ending’ deal. I stole
one of Emma’s notebooks and jotted down information onto the
loose sheets of lined paper. It was all more or less what I was told
before. The universe was ending. I was the chosen one. The forces
of were orchestrating this whole ordeal. But what gives this
information legitimacy? That’s what I wanted to know. So I went
back onto the Mac and let the L.C.D. monitor burn a hole into back
of my head. (Not literally, of course. I’m being poetic here.)
Several hours passed and the sun was rising. I rubbed my eyes.
I rolled the chair back and stood. Then I flopped down on the sofa
to the side of the room. All I found out was that Nostradamus had
some offspring, and his great, great, great, great, great, great, great
grandson—who predicted the earthquake about a year ago—was
preaching to anyone with ears that the universe was going to end if
we did not stop Satan and his evil plans for total destruction. And
mind you, the annihilation of not just us humans, but everything
comprehensible. This dimension and the next. So life and the after-
life. ALL EXISTENCE. But why would Satan want to do this?
Doesn’t the fool know he, though evil, is part of the universe? I
didn’t know and I closed my eyes out of fatigue. I could hear the
birds outside chirp as I faded away into slumber.
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
“Did you call Jay to give him an update?” I asked. Emma bit on
her fingernails. “Ohhhhh shit,” she said. “I completely forget—ah,
well! Nothing grand has happened yet. What would I tell him
about, anyhow? The shitty weather?”
Alice looked through the Edmund Scientific telescope. “I see
him! I see him!” she exclaimed. “Come take a look, everyone!” I
scuttled around the duffle bag on the floor and went around to see.
I too was in shock. I showed Emma who nearly jumped off the
roof in excitement. “MY GOD!” was all she could say. “MY
GOD!” Alice brushed back her wet, brown hair and let out a deep
breath. The cold rain was thoroughly pouring. “Get the sniper
rifle,” I commanded while vapor came from my nostrils. “We have
to do this. Now or never.” Emma was reluctant. Her good natured
soul couldn’t go through with killing anyone, even if it meant
saving the entire universe. “Must I watch?” she asked. “Blood has
never been my thing.” I patted her on the head in an overtly
patronizing manner. “No, no,” I told her. “Babies needn’t see.” She
splashed some water in my face. I stuck out my tongue, “Har! I’m
already wet!”
“You know,” said Alice, “this is my first time in America…” I
went into the duffle bag and took out the high-powered sniper’s
rifle. I loaded it up with a bullet. “Is that so?” I asked, making idle
chit-chat. “You know Emma’s been here for school before. Where
was it you went, Emma? R.B.U?” Emma glanced behind, checking
if anyone was watching. “What’s R.B.U?” she asked. “Rich
Bastard University,” I replied. I then felt a punch on my arm.
Alice double-checked the telescope and took pictures using
the built in camera. The photos (wirelessly) uploaded into the
Panasonic Toughbook which Emma generously gave me a week
earlier. We all sat around to stare at the screen in disbelief. Barack
Obama was sitting in the White House—the oval office—facing
away from the window. On the back of his neck was the mark of
the beast: “666.” But that in itself was not enough to blow a hole
through his head—at least that’s what Emma thought. “We can’t do
it,” she protested. “It isn’t enough evidence. They’re just silly
numbers.”
I became annoyed. “What’s with you and your attachment to
Obama?” I asked. “He’s not Jesus Christ you know—and even if
he was, we’d still kill him. Remember that whole nailing to the
cross thing? Yeah. Go study your goddamned Bible, Emma.”
Emma folded her arms and growled. “Fine!” I conceded. “We
won’t kill him right away! We’ll watch for a few more minutes and
see if he acts suspiciously. Then we’ll make our decision—okay?”
Emma didn’t seem any happier, but she agreed. “I think I can
stream the telescope’s image right to the laptop computer,” said
Alice. “It’ll allow us to see at the same time.” She pressed a button
and a live image appeared on the Toughbook’s screen. We
monitored Barack Obama for any suspicious activities. But he just
sat there by his desk penning things onto a notepad. “Can you get a
closer look at that?” I asked. “Can we see what he’s writing?”
Alice zoomed in. The writing was in an ancient, nearly
indecipherable language. Emma was surprised, but still stuck to
her ground. “It’s nothing,” she said while looking at the rest of us
nervously. “He’s the president! He must be writing a letter to the
prime minister of another country or something!”
“That language isn’t officially spoken by any countries,”
retorted Alice. “In fact, it’s barely even known—it’s older than
Aramaic.” I folded my arms. “Now what?” I asked. “Do you till
not think he’s the devil?”
Alice adjusted the telescope for a better view. Obama went
behind a screen and reappeared—there were two horns atop his
head and a tail hanging out the back of his pants. His eyes stopped
to stare out the window. They were as red as blood. “Egad!” I
screamed. My finger was pointing. “Are you seeing this, Emma?!”
Emma gave in. “Fine,” she relented, “maybe he is the devil…
Maybe he is Satan. But I’m still not going to watch. You two do
whatever you have to. I’ll wait ‘till it’s over.”
“Aw, c’mon,” I pleaded. “At least a little peak?” Alice took the
sniper rifle from the floor and placed it on a stand for me to use. I
got down on my belly and looked through the scope. This thing
had a range of over a mile. My hand shook as my finger touched
the trigger. I could see right into the oval office—Obama’s family
entered and they were paying a visit. There was his wife Michelle,
and his two children, Malia and Sasha. I didn’t know what they
were doing, but I saw a delicious cake. “I can’t do this,” I thought
in my head. “I can’t kill the president in front of his family…even
if he is the embodiment of all evil.”
Aw, fuck it! I pulled the trigger. A direct hit. Obama’s brains
splattered all over the place. His family was hysterical. They
screamed, running around like chickens with their heads cut off. I
took my eye off the riflescope and turned to Emma and Alice. “It’s
done,” I told them. “The ordeal is over.” Then we put our things
away and stood together. We left the rooftop and traveled down the
stairs to convene on the streets below.
“Well,” said Emma while shaking my hand, “it’s been great
knowing you, Harry.” My face went long. “Is that it?” I asked with
a frown. “Will I ever see you again? We’re friends, aren’t we?”
Emma shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she replied. “I’m a famous
actress. I have projects to do—movies, television, charity gigs—I
don’t have time for another friend. You have to understand. It’s not
personal. I care for you, but I can’t care for you anymore.”
I continued desperately. “But, but, but,” I stammered, “I
thought…“ Emma interrupted, “Stop. Just stop. You’re
embarrassing yourself and it’s isn’t much attractive. Just accept
things the way they are. Take your rejection like a man. AND
DON’T cry. I hate people who cry. When I broke up with Jay he
cried. It was pathetic.” Alice took me by the hand. “Don’t worry,
Harry,” she said in a calmly voice, “I’ll be your friend. You and I
can be buddies.”
“I don’t want to be YOUR buddy,” I snapped. “I WANT
EMMA!” Emma’s hands went on her hips. “Oh, that’s nice,” she
said. “You get bitchy with me because I don’t want your
friendship, yet you do the same thing to Alice—how hypocritical.”
I struggled for words, only being able to stutter letters. “I, I, I, I, I,
I, I…” Then I shouted. “I’m in love with you! Don’t you see
that?!”
Emma was dumbfounded (so was Alice). “I’m getting back
together with Jay,” she blurted after a moment of awkward silence.
“WHAT?!” I yelled. “You told me he was an obsessive, boring
piece of shit!” Emma crinkled her nose in annoyance. “He’s
changed a lot since we broke up,” she explained. “AND he
protected us! Why’d you think we never ran into those illuminati
people again? Because Jay kept them away! He pulled some
strings at the government and they kept an eye out for us!” I was
curious. “How did he do that?” I asked. “He’s a fucking security
guard!”
“Jay is clever like that,” Emma said. “That’s why I like him.” I
wanted to say more, but I had to catch a Greyhound ride back to
Canada—and the conversation was pointless. “Whatever,” I said.
“I don’t need you or anybody else.” Then I stuck up my middle
finger and went around the corner of a building to where a bus
would arrive.
Chapter 8
A month had passed. I hadn’t seen Emma or Alice in all that time,
but I did get a few e-mails. Yes. I got my act together, and I was
working a fabulous job at a Chinese restaurant while living in a
stinky, basement apartment. I was lying on my squeaky mattress
with my hands behind my head as a pillow. I thought what to do
with the rest of my life now that the universe was saved. I didn’t
want to go to sleep, since it was only 6:00 PM (I worked from
about 9:00 AM to 6:00 PM), so I went outside for a walk like I
usually did when bored.
I walked for several minutes and stopped at the local,
elementary school. It was empty, but I saw a group of men dressed
in white suits. I went in for a closer look, tiptoeing, and recognized
a face. IT WAS JAY. He, he, he—that English Bastard—he’s part
of the illuminati! And I bet he was the one who killed Maranda
(the stripper) too! I was furious. I marched over to him (I
obviously wasn’t thinking at this point) and confronted him with a
pointed finger. “You!” I yelled. “You cunt sniffer!” Jay turned to
me nonchalantly, knowing he was assuredly safe with his other
four mates behind him. “Ha, ha, ha,” he laughed in his snooty
Londoner’s accent. “I’ve been playing you all like a fiddle.”
I calmed down a bit. “What do you mean?” I inquired. “And
why the fuck are you here?” Jay took out a comb and brushed back
his hair (or what was left of it, he was going bald), taking his time
to answer. “I’m here to keep an eye on things,” he said smugly.
“And to answer your first question—I think you already know the
answer.” I thought for a minute, but quickly figure it out. “YOU
manipulated us to assassinate the president,” I exclaimed, “didn’t
you?! He wasn’t even a part of any of this!” The group laughed.
“Very good,” replied Jay. “You’ve figured it out. Now aren’t you
curious to as how we pulled it off?” I wasn’t. “No,” I said. “Not
really. I already know. You lied to us, brainwashed Alice to feed us
false information, and you digitally manipulated the images we
saw on our laptop computer.”
Jay frowned. “Aw, you’re no fun.” I went into his face and
become more confrontational than before. “WHY IN THE
WORLD would you want to end the universe?! And why would
you want us to kill the president?! Because he’s black? Don’t like
‘niggers’ is that it?! That’s what all the white suits are about, eh!
You fucking supremacist!” Jay remained calm. “I’m getting tired
of your badgering, but I’ll answer your question anyhow, because
that’s not the type of person I am. Well, we got you to assassinate
the president because he was trying to make the world a better
place—hence, hindering Satan’s plans—and I don’t want to the
universe to end. None of us do. But, you know, we get paid a hell
of a lot of money. Do you know how much money we get paid for
working a year?”
“No,” I replied, “I don’t.”
“Ten million pounds a year!” exclaimed Jay. “I make more money
than my girlfriend who is an international, fucking movie star!” It
was a lot of money, maybe $20,000,000 Canadian, but I was still
perplexed. The end of the universe is—the end—the end of all
existence as we know it. What would the point of money? I posed
the question to Jay. “Silly rabbit,” explained Jay. “The universe
isn’t ending right away. It’s going to cease existence in twenty
years—estimated—when all the seals are finally broken. So, I still
get to enjoy my youth, my money, and live a fancy-dance life.”
I began to relax and became a bit at ease. (At least my time to
halt the end of the universe was relatively long.) “Okay,” I said,
“but it’s not just the universe as we see it which gets wiped out—
it’s the after life as well. Don’t you know that? You will be dead
and there will be nothing for you after!” Jay folded his arms,
laughing along with the others. “Ha! You think that’s actually
true?” he asked. “You think fucking five virgins could actually
cause such a cataclysmic event? None of this makes any sense. It’s
horseshit, mate. You actually think I work for the devil? Fucking
fairy tales that is! Don’t believe the hype, Harry. You’re not the
chosen one. Okay? That’s the truth. Now, go home and wank off or
something.”
My head was swimming. I didn’t know what to believe. Jay
was a master at manipulation. He mixed truth and lies together, so
you’d never know when to believe him. I couldn’t discern a damn
thing to save my life. I went away, leaving the illuminati, and
returned to my basement apartment where I took a well needed
rest.
It was almost 5:00 AM. The sky was turning from black to a dark
blue. I arrived at the Scarborough Bluffs after taking a hellish, bus-
ride. I walked along the pathway and saw a figure in shadow. He
waved at meet. I went toward him. His face came under the
sunlight and was revealed. “Fucking plonker,” Gordon Ramsay
said with folded arms. He was dressed in a white chef’s shirt.
“What the fuck took you so long? I’ve been waiting here more than
an hour. Don’t you have taxi-cabs in Toronto?”
“What do you want?” I replied. Gordon took out a spatula and
smacked me over the head. “Fucking wake up!” he yelled.
“Weren’t you paying attention to the phone conversation?! I’m
here to help you stop the end of the universe!” He went on while I
stared at my feet like a beaten dog. “I’ve located three of five
seals.” (He handed me a map which I took and put in my pocket.)
“Took me a hell of a long time, so don’t fucking wank off. Get
back with the bloody trio and MOVE YOUR ARSE!” I calmly
replied… “What if I don’t want to?” I asked, purposely being
stubborn. “What if I don’t want to do a damn thing?”
Gordon Ramsay smacked me across the face and yelled
(again), “THIS ISN’T YOUR CHOICE! IT’S YOUR DESTINY!”
I rubbed my cheek. “There’s no need for physical violence,” I
replied, “you English Bastard.” I waited for retaliation, but Gordon
was calmer now. “Look—I know you like to plonk down on your
arse and do shit-all. But you are the chosen one, and if you don’t
do anything, we’re all fucked. Don’t be selfish, stop thinking of
yourself.” I agreed. I was being selfish. Gordon Fucking Ramsay
was right. I went into my pocket and took out the map he’d given
me. I saw that there were three different marks for three different
locations; and on the backside were pictures, and information
about the three seals. A trio of stunningly, beautiful women: Jenny
McCarthy, Helen Mirren, and one who I’d met before, Alexa
Chung. “Fuck,” I exclaimed in disbelief, “I can’t kill these
people!!! Do you want an angry mob to hunt me down and string
me up by the neck?!”
Gordon scoffed, “Grow a pair of fucking bollocks! Jenny
McCarthy is an anti-vaxer, indirectly killing millions of children
with stupid parents, and you’re telling me you can’t pop a cap in
her goddamn head?! What the hell is wrong with you?!” I nodded
in agreement, “Well, you’re right on that one—but Helen Mirren
and Alexa Chung? How can I murder a granny and the only Asian,
female, talk-show host on American TV? That would be tragic.”
Gordon kicked me hard in the shin, making me hop. “GET ON IT,”
he demanded, “or I will use my butcher’s knife and chop off your
fucking ear!” (Movie Reference: Reservoir Dogs.)
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
It seemed so fast…
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
My body was stiff and without a heart beat. The coroner who
examined me decided that I was 100% dead—in fact, that’s what
he wrote on my body. BUT from my earlier encounter at the
convenience store (several chapters back) I knew that I was
immune to bullets. I was only in a deep coma. However, the prison
people didn’t know any better and they had to dispose of my
corpse. They tossed it into Lake Ontario. (Since the city of Toronto
was nearly running a deficit, which was not allowed, they had two
choices to deal with the situation: raise taxes or cut expenses.
Luckily, they opted to cut expenses—well, everywhere except for
politicians’ salaries. Damn that David Miller to hell.)
I floated aimlessly through the water. (Being that I was not
actually deceased, the air in my lungs had not escaped, which kept
me a float.) After many hours I washed up on shore where Emma
and Alice came to collect my body. They put me in the trunk of
their ’92 Mazda MPV minivan and took me away. I’d no idea why
they put me in the trunk, since the damn thing had enough space
inside for a small sofa. But that didn’t matter I guess. I was passed
out after all.
FADE IN:
WOMAN
So, which one do you prefer?
Drink A or B?
HARRY
(looks with consternation)
FUCK YOU!
FADE OUT:
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
About eighteen hours had passed since I left Emma’s place. I was
jetlagged and tired, but arrived at the Grand Canyon. I got off from
a bus and went to the tourist area where there was a glass “U”
shaped floor hanging over the gorge (A.K.A. the Grand Canyon
Skywalk). A worker made me put on yellow booties to cover my
shoes, then after I walked to the very tip to meet Hunter. Hunter
was wearing a bucket hat and sunglasses, looking down while
smoking a stogie. “You made it,” he said in a stoic tone. “Thought
you fell off the edge side. Goddamn place is trippy.” I shook my
head. “No,” I replied. “I’m fine.”
Hunter flicked away his cigar butt. It fell slowly against the
wind. I counted it in my head: “1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9…” It took
nearly a whole ten seconds for it to fall. “So,” I said suddenly,
trying to make small talk, “did you hear about the Cereal Serial
Killer?”
“No, I haven’t,” replied Hunter. “Why don’t you tell me about
it?”
“Oh, well,” I explained, “it’s just a guy—maybe a girl, who
knows—that goes around murdering people while they eat
breakfast; usually, of course, cereal. Personally, I think it’s
ironic. Breakfast is supposed to be the healthiest meal of the
day. But is it really healthy when it puts you at risk of being
stabbed in the face with a knife? Ha!”
“That’s goddamn sad. But by the same token, anybody who
eats ‘Lucky Charms’ as a morning meal would’ve probably
lived a long, loveless, unfulfilling, tedious life—one where the
only emotions experienced are through the medium of
fiction.”
“That’s kinda bleak, don’t you think?”
“The truth, like medicine, is often bitter.”
Hunter and I left the skywalk. Then he led me out to the yonder
where we stood quietly for several minutes. He gave me a glance
every now and then while drinking from his canteen, but did no
more than that. I knew he was thinking of something, because after
he chucked away his empty can of Southern Comfort, he wrote
something onto a big, yellow notepad from his pocket. “What’re
you writing?” I asked. He paused to adjust his sunglasses, “A
writer never reveals the plot—it ruins the high.”
So, as I stood there while Hunter wrote away, out of the corner
of my eye appeared a mysterious, bright, green van. It drifted along
the rocky surface, then spun, and came to a stop in front of us. The
door slid open. There was a big, brown dog (a Great Dane)
wagging its tail. I looked to the front. The driver, who looked like a
stoner out of the 1960s, gave me a smile and wave. I returned the
gesture. “Let’s go,” Hunter instructed as he went in. “No time to
waste. This place gets dangerous at night.” I complied with a nod;
then the four of us were off on wheels, headed to Las Vegas.
Chapter 18
I went into Apple Headquarters and asked for Steve Jobs (a.k.a.
Satan). The receptionist informed me he was on vacation. Fuck.
I unfolded a piece of paper and read an article I’d printed out from
Wikipedia:
“Hawai’i Volcanoes National Park, established in 1916 I a
United States National Park located in the U.S. State of Hawai’i
on the island of Hawai’i. It displays the results of hundreds of
thousands of years of volcanism, migration, and evolution—
Chapter 19
A year had passed since my run in with Steve Jobs. I hadn’t done
much with myself since that tumultuous time—but, nonetheless,
things were slowly getting better. I reconciled my differences with
my estranged family, I made some new friends, and I was
promoted at the Chinese restaurant where I worked. Now, my
living wasn’t anything glamorous—far from it—but I was fairly
satisfied. Things were looking up.
Emma Watson began filming of “Harry Potter 9.”
Alice Newton opened her own café.
And I remained an unsung, but happy, hero.
THE END