Brock's favorite support group didn't meet for bingo until six-thirty, so that left Brock some time to himself. He packed light for the trip. Brock had no timeframe for how long he'd be staying. He hoped the place Angel was lodging had a washer and dryer he could use if the stay dragged out.

He sipped his iced tea while he stood on his apartment veranda. Brock thought about Angel. The letter was a rouse to get him to visit her, bring money, and then she would run off again. She would probably find another guy who enjoyed her enough between the sheets to put up with her, and then when it got old, he'd kick her the h.e.l.l to the curb. Or there could be that one guy out there who dusted her off, gave her a sense of home and normalcy, but then she'd ruin that good thing by stealing one too many twenty dollar bills from the guy's wallet or hawking the wrong watch or keepsake, and on and on she'd go in the same spiraling cycle of self-ruining.

At least she's not in prison or dead. You're taking her back home with you, and that's final. I'll sleep on the fold-out bed. I'm not letting her go back to a s.h.i.tty life, not after everything I've seen her go through.

Brock felt determined again. When he marched back inside the apartment to attempt another written entry in his memoir for an audience of one, his cell phone rang. He quickly answered. It was Hannah.

"If it isn't Mrs. Hollywood herself. Do you have time to remember your roots? Did you speed dial on me on accident? If so, I'll let you off easy this time and hang up now."

"Stop it, Brock. You're being silly. Look, I've accomplished all of my contract s.h.i.t. Next Thursday, I'm off to New Mexico."

"So I'm going on a trip by myself?"

"I don't understand. Did "America's Got Flair" call you up early?"

"No, Angel wrote me a letter. She says she in a small town in Virginia. I'm going to see what's up. I think she's either wanting to talk to me about how s.h.i.t went down between us, or it's the drugs."

There was a painfully drawn out silence between them before Hannah filled it in. "I just hope she's okay." Then after another lengthy moment, "I want you to be careful, Brock. Don't get hurt. I love you. I don't want to see you get wrapped up in her problems. You can only do so much, no matter how responsible you feel about her situation."

Brock imagined the variety of things that could happen. Angel slitting his throat and stealing his car and wallet and meeting up with her dealer. Or he would be sleeping in a room, the door would be kicked open, and then Angel's significant other would blast him one in the back of the head and take all of his money. No matter how many scenarios he created, it would end with him somehow mugged, jumped, or killed.

"I hear you on being careful. But I owe it to her to give her a chance." He lowered his voice, knowing she didn't completely approve. "If she's still on drugs, I'm taking her home with me and forcing her to kick the habit."

"You can't force her. You're not equipped to cure a person of addiction. We're survivors barely sc.r.a.ping by, but Angel, she has to overcame it her way, not yours."

"I just want my sister back. The way things used to be."

"It's not your fault what happened."

"I'm the older brother, the more responsible one, and I'm the one who has to step up now and see her healthy."

"If she gets violent or tries to drag you down with her-"

Brock was clutching the phone hard. His palms were greasy, and he was blinking sweat out of his eyes. He stopped talking a moment, staring out at the streets, the sun, and the Spanish woman carrying her groceries in one hand and her infant in the other.

Hannah grew impatient. "I know men, and I know when they clam up, they're p.i.s.sed."

He lied, though in lying, he'd tricked himself into a better mood. "No, I'm imagining you in your panties wearing your boots 'n spurs pointing your six shooters at me."

"You're full of c.r.a.p."

"I'm nervous about the trip. That's all, honey."

"When are you going?"

"Tomorrow morning. It'll be a quick road trip."

Hannah hummed under her breath. "How about I go with you? I have eight days before my flight. I don't even have to be there when you talk to Angel. Angel might like talking to me too."

Brock perked at the idea of her coming along. He still had to say this, "I guess I feel guilty. I felt like you and Angel are both victims of my bulls.h.i.t."

"My decisions were my own, and Angel needs to understand that too. We have influences, but we also make choices ourselves."

Brock decided it was a good idea they go together. "Hey, come by tonight, and we'll plan the trip."

"I do have one question for you, Brock."

"Yeah."

"Can I wear my boots during the trip?"

Maybe n.o.body can understand this memoir because I don't have a straight stream of consciousness. Well, here goes another try.

It was about a year into Angel and I taking over Dad's mansion that I remember this. We'd long since quit our jobs. Angel's job before she signed off was casting for films and being a part-time film agent, and me, I produced movies. Without that work to keep us busy, we got bored. You couldn't throw a party every day, so we had down time. Sometimes we'd spend that time repairing the walls, the floors, the ceilings, replacing shattered windows, mowing the lawn-and that lawn was huge-or wading in the pool and relaxing, but in the process of cleaning up, we discovered a secret room in the mansion. I thought secret rooms were for crazy rich mad scientists, but my father had a room incorporated into the wall of his bedroom. I discovered it when one of our party guests was found with his head shoved through the wall. I never found out why his head was shoved through it, but it happened nonetheless.

The secret room was full of high-powered rifles. Dad was an aspiring hunter, though he was the type to buy things without enjoying the hobby. The act of collecting was the thrill. Now we're talking 30-06's, .22 calibers, .223 Winchesters, Remington 700s, a ridiculous elephant gun, and one of those rifles you crack the double-barrels, I can't remember the style. Going through the guns, Angel and I just start blasting everything to s.h.i.t in the house. While we were doing this, Angel shoots through walls and enters rooms through these holes instead of using the actual doors. "This table's broken," she said one time with that evil smile of hers and shot the table's legs off. She'd send the refrigerator off the ground with one blast with the double-barreled shotgun. Angel would say, "Welp, the fridge is on the fritz again." When she shot the front off a running dish water, it was a water works show.

Don't get me wrong, I had a good time too. I was firing at the ceiling, and I laughed so hard when the plaster rained down on me, and Angel said I was the ghost of Christmas past. I used a 12 gauge to explode Mom's old water bed. Then I'd start stacking up the romance paperbacks Mom left behind when she moved out. The collection was in the hundreds. We'd place the novels on random furniture and shoot them to pulpy pieces. Angel would ceremoniously read from the paperback tomes after she'd changed into a bed sheet, tying it into a toga. She'd read a paragraph out loud, the paragraph being a colorful description of a woman's s.e.xual organs. She'd prop the novel against something and let me take aim. "Oh profanity," she kept saying like a Victorian housewife. "Oh posh, don't talk about v.a.g.i.n.as in this household. It's rubbish. Pure foppery!" Then blammo from the shotgun.

I probably forgot to mention we were blitzed out of our minds on cocaine the whole time. Angel had a thing about what surface she snorted from. It couldn't be a mirror, it had to be off of somebody's skin. That was her favorite way, off a lover's back. And she had many lovers-and I had them too, a new one every night, it seemed. I'd wake up to a new pile under the sheets who'd collect their s.h.i.t the next morning and leave as if none of it had happened.

What haunts me the most is when I'd catch Angel being treated badly, and I wouldn't do anything about it. Back then, I didn't give a s.h.i.t about anything except being high. I had my supply, I knew where to get more, and I had money, connections, and Angel's habits and the consequences were her own problem.

I caught her once in the bathroom naked. The mansion was empty after another one of our infamous parties. She was sprawled out, using the shower curtain as a blanket, but she was naked. She'd s.h.i.t herself, and she had a b.l.o.o.d.y nose. Who knows what event happened first, the s.h.i.t or the b.l.o.o.d.y nose. The saddest part, I laughed at her. A grown man looking at his sister and laughing. I thought it was funny. A normal person would've cleaned her up, checked if she was alive-but not me. I cooked breakfast for myself like nothing had happened. I owe Angel a thousand apologies. I only want her to be safe, happy, and to be somebody in my life.

Brock's wrist was cramping, so he forced himself to take a break. He was confused about how he was supposed to feel about cataloguing the misgiving of his life. He lowered into the couch he was resting on and closed his eyes. He had some time to take a nap before bingo night.

CHARLIE BLACKWELL.

Three hours After Piedmont Cemetery Melted It was said of Charlie Blackwell that he had a few screws loose. That he had been abused by his father at a young age and turned violent by it in his later adulthood. That Charlie Blackwell misused prescription medications for his social anxiety. That Charlie Blackwell didn't care about his son who'd been taken away by child protective services due to questionable circ.u.mstances. That Charlie Blackwell would've strangled his ex-wife if Sheriff Reeds didn't step in and break it up. But what people couldn't accuse Charlie Blackwell of being today was unarmed.

He sped about town in his jeep unloading rounds from the AK-47 he'd ordered through the mail from a friend of a friend who worked at a p.a.w.n shop outside of town. His current targets were those dozens of people who were rummaging through smashed storefronts in town square. A mini-van had crashed through the "Load and Go" Laundry mat. Deputy Hanson lit up the gas tank in his squad car and drove it through the front of the Golden Mercantile Bank of Blue Hills to watch it blow up. Shannon Wiley was taking a sledgehammer to the ATM in the drive-thru of the same bank. Cash flew in the air, the breeze carrying bills every which way as hordes of nearby people fought over them.

Charlie picked off dozens of people during the rioting, the entire population of Blue Hills in a widespread panic. What they weren't counting on was Charlie Blackwell showing up to the party. He preferred headshots. It ended their lives quickly. One shot to the face, and that would be all. Killing them was the best thing he could do to ensure his own life.

He spun the wheel, turning to head vehicle towards the bank to pick up the cash that was hemorrhaging from the tipped over ATM. Before he could turn around, a series of bullets struck him across the chest. Without his seat belt, Charlie's body tumbled from the seat as the Jeep kept driving straight into a tree. Seconds later, the Polson brothers were standing over Charlie's body. One shoved their hands into Charlie's pockets to take out his wallet, while the other brother forced open Charlie's mouth by stepping on his b.a.l.l.s and used a pair of pinch clamps to rip out his tooth with the gold crown. By the time Polson brothers were finished robbing him, Charlie had bled to death.

BINGO.

"B-10. B-10. One last time, B-10."

Brock checked his Bingo card, and he came up short. Desperate for a victory, Brock whispered to Flo, the woman beside him at the table, to try and break her concentration. "Were you ever a waitress?"

Flo sharpened her eyes and placed her chip over B-10. This was the best part of these compet.i.tions, in Brock's opinions, when the blue hairs responded to his chiding. Flo asked him deadpan, "Did you ever suck a d.i.c.k for crack?"

The comment was an inside joke between them. The women at the table had supported him post-rehab, and they joked hard at each other over time as their friendships increased.

Brock had to counter Flo's quip. "Hey lady, you have home field advantage when it comes to d.i.c.k sucking. You can take out your teeth. I still have mine."

The old man at the front table named Ernest spun a metal cage by the handle, and like a lottery, he selected a numbered ping pong ball. "I-8. I-8. One last time, I-8."

Brock eyed Flo's card, then Mary-Jo's, and then his own card. All he needed was an 0-7, and he'd win. Brock had to keep them distracted. Maybe they'd forget to put down a chip over a letter. "If you ask me, Ernest needs a bit of pep. It's like listening to King Tut in the tomb. Dust comes out of his mouth when he announces the numbers."

Mary-Beth sipped from her apple juice and scowled at him. "You're going to have to do better than that, boy. Your jokes are lame."

Flo laughed, "America sucks b.a.l.l.s, and who's the biggest c.o.c.ksucker?"

Brock turned his head in Abigail's direction at the head of the table, whispering, "It's her. She sucks the biggest b.a.l.l.s."

Ernest announced N-2, and Abigail flipped out, spinning once around in her wheelchair. She put her hand up in the air. "BINGO! I have a bingo!"

Brock flipped his card upside down. "Ah, I never win."

"You won four weeks ago, remember?" Flo jabbed her finger into his arm. "You got that pug calendar."

"Oh yeah. "Pugs In Wagons.""

Mary-Jo eyed Gloria from across the table. "Gloria really wanted that pug calendar. She would've stuffed her old pug if her son hadn't cremated him first. The kid found the bug belly up on the carpet and he just took the body right to the vet clinic."

Before Gloria could speak any further on subject, Ernest walked off the stage and held up the prize. What was a plug-in phone in the shape of a banana. Abigail pretended to talk into it, "Hey everyone, it's my son. He's calling me for the first time in two years."

The blue hairs laughed, and Brock laughed with them. He remembered being out-of-work, needing friends, and finding a posted flyer outside the St. Anthony Community Center announcing bingo nights. It was a forty dollar a year membership fee, but it was well worth it. These ladies were his mothers and foul-mouthed sailors wrapped up in one package, but most importantly, they were sweet people. He couldn't get enough of them.

Brock couldn't help but let it slip, "I wonder what she's going to do with that phone later."

Flo snorted, "So that's why she's spinning in her chair."

Ernest dug into the box trying to determine the next prize.

"He's thinking really hard," Brock said aloud so everyone in the room could hear. "This is going to be good, isn't it, Ernest? They didn't go to the dollar store for this prize, no they didn't."

Ernest ruffled his bushy feathery white eyebrows at him, saying in an eyeful, 'You're going to set them off. Don't talk like that.'

He dug deeper, dissuaded to pick what he first had in mind.

"It better not be a scented candle."

Ernest huffed this time, clutching an item and then releasing it again within the box.

Brock had everybody clapping, whistling, cheering, and then chanting, "Pick something good!" "Pick something good!" "Pick something good!"

Ernest shook his head in frustration. After working hard, he located something he was pleased with and raised it up. It was a box of expensive chocolates.

"Decadent," Brock announced, putting his chips into a pile and slapping down a cleared card. He whispered to Flo, though he purposefully spoke loud enough for everyone to hear him. "My new lady friend would love those chocolates. I'd get some then, right ladies? You've been put to bed with chocolate before. Admit it. We all have. Even me."

Flo, Abigail, Mary-Jo and the rest of the ladies gave him an interested stare, detecting juicy gossip ahead.

Flo was the first to ask as Ernest called out the first letter and number for the next game, "Who is this girl?"

"Hannah. And she asked me to marry her."

He mentioned Hannah on a regular basis.

"Oh Brock, it's about time. You've been shacking up with her. It's about time you stopped milking the cow for free."

The game stopped in that moment, and Ernest called out numbers and letters to no avail. The women stared at him lovingly. Flo took his hand, smiling. "We're proud of you, Brock. We've been rooting for you the whole time. We don't care what the tabloids say about you. You've changed for the better. Marrying Hannah would be another one good move. She's quite a dish."

"I'm nervous. I've never been married before."

"Fifty-two years old and not married," Flo whistled. "How did that happen?"

"It's hard to marry or develop romances when you're producing movies and working 24/7. And I was born into that environment. It sounds cheesy, but I didn't know anything beyond fast women." He listened to his words and cringed. "That sounded awful."

"It is awful," Abigail said from across the table, "but I've been divorced three times, so what's worse?"

"Two times," said Flo.

"Three times," Mary-Jo chimed in.

"Never," Ernest said, glowering at his wife, Edith, who offered him a conquering smile. "Not once."

Brock looked at them all and was so grateful for each of them. He said one last thing before the game re-commenced. "Let's hope I get to be in "The Ernest Club." That would be "The Never Been Divorced Club.""

BLUE HILLS MAYHEM.

Four Hours After Piedmont Cemetery Melted Gloria Albright had been postmaster general for ten years. She was now in the sorting room at the Blue Hills post office tearing open boxes and envelopes that were to be mailed. Her husband had tried to slit her throat in her sleep earlier this morning, but somehow, Gloria had instinctively defended herself. Kicking him in the b.a.l.l.s, Gloria fled the house and didn't turn back. She ran for four blocks, dodging the houses on fire in her neighborhood, the random popping of gunshots, the murdered dead bodies strewn about on the ground, and the riots that kept spreading across the town of Blue Hills.

Nowhere was safe, so when she caught sight of the post office, Gloria knew that was the best place to hide. Before she entered the building, Gloria heard the voices of the dead speak on the air. The smells of sulfur and death escaped from the earth in a yellowish fog, what were blasts of nasty air shoving up clods of gra.s.s and creating potholes in the streets and even cracking the foundations of homes. The pain between her shoulder blades, the need to survive, her surmounting fear, everything she was experiencing was slowly making sense.

She locked the door to the post office behind her and delved into the pile of unopened mail. She soon came upon a birthday card. Gloria pocketed the twenty dollars and tossed the card aside. Encouraged by the take, she kept on working through the hundreds of packages and envelopes unknowing of the heavily armed people outside who were waiting for her to come out to ambush her.

They were already here.

Those two b.i.t.c.hes are dead.

Dr. Steinke clutched a scalpel in one hand and Mrs. Birchum's purse in the other. The purse was useless. His two nursing a.s.sistants had already pilfered items from each of Blue Hill's Hospice Center's patient rooms. So there was nothing for him here. He threw down the worthless purse and moved on, skulking about the hallway again. He had trouble finding Barbie Belle and Jill Olsen, the two nurses, through the thick walls of yellow air that kept thickening. He coughed on the smells of death, though here, they were laced with the exaggerated odor of bedpans, baby powder, and loneliness.

Dr. Steinke entered another patient's room. He growled not in shock, but in anger, when he viewed the patient. Homer Winch.e.l.l had his throat and wrists slit. He lay in a supine position on his bed. His wallet and bag of personal items was sorted through and left strewn about the floor.

"d.a.m.n those b.i.t.c.hes!"