Novel

The Chaos Theorem

Chapter 1:

“Breaking: Scientists Discover the Fate of Everyone,” the television’s headline read, dripping red.

He snorted. He’d only just woken up from his nap. He was still dreaming. He must have been. That, or the television was. It was a possibility, wasn’t it? It had to be.

At least, that’s what Stuart Fletcher told himself.

He had taxes to file — including taxes on his taxes. Crazy numbers to crunch. An unfinished bag of potato chips to munch. Much more important things to keep in mind.

Much more important.

At least, Fletcher was able to tell himself that for an hour. Time kept ticking, though. The television’s screen crackled, the same images smearing across.

“America in Throes”. “President Announces Doomsday Clock”.

A news reporter cackled, and Fletcher hit mute. Customers wouldn’t want to have to hear that stuff.

Yet, the shop’s door remained firm. The chime joined the door in its solidarity. Fletcher pretended he could ignore it; the general malaise marinating the room. Though, as the reporter’s face went intense with incense, even the toys on the shelves seemed to turn and give the television their gaze.

Fletcher clenched his stomach. He swallowed. He could’ve used a drink of water. The potato chips had left his mouth dry.

There was a quake. Lights flickered. The screen wailed. Toys fell off the shelves. Then, the room was dead.

“Do you know what that means?”

Fletcher turned to face his customer. Yet, there wasn’t one. The room was empty.

“It means it’s time for us to have a boisterous barrel of fun!”

A Silly Sally lay on the floor by Fletcher’s desk and burst into a fit of giggles.

“Screw you,” Fletcher muttered.

God was it irritating. Fletcher could’ve sworn he’d torn the batteries out of its voice box.

“They’ve dubbed their solution, the ‘Chaos Theorem,” a reporter squawked, as another line of text scrolled across the screen. “Yet, how many problems will this solution really solve? They make no sense.”

Fletcher snatched his remote up from the ground and hit the mute again. He shoved it in his coat pocket, between an assortment of toys.

You never could go wrong with too many toys in your pockets.

On the subject of wrongness, the reporter was totally wrong and totally right — something Fletcher had thought totally impossible, only a few days ago. If only he could go back.

The chaos theorem made perfect sense. It was just, all the sense that it made was nonsense. Conventional knowledge had been sent into the blender. That blender had been sent into an even bigger blender. From that blender? Everybody would have to drink up.

Fletcher looked back at his pile of numbers, only to rub his temples and moan. Numbers had a way of bringing him down for the count.

A creak resounded. Then, a clang.

“How are you doing?”

Fletcher looked over. It was a real customer this time. A man, in a raincoat. His eyes were downcast, and his hair was a mop.

“Welcome to Timothy’s Toy Shop,” said Fletcher.

Fletcher’s chair squeaked as he spun around.

“It’s crazy out there,” the man said.

Fletcher took in a deep breath. He smiled.

. . .

A bell rang.

“You have mail.”

Fletcher had a lot of things. Most of all, he’d had enough of listening to his notifications go off.

“Five more minutes,” he said.

He burrowed his nose into his pillow and curled into a ball. He yanked his blanket closer to himself and scratched an itch on his back.

The bell rang again, prompting another line from the robotic voice. Fletcher’s itch persisted. Yet, his arms and legs had gone dead.

If only he could be dead. It would certainly make for a more interesting day than what awaited.

He squinted his eyes tighter together, in a final attempt to keep the day at bay. He reopened his eyes and sat up. It wasn’t worth it. His bladder stung. The room was chilly. His stomach was empty.

His head remained tied to his bed, but Fletcher’s body carried him into the bathroom. His muscles moved in synchronized monotony; a ballet of bland proportions.

He brushed his teeth. He flossed too, twice. While inspecting his teeth, he took a glance at a quote reflected in his mirror.

“You’re #1!”

It was hanging on the wall behind him. It would’ve motivated him, if it weren’t that everything in mirrors were backward.

His phone flickered on as it slipped into his hand.

“Ready to start the day?” asked a bar of text. With a jerk of the thumb, he scrolled past it. It’d been months since he’d woken up and been ready.

He ran down a list of tasks. Rent. Repair fees. Warnings from the bank. Customer requests. Complaints.

Many things to be attended to, but there was nothing that he wanted to pay attention to. He tossed the phone onto his bed and began changing out of his clothes. He took off his coat and hung it in the closet.

He’d fallen asleep in it, again. It was so odd — he could never fall asleep on time, but still managed to fall asleep too fast to change clothes.

A packet of oatmeal powder poured into a bowl. Water poured in with it. Then, they ran through the microwave. Predictably, they came out as oatmeal. Quickly, too. The oatmeal was still burning hot after Fletcher had brought it to his desk and slid it down his throat. Its pinch of cinnamon took Fletcher slightly off edge.

Slightly. It wasn’t calming as a drug, but it’d have to do.

A mound of papers ruffled as Fletcher shunted them away. There were countless pieces of paperwork, just waiting to be filled. It was yet another job that needed to be done. Though, it could be done later.

He pulled his computer monitor toward himself and flicked its power switch. The tubes sputtered, then whirred. The screen winked on and gave a password prompt. He typed it in.

“Work harder.”

The screen contracted into a loading bar. Then, the desktop rolled up.

Fletcher’s eyes roved to a tin soldier, off to the side. It was such a diligent little fellow. It’d been sitting there, ever since Uncle Timothy began running the shop.

Time to get to work.

In his email, he was hit by a fresh deluge of bitter customers. Common, really. Nobody ever seemed to appreciate his work these days.

“The website isn’t loading fast enough,” one of the complaints read.

“Your design for my fortune telling webpage is too predictable,” said another.

“Is there any way that I can get my money back?”

Fletcher took a second to reread the last one. He laughed and shook his head. Nobody was getting their money back. Especially not these days, with what was going on in the news. Didn’t anybody get how hard it was to design code? Sure, there was a formula. Though, it wasn’t quick. If it was so simple, why weren’t any of them doing it?

Fletcher kept read a few more customer emails. Somebody had to send him something optimistic eventually, right? It was the law of averages.

He hit the end of the list. The law of averages continued to disappoint him.

There were two requests for some graphic design work. Though, they each wanted to pay hardly anything at all. Why were people so cheap?

“How are you doing Stuart?” the tagline of one of the emails read.

A flutter of gratification surged in Fletcher’s chest, only to deflate immediately. It was just Harry Doswell, asking him to come over for coffee. He wanted to catch up. It was a nice gesture, really. However, after everything that had happened with Margaret — how everything had spiraled — it just didn’t feel right to go crawling back to Harry for support. No. Those days were better left as a haze. There was no point in going back.

He hit refresh, in the dull hope that something else would come up. Anything.

He turned to his toy soldier.

“If I didn’t have you guys here, I would be doomed,” he muttered.

He looked around himself. It was true, wasn’t it?

Was it?

He called the shop home. Though, in some ways, it was a prison. The walls’ wood and plaster were shedding away, and the property owner was no help. Nobody was helping; it wasn’t like it’d been when Uncle Timothy ran the show. Fletcher glared at a door in his wall — it led to a straight drop into his neighbor’s shop. After months, he still couldn’t convince his neighbor to board it up.

None of the toys moved off the shelves, either. They sat, begging to be sold. Burning a hole in his pocket. There had to be a way to market them better. Yet, nothing ever came to mind and nobody ever came in the store.

“Help! I need a website, now!”

Fletcher had missed it in his first scroll through and was tempted to miss it again. The text was written in all caps and had one too many exclamation points. Yet, then Fletcher caught a glimpse of the emailer’s profile picture. It was a blonde woman with sunglasses, and a ruby red smile.

He clicked onto the email. She looked oddly familiar

“Linda.” Fletcher didn’t know anybody named Linda, but that was her first name. Her profile picture reminded him of one he’d matched with on a sketchy dating website. Yes — Fletcher could remember it clearly now. He’d been shocked when they matched; even if they were automatically unmatched, ten minutes later. This email though? This had to be impossible.

Had Linda actually looked at his profile long enough to find his email? Or, had she found his business by mere coincidence?

Fletcher shrugged. Coincidences didn’t happen. Linda must’ve seen that he was a “successful coding freelancer” on his profile’s bio and been compelled to email him.

It was all the explanation he could come up with. It would have to do.

Clearing his throat, Fletcher read through the email. Linda wanted a website to advertise a “weed garden”, apparently.

She was only willing to pay him his minimum rate. She wanted the website done impossibly fast, too.

Fletcher glanced back at the image of Linda. His chest burned.

He clicked away and scrolled through his email. He’d think about it. He needed to give his mind some time to process it all. Linda was asking for a lot of effort — especially since web-designing was only supposed to be a side-business. The toy shop wasn’t going to run itself.

The computer screen flared as he went back through the stretch of complaints and requests. Fletcher’s eyes passed back over Harry’s email. Maybe he should reply to him — try reconnecting.

Fletcher shuddered. His fingers clacked hard against his keyboard.

“Sounds good,” he wrote. “Will just need a payment sent to my account, and we’ll be clear.”

He typed in Linda’s email address. The send button gave a chirp as it was pressed.

A grin formed on Fletcher’s face. He’d build the website. It’d be the best goddamn website in his entire career. Maybe he could get more from out of this Linda. Maybe he could get out of this place.

The world could still make sense. It just needed a nudge.

With a yawn, he shut off his computer screen, and trudged downstairs. The steps creaked. Fletcher’s hand clenched the railing as he took care to skip the broken step — it had left him with splinters the day before.

“Good morning everybody!” Fletcher said.

The stacks of toys gave him withering glares.

“What? You guys are so quiet today… You all wake up on the wrong side of the bed or something?”

He chuckled.

“Just because all of Dexburg has decided to go nuts, it doesn’t mean that you guys have to.”

His eyes shot to his “Wally Walrus” watch. It was 11:00. How had that happened? The toys must have noticed — that must’ve been why they were so ornery.

Fletcher stiffened his legs, making a tour of the shop. On each shelf, toys posed with warm smiles and shiny price tags. Fletcher brushed his fingers over their soft paint, and smooth etchings. There was a pixie-like quality to them. They glittered under the lamps, which swayed above in a swirl of dust.

Calm settled over Fletcher as he neared his checkout counter. The shop might not have been home, but it was an oasis. The elements were in total balance; in a designated position. They had to be. There was no affording any kind of error.

Fletcher popped open his drawers and counted out the money. The bills rustled, sliding between his fingers. The hairs along Fletcher’s arm rustled with them. All the numbers fit. The shop looked as it was supposed to. Inventory was accounted for. Nevertheless, a twinge of discomfort ate at Fletcher’s mind.

There was a ding as the drawer slid back into the register.

Porcelain shattered. Fletcher turned to see his cup of pens broken on the ground.

Great. The place hadn’t even opened yet, and objects were already staging mutiny.

“I’m just a bit jittery. That’s all,” he told himself. “We’ll be fine, guys! The show will go on, as usual! No worries!”

He went to get the broom from the corner. It should have been right by the oil baron. To Fletcher’s pleasure, he went over to the corner and found his broom. Displeasure came next. His breath left his lungs.

The broom was in the corner, but it wasn’t where it was supposed to be. It wasn’t by the oil baron. The oil baron was a no show.

Fletcher blinked. The space where the oil baron should have been was filled with a fresh patch of dust.

Fletcher ran his hand through his hair. The baron had been there just the day before, smiling at him from under a twisty mustache. The baron’s prim hands were held nicely behind its back, with a large bag of money. His suit had been cleanly pressed and tightened.

He’d seemed so pleasant, and happy to be here. What reason would he have had to leave?

Perhaps it didn’t matter that the baron was absent. Maybe Fletcher could go on without it.

Fletcher’s eyes went misty; he couldn’t. The baron was a critical part of the “Gingham Toys” industrial era collection. The baron had to be worth at least a few hundred dollars. Fletcher’s mind raced back to the garage sale that he’d attended, just a few years back; to the haggling that he had to undergo, with the Baron’s owner. A feeling of pride had swelled in Fletcher’s chest when he’d finally talked the owner down to twenty dollars. It was a feeling that was rare to come by, and precious when it did.

Fletcher’s loss in revenue may have been small. However, the baron himself was irreplaceable.

Though, who would have bothered taking it? It wasn’t as if many people in town were collectors. Besides, anybody who would’ve bothered taking the baron likely would’ve taken the rest of the industrial collection. Wouldn’t they?

Fletcher’s face contorted. There was only one person that it could’ve been.

. . .

“President Marigold, are you sure you don’t want to press the nuclear button?”

I look at the button. It’s real shiny. Big, clean, and red. The skull and bones on it throws me off a bit, though.

“Ma’am?”

It’s my military advisor. He really wants me to press it, doesn’t he? Pressing it would be damn fun, too. I’m called the “press-i-dent” for a reason. I press, and I’ll make a dent.

Is it the right time to make a dent though? I’m not sure.

“People are going insane out there. We need to establish dominance, over these foreign powers! Blowing them up is our best option right now.”

Pretty compelling case.

“We should probably talk over this, over lunch,” I say. “The chaos theorem says I don’t need to press it until midnight, a few days from now. Besides, I’m famished. How about you?”

Chapter 2:

Bits of wrappers and discarded coffee cups rolled past Fletcher. A hamster followed the pack, in a plastic ball. It made a defiant squeak as it did and rammed into Fletcher’s shin. Fletcher punted the hamster away and moved past the wave of trash. It wasn’t as if any owner was going to claim the rogue hamster. Nobody ever took responsibility in this town.

A wooden sign gave a slight creak in the wind. It held the peeling pink words, “Carol’s Flower Shop”. Despite having lost its luster, the sign remained as bold in Fletcher’s mind as ever.

His fist pounded against the shop’s glass door.

“Open up!” he cried. “I know that you’re in there!”

A woman with pruned lips strode up to the glass. The glass creaked.

“Doesn’t the sign say, ‘We Are Open. Welcome’?” asked Carol.

“Yeah, I can read,” Fletcher said. He rolled his eyes, though his voice now wavered.

“Well that’s good. And here I was, worried I hadn’t turned it over.”

She walked back through the shop and took a seat behind her counter.

A scowl formed on Fletcher’s brow. Carol was as smug as ever, twirling a packet of seeds along the surface of her counter. Meanwhile, he was just left to watch, behind a locked door.

“Let me in!” he shouted again.

He took a step back and shook his head. He didn’t want to escalate things, but he had to. He charged.

“Let me i—!”

The door swung forward. Fletcher hurtled toward the floor of the flower shop, only just catching his balance on a counter covered in potted plants.

Fletcher’s arm jerked outward, awkwardly. A thud resounded as flowerpot hit the floor and disintegrated to dust. Fletcher didn’t flinch. He was decent at catching his own balance, but catching Carol’s stupidly unbalanced pots was impossible.

“You figured out how to open the door, I see,” Carol said, with a grin. “Anyway, how is your day going?”

“I swear that the door had been locked,” Fletcher muttered.

“Jammed, probably. Nothing to fret over.” Her eyes wandered along the ceiling. She forced a smile. “What’s your gag of the day? Are my lights ‘too loud’? You still want me to pay to have the door removed? You think the scent of my flowers are making your customers loopy?”

“You kidnapped the oil baron!” Fletcher said. “I know it was you. Your fingerprints are all over it?”

Carol feigned a look of shock. Nonetheless, Fletcher caught the twinge of uncertainty in her eyes. There was malice lurking there. There had to be.

Her nose crinkled. “I kidnapped who?”

“The oil baron. He was one of the tin toys I had, sitting on my display shelves. Don’t pretend that you never saw it!”

“I’m afraid I am unaware of who that is.”

“I’d bet you’ve been stealing all of my toys. It’s the only way you can keep a business like this afloat.”

She stood from her chair and between two walls of sunflowers. Sunlight spilled from her new sunroof, setting her aglow. She was clearly proud she’d put the sunroof in place. However, Fletcher couldn’t help but seethe. She still hadn’t bothered removing the hazardous door between their shops.

“Normally your prank complaints are very funny, Fletcher,” said Carol. “I like to think that we can come around and become fine neighbors. But this prank is a bit far, don’t you think? I haven’t even left the shop over the past few days. How on earth could I have stolen any of your toys?”

“You don’t understand! This oil baron is going to cost me hundreds of dollars in potential revenue. You need to return it.”

“And I would. But I would never be so cruel as to take it from you.”

“But…”

“My lord!”

The room trembled. Carol fell back and leaned on her counter. She placed two fingers over her wrist and pinched her eyes.

“Another earthquake…” Fletcher mumbled, once the trembling had stopped.

They’d been more common over the past few days.

“Could you be a dear and get the broom to clean up that mess you made?” Carol said.

She gave a feeble gesture to her left, but Fletcher already knew where to go.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But I just can’t take any more of these pranks of yours. I know that your business must be struggling. And, you’re right in thinking my business is struggling to stay afloat too. Melinda Clover and her stupid new greenhouse… Can you believe she’s been giving out free pumpkin seeds? The nerve!”

Fletcher gave her a blank look.

Carol plowed forward. “However, in these troubled times? We just need to work to keep our heads above water.”

The dustpan shook as Fletcher swept the shards of pottery into them.

“I still hate your shop. The flowers have me sneezing awake every night…”

Carol laughed. “Enough, you know you like it here.”

Annoyed, Fletcher said, “…But maybe you have a point. You weren’t there yesterday. And, the oil baron was still there yesterday…”

“See?”

“You’re not off the hook. Have you noticed the oil baron anywhere? Or, seen any suspicious persons, in this area? Because, if you have, I have a right to know. Otherwise, you’re still inadvertently stealing the oil baron away from me.”

Carol shook her head. “I haven’t seen anything of the sort. I’ve been preoccupied with the reveal that came out.”

“Oh, the chaos equation, or whatever? I would’ve hoped people would be over that by now.”

“Chaos theorem. You haven’t taken it yet?”

“Why would I? It’s just a bunch of quackery.”

“Well, I assure you. This thing — it’s not going away.”

Fletcher plucked one of the leaves off a plant and began tearing it apart in his hand. Green pigment rubbed off on his skin, staining it.

“Please don’t touch that,” Carol said.

“This plant is so ugly. Honestly, I thought it was a weed. It probably looks better without the leaf, honestly.”

“It’s a rare cicada. Keep pulling its leaves off like that, and you’ll kill it.”

“That won’t happen. If it wants to live, it’ll live.”

Carol attempted to maintain her composure. Fletcher kept his scowl waiting for her to break.

“Anyway, the chaos theorem is definitely something that you should care about. Scientists warn that it’s dangerous to be uninformed.”

“I’m not uninformed. I just don’t care.”

Fletcher sneezed. The stench of flowers in the room was obtrusive, and his head was starting to spin. He wiped his nose and went toward the exit.

Carol gave a pitying look. “I took the chaos theorem. It’s so enlightening! It’ll tell you everything about your life; past, future, and present. You’re honestly telling me that you’re not even the slightest bit curious about what’s in the chaos theorem?”

“What I’m curious about is something that you can’t answer me. Do you know where the oil baron is?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well, he didn’t just disappear! The only time I’ve ever seen that was when my uncle did a magic trick of eating one whole.” Fletcher paused, to cough. Something itchy had caught in his throat. “If you can’t tell me where it is, I’m going to talk to the cops about all this!”

Carol’s face went dark, and she lowered her head. There was a something there. “I’m sorry, but I have no idea—.”

“Good day, then!”

Fletcher went and slammed the door. He couldn’t get Carol’s dejected face out of his head. It left his heart stewing with guilt. However, what was he to do? She was clearly withholding information. Even if she wasn’t, something needed to be done.

. . .

So odd, that Fletcher is. Every time he comes here, he distracts me from watering my plants. He always seems upset about something. If only he hadn’t spent all that time with that strange Margaret, maybe he’d be happier.

I could board up that door in the top levels, like he’s always asking me about. But, it gives him a reason to come here, and have some fun. He seems so lonely. He probably needs people like me as friends, to keep his head on his shoulders. Lord knows things aren’t easy right now.

Fletcher needs to take that chaos theorem test.

If only Timothy was still around; for Fletcher’s sake, at least. He was such a great uncle, and he knew how to run that business too. Nothing got by him.

Have I watered my plants yet? I must have. See, now I can’t remember. If only I could remember what the chaos theorem said that I did.

Chapter 3:

“You want me to send out my entire police squad out, as a search party… All over a lost toy?”

Officer Mayhew’s lips curled. He sped his gum chewing to try holding back a laugh.

“That’s what I just said, yes,” said Fletcher. “I give this department my tax money, I respect the law as an abiding citizen… I, at the very least, expect justice to be served when injustice falls upon me.”

Officer Mayhew nodded.

“And you’re sure that you didn’t just… I don’t know, misplace it? It’s just, we have a lot on our plate right now, what with the looting, rioting, murdering… drug trafficking.”

He gave Fletcher a look. Fletcher squirmed in his seat.

“Don’t get me wrong,” said Officer Mayhew. “I’m on your side with this. It’s just… We don’t have enough time.”

He gestured to the grandfather clock sitting behind his desk. The pendulum swung heavily. Fletcher noted the intricacies in the grandfather clock’s design. It was a beautiful work of craftsmanship, completely out of place amid the rest of officer’s office. There were no other decorations, beige smearing all but one of the walls. Moreover, the one wall that wasn’t beige wasn’t a “wall” at all; it was a flimsy divider. Fletcher strained to tune out the chatter from the neighboring office.

“If you can form a search party for my oil baron, I might be able to give you a reward for your trouble,” Fletcher said, managing a wink.

“Much as I’d love that? Once again, there’s just not enough—.”

“I have more than enough money. How much do you need? Two hundred? Five? I can go up to a full thousand, if need be. No need to play hardball with me.”

Rolling his gum over his tongue, Officer Mayhew shook his head. “If you haven’t noticed, Dexburg is kind of in shambles. Take the pickpocket, for example… Still at large.”

Fletcher snorted. “The pickpocket? Please. Who cares?”

Officer Mayhew raised himself in his chair. “Well, just this morning we had a guy throwing himself from Dexburg Bridge, a guy defecating in the streets, a guy slashing tires, a guy quitting his job… And that was just one guy. Our hands are full.”

Fletcher snorted. “You’re feeding into the hysteria. If you just ignore everything going on in the news, it’ll be fine. It’s all just a bunch of bogus pseudoscience anyway.”

Officer Mayhew raised an eyebrow. “You’re really calling the chaos theorem pseudoscience?”

“What would you call it?”

“Uh, anti-pseudoscience. The scientists who constructed the algorithm have one of the most powerful supercomputers on earth — and, they have the lives of everybody in a basket. Every detail of your life, my life, the life of a grasshopper crossing the freeway… It’s there, typed out, listed, and postmarked.”

“Yeah, sure,” said Fletcher.

A brush of air came from Officer Mayhew’s papers, while he skimmed through them. He acted as if it were somehow the more important thing to do.

“If you don’t want my advice, you don’t want my advice,” Officer Mayhew said. “I can have your rear hauled right out of my office any time I want. Just because you’re Timothy’s boy doesn’t mean I don’t remember your record!”

Fletcher called his bluff. “Look, I’ve heard a lot of different things about the chaos theorem on the tv and the radio. There’s no way that it’s more important than my missing figurine. For all the talk, nobody can tell me one lick about how it works. Nobody has even said what the damn thing is. Isn’t that odd, officer? Doesn’t that smell a little fishy to you?”

“I can’t tell you…”

Fletcher smirked. “Exactly.”

“No, I mean, I really can’t tell you. You clearly haven’t done your due diligence and gone to the local ‘theorem booth’, have you?”

“Seeing as this is all a bunch of bolognas, I can’t say I was all that inclined.”

Officer Mayhew throttled back in his chair, and tucked his chin in. Raising a firm finger, he cleared his throat.

“Mr. Fletcher, cool it. You’re skating on some mighty fine ice, right now”

“Cooled.”

“Good. Because, it seems you need a bit of educating.”

Officer Mayhew’s lips tightened as he wadded his old gum into its wrapper and popped a new piece in his mouth. He ran a finger along his mustache. Despite Mayhew’s mustache being well-trimmed, it was covered in crumbs. A grimace formed on Fletcher’s face.

Rolling his wad of gum in his hand, Officer Mayhew assumed an assertive tone. “Okay. So. The chaos theorem might tell you your life’s story before you even lived it. But, if you told somebody how your life’s story would end before it ended, your entire life story would change. Right? The chaos theorem only works if nobody shares the chaos theorem.”

“That’s what my neighbor, Carol, was telling me the other day… Not buying it. If all it takes to break the theorem is somebody talking, the theorem’s logic probably broke a long time ago.”

“Not true. The chaos theorem accounts for that. Nobody can corrupt the chaos theorem, unless the chaos theorem planned for it. And, if somebody does corrupt it? They’ll be punished by the law. The government has made sure of it.”

Fletcher struggled to keep from going cross-eyed as he tried tracking the logic.

He gave up when his head began to ache. “Yeah? What kind of punishment?”

“I’m not sure… It’s never happened. Maybe they give you a hefty fine? Or they blow your head off? One of those two.”

“Mayhew, you’re the law. You should know this.”

Outwardly, Fletcher chuckled. Inwardly though, he hoped to god the punishment wasn’t a fine. There was no way that he’d be able to afford it. His toy shop was barely making ends meet. It had come to the point where he needed to ask Jim Harrigan for another loan — and Harrigan was already hounding him for loan payments.

“President Marigold hasn’t said. Fines or executions,” said Mayhew, with a shrug. “That’s all I know.”

Blinking, Fletcher said, “Everything you’re saying sounds fine and good. But I didn’t come here just to get lectured about the latest fad. I want one thing from you, Mayhew: to find my toy. The pickpocket doesn’t matter, nor whatever other off the rails headline is going around. If you guys can’t find my toy, this entire department doesn’t have priorities straight.”

Heavy breaths flowed through Fletcher’s lungs. His echoes pinged off the walls. The yammering from next door quieted, and Officer Mayhew’s chewing stopped. Fletcher smiled.

Tearing a slip of paper from his notebook, Officer Mayhew scribbled something down.

The tip of his pencil snapped. Mayhew shoved the pencil in his sharpener and cranked the handle. He gave Fletcher a glare, then returned to the sharpening.

“What are you putting down in the report?” Fletcher asked. “If you need it, my address is—.”

“It’s not a report.” The pencil tip snapped again. “It’s my grocery list.”

“That’s ridiculous. Why didn’t you make your grocery list at the crack of dawn, like a normal person?”

“Because, the chaos theorem told me you’d be coming here, and I wanted an excuse for you to leave. So, yes. Leave. Get out of my office. You clearly don’t care about this crazy crisis. I bet you don’t even care about the crazy price of my grocer’s tomatoes!”

“That’s because it’s all gone crazy is over nothing. You might as well tell me that the sun is made of cheese.”

His face burning bright red, Officer Mayhew leaned toward Fletcher. He was so close that Fletcher could count the hairs on Officer Mayhew’s mustache, and feel the warmth of his breath. Mayhew had numerous jagged teeth. The only silver lining was that Officer Mayhew’s breath smelled minty fresh.

“I guess… I guess the joke is on you!” Officer Mayhew said. The back of Fletcher’s chair in tow, he marched toward the door. “Last week, one of my buddies told me that the sun is probably actually made of cheese! According to science, no less.”

Officer Mayhew dumped Fletcher out of the chair and tried pushing him out the door. Fletcher managed to prop the door open with his arm.

“Oh yeah? What kind of cheese?”

“Cheddar.”

“Cheddar?”

“Cheddar.”

“Good to know. I’ll remember that when I make my own search party and do a better job at policing than you cheddar-eaters!”

Officer Mayhew made a grunt and pushed Fletcher’s arm out.

“Goodbye!” Officer Mayhew said.

The door clanged shut.. . .

Fletcher was a squirrely one, to be sure. I don’t quite know why he couldn’t just take my no for a… A no?

I don’t know.

Hopefully he’s not on that stuff that’s being shopped around. God knows it’ll only destroy him. Here’s hoping he takes the theorem, and lets it set him straight.

Why does the lieutenant always set me up with the nutjobs? He’s going around, busting crime lords and rioters. Meanwhile I’m over here trying to figure out where this jackass lost his bag of jacks, or marbles, or whatever.

I’m a serious cop. People should take me seriously.

Great. My phone is ringing again. The password won’t unlock — stupid touchscreen.

After all this, I better not be about to talk to another nut.

Chapter 4:

A glib poster of Mayor Haddock stared out into space. The words, “Vote for Haddock!” were emblazoned below. The poster flinched as another poster was placed overtop, and a staple was shot into it.

Fletcher took a step back and smiled. He read the new poster to himself.

“Wanted: Missing Oil Baron. A nice box of staples will be rewarded to the finder.”

The letters were emblazoned in bright red, overtop a blurry picture of the oil baron. The picture was overblown, and nigh impossible to make out. However, whoever had stolen the oil baron would recognize exactly what was in the picture. They’d return the oil baron, no doubt.

Who could pass up a reward?

“Great work!” Carol said, poking her head from out of her flower shop. “You’re really making some progress now!”

Down the street were dozens of posters, taped, stapled, hot glued, and twist-tied into place. If the posters had been about anything other than the baron, Fletcher would’ve thought them garish. However, there was a charm to them. With the posters hanging among trash and an overcast sky, their bright colors gave a jolt of life.

Fletcher crossed his arms and faced Carol straight on. “Is that right?”

She gave her hands a light clap. “Of course. They look just lovely. I couldn’t be happier to see you finally getting a handle on things. I’ll definitely keep an eye out for that oil baron.”

Her pleasant mood was utterly artificial. It had to be. Deep down, she must’ve been broiling mad. Nevertheless, Carol whipped out a small camera, snapped a photo of one of the posters, and headed back for her shop.

Fletcher fumbled for words when Carol gave a polite, “Have a nice day.”

Carol pushed her shop door open. She was yanked away by someone.

“Come on Carol! Are you going to let this clown get away?”

Marvin Whisk gripped Carol by the forearm and dragged her toward Fletcher. His suit strained to stay seamed at the legs and waist. On his hairline, straggling strands of hair flayed about. His eyes flared, then flitted.

“I and Carol are sick of your antics!” Marvin said. “You come out here on a perfectly nice Friday, and ruin business by shoving your store’s adverts all over the street! You also took down Mayor Haddock’s posters! And without consent, no less. Do you really think we’re going to let you steal focus that easily? Think again, buster!”

Fletcher chuckled. Marvin was quite the practical joker, always putting on an act of fury. It was playful banter though. Despite Marvin’s jokes of them being rivals, there was no beating Marvin’s store, or the prices it had on antiques.

“Yeah, you know me,” Fletcher said, laughing along. “Always trying to destroy rival businesses.”

He winked. Marvin didn’t break character, his facial contortions still winding up.

“Finally, you admit it!” Marvin really was good at keeping his character.

“Admit what?”

“Oh ho, don’t you get me started,” Marvin said, wagging his finger, “Just last week, you painted your name on my shop wall. And let’s not forget the time that you put a mountain of oatmeal packets in front of my window. You — you’re just trying to mess with my head. Make me feel like I’m insane! Don’t you agree, Carol?”

Carol’s face turtled inward. She pulled her arm from Marvin’s grip. “I don’t really want any part of your little fit, Marvin. Fletcher seems like he just—.”

“Carol, that’s very rich. But, it’s time to stop messing around, and just admit the truth to this dolt!”

Carol scowled. Of course she was scowling — was there ever a time when she didn’t seem angry?

“Dolt? I don’t think there’s any need to throw insults. This isn’t a trial, Marvin. Fletcher’s attempts to build up his business are ingenious, if eccentric.”

There Carol went again, being facetious. Fletcher readjusted his collar and tried ignoring her.

“Let’s get out of here, Marvin,” Fletcher said, clearing his throat. “Carol might be starting to take your jokes seriously. Besides, I could use your help setting more of these posters up.”

Marvin spluttered. “Excuse me? Are you calling me a joke now? Carol, can you believe this guy?”

Marvin leaned inward and put his hands on Fletcher’s shoulders.

“Listen here,” Marvin said.

He was probably about to give some insightful advice; that’s what Marvin was always doing. Yet, the conversation was cut short by a tremor. The buildings trembled. Posters fluttered throughout the street. Fletcher jumped from his spot as a chunk of brick hurtled toward the ground.

“That was quite the thing to listen to,” Fletcher said, with a chuckle.

Marvin rubbed the back of his neck and kicked away some broken brick. “Damn earthquakes… I swear, they never stop coming.”

“Obviously,” Carol said. “It’s earthquake season here. If you hate it, wear a hard hat. Wait… Speaking of hard hats.”

Whistling wafted through the air. A man entered the street, flipping a hard hat as he went.

“We finally have a customer here!” Marvin said. “Welcome to Purview Street!”

Carol pulled a grass pot and shovel from her windowsill, then tore toward the man. Marvin pulled an antique knife from his pocket and followed.

Fletcher yanked a yo-yo from his pocket. Yo-yos were his worst sellers, so he always kept one on him to get rid of the inventory.

The unsuspecting man let out a yelp. He hadn’t taken kindly to the sight of three people rushing toward him. Especially three people who were armed with a shovel, a knife, and a yo-yo.

“Please, I want no trouble!” he said, turning to break into a sprint.

Marvin managed to run ahead of him and block his path. “Wait! Would you be interested in purchasing anything? Or, maybe looking in one of our stores? Want to see this unique, antique knife of mine?”

“I have the best pot of grass you’ll ever find!” Carol said, practically planting the man’s face in her pot. “It’s ten times better than what Melinda Clover will give you!”

Fletcher twiddled his thumbs. Perhaps they were coming on too strong.

The man adjusted his hard hat, pulling the brim over his eyes. “Salespeople? I don’t want any of that either!”

Perhaps “perhaps” was an understatement.

The man shoved off from the circle, and speed walked toward the street corner.

“Please, give us a second of your time,” Carol said.

“I’m not interested in buying anything. The chaos theorem said that I’m not. And even if I was interested, I still wouldn’t be, because the chaos theorem said.”

Marvin rubbed his eyes. “Sorry… You don’t want to buy because the chaos theorem told you not to, or is the chaos theorem controlling you to not buy? Either way, I don’t buy it.”

“Look, I just came down here to get to the post office. But seeing that you guys are insane, and there are all of these papers everywhere—!”

Marvin raised his hands in surrender. “All right, all right, we’ll lay off.”

Carol and Marvin walked away, but the man stayed put. He peeled off a poster taped to the ground.

“Wait,” he whispered, “what even is this?”

“It’s a wanted poster,” Fletcher said. “One of my toys was kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped, you say?” the man’s face went grave. “From your shop?”

Fletcher nodded.

“I think I might’ve seen a kidnapping like that, actually… Yes. Remember that day, when the pogo stick parade was going around?”

“That was just yesterday,” Fletcher said.

“Well… I thought it was on Thursday.”

Fletcher paused. “You’re right, now that I think about it. It was definitely Thursday.”

“Anyway, I came down here to get out of the crowds, and to get to the post office. I saw some guy walk out of your store. He was carrying a toy. I think it might’ve looked just like that.”

“You really think that? Exactly like this?”

“It definitely might’ve. Maybe.”

“Maybe is almost the same as exactly. Probably.” Fletcher rested his hand on his chin. “The timeline tracks. What did the man look like?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“I kind of do. That’s why I asked.”

A slight quiver went through the ground. Fletcher grasped a lamppost and brought his gaze to the sky. There was no telling when another quake might strike.

The man looked over his shoulder. “Hopefully we’re safe here. Nothing has been the same, lately; so much crime. He was a big man. Very buff. Dressed in all purple. That’s how I remember it, anyway.”

Fletcher’s eyes widened. It all was becoming clear.

Fletcher forced a wide smile. “Goodbye.”

“Hey! Since I helped you out, do I get the free staples?”

Fletcher slammed the door to his toy shop.

. . .

I’m not insane. Who called me that? Whoever did, they’re the insane ones. Just because we need money and customers on this street, suddenly we’re crazy for trying to get some?

That’s crazy talk. It really is.

It’s all Fletcher’s fault. Him, and his stupid antics. Even with Carol on my side, it’s just not enough to undo the damage that he’s causing to our business.

Well… Most of his damage is his fault. There’s also the damage caused by that chaos theorem. I can’t believe so many people have taken it. Ever since it came out, everybody has been acting so strange. Granted, everybody is always acting strange. The world is run by idiots, no matter how much idiots say otherwise.

In any case, I need to fix whatever is going on. This can’t continue. I have to figure out what Fletcher is planning and put a stop to it. He might think that his business is going to dethrone mine, but I know better.

Chapter 5:

Papers and binders fluttered off the desk and crashed to the floor. The room swayed back and forth, while Fletcher and the floorboards groaned from vertigo. He needed some sort of stimulation — a high, to reassure him he was doing what was right.

As he broke into a clammy sweat, Fletcher observed the cold hue his desk lamp gave off. It lit up the walls, exposing cracks and rot.

At least Fletcher’s life wasn’t the only thing doing rotten.

Time was of the essence. He was just on the verge to solving this case. He couldn’t let the oil baron escape him.

His fingers clacked along his keyboard as he scoured profiles of “notable townspeople”, from Dexburg’s website. There were perks to being known for designing websites, even if it was a tedious job. Fast as the biographies scrolled by, he remained vigilant for the profile of a certain townsperson.

His hands clapped together. “Jackpot!”

A flow of adrenaline rushed through him, expelling his vertigo. He’d stumbled across the picture of a balding man in a jumpsuit: Logan Gerri.

A few weeks back, Fletcher had sold all of Gerri’s action figures at a discount, to pay for a new water heater. Gerri must’ve stolen the toy oil baron as revenge. It fit perfectly. Logan Gerri matched the look that had been described, and he had all the motivation in the world. The question was, how was Fletcher to confront Gerri about it?

Logan Gerri had been a famous wrestler, better known as, “the Mop”. In his prime he’d been one of the biggest jobbers on TV. He’d starred in several cleaner commercials and had his own movie — even if the studio never wound up releasing it.

All of this and more was detailed in Logan Gerri’s biography. Though, the detail that caught Fletcher’s eye was an address at the bottom; the address to Logan Gerri’s house.

Fletcher glanced at his Wally Walrus watch and closed out the town website. Time had gotten away from him. He could figure out how to confront Gerri later.

Fletcher rubbed sweat off his palms and onto his pants. He could practically see Uncle Timothy’s disappointed face, glowering at him. Uncle Timothy wouldn’t have allowed him to rest, until the oil baron was found. Though, the day was half over and Fletcher hadn’t made any headway with his clients’ requests.

He opened a new file and pasted blocks of code for a bare bones website. Nothing bad could come of getting a head start on Linda’s request.

Hours whizzed by, and Fletcher’s eyes went bloodshot. A frenzy overtook him. The end of the day neared the end of night, and Fletcher’s hands kept hacking away at the keyboard. Yet, his website was still something barely out of the 90s. Worse, his eyes were begging for sleep; his mind wanted to dream about the 90s, not relive it.

The website was good enough for a demo though. Fletcher smiled to himself. It was a true feat to have made this much progress in such short time.

Opening his email, he saw Linda still hadn’t responded to his request for payment. Nevertheless, he pasted in the code for his website, typed in Linda’s email, and hit send. She’d have to be impressed.

For about a minute after the email had been sent, Fletcher stared at the computer.

He hit refresh, and there was a ding. Fletcher’s heart fluttered. Linda must’ve been waiting for him.

Fletcher blinked. Then, he saw the contents of the new email.

“Fletcher. We need to talk. You can’t keep living in your toy store forever. Me and John Thatcher are meeting tomorrow at the other end of town. We’ll be at Chef Bernardo’s Diner. Coffee! 10:00 AM, sharp. Be there. If you don’t show, we’re busting down the door to your store.”

It was signed “Harry Doswell”.

Fletcher’s chest sunk. No response from Linda.

As for coffee? Fletcher hated coffee. There was no way this was going to go well.

. . .

The cup singed Fletcher’s lips.

“Woah, slow down on that caffeine there,” said John. “Jumping from one drug to another, huh?”

Fletcher pushed it aside. John was right; coffee was laced with too much caffeine.

“Easily the hottest coffee around,” said Fletcher. “Nothing beats Chef Bernardo’s. Still not sure it’s worth the price though.”

He made a laugh. Nobody laughed with him.

The coffee jostled. Fletcher’s hands trembled. He rubbed the deep bags under his eyes. He should’ve gotten more sleep before coming.

“I just got a promotion at my new job,” Harry said. “I’m the official assistant accountant of accountant accounts. It’s a very good job. Solid salary. Okay office. It’s nice.”

Fletcher nodded but was overwhelmed by the feedback surrounding him. Dozens of people were about. Seats creaked. Cups clinked. Lips slurped, then smacked. The cashiers spun in place, pouring the same coffee into different cups and giving the same smiles to different people. Smells, sights, and sounds smothered the senses. Fletcher brought his eyes to the ceiling and counted the amount of fluorescent lights.

Weren’t people always saying how diners were quiet? People certainly kept quiet on how loud they could be.

“That’s good.” Jack beamed. “I’ve been considering switching jobs myself. Of course, the chaos theorem never said anything about me quitting my job. So, I’ll probably wait until it does.”

Harry laughed. “I’d definitely do that. At least, that’s what the chaos theorem predicts I’d do.”

Fletcher brought his coffee back to his mouth, taking small sips. He needed the drink to last him the entire chat. With all the talk about predicting the future, he could already tell this trip was going to be a doozy.

“I have a duck for a boss right now, technically,” said Jack. “I’d do anything to change jobs — if the theorem said I could, of course — so I totally get what you mean.”

Harry nodded. “I totally get what you mean, too. I mean, mallards are dullards.”

Fletcher’s head throbbed and a fog clouded over his perception. Its haze left his eyes as stones. His body went motionless.

“What’s with you?” Jack said, turning to Fletcher.

Fletcher gave a slow look at Harry, then Jack. In a monotone, he said, “With me? Nothing is with me.”

“What I mean is... Well, what’s going on?”

They just kept going on and on. Fletcher popped a sugar cube in his mouth, hoping it might somehow clear his head.

“We’ve had quite the time without you,” said Harry, putting his hand on Fletcher’s shoulder. “You been doing the same?”

Pulling himself from his daze, Fletcher shook his head. “I am… Uh, well… Business is less than it’s been, but still more than before. It’s more than before you guys last saw me, that is.”

“You still trying to sell those pants puppets?”

“I was, but they didn’t do too well. Nobody was keen on having their pant zippers be used as a puppet mouth, apparently.”

“Dang. I was so sure those would be top sellers.”

Another sip of the coffee went into Fletcher’s mouth, and down his throat. It was liquid fire, but drinking the fire was better than talking about how much higher sales could be. A bit of the coffee entered his windpipe, and he coughed.

“It’s fine,” Fletcher said, working through the cough. “I’m doing a lot of things online. My website business is really taking off. I’ve done a few other software projects as well. I mean, it could be worse. I’m doing better than the fortune telling business.”

He grasped for a laugh that never came. The haze became heavier, tugging on his eyelids. His cough gained strength.

“Happy for you,” said John. “You know, if you really wanted some money, the chaos theorem might be able to give you a few tips… Or, have you already taken it?”

Fletcher caught his breath. “I di—.”

“You didn’t,” said John. “I already knew that, from the chaos theorem. I only asked you because the chaos theorem said I should.”

Fletcher gave a sympathetic look. “Understandable. In any case, I have a plan to get some money. I’m going to ask the bank for a loan. There’s also this toy that I’m looking for… If I find it and sell it, I stand to make quite a lot.”

“Good luck,” said Harry. “The banks are cranks, right now. Jim Harrigan especially. Pretty sure that their head banker also recently shot himself.”

“That’s horrible.”

“Yes, I think those were the bankers last words. See, he’d been trying to see what a bullet would taste like. It was so terrible, he died. Poor son of a gun.”

“In any case, I’m close to finding the toy. I know who must’ve stolen it: Logan Gerri. Now I just need to —.”

John spit out his coffee. “The Mop?” He stooped over to lap his coffee back up.

Harry leaned in, with his arms crossed. “You think Logan Gerri went into Timothy’s Toy Shop and stole one of your toys?”

Fletcher shrugged. “Sounds pretty normal to me. Just last week, a tax collector came in and stole some of my toy money. Or, was it real money that he stole? Whatever. I suppose there isn’t much of a difference.”

“Even if he stole it, there’s no way you’re getting it back from him. Trust me, I know him. The guy is a superstar!”

“You know him? From where?”

“He — he’s been coming down to Kent Burgess’ coal factory.” Harry’s voice slowed, and his face filled with caution. “You know, the one right on the river?”

“Oh, nice. I thought you meant the one by the park on Mt. Bancroft.”

“Nope. The other one. Anyway, I went there to count their doorknobs — for accounting purposes. Logan apparently has a brand deal with them. He also loves to complain.”

“God, I hate it when people do that.”

Fletcher’s head flooded with relief. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to go to Logan Gerri’s house. He just needed to catch him at the factory. There was a clear direction now; a path to victory.

“Yes, well…” Harry continued. “I suggest you leave him alone. Don’t you have better things to do with your time? New friends, a girlfriend…”

The wings were snipped from Fletcher’s spine, and he plummeted back to Earth. “I haven’t been with anybody for quite some time. Besides, you guys know me — I only really have you two.”

“You haven’t been with anybody since Margaret?” John said, laughing. “It’s been a year. Get over it.”

“How — how is Margaret?”

“She never wants to see you again,” Harry said. “She’s very happy now. She also installed a new security system.”

He smiled, as though to rub it in.

“It’s great to hear that she’s proactive about protecting herself.” Fletcher stopped to take in a deep breath. “Of course, I think I might have somebody else.”

“Who?”

Fletcher’s thoughts trailed back to Linda. “Somebody. Or, nobody. I don’t know. Maybe nobody.”

Harry put his arm over Fletcher’s shoulder. “Look… If you want certainty in your life? Fletcher, there’s a clear answer staring you in the face. You just need to…” Harry paused to make a gesture. “You know.”

“I’m not going to see a shrink. I heard that Dr. Ford makes his clients build castles out of macaroni, as a personality test. I have a deep fear of macaroni.”

John rolled his eyes. “I don’t think Harry is talking about a shrink, man.”

“The chaos theorem,” said Harry, “it opens up the whole world for you. It really gives a sense of perspective. Ever since I took the chaos theorem, my whole life has begun anew. I’m not the same guy. I stopped wearing socks with sandals, I’ve been cleaning my glasses more often, and my allergies aren’t as bad. And, John over here? He just bought a new car.”

“I bought an old car, but it’s newer than my old car, so I guess you could call it a new car.”

“Better than a new car that looks old, that’s all I know.”

Harry took a swig of his coffee and looked Fletcher into the eye. “Look, can you just do me a favor? Go down to the post office and take the chaos theorem screening.”

Fletcher shook his head. “I do that, and it’s all over. I don’t want to know what I’m going to do tomorrow, fellas. My life is under my command — not anybody else’s. Out of the universe’s constant absurdity, that’s the only thing that has ever made life worth living.”

Fletcher’s shoulder stiffened as Harry’s hand clasped around it. Fletcher studied the bristles of stubble on Harry’s chin. The stale smell of coffee breath was strong.

“Bud, you’re going to need to take that chaos theorem,” he said. “Trust me, there’s stuff in it that you’re going to need to see.”

A shadow passed over Harry’s face, and his eyes darted about. John scratched an itch on the back of his neck. He didn’t stop. John kept scratching, with his gaze on the ceiling and his face aimed at Fletcher. John and Harry looked like a couple of apes.

Who gave a crap what some test had to say? Since when did a group of scientists know what it was like to have a life? It was all bunk.

“’ll think about things,” Fletcher said. “Nice catching up.”

Hoisting himself up, he gave Harry and John a handshake.

“Yeah, think about that chaos theorem thing,” said Harry. “Oh hey, there’s this new movie out. Gorillas vs. Monkeys. I think it’s about a bunch of people talking in a boardroom, real bored, for two hours… And then there’s ten minutes of gorillas and monkeys fighting. It sounds great. We should see it sometime.”

The door gave a click, before being drowned out by the whir of coffee machines.

“Sounds perfect,” said Fletcher. “I can’t wait to find the perfect time.”

“Stay out of trouble,” said John. “Don’t chase that Gerri lead — you don’t know where it’ll lead — and get on that chaos theorem!”

Glib. Glamorous. That’s how their friendship was.

It was also a fib.

.

Fletcher doesn’t seem to be doing any better. Even Jack agrees, and he’s not all there half the time.

Seeing Dr. Ford might not actually be a bad idea. He never has been the same since the shop had to downsize, and Carol bought out half the shop space. You’d think a guy would get over these things, over time.

Then again, he still seems bitter toward me for my success. How is it my fault that Margaret chose me over him? It’s fate. If he took the theorem, he would see that. None of us have any control. It’s all just random chance, guiding us in a logical way.

He’ll see though. He’ll have to see the light.

Chapter 6:

The streets ran with milk and honey. Namely, because a honey truck had crashed into a milk truck, in the middle of the street. Two truck drivers stood outside the trucks, decidedly not truck driving. Rather, they measured the distance between their trucks, the intersection, the size of the holes in their trucks, and the volumes that their voices could reach in a shouting match. Finally, they took turns measuring the lengths of their beards.

All the while, people crowded around the golden goo, lapping it up. A man dressed in a fine business suit entered with a belly flop. He rolled around, turning tarter than a candied apple.

Cautiously, Fletcher stepped out of the bus.

“Hey! Are you going to pay me?” the bus driver cried.

“I’ll pay you later,” Fletcher mumbled. However, his thoughts were squarely on his surroundings.

“Destiny,” a woman cried, grabbing large scoops. “The theorem… It said this was destined to happen today.”

“I’m rolling in gold,” a man said, the saccharine sludge dribbling down his chin. “Fate would have it that I have all of this. This experience… It is experience!”

Fletcher tugged at his shoe, but it wouldn’t budge. The sludge had swallowed it. Brilliant. His toy shop was only a block away, but the entire street was blocked off by this crash. Fletcher pulled his foot from out of his shoe and limped away.

He probed the crowd, staring into their faces. Avarice brimmed their pupils and their faces were swollen. They were a bloated mass of bugs. A blister.

“Join in!” they crooned. “And enjoy!”

“End joy,” Fletcher shouted. “Wake up.”

Fletcher checked his Wally Walrus watch. It was already a quarter to noon — fifteen minutes past the time he’d usually sit down to eat toasted dinosaur waffles. He needed those waffles. Yet, here were all these people, waffling around, clogging up his schedule. He needed the waffles, by god!

As he passed the scene of the crash, a rogue chef ran through the street with a rolling pin, and an apron tied to his back as a cape.

“I’ve found a new purpose!” he yelped. “Chef Bernardo, eat your heart out!”

He proceeded to chase a stray cat, which had innocently been chasing down a mouse. The man didn’t stop until his foot landed in a mouse trap.

“Just as I had planned,” he moaned, struggling against the trap.

Fletcher broke into a stilted jog, praying to avert the attention of those around him. However, the further he went, the further calamity went with him. A ceiling fan shot out of a window, nearly slicing Fletcher’s head off. A man came from an alley, riding a saddled dog. A flock of ducks raided a fruit stand, while the fruit stand’s owner ran into the road.

“The theorem says I’m finally about to get three months off!” the fruit stand owner announced, before being run over by the man with the saddled dog.

Strangely, the pandemonium faded to nothing when Fletcher turned the corner to Purview Street. The street was empty, save for an old man doddering in the center.

“Flies all are skies, in my disguised eyes,” the old man murmured, his eyes frenzied.

Keeping his head down, Fletcher fumbled with the lock to his toy shop. The door clanged shut behind him.

Wild; that’s what it was outside. Why had he even bothered going out? There was a hex over Dexburg. Though, there always had been a hex, hadn’t there? Decay ate away at the outer edges of every building, reducing them to must and dust. The town was in constant battle with the elements. Time and wind would win, in time.

The mouse cursor roved the screen as Fletcher’s computer booted up. Fletcher soaked in the screen’s soft glow, then navigated to his email. A fresh swath of complaints rolled by the screen — ten of them alone were from some angry fortune teller. Nonetheless, Fletcher’s eyes latched onto a lone email. “Thank you,” was its subject line.

Fingers trembling, Fletcher skipped to the end of the email.

“Love Linda,” Fletcher whispered.

He forced himself to track back to the start.

“Thank you for the website demo,” the email read. Gratitude; how gratifying. That almost never happened. “I just adore it. There’s nothing wrong. It just amazes me how someone could find the time to do it all and do it so well. Just one problem: I only feel safe sending checks through the mail right now, due to all the chaos. But I’ll need some extra money for shipping. I’ll make sure to pay you back. Write me back, so I know if you got this. Love, love, love it.”

Fletcher fell back in his chair and ran his hand through his greasy hair. When had he last showered? It didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered. His heart was beating a million times a minute. His head was abuzz. He couldn’t have just read what he thought he had. Yet, the words were there, staring him in the face.

He’d barely put any effort into the website demo. It’d been slapped it together, while he was half asleep. Despite this, Linda was the most satisfied customer he’d ever gotten.

He needed to rush out cruddy websites more often.

His eyes ran back over every line, analyzing and speculating on them. Was there more than met the eye? Some deeper subtext beneath the surface? There certainly were teases, but nothing concrete.

Linda had begged him to write back. Surely that didn’t mean nothing. Unless it did… If that were the case, everything would have to mean nothing.

Fletcher scoffed. Everything meaning nothing and nothing meaning everything — that would be something.

“Dear Linda,” he wrote. He pecked the keys individually, to avoid typos. Even so, he rewrote the first two words two too many times. “Thank you for the thank you message. I saw it. I appreciate having you as a customer. The check system should work. I will an address or routing number though, to send it to you.”

A salamander running across a touchscreen could’ve written something better. Fletcher watched one do as much at the zoo, just the other day. Rubbing his scalp, he hit delete. He attempted a rewrite, only revive his original message.

In methodical precision, he studied the structure of each sentence. Was it good enough? Could more be done?

He planted his face into the keyboard. There was a ding.

“Message sent,” the screen read.

His message had gone out, along with some gibberish written by his face.

Excellent. He had one shot at sending the message, and he’d blown it. There was no deleting it. Could he send in a revised message, maybe? Fletcher feverishly typed one out, only to stop.

Whatever. Who cared, anyway?

The screen let off another ding.

Linda had sent a reply. Fletcher was nearly sent into a coma. He took a moment to recollect himself.

“Ha, glad to hear it,” the message read. “I was confused about your website’s text box prompt. Is there any way that you could show me how to work it? Also, I don’t think giving my address will work. Maybe you could leave the check at a certain location, and I’ll pick it up? Where do you live? You seem close to me. You’re the best!”

She wanted to know where he lived. You seem close to me. Fletcher grinned. It was like a dream. “There are several ways to handle the text box. Though, I’d need to know a little more about you to figure out the best way for you to fill it.”

His fingers then clacked out his address. Fletcher’s face burned red as the message went out.

There was another ding; another message to read.

“Thanks for the address. I’ll write more about where to bring the check, later. Anyway you could give me an example for the text box, for your amazing website? Love ya.”

Creating an example should have been easy enough. The text box was but a matter of inserting text. It would be piece of cake.

Fletcher’s tongue rolled in his mouth as he searched for the right response. His mind was blank. What would he put in the sample bio? Something fake? Something real? Something in between?

Was he going insane? What kind of person flirted over email? Surely half of the emotional weight behind the conversation was all in his head.

His fingers managed a, “Sounds great. It might take me a little while to cook something up for you, though…”

The message went out. Fletcher’s eyes stayed on the screen, pleading for it to ding one more time. He needed one more shot of pleasure. However, the screen was indifferent to his plight.

Linda must’ve been put off. Or, maybe she was busy. She was busy.

Wally Walrus was frowning; half the day was gone. He checked the blank spot on his shelf; the oil baron was still gone. Why had Fletcher let himself get distracted from what was important? He still hadn’t even talked to Logan Gerri yet; there was much headway to be made.

Fletcher straightened his collar and went to his closet for his hat.

. . .

“Are you bumming LSD back there, or are you just that excited to be back on my crappy bus?”

Fletcher fidgeted in his seat as the bus ran over another pothole. Somebody needed to repave the roads. Out the window, a group of construction workers were using shovels to put dents in the asphalt.

“So that’s how potholes are made,” Fletcher murmured.

He clicked his pen and fumbled it in his hand. The bus stopped at an intersection, pushing Fletcher against his seat. His leg jittered.

“I’ll take it that you’re on LSD,” the bus driver snorted.

The bus driver hit the gas, not bothering to stop again for a “bear crossing” sign. It was a useless sign. There never had been any bears in Dexburg, so far as Fletcher could recall. Though, that was strange in its own way. What did bears have against being on the street?

Fletcher glanced out the window. Bears weren’t the only ones that didn’t want to be out. The streets were barren and building lots were abandoned. Somehow, the emptiness left him hopelessly claustrophobic. He didn’t want to bring his eyes back inside of the bus, though. The bus’s occupancy was no better.

“Are you just going to keep keeping your mouth shut, like a dumbass?” the bus driver asked.

At least the bus driver was a reassuring presence.

“I have a rule on this bus, you know. The passenger is supposed to talk to the driver, and the driver is supposed to ignore them. You’re breaking protocol, buddy.”

The bus driver pointed upward, to a sign embossed in the roof. Sure enough, it held those exact words. How Fletcher rode on this bus for years and never noticed, he couldn’t say. Then again, there were more distractions before the chaos theorem had struck; back when people still rode the bus.

“Where the hell are you going, anyway?” the driver asked. “I’m obligated to keep going down this route, but I’m going to be honest: I’m not all that keen on stopping.”

“We’re not stopping here. You can stop at Otto’s Grove.”

The driver whistled.

“You have a stop over there, and you’re riding on my bus, money bags?”

“About that… I forgot my bus token. I’ll have to pay you back later.”

“You better be joking, or I’m kicking you off.”

Fletcher’s leg wobbled again.

“I guess you’ll have to find out,” Fletcher said with a chuckle.

“I already know, bud. You don’t think I read the chaos theorem? It said a funny looking dude would get on my bus, ride to Otto’s Grove, and stiff me. I already know how this entire interaction is supposed to end.”

The bus’s motor shirked into a turn, slamming Fletcher into the window. Head aching, and stomach knotting, he gripped the back of the seat in front of him. His fingers ran along the leathery, as he strained for a renewed sense of normality.

“You knew I wasn’t going to pay you, and you still let me on?” Fletcher asked.

“I don’t know that you’re not going to pay me. You know that you’re not going to pay me, and I know that you know it. Or, so it says, in the theorem.”

“But, if you wanted to make money, you could just break the theorem’s prediction and kick me off. You just said you would kick me off, a moment ago.”

The bus swerved, and the bus driver grunted as he attempted to course correct.

“I know I said I’d kick you if you didn’t pay…” the bus driver said. “And, I know I said I know you won’t…”

He grunted again, then rolled down his window to spit.

“But, I don’t know that you won’t pay. Not really,” he continued. “All I know for sure is that I won’t kick you off my bus, even if I said I would, because the theorem says I can’t. Even if I did kick you? It couldn’t actually be me who did it, because the theorem says I didn’t. That is, unless the theorem said I still did it, to spite what it initially said. In that case, though? I only didn’t not do it because I couldn’t. It all has to do with that theorem, Fletcher. You can’t break the theorem. The theorem breaks you. It makes sense, if you really think about it.”

The bus slowed to a crawl as tattered structures fell away, and the surroundings became more vibrant. They’d entered Otto’s Grove. Fletcher counted the expansive houses that rolled past, to help distract from the throbbing in his head.

“I’m sorry,” Fletcher moaned, “but I’m lost. Did the equation tell you exactly what you were going to do today, or did it not?”

“It didn’t not,” the bus driver said, confidently.

“How much did it tell you? Can you tell me how this is all going to end?”

“How much of what? How all of what is going to end?”

“This drive. How much do you know about this drive?”

“Everything, and nothing. That’s what the theorem said. And more. Though, I can’t tell you more, because that’s only the theorem’s knowledge to give. I can’t talk about what the theorem says, unless the theorem says I do. Then, I do talk about it. It’s all very touchy.”

The bus screeched to a halt, in the middle of a roundabout.

“Well, that’s our stop,” the bus driver said, scratching at the scruff on his chin. The door swooshed open. “Time for you to get off my crappy bus, and not pay me.”

Fletcher was leaving when he rammed into the door. It’d suddenly shut.

Turning around, Fletcher gave the bus driver a look. The bus driver only stared back, with a flash of mischief through his eyes.

“What’s the big idea?” Fletcher said, with a huff. “Open the door.”

The bus driver’s face was unrelenting.

Fletcher leaned over the bus driver’s shoulder and pressed the door’s button.

“Sorry, but… Theorem.” The driver shrugged his shoulders.

Fletcher flipped a finger and walked out.

“Good luck with Logan Gerri!” the bus driver shouted.

The bus growled away. Fletcher was left in a daze, searching for Logan Gerri’s house. A rock formed in his stomach. He hadn’t ever mentioned to the bus driver that he’d been looking for Logan Gerri’s house.

Had he? Had he not? Had he not, not?

. . .

That guy smells terrible. He could really use a wash. He could also use some cash, while he’s at it. Hopefully he’s going to get himself an actual job.

Who am I kidding? There are no more jobs in this freaking town. It’s all going to crud. This old bus is about all this town has left, far as I’m concerned.

Can’t wait until Kent Burgess tries getting his grubby hands on my boss’s bus… That’ll be a day.

Chapter 7:

It was gorgeous. Built of a stained glass, the window had elaborate rainbow patterns crisscrossed at its edges. At its center was an image of Jesus, riding a motorcycle. Or, was it just a man that looked like Jesus?

Fletcher threw a rock through the cyclist’s head before he could decide. The glass buckling and shattering, Fletcher dove through. Flakes of glass clung to his hair and clothes. When he landed on the floor, more pieces bit into his skin.

“I hope he has insurance,” he muttered to himself.

He used a coffee table to pull himself back to his feet. Another shatter resounded, as he knocked a pot from the table. Guilt rising in his stomach, he tried sweeping the shards under the coffee table. Though, he knocked into a large vase as he did.

“Just a vase he said.”

However, a series of vases lined the hall. The one knocked vase turned to a series of knocked vases, and a domino of crashes resounded. The regret in Fletcher’s gut morphed to a feeling of panic.

The room throttled back and forth. Fletcher tightened his grip to the coffee table, only to have it slide toward him. Another earthquake? If it were an earthquake, staying inside would be dumber than what he’d already done.

He looked back out the window but was greeted by a mass of dark clouds. A blast of thunder unfurled from them.

Wonderful; there was the choice between a death storm, and a death trap. Fletcher went with the death trap, running from the window and further down the hall. Fletcher took note of how well-adorned the walls were. They held pieces that looked as though they belonged in a museum.

Traveling further into the belly of the Mop’s mansion, he found smears of graffiti, confetti, and whipped cream. The floor was coated in a layer of trash; it was too much to be from the earthquake.

There’d either been a raging party, or a raging riot. Fletcher wasn’t sure he wanted to know which.

Gingerly, Fletcher turned a corner into a dining hall. Piles of food were strewn across a long table, and all over the floor. A television warbled in the corner. At the sight of it, Fletcher began scanning for the oil baron. Gerri was one of those people who were stupid enough to put their television in the same place they ate. Surely, he’d put the stolen toy in the same place. It was simply how logic worked.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Fletcher took a step backward when a quake knocked him from his feet. The back of his head made a hard smack with the linoleum floor.

There was a laugh. “What a smack! Wow! I’d see Dr. Ford about that.”

Fletcher’s mind immediately went to horror stories he’d heard about Dr. Ford. One of the wealthiest neighborhoods in town, and Fletcher was still being recommended the town’s pond scum.

“No dancing around it,” Fletcher groaned, his head fuzzy. “We’re all in the same boat.”

“Wait… Are you one of those tap dancers hired to come here? Or, are you a break dancer? Wait, don’t tell me: you’re a hybrid!”

Woozily, Fletcher looked up. A man stood over him, his body rippling with tight muscles. Despite his muscles’ intensity, his face was loose and jovial.

It could’ve only been one person.

“Logan Gerri,” Fletcher moaned.

The earthquake had calmed to a murmur. Fletcher rolled on his stomach and attempted a push up. Weak though it was, Fletcher felt a surge of pride when he stood to face Logan.

Looking into Logan’s face, Fletcher realized that he met eye level. Logan was hardly an intimidating figure at all. Logan wouldn’t even meet Fletcher’s eyes, letting his gaze roam about.

“Logan Gerri,” Fletcher repeated, bringing authority into his voice, “I know that you’ve stolen my toy — the oil baron — and I demand to have it back.”

Logan’s eyes focused back to Fletcher, and he gave a bemused glare. He scratched his head, then his crotch.

“Sorry man, but I’m a bit lost,” he said, raising his finger. “Are you… You think that I’m Logan Gerri?”

Fletcher’s lips went to rubber. “You — you’re not?”

“Nah, man. I’m just some stripper that he hired for his party last night. Tell the truth, I’m not sure I’m still supposed to be in here.”

There was another smack of skull against linoleum. Only this time, it had been from an airborne linoleum tile, that flew right at the stripper’s head. The stripper launched from his spot, landing in a pile of pies.

“Who are you, guy?” another man shouted.

Fletcher looked over. “Please tell me that you’re Logan Gerri…”

Yet, as Fletcher said the words, he realized he regretted it. The man stood half a foot taller than him and bore arms that challenged the size of Fletcher’s torso. While the man packed a wide girth, the power in his gait more than compensated for it.

“Maybe I’m Logan Gerri, maybe I’m not,” the man said, gnashing his teeth beneath a thick beard. “Now if you don’t tell me who you are, you’re going to wish that I didn’t punch just like Logan Gerri.”

“I — I’m the maid!” Fletcher said, raising his hands and taking a step back, “I was just telling that guy over there to leave, actually. He, uh… He broke one of your windows. I saw him do it.”

Logan stood over Fletcher, dissecting him. Fletcher withered under Logan’s shadow.

“Thanks, but I can handle rowdy intruders myself,” Logan said, scooping a chicken leg from off the floor, and taking a bite. “Go clean up that glass mess and get out of my house. That, or you’ll end up like that guy over there.”

Drooling on the ground, the stripper gave a wheeze.

“Doesn’t he need medical attention?” Fletcher asked. “I think he might be dying.”

“Who cares? I can’t kill anyone… I’m a celebrity.”

“What?”

“Haven’t you heard? A celebrity being charged with a murder is illegal. I’m fine, guy. Now, get.”

Logan gave a handwave toward the hall, which Fletcher heeded. That is, until his ears pricked at the sound of the television.

“Nation in peril,” a news reporter monotoned, “The president is taking action to keep peace among the country’s citizens, as foreign nuclear threats loom on the horizon. Can we maintain our power, as our populous goes haywire?”

President Marigold came on the television. Her hair was in her face, and her pantsuit was rumpled. Nonetheless, she put on a look of pride.

“We are a smart nation,” she said. “Not dumb dumbs. China? Russia? France? North Dakota? They’re a bunch of little dumb dumbs. Geese. Chickens. I say, bring on the geese chickens! Who cares about the threats? Let’s stop their disease and show ‘em who’s boss!”

The words struck a chord with Fletcher. President Marigold had a point, didn’t she? Everything was going to shit. Who cared? What was the point in avoiding reality?

“Actually, Mop, there’s something I need to talk to you about,” Fletcher said.

Logan’s chicken fell to the ground at hearing the name, “Mop”. Puffing his chest, Fletcher strode toward Logan.

Logan’s brow arched, and he clenched his fists. The room rumbled with the distant echo of thunder.

“I know you stole my oil baron toy,” Fletcher said. “You couldn’t stand the thought that I had a piece of memorabilia that had become more valuable than your own… So you had to take it.”

Logan’s face twisted. He drew closer, letting his gravity overtake Fletcher’s. His muscles inflating and veins popping, a wheeze escaped his lips. Then, an outright laugh.

“Fine,” he said. “You got me. I have no idea where you’re taking this, but you have my attention.”

Fletcher remained firm. “Give up the toy.”

“Wait… You’re not joking?”

“There’s nothing funny about losing a toy… Thief.”

Logan found another chicken leg and took a bite. “That’s funny, Mr. Maid. Let me make something clear: I don’t give two craps about you, or any of my other help.”

“Here’s the thing… I was lying earlier. I’m not the help.”

“What? But you’re dressed just like them.”

Fletcher took a moment to study his weathered t-shirt and jeans. Maybe it was time to consider a wardrobe change. “I broke into your house and came here to threaten you. Because, I know you’re a thief.”

Logan gave Fletcher a light punch in the arm. “Greatest party trick ever. Guts. That’s what you have. Can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same, under the circumstances…”

“You’re telling me you have no idea where the oil baron toy is?”

“No? Why would I—?”

“You’re angry I stopped selling your stuff. You make 80% of your revenue through ‘the Mop’ toy sales, Logan — all of which are produced within this town. And, your demand behind the camera is on the decline. Your sales are on the decline. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re relying more on the toy industry than myself.”

“I’m the richest man in town,” Logan’s voice gave a bit of a quiver. A chair wailed along the floor, as it was dragged under his legs. “My party last night was the craziest thing ever! I don’t give two shits about you, or your toys…”

“I know you’re in the middle of a criminal conspiracy,” Fletcher said. He tapped his chest. “I know it. Do you want to be remembered as the guy who always lied?”

Logan’s eyes went wild. Glassy, too.

“I am not! Who told you that?” he shouted, face going red. Then, a flip switched. His breaths steadied. “I’ll admit, last night was kind of weird… A few crackpots, maybe. They might’ve brought in some girls, and one of them might’ve stolen my wallet… I don’t know. Did you know there’s a rumor going around that we have a pickpocket in town? Anyway, it was just a normal party. I should invite you to the next one, actually.”

“You had crackpots in your house, huh? The police wouldn’t be too happy to hear that… Of course, they might not hear anything at all, if you just tell me where the oil baron is.”

Logan’s eyes softened, considering Fletcher’s ultimatum.

“Look guy, I have no clue,” he said. “Now, please… You’ve made some good points about certain things. But, how are you sure you didn’t just lose the toy? Just leave me alone.”

Despite Logan’s words, his body betrayed immense insecurity. His hand clutched the center of his chest. His eyes shifted side to side, digging for a way out. Some excuse. Some explanation, to get Fletcher away. Why had he seemed so imposing? He was practically a sheep.

“I didn’t just lose it!” Fletcher roared. “Now, I know you Logan. I know you’re falling from grace. So, give me the info. That’s all I need.”

Logan took Fletcher’s arm in an iron grip. Bone groaned beneath Fletcher’s skin. Fletcher tried yanking his arm away, but Logan merely reeled him in.

“You think I care about my image?” Logan said. “Look at me. Look at this room. Do I have any images of myself hanging on the walls? No.”

Logan wiped his nose on his sleeve. His sights went to the food on the floor. Logan had been right: there was nothing of him in the room. A gluttony of food defined it.

“I’m trying to be a bit more honest,” Logan said, bringing his voice down. “The chaos equation showed me I’m going to die from a heart attack, and soon. I figure, maybe if I’m a bit calmer… Maybe if I do a bit more good… People will remember the Mop as the hardened badass he always wanted to be.”

The sentiment cut to the core. Earnestness coated Logan’s speech. He was vulnerable. Alone. Perhaps everybody was.

“I don’t know, sounds like you’re fucked to me,” Fletcher said. “But, when you put it that way, you start to make sense. Granted, I preferred when you didn’t make sense, because you making sense doesn’t help me.”

Logan leaned back and looked at the ceiling. Light rested on Logan’s face, sprinkling a dash of youth back onto it. Fletcher remembered the old way Logan appeared; the young way. He’d show up on stage and hold all the power. Suddenly, Fletcher realized that there was nothing he wouldn’t give to have that back. To have the feeling he had when he was a kid, and great men were still great.

“Alright, alright, I think I came up with something…” Logan said. “There’s this toy manufacturer in town, alright? Kent Burgess? Really rich guy? I’m you’ve heard of him, at some point… We’ve worked together on a ton of my products.”

“What does he look like?” Fletcher said, injecting a hint of skepticism into his voice.

“Like any rich douche. Expensive suits, overdone haircuts, nice watch... Overcompensates. He’s been trying to impress this girl he met. He was here at my party with her. Looked untrustworthy to me. But, that’s beside the point: I could see him being interested in stealing the toy of yours. He was telling me how he wanted a toy of himself… Didn’t you say your toy was an industrialist, or something?”

Fletcher rolled his eyes. As if Logan had actually forgotten. “Oil baron.”

“Perfect.” Logan rubbed the back of his neck and gave Fletcher with a lost gaze. “I guess you can leave my house now, right?”

There was a delay as Fletcher processed. “Oh, yeah, sure. Definitely!”

Fletcher said this, but only moved a few inches toward the hall. There was something wrong with Logan. A weight around him.

“Okay, I can’t leave you like this,” Fletcher said. “What’s going on with you? You look half dead.”

Logan’s lungs eked air faster than a popped tire.

“I have two intruders in my house, for one. And, I guess it doesn’t hurt that I’m still feeling the sting of mortality… You just never expect these things, you know? No matter what I do, it’s not going to matter. My die is set. My fate is sealed.”

Giving a sympathetic look, Fletcher said, “Yeah… I guess that’s why I’ve been avoiding the chaos theorem. I don’t want to know how this all goes down. I want control.”

Logan’s chicken leg thudded onto the table. It was chewed bone dry. “You don’t have control, whether you want it or not. Your path is as set as mine, and you’re licked as anybody. The only difference is, you don’t know what the rest of us know… And, you’ve chosen to not know. Of course, you can always change your choice.”

“How much do you know?”

“Enough to know that you wouldn’t need to interrogate anyone, if you just took the theorem.”

A dryness overpowered Fletcher’s throat, splitting his voice. “Well, thanks for all the info.”

Sweat formed on Fletcher’s face. His heart hammered along his ribs. He broke into a brisk stride, toward the busted window. Rain and thunder plundered the air, but he didn’t care. He needed out.

“Promise me that you won’t say anything about crackheads being at my house,” Logan called after him. “And, have good luck on your search!”

Fletcher forced a laugh. “I won’t!”

. . .

Such a weird little guy. Shrimp. Annoying voice. What was I thinking, letting him in like that? I should’ve just thrown a tile at his head. It worked on the other guy.

I guess it doesn’t matter though, because he’s going to the factory, and then he’ll be shown who’s boss. Still, I can’t afford to have him catch on to what’s going on. Plus, if he runs into that pickpocket who’s been going around first… That’s just going to wind up being embarrassing. Will probably undo everything.

Then again, what if he is the pickpocket? What if his toy was never stolen, and that’s just a front? Maybe I’ve just been being oblivious, this entire time? That’s always a possibility.

Everything is always a possibility.

I’ll need to call the gang. Tell them somebody will be sniffing around. If they can off this guy at the factory, everything will be fine.

Well, except for me… That theorem is a downer. I need to make sure I’m not screwed, like this guy thinks.

Who am I kidding? What does this guy know? He broke into my house. Hell, I could press charges.

That’s it! I can call the drug dealers and call the cops. With both groups after him, there’s no way that he gets out of this.

Thank god he’ll be dead soon.

Chapter 8:

“Hats off to Haddock! Vote to reelect!”

A swift kick punched a hole in the glib sign, knocking it over.

Fletcher was sick of Mayor Haddock’s eyes staring him down. Mayor Haddock was everywhere, moving in full force to get back in office. He was also the only person campaigning to get back in office. He’d made sure of that.

If only there were people in public office who gave a damn about anything that was going on. Yet then, that would suggest there was anything in the world to give a damn about in the first place.

Dexburg River thrashed and burbled. The factory loomed overhead, coughing plumes of smoke in regular intervals. There was a reassuring air about it. Fletcher was reminded of when he’d first seen the factory. Uncle Timothy brought him there and shown him around. It seemed so grand, back then.

Fletcher rolled up his shirt sleeves and fanned himself with his arm. Jogging all the way from Logan’s house had seemed much smarter thirty minutes ago. In hindsight, it just left him with a sweaty behind.

Fletcher pounded at the steel doors. The doors were brash and heavy, with Fletcher’s poundings a meek echo against them.

A visor flap opened in the left door. Fletcher scrambled over.

“Is that the ice cream man again?” a woman asked, her voice firm.

“Yes,” said Fletcher.

“Then, go away. We never ordered any. Sorry, but it must’ve been a prank caller.”

The visor started sliding shut. Pain shot through Fletcher’s hand as he shoved it between the crack.

“Wait,” he said, repressing a whimper. “I’m not the ice cream man. I swear.”

The visor pushed harder.

“Are you the sandwich man again?” the woman asked. “Because, we don’t want sandwiches either!”

“No… No sandwiches. The only sandwich here is the one you’re making between my fingers.” He paused, to gasp, “And the door.”

The visor slid open, and blood rushed back to Fletcher’s hand. He smiled in relief, until his nerves went off with fresh alarms.

“Then, what are you here for?” the woman said, her eyes bulging beneath horn-rimmed glasses.

“Something of mine was stolen,” Fletcher said. He measured his words with caution, making sure that he didn’t put the woman off. “A very valuable item to me. And, I intend to get it back. I’ve gone to a few places about it and was told to go here. I need to see Kent Burgess.”

Fletcher’s gut brewed with regret at having not said more. Yet, his batting average on getting attention for the toy oil baron was at an all-time low. Keeping things vague was the only way of being taken seriously.

The woman’s eyes darted, and her voice came out in frantic fire. “Nothing out of the ordinary going on in here. No. Nothing out of the ordinary at all. Just business as usual.”

Her gaze lingered to the left of Fletcher. Fletcher followed it and noticed the empty parking lot, bordered by the filthy river. Only a few cars dotted it.

“For a busy day, it sure is empty here,” Fletcher said.

“All of our workers… They have the day off. Most of them, anyway. Nonetheless, we still are very busy.”

“So am I. I’m not stopping until you show me around the factory and let me talk to Kent Burgess. If I just have a conversation, I’m sure we could work something out.”

The woman let out a huff. Her eyes went firm and flickered.

“You’re willing to look around the entire factory for this thing?” she asked.

“That’s what I want, yes.”

“Great. Come on in. Now.”

A minute passed as a series of locks were unlatched, and knobs turned.

A clang resounded behind Fletcher. Fletcher bobbed his head about but saw nothing.

“Did you hear something?” Fletcher asked. The woman didn’t respond. “Hey, is anybody out there?”

The door creaked open, and the woman stood there. She seemed about middle-aged, but it might’ve been her demeanor. She kept her arms rigid at her sides, she wore a well-pressed pantsuit, and her hair was done up in bobby-pins. Her glasses were pressed so close to her face that they must’ve been screwed in.

Fletcher followed her as she trotted back into the factory. Though, he gave a furtive look behind, to make sure he didn’t have a follower of his own.

“Sorry if it’s a bit empty in here. I’m going to be forthright, for once: all our workers ditched. The president made some grand announcement about how America shouldn’t have to work for terrible wages, and they just followed along. Unemployment doesn’t pay great wages either… But nobody seems to care.”

Crass machinations rested along the walls, grinding and murmuring. They were coated in rust, with some parts at the point of being nubs. Some machines were practically held together by glue and shoestring. One machine was hooked up to a series of hairdryers.

Fletcher was shocked. He had no memory of Uncle Timothy showing him any of this. Yet, Uncle Timothy had a knack for only showing shiny exteriors.

“Some of them said they were willing to settle for payment in trading cards,” the woman went on. “Admittedly, that actually would be cheaper than what we were paying. But, can you imagine how juvenile that would make our corporation appear? We can’t be paying people in trading cards! The board simply wouldn’t have it.”

Fletcher nodded. “I don’t seem to see my… Possession anywhere, nor any sign of it. And where’s Burgess?”

“And here is the main processing center,” the woman said, making a turn into another row of machines, and ignoring Fletcher. “My name is Debby, by the way. Debby Crowner.”

She thrust her hand out for a handshake but kept her back to Fletcher. Fletcher stumbled after the hand, before giving up.

“I imagine that you could work in the chemicals section,” she went on. “It’s an excellent place to work. Most people get a retirement package after only five years. We have them working with some chemicals that are slightly toxic… But, they’re neither here nor there.”

“Wait, I — I’m not looking for a job. I thought you were leading me to—.”

“Kent Burgess?” she said, adjusting her glasses. “Yes, of course. We’re getting there. Of course, I’m just showing you the ropes of this place, in case you are to get interested in working here. It truly is a great job opportunity. What do you work in now? I smell a sanitation man.”

“I have a shop and do some software on the side.”

“Software? Sounds hard. This job is pretty easy. Just saying.”

She spun in a circle to flip on a few machines, before resuming her pace. “We’re the greatest button manufacturer in the world for a reason,” she said. “We run a tight ship.”

“What are you still even doing here?” Fletcher asked, agitation mixing into his voice. “This whole place should be shut down. And, the president has a solid point… Work is boring. Not working is at least a different kind of boring.”

“Burgess is paying me in gold bars,” she said, with a laugh. “Well, only half gold… Kind of. Not really, but still actually, all the same, with a certain point of view, from Mt. Everest, when it’s cloudy...”

She went on mumbling under her breath, before opening a couple of flap doors in front of her. Fletcher went after her, natural light from the factory dissipating, and he felt as though he were crawling into a dungeon. Yet, he had come this far. Abandoning his search was not an option, no matter how tempting.

“How do you go about making bars that are half gold?” Fletcher asked.

“Quite simple, really. The outside of the bars is a golden foil. The inside is chocolate. And, inside that, is a sort of golden caramel filling.”

“So… He’s paying you in candy bars.”

“Gold… Don’t get things twisted.”

“I think that’s already been done for me.”

“Speaking of jobs, what do you think makes you a good worker?”

She’d pulled out a notepad and pen and was already scribbling information down. Before Fletcher realized, she’d pulled up a couple of chairs and made a makeshift table out of an oversized tire.

“Jobs?” Fletcher asked. “Come on… Debbie, was it?”

She nodded.

“I don’t want a job here,” Fletcher said. “I just want to—.”

“See the man in charge. I know. He’ll be here soon, I’m sure. But, I figure that we might as well make friendly conversation while we’re waiting.”

Her pen scurried furiously across the paper.

“So, how would you contribute to this department?”

“I’d clean up this mess, for one thing,” Fletcher muttered.

A machine came to a grinding halt as something crashed into it. The grinding then turned to a stinging buzz.

“Dear god, what is that?” Fletcher moaned pressing his hands to his ears.

He couldn’t see the cause of the crash, but Debby’s face construed in consternation. She was as out of answers as he was.

She pulled a remote from her pocket, and the machine came to a halt.

“Just technical difficulties,” she said, her voice in singsong. Nevertheless, the buzzing sting wasn’t gone.

“I would fix those difficulties too,” Fletcher said. “Revamp this place, while I’m at it. It’s unbelievably depressing in here.”

He pointed up to the ceiling, where flimsy lamps trembled.

“Look at those things. There are no windows here, but there are those things? They could fall on somebody’s head during the daily Dexburg earthquake.”

Debby pursed her lips.

“Oh, I’m sure it will be fine. Earthquakes… We’re not due to have an earthquake in a little while, I don’t think. Don’t think about it. That’s what we give our workers ballcaps for. If the lightbulbs fall on their heads, they’ll only suffer from light trauma.”

“Light trauma, or light trauma?”

“Our workers’ contracts are only supposed to lay out the parameters, not define them. That’s a question for our lawyers.”

She clapped her hands together, making Fletcher jump. Only barely, of course. There was nothing for Fletcher to be terrified of. A serpent’s cunning wriggled from beneath Debby, but to a certain point. Surely most of it was in his head.

“Moving on,” she said, “What do you plan on doing in the coming weeks, to stave off the existential crisis created by the chaos theorem.”

“I’m not taking it.”

“Cop out if I’ve ever heard one. Most people just get a massage, or skinny dip in the local pool…”

“You yourself linked it with the existential. The thing about the hard parts of existence: it’s easier to pretend they’re not part of existence at all.”

“Only for you. The chaos theorem tells me that everything has a divine meaning. Life is systematized and organized in its insanity. Don’t you get it? I knew that this interview was going to transpire and every word that would be uttered, before it ever was. It’s so wonderful. It’s liberating, to know it all.”

“Isn’t the whole purpose of this interview to learn things about me? Figure out if I’m the right fit?”

“We’re way past that point. The point of this interview is to avoid the point.”

“When you put it that way, it does start to sound not so bad…”

“Alright, excellent. I think that clears things up. Now, all I’ll need is your social security number and your credit card number, and you should be good to stop this conversation.”

“Don’t you need my name?”

“Don’t worry honey, we’ll cross that burning bridge if and whe… never we get to it. Now, info, please.”

Fletcher went to draw his wallet from his pocket.

“Mrs. Crowner, there you are!” a voice erupted. “We’ve been looking for you, all over a place, and under another. Maybe.”

“Definitely maybe,” said another voice. It was one that seemed strikingly familiar.

“I’ve been looking for you, too,” said Debby.

“Wonderful! I was not expecting to see you here!” went the first voice

“Technically, you can’t see me hear, Mr. Burgess.” Debby chuckled.

“Too true, too true. As they say, see no evil, hear no evil…”

“… Especially when nearly evil.”

The man revealed himself, stepping from behind a boiler.

“You’re too funny, Mrs. Crowner.”

He readjusted the cuffs to his dark suit and slicked his hair back. The corners of his lips and eyes were slightly wrinkled, harboring signs of his advanced years. Yet, past his spray tan and strong scent of cologne, it was possible to see him as a man in his 30s.

“Speaking of funny, look at this fellow,” Burgess said. “Who’s he?”

Fletcher stood up and offered his hand to Burgess. “I’m Stuart Fletcher,” he said. “But you can just call me Fletcher. I’m here to talk to you about —.”

John stepped from behind the boiler.

“Hey, Fletcher!” John cried.

. . .

Finally, Kent Burgess and Johnny Adams-Apple is here. Such a wonderful boss, that Mr. Burgess. It’s amazing that somebody could be so amazing — wealthy, rich, worth a fortune, and good-looking.

I wouldn’t work anywhere else if I was paid to. Come to think of it, I’ve been offered a few other jobs… And they do pay better. But this job is better. No doubt. My contract mandates it.

This weird fellow seems to have potential. I hope that he sees what Kent Burgess is offering him, and accepts. Nobody has full control in this town — everything in here is purely random, and unpredictable. Burgess has constantly reminded me of that. Nonetheless, if anybody has close to it? Its him.

From the small businesses to the big, everybody goes through Burgess. This coal plant powers the city, and it produces a lot too.

I really hope that he manages to get his foot in Mayor Haddock’s coming administration, before the chaos theorem beats us all. That’ll be a game-changer.

Chapter 9:

Fletcher’s hand dropped back to his side.

“Hey,” he said, mouth gawping at John. “What are you doing here?”

“I was just checking the place out. Same as you, I’m sure.”

“He’s begging for a job,” Burgess said, bluntly.

Fletcher shot John a look. “A job? But John has a…”

“Forget what I told you,” John said, cutting him off. “After buying my car, I was fired. They thought that my car was too expensive. It made their entire place look cheap, in comparison. It was a fair enough reason to fire me, I guess…”

“I guess,” said Fletcher. “Everything in this world is so depraved, isn’t it?”

“Sometimes I wish that I could just tear it all apart, bit by bit,” John said, with a grin. “Leave it all mottled and mortified.

Fletcher gave a grim look back. The world was a cesspool, in dire need of insurrection. John’s outlook only worked as further proof. People toiled day in and day out, and the fruits of their labor forming as pains and boils on their body. Work weathered people to fine granite, sapping minerals from muscle and strength from cerebrum.

“It’s terrible, because I didn’t think it was coming…” John continued. He went waxen. “They called me in, then called me out, and that was about it.”

“You didn’t know it was coming?” Fletcher repeated.

“I didn’t think it was coming. Don’t misunderstand, I knew it was coming. The chaos theorem told me as much. Though, I didn’t want to believe it. Then again, maybe I did. Is life better with a job, or without? We are all slaves to our own careers, aren’t we? We live for them. They burn us in return.”

“Harsh way of putting it my boy.” Burgess gave John a hearty slap on the back. He turned to Debby. “I was just telling him how he’s going to have a place in our new nuclear reactor. The theorem says everything is going to go nuclear, real soon here: John’s job will be the hottest thing.”

“That’s hilarious,” Debby said, stepping toward Burgess and leaning in. “I just scored a job of my own: Filcher over here is going to be our new chemicals tester.”

“I didn’t sign up to that!” Fletcher said, raising his hand.

“And President Marigold didn’t sign up for the presidency…” Burgess said, with a laugh.

“Actually, she didn’t,” said Debby. “Don’t you recall? Her name was picked out of a hat, after the original president, the vice president, the speaker, and the whole of Congress were impeached for pinching parakeets.”

“Odd… Must’ve missed that.”

“It all happened during the season finale of Creeks. Bad reality show. Easy to miss an episode.”

“I wish they’d picked the name of anybody else out of that hat,” John said. “She’s going to kill us all, with her plans to make frenemies with every nation on Earth. Her weapons of mass destruction are aimed at the poles right now. We’re all going to die.”

Burgess raised himself to full height, then jutted his jaw.

“Don’t question the president. Her name was picked out of that hat for a reason. Disrespecting her is a crime.”

Fletcher found himself nodding along. Although Burgess hadn’t known how the president had been chosen until a few moments ago, he had a point.

“Well, her name wasn’t actually picked out of that hat…” Debby said. “It was the name of some plumber, but the guy who chosen to read the names was dyslexic.”

Fletcher’s head kept bobbling. Everybody had points for every side when it came to politics. Except him — he was always on the fence. It was the perfect defense.

“Still, a good deal better than paying to have Haddock get reelected,” Burgess said, with a scoff. “I tried buying some priest for this election instead, but he was too expensive. Haddock was cheapest. But golly — picking people out of hats is much more efficient.”

Debby smiled. “No matter who’s running, they’re all going to get us killed.”

They all burst out laughing, but Fletcher had no clue as to what they were laughing at.

“Except for me,” said Burgess. “I own the bridge out of this town. Control the toll, you’re on a roll, as they say.”

Debby forced another chuckle. “And me too, right?”

Burgess blinked. “Of course, of course. I take care of all my people. Yes.”

Fletcher looked between them, struggling to figure them out. Dexburg may have been a hellhole, but to leave? Practically heresy.

“So, am I going to get my job?” John asked.

“You can only steal your job,” said Burgess. “That’s how the successful politicians do it, after all. Don’t you agree, Fletcher?”

“Actually,” Fletcher said, clearing his throat. “I prefer to stay out when politics are discussed.”

“Politics are always disgust! That’s the fun of it!”

Burgess slapped his knee, and the factory’s machines jittered with his delight. Fletcher maintained a stolid posture.

“A valuable possession was recently stolen from me. That’s why I’m here. I intend to get it back.”

“Something valuable is always being stolen from us, or by us,” Burgess said, forcing a yawn. “You need to be a great deal more specific.”

“It was very valuable.”

Burgess licked his hand, then slicked his hair back. “Very, you say? That changes things very much…”

“In my defense, I didn’t realize it was quite that valuable all this time,” Debby said. “He never said a word about that.”

Burgess strode toward Fletcher, drawing his face in. Fletcher counted Burgess’ pores and observed the way his feathers for hair bobbed in the air.

“Can you tell me more about this valuable?” Burgess asked.

“It was a prized possession, with high value. I asked Logan Gerri about it, and he said that you guys might be keeping the stolen item here. Trying to observe it, for manufacturing and whatnot.”

“That does sound like me,” Burgess said, with a nod. “And you said it was stolen? Yes. Thievery is the game in this town. Why, my own lover… I do believe that she stole quite a few of my valuables just recently. I’ve been trying to get ahold of her, but she won’t answer. And apparently, there’s a big time pickpocket going around as well!”

Debby Crowner kicked at a sputtering machine and muttered something under her breath.

“So, can you tell me where it might be?” Fletcher asked.

“Well, seeing as you’ve told me nothing about it…” said Burgess, circling Fletcher. “I definitely know where it is. It’s funny how that works, actually… Have you ever noticed how it’s always so much easier to know things about things, when it’s about something that you know nothing about?”

John butted in. “That’s how I got my medical degree. Which is how I got my job as an accountant.”

Fletcher’s head buzzed with curiosity. “So where is it?”

Burgess gave a smug smirk and puffed his chest. “I own everything in this town. Should be in my pocket.” He checked his pockets, then came up emptyhanded. “Nothing in there. Of course, it could also be in my office. Or it could be with my girlfriend, since she stole everything. Or perhaps it’s nowhere in particular at all?”

“It was a toy,” Fletcher finally burst out, “a toy oil baron. You haven’t seen one anywhere?”

Burgess and Debby’s cheeks inflated, wheezes squeaking through.

“A toy?” Burgess said, his teeth flashing mockingly.

Fletcher nodded, sternly. “I’m with Timothy’s Toys. This is a class A priority for us.”

Burgess’ ears perked. “Yes, yes,” Burgess said, catching his breath from suppressed laughter. “You worked for Timothy, eh? Good businessman. Smart. Dead, too.”

He scanned Fletcher, eyes picking him apart limb by limb. There was almost a flicker of disappointment.

“I guess it — it might be at a storage facility,” Burgess continued. “That’s where I’d look. It might also be anywhere else that I said. I’m not sure.”

“That’s not fair! You need to tell me! You know! Didn’t you take the theorem?”

Burgess shrugged. “I actually don’t know. The chaos theorem never told me where your toy was. It only told me that it wouldn’t tell me.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense…”

Burgess gave Fletcher a pat on the back and walked him toward the exit. “Sure it does. You tell me something, I tell you something, and the chaos equation tells me nothing — well, except for everything. It’s just… Having everything isn’t everything, you know? You never know.”

Fletcher’s mind bent inward and backward, wringing through the twisty logic. Was there even logic to him?

The factory’s entrance swung open, and Fletcher was shunted out by Burgess’ knee.

“Great meeting you, chum,” Burgess said. “But, I’d prefer not to get too chummy with somebody who won’t make me money. Good luck with your toy.”

“So unfortunate,” Debby said, walking to Burgess’ side and stroking his shoulder. “I was certain that this one would become a new employee. Of course, the theorem said otherwise, and it never falters…”

The doors groaned inward, and Fletcher flailed between them. Burgess attempted to shunt Fletcher back out, but Fletcher persisted.

“Come on,” Fletcher said. He reached for John.

“Sorry,” John said, with a shrug, “but, they promised me a free fire extinguisher. Do you know how much that’s going to be worth?”

Was there something predicted by the chaos theorem that John knew? Or, was John merely being insane? Fletcher didn’t get his answer. Somebody knocked him toward the ground.

. . .

I can’t wait until Haddock’s dumb butt is finally reelected. There are so many changes I need to make to my empire, and so little time. The clock is getting shorter every minute.

Perhaps I should look into this toy the Filcher fellow was talking about and see if I don’t already have it. Maybe it really is valuable. If so, cashing in on it might be smart. If not, I better get it.

Dexburg is my town. I own it. I have the control — not any politician, or crime gang, or radical rebels.

If only that Filcher fellow could’ve seen how much I have. He would’ve been shocked, I’m sure. But there’s so much to do still, to make sure my legacy is in place in time.

Mayor Haddock has that dumb party, and then there’s Miss Clover… Maybe I can have Debby run some errands. She owes me one, after being zero help with that girl who stole all my stolen stuff.

Then again, everybody in this town owes me one. It’s my town.

Chapter 10:

Upon hitting the pavement, darkness hovered over Fletcher’s vision. Light warped and blurred. The rushing of the river, the rustle of trees, and the chirping of birds all slurred together. In the back of Fletcher’s head, there was a pounding. A hammering. It became closer and louder.

Burgess’ voice came in a warble. “What’s the big idea? Freaking morons…”

The factory door clanged shut.

Somebody stepped on Fletcher’s back, then his wrist, before running off.

Feebly, Fletcher stood and regathered his senses. The sky cleared, and a breeze brushed along his skin. Sunshine danced along the bus stop, at the bottom of the factory’s steps.

Burgess had been a bust of a trip. However, a storage facility was a better lead than no lead at all. At least, going there was what he was leaning toward. What if it was a waste? Perhaps no lead wouldn’t be so bad, either.

He went down the steps. Either way, things were looking up and down. That was nothing to feel down about.

Fletcher was knocked back to the ground and went rolling. Despite the steps being marble, they were rough against his skin. His throat choked, his arm was poked, and one of his ribs nearly broke. His elbow received a blow to the funny bone, which was decidedly unfunny.

He reached the bottom, a dull ache permeating his ligaments. Though, amid the calamity came a sense of calm. That, or he was in shock.

Maybe calm and shock were one in the same.

“Terribly sorry about all that! That’s not what I meant to happen at all! Are you okay?”

Somebody hoisted Fletcher up from the armpits, before spinning him around to look him in the face. A dull film coated Fletcher’s sight, leaving things just a swath of color.

Fletcher gave a moan as reply.

“Great,” the person said. “With that out of the way… I finally caught you! You’re exposed!”

Their voice was proud and defiant. There was no mistaking it.

“Marvin?” Fletcher muttered.

“That’s Mr. Whisk to you,” he said. He gave Fletcher a kick to the shin. “I see what you’ve been doing. Don’t pretend that I don’t.”

Fletcher’s vision cleared up, revealing a raw fear in Marvin. He must’ve been worried from Fletcher’s fall.

“Ha,” Fletcher said, with a chuckle. “That’s rich. Anyway, thanks for saving me after I fell down those steps. I’m glad you were there.”

Marvin’s eyes flashed. “Oh, I’ve been there more than you know. I’ve been watching you, Fletcher. Following you, as you’ve gone around town. You’ve been to pretty seedy places recently, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Fletcher rubbed his wounds, then gave a wince. “I’m glad to hear that you’ve been looking out for me. Most of my other friends… They think I’ve gone crazy.”

“I know what you want, Fletcher.”

“You found the oil baron?”

“No!” Marvin said. He seemed almost angry, which didn’t quite make sense. Surely Marvin had come with friendly intentions, hadn’t he? “I found something worse, though — your deepest secrets. You’re planning on stealing Purview Street out from under us, aren’t you? Making deals with big businessmen, to make your business into some massive corporate entity? I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re trying to replicate the flower shop and my antique shop too, in some grand conspiracy!”

Just another prank, of course. The lengths that Marvin would go to make a yarn were hilarious.

“Oh Marvin,” Fletcher said, with a snort. “That’s just hilarious. Anyway, thanks again for coming out here. I’m going to be headed to Kent Burgess’ storage facility soon. If you want to come with me—.”

A gunshot went off.

“Everybody get down!” a man shouted.

“Yeah,” said a woman.

The man and woman stepped from behind a dumpster, and cocked guns toward Marvin and Fletcher.

“We were told that there’d be a real reedy guy here, who we need to take in,” the man said.

He and the woman were dressed in grungy jackets and jeans, which looked as though they’d been scrummaged from the dumpster they’d come out from. Their faces were far more pleasant — namely because they were covered by a pair of black ski-masks.

“Which one of you two is going to turn yourselves in as the guy we’re looking for?” the woman said.

Marvin and Fletcher shared a look. Their breathing went heavy and fell in sync. Fletcher’s chest swelled. He knew exactly what to do.

“We’re both the guy you’re looking for,” said Fletcher.

He raised his hands and walked toward them. Perhaps there should’ve been more terror in him — at least a twinge of anxiety. However, he was still high on adrenaline and slightly dazed from his fall. He tensed his muscles defiantly, expecting to be joined by Marvin at any moment.

Marvin scrambled away as fast as he could. “I’m sorry,” he whimpered. “Not me. Don’t kill me. It’s him, I swear! Please don’t kill me!”

Fletcher listened as Marvin’s steps became quieter. Marvin had disappeared within a matter of seconds.

“Have to admit, the other guy seemed a lot reedier than you are,” the man said, shoving the barrel of his gun against Fletcher’s stomach.

Fletcher’s upper lip curled. “He’s one of the bravest people I know.”

The woman snorted. “The people you know must be some of the weakest goddamn people on Earth.”

The man pinned Fletcher’s arms behind his back and kicked his foot into Fletcher’s heels.

“Giddup,” the man said. “You might not be the guy, but you’re going to have to do. Don’t make us regret it.”

The woman tittered, walking ahead. A car chirped off the side of the rode.

“You can hold him down, and I’ll drive,” she said.

“What?!” The man kicked Fletcher in the heels again. His voice hushed. “Sorry — didn’t mean to kick you that time.”

The woman was already hopping into the driver’s side. “Yep. 360 horsepower, all to myself!”

“But I want to drive. The boss named me getaway driver. You’re just muscle.”

“I thought we agreed that the boss is half brain-dead…”

“What’s the point in being given the boss’s car, if I can’t even fucking drive it?”

“Fine… You can sit on him while you’re driving, and I’ll… I’ll keep lookout. Better?”

Fletcher’s mouth went dry. “Wait, where are we going? And who is he going to sit on?”

The man gave Fletcher a punch to the gut, and omitted any apology. “You better be looking behind us this time, instead of in the goddamn mirror,” the man said to the woman. “And for the love of god, shoot anybody tailing us if you have to. If not, I’m going to have to blow your brains out.”

“Not until I blow your brains out first…”

“Honey, not in front of the hostage.”

Fletcher’s face was pressed into the side door of their car. It was anticlimactic for a mob boss’ car; a shaggy Chevrolet, which had clearly seen better days.

“Alright, so are you going to blindfold him, or am I going to have to do it?” the man asked.

The woman rolled her eyes and put a hand on her chin. “Let’s see… Who was the one who figured out where this shmuck was going to be, again? I think I’ve already done more than my fair portion of the job.”

Following a disgruntled grunt, a thick rag was pulled out of the man’s pocket.

“Please, you haven’t done shit…” he said.

“Well, shit — shit is more than what you’ve done.”

“Please, tell me what the big idea is,” said Fletcher, attempting to assert confidence into his voice.

The man added pressure on Fletcher’s body and shoved the rag in Fletcher’s face. Fletcher’s arms flailed at the air, desperately trying to stave off suffocation. Nevertheless, the man came closer. The rough hairs of his stubble grinded against Fletcher’s skin, and his breath reeked of liquor.

“This is a hostage takeover, dumbass” the woman said, before giving a swift kick to Fletcher’s groin.

“Look here, Bonnie and Clyde,” Fletcher groaned. “I’m going to press charges. You’ll hear from my lawyers!”

“They’ll have to be pretty damn good lawyers to find you where we’re going to put you.”

There was a swift whoosh as a door opened. Fletcher was lifted, before being shoved into a tight space –the car’s trunk. He attempted to fight but relented when his back gave him a twinge of warning.

Just his luck that his back threatened giving out while he was being kidnapped. It couldn’t have waited a few more moments? It was one thing if the universe was going to treat him like garbage. Though, his own body betraying him for the universal pile-on? That was a slap to the face.

“You need to at least tell me where we’re going!” Fletcher said.

Fletcher smacked into a wall. The feeling was real. Welty.

The door shut. Fletcher searched for ways to open it, but there were no handles. He could barely move. Barely breathe.

The stench of stale beer bottles and wadded fast food wrappers waded in Fletcher’s nostrils.

“Let me out! Let me out!”

Something banged at the walls. Gunshots went off. There were chuckles.

Moments later, an engine revved on, then wailed like something undead. Fletcher rattled against the walls of his prison.

Panic set in. This might’ve been the end. He might never hear from Linda again. He might never save the oil baron.

He could only hope that Marvin was out there, trying to save him.

.

Good riddance. I knew that Fletcher was up to no good. Trying to destroy my antiques business… It figures that he was in on some sort of sketchy drug trades or something, with those weirdos.

It’s a shame that he got shoved in the back of a car’s trunk though. That’s not a way to do business. Hopefully he isn’t shot.

Is it bad that I feel bad? He tried stealing business from my shop, the moron. Honestly, who does that? And the gall that he dared to laugh, too… Who does he think he is?

Still. Watching him go in that truck didn’t feel good.

Oh great, the cops are finally here. And, would you look at that… He’s carrying a picture of Fletcher. Perfect.

Time to tell him everything that I know.

Chapter 11:

“He’s still in a daze right now, but we need to get him tied up fast. I don’t think it’ll last much longer.”

Fletcher shook his head. A dull throbbing sat in the back of it, tugging at the roots of his hair. He must’ve hit his head while being driven from the factory. He rubbed the site. It was swollen. Tender. He should’ve been able to remember how he hit it. Yet, everything had been a blur. A big, black blur.

It still was.

Wait — what was he just thinking about?

“Come on, Clair! We take a hostage, and you don’t even think to pack a bit of rope!”

“‘Come on Jack,’ more like it. Didn’t you say you’d take care of the packing?”

“Yeah. I didn’t mean rope though! Who the hell has time to pack rope when they’re busy planning a getaway?”

“Well, sorry. It’s not like I was trying to secure use of the boss’ car, or anything.”

Everything was bleak. Blank. Fletcher went to rip off his blindfold, before deciding against it.

“Maybe we should just screw this interrogation garbage,” Jack said. “It’s pretty easy to dump a body in Drudge’s Cemetery. Just tell the boss we did what we could.”

Fletcher shuddered. He didn’t want to see what was going on around him. He didn’t need to. No matter what it looked like, it was going to be harsh.

“Fuck, he’s up!” Clair said.

“Wait, what? How much of that do you think he heard?”

Fletcher was grabbed by the legs, and somebody groped through his pockets.

“Quick,” Clair said, “we have to find something to tie him up with.”

Jack gave a snort. There was a metallic groan, as something was dragged along the floor.

“You honestly think you’re going to find shit that’ll help us, inside his pockets?”

Clair let off a series of epithets, before giving a whoop. “Knew it! I knew it!”

Fletcher’s arms were forced behind his back.

Resistance crossed his mind. Though, when had resistance ever produced anything of value? People resist things, only to encounter more things to resist against. Resistance goes on evermore. It’s an ongoing gust; a force that’s unrelenting. That is, until one hits a wall and can resist no longer.

Perhaps resisting against resistance was more intelligent. What point is there in wailing at winds that carry no care?

A tight chord wrapped around Fletcher’s wrists. Then, his ankles.

“Good luck getting out of that,” Clair said, with a triumphant snort. “Jack, you can put the chair down. We need to sit him in it.”

“Sit him in a seat? What are we, charity? The guy can lay as a sack, thanks.”

Despite Jack’s words, Fletcher was heaved up, and set back down. A metal chair crudely dug against his back.

He rubbed his wrists against the rope. Only, it wasn’t rope he’d been tied with. He recognized the material immediately — it was string from the yo-yo he’d kept on himself. Of all the things the captors could’ve used to keep him captive, they chose his own yo-yo’s string.

Suppressing a grin, Fletcher attempted to break the string. Yet, it tightened against his skin, leaving abrasions.

“Yeah, that’s right,” said Jack. He snickered. “You won’t be getting out of that.”

Nausea swung through Fletcher’s gut as his chair was tilted back.

“Here’s how this is going to go down,” Jack said. “You’re going to spill everything you know. Everything you’re planning. And after, we’ll turn you loose. It’ll be like this never happened. Even Steven.”

“I’d cooperate, but I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Fletcher said.

The air went muggy. Cloudiness surrounded Fletcher’s mind, and the nausea in his gut got worse.

“The Mop’s house,” Clair said. “Ring any bells?”

Fletcher shook his head.

“Guess he isn’t lying… From what the Mop tells us, you sure as shit didn’t ring any doorbells. Just busted into his house, like nobody’s business.”

“Wasn’t me who broke the Mop’s window. That was actually some other guy. Promise.”

“So you were there!” Jack said.

He let go of Fletcher’s chair, letting the legs fall back into place.

“I didn’t say I was there. It wasn’t me, I swear.”

“You knew about the window!”

Fletcher’s mind raced, searching for an out.

“How do you know? I never said anything about windows. Maybe you were hearing things. Maybe you guys are both idiots at interrogation and have the wrong guy.”

Jack sputtered. “No. I swear to god, you said window! At least… At least, I think you mentioned a window. Clair?”

“He did kind of say it under his breath, all mutter-like” said Clair. “I wasn’t paying close enough attention.”

“See,” said Fletcher. “I’m innocent.”

“We have info on everybody, and everything in here!” Jack said. “There’s no corner that you’re going to be able to hide or crawl behind. Okay?”

Fletcher shrugged.

“Who the hell are you?” Jack demanded. “Undercover cop? Rival gang? We need to know! Clair, did he have any info on him?”

“Name is Stuart Fletcher,” she said. “He has a ton of discount cards for various supermarkets, under that name. Name rings a bell. Not much else though. Not even a driver’s license.”

“I can drive!” Fletcher blurted.

He hadn’t thought they’d bother to steal his wallet. Moreover, he hadn’t felt it leave his pocket when Clair was searching. He shifted in his chair, attempting to feel for what items might be left in his pocket. Yet, everything was gone. His phone, his wallet, his expired tickets to a puppet show… Everything.

“Wait… Stuart Fletcher?” Jack said, with a laugh.

“You guys are going to let me out, or I’m calling the police!” Fletcher shouted.

“Yeah, even if I gave you a phone, you might not want to do that,” said Jack. “Don’t know if you’ve been following the police intercoms, but they’re after you buddy. The Mop didn’t just call us, apparently — he also called them.”

Fletcher’s eyes bulged. He was more vulnerable than he realized.

“Look, you don’t need to keep things a secret,” said Jack. “This can be so simple. You just need to tell us exactly what’s going on. We already know most of what goes on in this town. It’s all a joke, really. What’s the point in pretending that it’s otherwise?”

“Yeah, we do drug deals with everybody in this town,” said Clair. “Especially after all the earthquakes and chaos theorems that have gone down; more business than ever. This entire town is going to the madhouse. Which… I can’t complain. No reason to not tell us anything, now. We have your name, and we can check your info in our books.”

Fletcher considered making something up — anything — when Jack gripped him around the throat.

“We don’t have time to be toyed around with,” he hissed. “Cough the info up.”

Did Jack already know that Fletcher was hunting for the oil baron? Perhaps he’d even stolen it? It was difficult to tell.

A ringing telephone echoed from behind the walls. It was joined by the ringing of another telephone. Then, several others.

“Great — it’s the midday rush,” said Clair.

“I thought you told the boss to make sure that all the boys were here to pick up the calls,” Jack said, grinding his teeth.

“I thought you were going to do that.”

“Dammit Clair! This was supposed to be simple: mine the guy, whack him, then go fishing with the town’s businesspeople. None of this bullshit…”

Jack’s voice had grown more distant. A door squeaked open, letting the ringing of telephones spill into the room at full force.

“They’re all ringing,” said Jack. “Clair, I don’t know what we do…”

“You never know anything. Here’s what we’re going to do: we’re going to process these calls, and the bastard here isn’t going to do anything stupid.”

She leaned into Fletcher’s ear. “Isn’t that right?”

Fletcher pursed his lips. He was thirsty. Exhausted. However, if he said a word, the hoarseness of his voice would be made known.

Silence was the sole solution. Yet, wasn’t it always?

“We double promise that we won’t kill you, if you don’t try to escape,” Jack said.

Clair made a smooch, then followed Jack’s footsteps. Had she blown a kiss? The door shut before Fletcher could tell.

The loneliness of the room dawned on Fletcher. Nobody was watching.

He rubbed his wrists against the metal backing of his chair, taking care to put pressure along the sharp edges the most. One of the strands gave a sharp snap. The whole string unraveled, flopping to the ground.

He smirked. It was a great thing that his toys were built so cheaply.

He rubbed his scalp in relief after pulling his mask off. His fingers reaching the corners of his eyes, he felt deep indentations left by the taut cloth. Even for a couple of thugs, there should’ve at least been the courtesy to make the blindfold a bit looser.

The room was part of some sort of warehouse. For a split-second, Fletcher desperately hoped it was the same warehouse Burgess had told him to go to. Though, he knew it couldn’t.

Burgess’ warehouse would’ve been ten times filthier, judging by the conditions his factory had been in. It would’ve been filled with an inexplicable amount of spray tan, as well.

The only escape was the door Clair and Jack had gone through. The only items in the room were his chair, and a table that held his wallet, his phone, his tickets, and a jumble of books. Useless.

He blinked. All useless, except for his phone — and the tickets. Though, mostly his phone.

The phone screen flickered on in Fletcher’s hand. Its warmth sent a surge of reassurance. Flashes of blues and reds scrolled by before Fletcher finally accessed his contacts. He needed help, from anybody. He went to call Harry Doswell, when he pulled his finger from the call button and scrolled away.

He couldn’t call Harry — it would’ve been weird, especially after their last conversation. John? Same problem. Marvin Whisk was always changing his number, and rarely ever answered in the first place — he didn’t seem like a phone person. Carol? She might pick up, but he hated her guts. Margaret?

His heart sank. She’d changed her number a dozen times over. Besides, a call with her would’ve gone worse than a call with Carol.

The police would’ve been an obvious solution. Yet, risking arrest by the cops was only slightly less unsavory than staying in the warehouse. Besides: Fletcher suddenly realized he had no idea where he was, nor how long he’d been missing. For all he knew, he’d been taken over Dexburg Bridge, and was outside of Dexburg.

“Think Fletcher, think,” he said, whamming himself in the head with the tip of his phone.

His phone slipped from his grip, landing on one of the books.

“Contacts of all Dexburg Businesses” it read.

Still useless. Though, Fletcher then glanced at the book next to it: “contacts of buyers.”

While Fletcher didn’t know where this warehouse was, there was a solid chance one of the buyers would know. He went to open the book, but his hand snapped back to the book of Dexburg businesses. His heart hummed. Before he realized what he was doing, he skimmed the book for a business run under the name of “Linda”.

There were dozens of examples. Yet, which one was the right Linda? Were any of them? Did Linda really live in Dexburg?

Frustration brimming, he scoured all names listed under “Wilkins”. He finally landed on Margaret Wilkins. She was an advertising agent. Interesting.

Shakily, he punched in the number, saving it to his phone. However, he couldn’t bring himself to call it. He stood staring, guiltily.

“Fletcher, you pathetic idiot,” he said. He tossed the book aside and rummaged through the “contacts of buyers” book. “You could’ve picked anybody to try to call, and you pick the number that’ll be no use to you whatsoever.”

The ringing phones on the other side of the wall were simmering down. He needed to find the name of somebody else. Anybody.

Private vet? No. Personal trainer? Too risky. High priest?

Sounded good. The chances were slim that a high priest would try to kill him, right?

“Dan Carvel,” Fletcher whispered, punching the number into his phone.

The phone spat out static as it sent a call through. A strained voice answered.

“Praises be to god, good life, and my barber! This is High Priest Carvel speaking,” a man answered.

Fletcher coughed, his eyes darting around the room. He hadn’t planned far ahead enough for this.

“Hello?” Fletcher said. “You still there?”

“Yes. Who the heaven is this?”

Stalling wasn’t going to last him long.

“I’m… I’m the substitute for today.”

“Oh, hallelujah. I was worried why my drug-dealer sounded so different…”

Fletcher’s hands were sweaty. His eyes darted about. “Good. Now, uh — have you been experiencing any headaches in your stomach?”

“Any what?”

“It’s a deadly symptom that’s going around, with the drugs we’ve been selling you…”

“You need to be more specific, beloved,” Priest Carvel said. “Is it with the marijuana, the LSD, or the heroin?”

“Yes, that one.”

“Which one?”

“Both. All. You know, whatever.”

A wrenching gag came out of the phone. “Oh, Jehovah… Dear lordy. I knew I shouldn’t have been dumping it all in my smoothies like that…”

“You’ve been drinking it in your smoothies?”

Priest Carvel laughed. “No, no. Drinking the smoothie would be ridiculous. I’ve been injecting the smoothie into my veins. Works better that way.”

Fletcher grimaced but pressed on. “Well, if you have those symptoms I listed, there’s a good chance that you’ll die in a week… We need to have you over at our… At our warehouse, to be checked up. Hopefully we’ll find nothing, but—.”

“Die? I can’t die! I haven’t even gone to Spud-World yet! My, oh my mighty… Dying?”

“Cool it, high priest. You just need to get over here, and everything will be cleared up.”

There was a surge of static, followed by crazed crashing and shouting. Finally, the line cut off.

Perfect. There was no way of telling if he’d lost the priest or not. Fletcher redialed the number.

“Hello, oh child of the heavenly,” the priest answered, serenely.

“Yeah, what was all of that?”

“My cat,” said Priest Carvel. “He gets antsy when—.”

Fletcher jumped when a door burst open. Its knob went flying as it swung into the wall.

“Oh shit!” said Jack. “Shit!”

“I told you that he might escape,” said Clair. “Now, look at him. He really might escape!”

Jack ran toward Fletcher, a bullish rage channeling through him. “I thought I told you to stay put!”

“Sorry, have to go,” Fletcher said.

Priest Carvel broke into a fearful ramble. Fletcher shoved his phone in his pocket, then ran around the table.

“It’s too late,” said Fletcher, “the F.B.I is coming for you guys. You’re better off just giving up now.”

Those had been the wrong words. The moment Fletcher said “F.B.I”, Jack flipped the table into Fletcher. Fletcher hit the ground, the table pinning him down. Books went airborne, then pelted his head.

“The effing F.B.I?” Jack said, standing over Fletcher’s head. He loaded his gun, before resting it on Fletcher’s scalp.

“Yes — the Flaccid Botox… Interns,” said Fletcher.

“Don’t bullshit me,” said Jack. “If you’re F.B.I, you better let me know right now, because I’m not playing around.”

Clair pulled a hairbrush out of her pocket and raked it across Fletcher’s skin. He winced, its bristles ripping into his skin.

“I was just bluffing...” he said. “Just bluffing!”

Jack pulled his gun away, but Clair’s brush persisted, digging ever deeper.

“My apologies,” Jack said, putting on a falsetto voice. “I try to keep myself calm. But, you know, with the president’s plans for our town, and Mayor Haddock doing everything he can to prepare for this... It’s kind of hard to trust anyone. Can’t take any risks.”

“Wait, what’s this about the president’s plans?” Fletcher asked, his voice cracking. “Sorry, I took the theorem. It’s just, I forgot.”

“Mayor Haddock will abandon the town, for a brand-new box of paperclips and a bottle of gin,” said Clair. “We’re in the end times. Not sure how you could forget, but —.”

Jack clamped his hand over Clair’s mouth. “You weren’t supposed to tell him that, you nitwit!” he hissed. “I don’t think he’s taken the theorem yet.”

Clair slapped herself in the forehead. “Great, just great... Classic Clair!”

Jack wasn’t satisfied and kicked the metal chair across the room. “No, not just great! We completely botched the chaos theorem up! We exposed a part of it to somebody who hasn’t read it yet! Do you know what’s going to happen to us?”

“No... Knowing is what the chaos theorem is for. I don’t remember everything it says. Hell, maybe we were supposed to reveal a part of the theorem to this dope. Ever think of that?”

“I would’ve remembered something important though, I think! What if our entire fate is going to change now? We might be completely screwed!”

While Jack paced around the room, barreling through his tirade, Fletcher slowly heaved the table off himself. Once free, he shimmied his way toward the open door. It was a longshot, but if he could get out while they were distracted, maybe it was less of a longshot than he anticipated.

“Oh no you don’t!”

Jack gripped Fletcher by the collar and drew him in.

“You know, honestly, I don’t think what you guys told me is all that impressive,” said Fletcher. “I’ve already seen plenty of signs of decay in this town. What with the mysterious pickpocket, the quakes, the insane hordes, and whatnot. I expected that we were headed toward uncertain doom.”

At Fletcher’s last words, Jack appeared to relax.

“Yes...” Then, his face switched to jealousy. “The pickpockets are part of the doom, you think?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure. Why? Do you know them?”

Jack switched again, his emotions now an enigma. “Stupid, ambitious upstart in the gang world. They’re not quite what they make themselves seem to be.”

Clair snickered, before flicking a knife out from under her sleeve. It gave a harsh glare under the room’s light.

“I’m getting the vibe that this guy is pretty useless to us,” said Clair. “Doesn’t matter who he called— F.B.I or not — there’s no way he knows where we are. I’m thinking that we can make a nice wig out of his hair and just put his body in the river.”

Fletcher held back a grin. He’d been putting more conditioner in his hair, hoping people would take notice. Clearly, it was paying off.

“We can’t do that!” Jack said. “I was dead set on burying him in the cemetery.”

Clair and Jack shared a cackle. Clair’s knife homed in, and Fletcher shrunk back. He’d seen what knives could do to pumpkins — and, he wasn’t keen on being made into a decoration for Halloween.

“I was thinking maybe we could go out for brunch, or something,” Fletcher said. “I mean, we don’t have to do this, right? We’re all locked up in the same crazy world, if you really think about it.”

“We can’t afford to have outliers,” said Jack, his arm tightening around Fletcher’s neck. Clair nodded in agreement, swinging her knife back and forth. “The chaos theorem demands it.”

Fletcher sputtered, fighting for even the smallest breath of air. “How’s that working out? You guys like being criminals?”

“Better than being the hostage.”

“It’s awful,” Clair said, reluctantly, “but, who are we to judge what we are? Clearly, this is what we were meant to be. This is our part in the universe. And, as amoral as it might be, it’s real damn fun. Why not accept it? Why not let the ride take us where it’s going?”

The squeal of rubber on pavement tore through the room.

“Clair, did you leave one of the phones on?” Jack asked.

“I thought I ended all our calls. But you had me rush in here so quick that I’m not sure.”

“Great! I think I can hear one of our customers squealing at us.”

“You sure that was a customer? I thought it was an avalanche?”

“Sounds plausible enough, but honestly… Other than a customer, what else could it be?”

“Well, I said avalanche…”

“Shut it!”

There was the jiggle of a latch, followed by the low grinding of a door being opened. Clair and Jack’s eyes went to the telephone room.

“Open sesame! Praises be to almighty!”

It was the high priest, Dan Carvel. Against all odds, he’d made it.

“That parking lot is terrifying,” Priest Carvel’s voice echoed through the room of telephones. “Nearly crashed into somebody’s truck, peeling in here.”

Jack turned to Clair, his face flushed with incense.

“Did you forget to lock the front door?” he hissed.

“You were the one who was supposed to lock the front door, remember?”

“What? I was carrying this lug the whole time! How was I supposed to lock it?”

“You came in last.”

“I distinctly remember that it was you who—.”

Priest Carvel’s voice thundered, washing over their bickering. “Hello, is anybody there? I’m not going to wait forever.”

His steps paused, and then he said, “Come on, beloved followers. There’s nothing to fear. Well, except for a lack of disinfectant… Do they ever clean this place?”

His words stamped pain into Jack’s face.

“Crud, I think he brought other people with him!” said Jack. “What does he think he’s doing here?”

Mussing her hair, Clair brought herself to her full height. Then, she sauntered toward the telephone room. “Not sure what he has for plans,” she said, adding a lilt to her voice. “But I plan on… Getting some.”

Before she reached the door, Priest Carvel poked his head through.

“Why, hello there,” Priest Carvel said. “Peace be upon you holy ones. In the name of our great saint, Chef Bernardo.”

Jack scoffed. “Chef Bernardo. You mean, the guy in those stupid butter commercials?”

“Stupidly divine butter commercials,” Priest Carvel said, asserting himself. He glanced over his shoulder. “Come on in, lads.”

Behind Priest Carvel entered four people, all dressed in white suits. They too carried a sort of otherworldly presence — their strides were in complete lockstep, and white masks obscured their faces.

Priest Carvel moved and flaunted his massive robe. It was a woven tapestry of several colors. Reflections of deep blues and reds were sent along the walls, giving off pure splendor.

“So, I guess we can get started,” said Priest Carvel, clapping his hands together.

Priest Carvel beamed at the sight of Jack and Clair. However, his face was markedly less impressive than his attire, with there being a tired air to him. Deep bags surrounded his eyes, and wrinkles lined his face.

Jack and Clair looked at Priest Carvel as though he were a creature from another planet. Fletcher smiled inwardly — they had no idea what was going on. They’d know soon.

“I don’t have any clue what you’re talking about,” said Jack. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re welcome to be in here. You’re one of our biggest buyers… But, maybe I was drunk or something when I last talked to you? Because, I don’t remember hearing anything about you coming over today.”

Priest Carvel’s face twisted.

“You just gave me an emergency phone call,” he said. “You told me that I might have a deadly disease, due to all of the drugs I’ve been purchasing? You said that you wanted to test me for it?”

“You probably do have a deadly disease,” said Clair, “but, trust me: we don’t know how to test for it, nor do we care.”

“Excuse me? There’s a chance that I might be dying, and you don’t care?”

“She didn’t mean it that way,” Jack said, with a forced chuckle. “Obviously we care if you die. We need money somehow. It’s just, if you die… It’s not like you’re going to be on our minds, or our conscience, or anything. You’ll kind of just be a blip on the radar, like everybody else in the world who dies. Insignificant. You know?”

Priest Carvel took a step back, aghast. “I’m one of the holy… The holy, besotted ones. Besides, I checked with my horoscope: I am not going to die. You dare lie to me?”

Jack fumbled his gun in his hands, his eyes wild and desperate. “Aren’t horoscopes useless?”

“Oh, great, now we have a liar and a skeptic in our midst.”

“No, no, it’s not like that. It’s just, with access to the chaos theorem, do you really need a horoscope?”

“Sorry, your words make too much sense. Thus, they sound like blather to me.”

Fletcher could no longer stand to sit idly by, watching the scene unfold.

“They want to kill you!” he said.

He ran around the room, waving his arms. People tended to listen more when somebody acted irrationally.

Panting, Fletcher continued, “They captured me, and tried beating me to submission. They’re going to do the same thing to you, I swear! Unless you want to be skinned, and have your marrow harvested to make new drugs, help me get out of here!”

Priest Carvel’s expressions morphed between fury, confusion, and gratitude. At a loss, he put his hand over his patchy beard and stared at the floor.

“I always wanted the honor of being immortalized as a pill,” he said. “Though, this marathon sprinter does have a compelling argument…”

Jack tried to take aim at Fletcher. Spit foamed from his mouth, and his arm trembled. Fletcher attempted to shield his face, fulling anticipating a blast. Though, it never came.

“Don’t — don’t listen to him,” Jack said. “He’s full of shit. The man doesn’t… I bet he cheats on crossword puzzles. He’s that dishonest! You can’t trust him!”

Fletcher gave Jack another look. There was a dash of uncertainty on Jack. The situation’s intensity had divorced him from the ability to act.

Clair strode up to Priest Carvel and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Can’t we all just take a step back, and calm down?” she said, her voice a mix of the roughness of sandpaper, and the smoothness of an object freshly sanded.

Priest Carvel gave a whistle. He gave a wave. His four followers broke from their stony poses, and tackled Jack to the ground.

“We’re long past getting along,” Priest Carvel said, pushing Clair away. “There’s no forgiveness for how this has gone down. I will be informing the police. You two are eternally damned.”

Grunts and screams erupted, as Priest Carvel’s followers dragged Jack to the corner. Priest Carvel grappled Fletcher’s shoulder.

“Let’s get out of here,” Priest Carvel said.

“You don’t want to leave without me, do you?” asked Clair.

“What about your accomplice?” said Priest Carvel. “I’ve fed him to my boys. Don’t you care about him?”

Clair shrugged. “I can leave him. He’ll be fine.”

“A minute ago, you two wanted to kill me… How much are you willing to give me in tithe?”

Clair rummaged through her pockets. “How’s ten cents sound?”

Priest Carvel spat at the ground. “Are you for real? Ten cents? I only accept money in increments of thousand-dollar bills.”

He whistled again and gestured at his followers. “Come on, my only begotten children. We must make our exit, with haste.”

The followers dropped Jack, leaving him to moan in vain. “You guys aren’t going to get away with this,” Jack said. “I will make sure that you pay.”

“Wait,” Fletcher said. He ran to the books, bundling them in his arms. There was no telling when they’d come in handy.

Priest Carvel gripped Fletcher firm around the arm and sped through the telephone room. The room was a quagmire, wires crisscrossing along the floors and walls. While many of the phones were kept on tables, most of them lay on the ground.

Priest Carvel eyed Fletcher’s books. “I just saved your life and told you that we need to be on the run. I beseech you — why are you still clinging to your worldly belongings?”

“I think there might be traces of cocaine inside the book,” Fletcher lied.

He took a whiff of the pages for added effect. He coughed. There might’ve been traces, after all.

Priest Carvel gave an approving nod. His four followers banked around Fletcher, giving full protection. Despite their faces being completely covered, Fletcher felt an instant comradery with them.

Perhaps calling Priest Carvel hadn’t been such a bad idea, after all.

. . .

Things are only getting worse and worse.

“Officer Mayhew” this, “Officer Mayhew that.” God, can’t people just give me a break? I didn’t sign up to become an officer to be badgered by a bunch of petty complaints. If I’d wanted that I would’ve just gone into daycare, like I’d originally planned.

A daycare career really wouldn’t have been so bad. Playing patty-cake must beat these patronizing patrols, right?

I’m worn out. That stupid priest called us, telling us that some drug operation was going on at this warehouse. Yet, lo and behold, there’s nothing. Driving to this abandoned warehouse was a wild goose chase.

If anybody had been here, they’re long gone. I don’t even think anybody ever was here. But, Officer Springs tells me that there were druggies, and they booked it. I’m not convinced. They would’ve had to drag their drugs to a car real quick, then gun it.

I’m more inclined to say this was all a waste. Priest Carvel is a loon, after all.

Wait — is that white powder on the table over there? Sure looks like it… I guess I’m obligated to test it, like a good cop.

Yes, it tastes just like cocaine. Huh. Guess Springs was right, for once. This place was probably full of drugs.

Wonder if there are more test samples around here. It’d be great if there are.

Great. Now Springs is chewing me out. Give me a break — if I want to get a little pick me up on the job, is that so bad?

Wait, there’s a yo-yo at Springs’ feet — one of those real cheap ones. Didn’t Fletcher own a toy shop, or something?

Yeah — stinks of Fletcher, all right. He was here. There were drugs here, too.

First the Logan Gerri complaints, then the Marvin Whisk complaints, and now the Priest Carvel complaints… I don’t want to believe it, but Fletcher’s doing something shady. Probably secretly a drug dealer — it lines up with his past. Hell, maybe that toy he told me he was looking for has some of the good stuff stashed in it.

It’s the only explanation for all his behavior.

He won’t be hiding for long. We’re on his trail. We’re going to catch him. This town is finally going to take me seriously.

“Springs,” I say. “Looks like we’ll be making a trip to old Dan Carvel. I’ve got some questions for him.”

Chapter 12:

Priest Carvel leaned back, a smirk resting on his face. He and Fletcher were seated in the back of a black van, while Priest Carvel’s followers drove.

Fletcher hunched into the corner and scrolled through his phone. He’d gotten a message from Linda. His gut lurched.

“I’ve figured out a safe place to bring the money,” the email read. “There’s a dark alley on Grain Avenue, right near Jim Harrigan’s bank. Bring the money there and hide it under the dumpster. We won’t have time to meet, so don’t try. Thank you, Timothy. Love, Linda”

She didn’t want them to meet? Worse, she thought his name was Timothy?

This was a joke. She had to have known his name wasn’t Timothy. This was just a joke. Right?

Stuart clenched his jaw and turned off his phone. He was idiotic for not scrubbing Uncle Timothy’s name from his company.

“Boy, we showed them,” Priest Carvel said. “Of course, I’m not in favor of revenge or anything of that sort. Forgiveness is important, and all that jazz. But yeah — I pray to our lord that those crooks get struck by bowling balls, hollow be his name.”

They were approaching the vehicle’s top speed, and the van gave tired groans and whines. Going queasy, Fletcher held his hands to his stomach. Nonetheless, Priest Carvel was nonplussed.

Fletcher cleared his throat.

“I think it’s ‘hallow’,” Fletcher mumbled.

“Hallo to you too,” Priest Carvel said, with a laugh. “Ah, it’s amazing that things have worked out in the way they have, isn’t it? I would’ve died if you weren’t here.”

Fetcher wanted to share Priest Carvel’s vigor. Yet, the message from Linda was crushing. Worse, virtually no progress had been made on the oil baron. Yes — the oil baron was the bigger problem on his mind.

Fletcher’s thoughts trailed back to his computer — if he could get access to that, and use the info from his stolen books, maybe he could conduct some actual research.

That, and he could restart his chat with Linda. His heart fluttered.

“Speaking of me not being here,” Fletcher said. “I was wondering if you could take me back to my place? There are some things that I need to settle. I’m looking for a lost toy — it’s very valuable, and it was stolen. However —.”

“Lost toy? Of course, of course,” said Priest Carvel. “Happens to me all the time. But, before you can do that, I need you come to my gathering hall to see my religious ceremony. Give it the lookover. I think you’d be a great fit…”

Fletcher squirmed. “Thanks, but I’m really not into religions. I just need to get back home. My address is —.”

“Also, there’s this fraud that I need you to look out for,” Priest Carvel said, unphased. “If you can help me squelch him out, I might be able to give you a tip on where your toy may be.”

“You know where it is?”

“Men of the spirit never give their secrets,” Priest Carvel said, with a wink.

Fletcher checked his watch. There was still plenty of daylight in the day. Besides, there was an intrigue to Priest Carvel. Perhaps he didn’t know exactly where the oil baron was, but he knew something. In any case, he didn’t seem keen on taxying Fletcher anywhere.

Priest Carvel lifted a cigarette and shoved it toward Fletcher’s face. “Here — want one?”

Fletcher shook his head. “I don’t take stimulants. I prefer to see the world as objectively as possible. I don’t want anything impeding my observation of it.”

“Sounds like a waste of time, to me,” said Priest Carvel, shoving the cigarette in his mouth. “We must be the enlightened ones — we must match reality, with spirituality. To keep order, we must become loose; be willing to take risk. Isn’t that right, dearest followers?”

His followers all nodded.

“Praises be to the father, and the gifts given from the highest,” they chanted in unison.

“In agreement,” Priest Carvel said. He kicked his legs back and took a deep huff. His eyes fluttered, then closed. “The chosen one says we’re on the right track to peace — to stopping Armageddon. We just need to get rid of the fakers.”

He sighed and took another huff. “The meaning of life is within our grasp.”

“You’re looking for the meaning of life?” Fletcher asked. “I was hoping you’d already have it, seeing as you’re a priest and all…”

Priest Carvel coughed up a cloud of smoke. “You’d think that,” he said, between gasps, “but, the chaos theorem threw me for a spin. If everything is predetermined, then nothing I do was ever predetermined by me.”

Priest Carvel paused. His eyes were heavy. “We’re all just going by the whims of our electrolytes. I can’t believe that. So then, what is there to believe? I have many beliefs. That’s what my religion is founded on. One of my beliefs is that the chaos theorem is wrong, and that we can prove it. Of course, the theorem predicted that I would choose to do that…”

He tossed his cigarette out the window and lit another one.

“Course, there’s the faker, sowing doubt among my followers… We need to find him and end him.”

Running over a pothole, the van swayed. Fletcher shuddered.

“Has the theorem been wrong about anything, yet?” Fletcher asked.

“Yeah.”

“And what’s that?”

“I’ll die of choking in a day, while eating a rare steak. I never eat steak rare. And according to the Holy Purple Document of Purloin, I’ll never die. Ludicrous, really…”

“Purple document of wha— something a day away is not something in the past, though.”

Priest Carvel gave a sly look. “It isn’t if it’s a day backwards, instead of ahead. And, if I’m thinking in terms of the day ahead, when I mean to think of the day backwards, am I not thinking backwards? Therefore, doesn’t the universe go backwards, to center around my mind? In this way, the things ahead become the things before, before one’s mind’s eye.”

They drove through a wooded area, under the sweet shade of trees. Green tinted sunlight dripped from the leaves to the windows, giving off warmth. Priest Carvel swooned, at ease.

Fletcher coughed as the stench of cigarettes grew. “That’s not how it works.”

“It is, according to Thor! I’ll be fine. The deities have told me so. Do you really think a theorem made by man can outdo the divine?”

“It’s a fine line… The world works, and then it doesn’t. Doesn’t it? Maybe you’re not wrong, but I’m unsure.”

“Get sure.” Priest Carvel slapped Fletcher in the back. “Believe. In the words of General… Muster? Custard? Whatever: faith is the liquor of victors.”

Fletcher tightened his seatbelt. “I would believe, but I’m confused as to what you believe in. I mean — Thor is your God?”

Priest Carvel gave a hearty laugh. “No. Don’t be insane. I don’t believe in any gods.”

He gave Fletcher a prolonged stare. Priest Carvel looked as though he were undressing him with his eyes.

“Of course, I also do,” Priest Carvel said, kicking a leg back. “I’m a tiny god, for example. So are you — though, probably quite a bit tinier than I. Then, there are higher gods. Examples are the president, movie stars, and popstars. Finally, there are+ the prime gods: Buddha, Krishna, Mohammad, Jehovah, Christ… Christ, there are a lot.”

“So, are you pantheistic then?”

Priest Carvel’s face flushed red, and he clenched his fists. “No,” he said, voice trembling. “What? Do I look like a pancake to you?”

Fletcher shook his head.

“I asked you a question!” Priest Carvel boomed, his tenor echoing along the van’s walls. “Do I? Yes or no?”

“I’m sorry,” Fletcher said, fumbling his hands, “I said pantheistic, not pancake. I was just confused about your religion, is all.”

Priest Carvel gave a stiff nod. “I see.” His eyebrows remained raised, dubiously.

Priest Carvel continued. “The mythology is all very complex and involved. It was gifted to me from on high, by some lady. You’ll learn soon enough. Just don’t get sucked in by the doubters. Remember: your job is to find them and squash them. Me and my followers will all be gathering at the gathering place of the holies, very soon. Isn’t that right?”

The followers broke into another chant. “Holiest of holies, leader from above, will take us to a place built from his love.”

Priest Carvel rubbed his hands together in satisfaction.

“I’ve done a lot of talking about myself,” he said. “But I haven’t asked anything about you. Where do you stand in all of this?”

“Just an impartial observer,” said Fletcher. He measured his words, with it occurring to him that ears were everywhere. “Just been going around town, looking for something.”

“Meaning? I know the feeling.”

Fletcher smirked. “Me? Meaning? No, not that at all. I’ve just been looking for that toy I lost. Remember? Very simple expedition, really.”

“Ah yes. Well, just find the faker, and I’ll make it easier for you…”

He gave a relaxed sigh and looked to his hands. He looked back up.

“But, why do you need a toy so bad? Shouldn’t the pleasures of the soul be enough to placate you?”

“It’s just for my business. I need it for that. It’s kind of the prize attraction.”

“Your business doing well?”

Fletcher’s mind went back to his pile of bills from the bank. He shrugged. “I’d prefer not to say. Don’t want to seem like I’m bragging.”

“Oh, of course. We can just talk your personal life. Where do you come from? What’s your background?”

“I’ve been living in Dexburg all my life,” Fletcher said, simply. “Nice town.”

“Funny, I’ve never seen you around. Who did you live with?”

A photo reel of Fletcher’s life whipped through his head. He’d grown up in a toy shop — any kid’s dream. Though, it was always cold. Timothy had problems with the heat in the winter. As he got older, Fletcher became his apprentice and constantly tried to be enough, only to watch him die.

It was too much. Fletcher closed his eyes. “Look, I don’t have time to get into all of it… My upbringing is — a long story.”

“Have any friends? Lovers?”

A twinge of annoyance passed through Fletcher as his thoughts went back to Margaret and Linda, but he simply gave another shrug.

“Maybe.”

Priest Carvel’s smile went smug and deprecating. “We tiny gods — we encounter many a maybe in life. Yet, lovers are never a maybe, my brother. If there’s somebody you care about, you should get on that.”

Fletcher nodded, a choke forming in his throat. He punched himself in the chest.

“Sorry… Lot of phlegm,” he said. “Haven’t been taking my vitamins. Uh — also, there’s something I should probably do. Sorry to interrupt, but it’ll just be a moment.”

Fletcher turned on his phone.

“Whatever you need,” said Priest Carvel. “You shouldn’t wait. Life wasn’t designed for people to wait to do things that they want. I can wait for you.”

Hands shaky, Fletcher went into his email and typed out a message to Linda.

“Are you sure we can’t rendezvous in that alley? I don’t feel comfortable doing this if we can’t. Hell: I can even give you the website for free if you like. I just want to see you. My name is Stuart Fletcher, by the way. Trust me: my life gets way more interesting from there if you just meet me halfway.”

The moment Fletcher sent it, he looked up with a surge of pride. Yet, it flickered out quickly as it came. There was no telling how Linda would respond, or if she would respond at all. Offering a website in exchange for meeting up — was that weird? He’d never asked it of his customers before.

He desperately craved a connection of any kind. Chases and scrambles for it defined his life, and all for nothing. Nobody cared. It was high time that something changed.

Fletcher hit send. Priest Carvel gave a sniff. He’d been looking over Fletcher’s shoulder.

“You’re done? Great. Now, can you believe how divinely shaped toasters are these days?” Priest Carvel droned. “Did you see the old woman who made toast with a marking that was shaped like the Christ’s mustache? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the toaster companies are getting closer to heaven than most of us believers.”

Fletcher raised a finger. “Totally agree,” he said, only barely processing Priest Carvel’s words, “but, I’m going to need you to keep quiet for just one more second.”

Scrolling through the numbers in his phone, Fletcher began to sweat. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. He hovered over Margaret’s number.

Calling her wasn’t going to be smart. Though, he needed to do it.

The call rang once. That was all it needed for her to pick up.

“Hello, who’s this?”

Fletcher’s heart skipped a beat. He attempted to clear his throat, only for it to become stuffier. His skin went blotchy.

“Hi,” he said.

Static. Fletcher redirected his ears to the thrum of his van.

“You changed your number,” Margaret finally hissed. “Who gave you my number?”

“I just want to talk, for old time’s sake,” Fletcher said. “It’s been so long… And everything is so crazy these days. What do you think about everything that’s going on? And… Where do you think we stand?”

There was a groan. “We don’t stand,” she said, “not after what you did. I’m not letting you back in, Stuart. It doesn’t matter what you say.”

At hearing this, a newfound frustration lapped at Fletcher.

“Oh yeah?” Fletcher said. “Well, you’re going to talk to me. I’ll make sure of it. I’m not going to let you keep shutting me out. We need each other.”

He hadn’t meant it. At least, the rational part of his brain told him that. Yet, there was no denying that the words had been said. They couldn’t be put back.

“I put a restraining order on you for a reason. Even Harry agreed with it. If you try seeing me, you’ll only see consequences. Never call this number again!”

The phone call went dead.

Fletcher’s cheeks burned. His mind swam; swelled. It couldn’t be over just like that. Could it? All those feelings that he’d felt for Margaret, tossed to the wayside? Had it ever been real?

Priest Carvel put a hand on Fletcher’s shoulder and gave a tight squeeze. Fletcher pushed back, fighting a light mist forming over his eyes.

“This is going be a lot to bear,” said Priest Carvel. “I can’t even imagine what this is about to take of you... But, I need you to be honest: do you think that I look like a pancake?”

. . .

Is regret supposed to be something that you feel regret over? Is regret even something you should feel in the first place?

“Did it seem like Stuart Fletcher was in cahoots with these shooters?” the cops asked me.

I was still cowering outside Kent Burgess’ factory when the cops showed up. Fletcher and the shooters were long gone.

For some reason, I told the cops yes. And when I said that, they looked as though I’d given them the answer they were looking for. Yet, I couldn’t help but feel I’d given the wrong answer.

I should’ve never called or talked to those cops.

My father always said, “Marvin: regret is only something you feel when you’re in the wrong.”

Good to know. But what if there’s a situation where it might be wrong to be feel you’re in the wrong? Is your regret still valid? Is there any way to tell?

I’ve been chasing down Fletcher. Yet, if somebody asked me why, I wouldn’t be able to say. I don’t trust the police — especially after everything I had to tell them about Fletcher, when they interrogated me. I think they might be attempting to arrest him. Yet, Fletcher was captured by some gang. He seemed innocent.

Well, maybe he’s not completely innocent… I’m sure that the guy is guilty of something. Still, the police have the wrong idea. I need to make sure that he’s safe, right? Am I not obligated to, now that the police mistakenly think he’s a criminal?

It’s funny. Fletcher and I are sworn enemies. He probably hates me more than I hate him. He is constantly working to undermine me. I’m still praying he doesn’t destroy me. Yet, I feel so much guilt over being so antagonistic toward him.

Maybe there’s a chance at mending the broken ties — at making something out of all this chaos. It’s not a certainty, but it’s a possibility.

“Officer Mayhew here. We’re headed to Dan Carvel’s to gather more intel on this case,” the police intercom in my truck says, through a cloud of static.

Dan Carvel’s. I think I know where that is…

I need to set my record straight with these officers about Fletcher. Then I need to find Fletcher, and have him make things right with the cops.

Finally, I must stop Fletcher from ruining my business.

Hopefully it all works out.

Chapter 13:

The gate was mottled with thorny vines and patches of rust. Gargoyles ogled from fenceposts, their eyes piercing. They seemed to suck out the soul of their observer.

Fletcher clutched his books tight to his chest. He’d been secure inside the van. Now, the van squealed as it sped away.

Fletcher flicked his eyes away and strained to look past the gate. All he could make out was a dilapidated shack, sitting on a steep hill. Priest Carvel’s gathering hall must’ve been just beyond, hidden from view.

Fletcher shuddered. He’d have to scale the entire hill. If anything were to go awry, a quiet escape. wouldn’t be much of an option.

“Remember,” Priest Carvel said, turning to look back at his followers, and then to Fletcher, “follow me, and do exactly as I say. Once we’re in there, anybody could be the faker. You need to maintain appearances and keep an eye out for the one causing doubt.”

A guard stood by the gate, with his arms crossed.

“Who art thou, those who stand here?” the guard asked. He was dressed in similar garb to the other followers — white masks, and a pure white cloak. Though, underneath it were thick layers of padding and armor.

“I’m Priest Dan Carvel,” Priest Carvel said, puffing up his chest. He then gestured to Fletcher and the rest of the crew. “These are, obviously, some of my followers.”

The guard squinted at Fletcher. He nodded, then cleared his throat. “Yes, well… What is the name of the religion, for which I guard so diligently?”

Priest Carvel spat out his cigarette and scratched his beard. His feet kicked at the dirt. He paced in a small circle. “Damn, you got me at a bad time, chief. I’m really keyed into the spirit world right now. Thus, it’s difficult to remember.”

“How many feet lie upon the head of the beheaded headsman?”

Priest Carvel’s face was blank. “Sorry, doesn’t ring a bell…”

“Password. If you want in, you must have the password.”

“Yeah, well maybe I don’t have the password, bigshot! Now, are you going to let me in, or not?”

“I’m sorry, oh holy one. But, there’s no way to confirm if you truly are the holy, unless you have the—.”

Priest Carvel pushed the guard aside and flipped a key in the air.

“I have the key,” Priest Carvel said, with a scoff. “I’m pretty sure that I’m the real deal, okay? Do you want me to pay the property bills this week, or not?”

With a firm nod, the guard stepped aside. Priest Carvel pushed his key into the gate’s padlock, struggling with it. Despite his begging, the lock simply wouldn’t open.

The guard came over. Ignoring the lock, he pushed the gate open.

“I locked the padlock, but I may have forgotten to loop it through both the gates,” the guard said, sheepishly. “But hey: at least I remembered to lock the padlock.”

Priest Carvel clapped his hands, before walking through the gate. “Brilliant. You must do that more often! Can you imagine how much time pretending that this gate is locked will save me?”

Patches of overgrown grass collapsed underfoot, followed by strips of freshly cut grass. The entire hillside was this way. Whoever had cut the lawn did an incredibly shoddy job.

“Priest Carvel — you do remember everybody in your great hall, right?” Fletcher asked, with a whisper. “Because, if there’s anybody new, or anything that’s changed recently… That might help.”

Priest Carvel laughed. “Of course! Of course!”

Yet Priest Carvel offered nothing more and sped away. Fletcher scrambled after him, only to have Priest Carvel move faster.

“How long do you think finding the faker will take?” Fletcher asked. “And, is there any sort of hint you can give me about the toy?”

“It won’t be long, but it’ll be long enough to not be short,” Priest Carvel said, nodding.

“You’ll make sure to drive me back home after all this, right?”

“No doubt.”

The followers mimicked Priest Carvel, chanting on repeat, “no doubt.” Fletcher mumbled along with them, only hoping he wasn’t making a mistake.

“We’ll have you in and out of here in a jiffy,” Priest Carvel continued, “Just get a feel for my religion, and a feel for the person who is most suspicious. That’s all.”

“And what religion is that, exactly?”

Priest Carvel’s followers laughed, then repeated Fletcher’s words in a mocking monotone.

They approached the shack of a house, prompting another increase in pace from Priest Carvel. From this view, Fletcher could see the entire grove with clarity; he saw no sign of a bigger house anywhere.

“I know, I know — this temple is somewhat intimidating,” Priest Carvel said, giving the shack a proud grin. “Truly, there hasn’t been a monastery cathedral built like this in over a century.”

Priest Carvel creeped up the rotting porch steps and opened the door.

“I don’t think there’s ever been one built quite like this, at all,” Fletcher muttered.

Bits of wood fell from the porch canopy, followed by peeling paint. Fletcher skipped over a broken floorboard.

“It must’ve been quite something to buy this property,” said Fletcher. “I imagine the real estate agent was in shock.”

He waited for a response from Priest Carvel. It never came. Cautiously, Fletcher stepped after him, into the dark entrance into the house.

A festering wave of sweaty hands swept him up. He jostled between dozens of bodies and struggled to keep his focus intact. The faker had to be somewhere. If he found them, he could be on his way.

“Greetings, oh enlightened ones!” Priest Carvel shouted, above the crowd. “Today is a very special day. It’s the day that I make the day a day to forget!”

The crowd broke into cheers and roars. All the while, Fletcher’s body bopped around. Priest Carvel was nowhere to be seen, amid the peeling plaster and dancing bodies.

Everybody was dressed in familiar white cloaks and held similar composure. They carried their heads high and kept their movements stiff. Constricted.

“I may or may not have forgotten the exact details to the religion that we’re serving,” Priest Carvel went on, “but no matter! So long as we set our sights to the holiest of holies, there will be no stopping us! We are not a force to be defied! We are a force to be deified!”

The crowd repeated after him. “We are not to be defied. We’re to be deified!”

As Fletcher chanted along, he jumbled the placing of deified and defied. He caught others around him doing the same. Nonetheless, palpable pride swelled throughout them and the building.

Fletcher made his way through the room and entered a larger room. Or rather, it was multiple rooms merged into one. To each side of Fletcher, there were gashes in the floor. The walls to three neighboring rooms had been torn down, creating a mega-room.

In the corner of the room, Priest Carvel pumped himself to mega proportions. He stood on a rickety table, holding a microphone and paper in hand.

“We’re getting closer to the divine lightbulb, brothers and sisters!” he cried. “Our lives are intermingling into one, crafting a greater inner-reality for the outside! I beseech you all: I’ve been making strides out in the field. Today alone, I’ve gathered a new follower.”

His eyes swung to Fletcher, and his arm stretched in Fletcher’s direction.

“Mr. Fletcher is the greatest hinderer I have ever met!” he said. “He hindered the blindingly bright forces today when they tried ensnaring me. Fletcher, come on up here!”

Fletcher had no desire to join the Priest Carvel and be made a spectacle. However, upon Priest Carvel’s request, the crowd pushed Fletcher toward the table.

“Don’t be worried,” one of the followers whispered into Fletcher’s ear. “Priest Carvel might require holy fear, but he’s not to be wholly feared.”

“I wish I had the honor to stand next to him, upon the great table,” someone yelled.

Fletcher wished he could be wishing that.

He scanned the crowd. How many people were in the house? Did finding the right person to call a “faker” even matter? It wasn’t as though Priest Carvel would be able to tell the difference.

The table trembled as Fletcher stood upon it. He listened as bits of wood splintered and buckled. It had a weaker design than the tables he’d kept at his toy store.

“Tell them what we did today!” Priest Carvel said, slapping Fletcher on the back. He flaunted his robe and flashed his teeth.

“Well, you did a whole lot of drugs,” Fletcher said.

“Spiritual enhancers,” Priest Carvel corrected, a tinge of annoyance in his voice. “Only for the most enlightened of the tiny gods to consume. And, I say unto you all: I met a revelation today. I learned why squid are called squid.”

“Is it because that’s what they’re called?” Fletcher asked, trying to play along.

“No. Everything must happen for a reason. They’re called squid, because octopus are called octopus. Thus, squids can’t be quads. Nor can they be cods. It’s like how gods must be gods, rather than us sods… Squids must be squids.”

Fletcher was lost among the incoherence. His arms sagged, his books becoming heavy. Yet, as he tried studying the audience, he was bestowed with awe. Priest Carvel carried an assurance in his voice that made everything fall into place.

“Praise be to the logic of the holy one!” went the entire crowd.

One of the followers came up to the table, holding an infant over his head.

“Please, have my baby!” he said. “You alone are worthy!”

Priest Carvel laughed. “Thank you, but I’d much rather have money.”

“No, please! Take my baby! I haven’t slept for a month!”

The crowd folded back in on the follower, in a clamor of singing and swooning. Fletcher felt the urge to hide among them. An itching in the back of his mind left him uneasy.

“The squid is the squid!” Priest Carvel repeated. “It’s inevitable!”

“Of course, not everything is inevitable,” Fletcher said, despite himself. “You’ve acknowledged that — the chaos theorem is wrong. It’s the main tenet of your religion, right?”

Priest Carvel cleared his throat. He gave Fletcher an uncertain look. “Yes. Of course. But, a squid is still a squid because it was meant to be a squid. It wouldn’t be named so, if it wasn’t supposed to be.”

“But what if it wasn’t supposed to be? What if I named a squid a quad, and everybody else in the world called it that too? Then, my choice will have changed the world’s word for squid. We can defy intrinsic meaning, because we define intrinsic meaning.”

Priest Carvel clicked his tongue. “It would still have been inevitable if you called a squid a quad, I imagine. You were meant to call it that, even if you weren’t.”

“But if I wasn’t meant to call a squid a quad, how can I be?”

“Because… You just can. You know what I mean.”

“Do I? Do we? Is what you’re saying coherent, or does my mind just ascribe coherence to it because it can tell you’re saying something — when you’re actually saying nothing?”

The crowd broke into an unintelligible babble of agreement and disagreement. Fletcher attempted to keep eyes on the doubters when the crowd’s eyes turned on him. People were scrutinizing him. Upon catching Fletcher’s moment of insecurity, Priest Carvel puffed his chest again.

“I will continue considering the philosophy of the squid,” Priest Carvel said, voice booming. “Perhaps Fletcher has a point.”

“What if Fletcher is the chosen one?” one of the members of the crowd cried.

“Who said that?” Priest Carvel snapped.

Fletcher studied for the person who’d spoken. It was impossible to tell.

Priest Carvel laughed. “Now, now… I’m not sure who the chosen one is. But surely, members of the purloin lovers…”

“Purloin Believers!” one of the members cried.

Priest Carvel raised his voice, “Surely I seem to be the chosen one.”

One of the members of the crowd laughed.

“Great joke, Priest Carvel,” he said. “But, we all know that you’re merely the mouthpiece for the chosen one, imbued by the great gods with your wisdom. You said so yourself.”

Perhaps this crowd member was the faker? Though, he was dressed in identical garb to everyone else —keeping track of him would be difficult.

Priest Carvel shrugged. “That was just what the great gods told me to say. I always thought you all thought there was a chance that I was the chosen one…”

Several jeers erupted from the crowd.

“You didn’t even know the sanction key of the jelly snatchers,” said one.

“And, you utterly forgot about the exception rule of Peru,” said another.

At this point, there were too many doubters to count. Priest Carvel’s face boiled. Gingerly, Fletcher backed into the corner. Priest Carvel was about to explode. Yet, perhaps he deserved it. Perhaps Priest Carvel’s problem of doubt wasn’t a “faker”, but himself.

A sinking fell through Fletcher’s gut. He needed some way of finding a faker — it was his one ticket forward. Would it be so wrong to choose a random person, after Priest Carvel’s charade was over?

“Alright, alright, maybe I don’t have the best memory,” Priest Carvel said. “Anyway, can we all agree that this session was incredibly enlightening? I imbued you all with a grand revelation!”

Murmurs washed over the room. Priest Carvel grabbed Fletcher from behind and walked him off the table. Fletcher fumbled with his books, caught in sudden shock.

“Just let me do the talking,” Priest Carvel hissed in Fletcher’s ear.

Priest Carvel moved to the room’s center, murdering an attempt at a moonwalk.

“In any case, I’m sure you can all be pleased in my discovery of Mr. Fletcher!” Priest Carvel cried. “Isn’t he just the most adorable thing you guys have laid eyes on?”

He gave Fletcher an aggressive shake, then a pat on the back.

“Fletcher, please, tell us a bit more about yourself,” Priest Carvel said. He made a great, terrible laugh. “Go into what you were telling me on the ride here — how your business is going great, and you have such an interesting past.”

“I was actually really interested in hearing more about your take on squids,” Fletcher said.

Priest Carvel gave a 20-watt smile and shook his head. Envy lining his eyes, he whipped his robe around flamboyantly. He wanted to be in control, no doubt. Though, little could be controlled in this room.

Fletcher coughed. An upsweep of dust filled the air; people clustered around him, rattling the room. All eyes were on him.

“I’m just a guy who’s lived here all my life,” Fletcher said. “I was raised by my uncle, and I’ve been running his business for some time. It’s going okay, I guess. I don’t let fears of failure or anything get in my way.”

“You don’t let fears get in your way?” one of the followers said, shocked. “But Priest Carvel always says that fear is the only way of making one’s way… He loves fear.”

“It’s true,” Priest Carvel said, proudly. “It’s what sets us apart from posers. Never anything like a nice pinch of fear, to get people to do things you want.”

Fletcher nodded. “I guess I have to agree with that… I wouldn’t get out of my bed in the morning, if I wasn’t terrified of what would happen if I didn’t. Hell, I probably would’ve taken the chaos theorem if it weren’t for the fact that I wasn’t terrified.”

The room went deathly quiet. Priest Carvel’s face went slightly rosy.

“Yeah,” he said, sheepishly, “Fletcher is one of the few people who hasn’t read the chaos theorem yet…”

“You don’t follow the chaos theorem? You’ve defied it?” said a man.

“What are those books in your hands?” a woman asked, grabbing at them.

“Just something I found, while I was captured…” Fletcher said, pulling them behind his back.

“He found holy books, while being captured!” she cried. “And he’s defied the chaos theorem! He must be the chosen one!”

Several people grabbed Fletcher by his jacket, pulling him in multiple directions.

“I went to a theorem booth and have been stuck following the chaos theorem for weeks,” somebody said, “no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to break it. It told me that I would quit my job at Kent Burgess’ factory, become convinced that I’m a telepath, and join a cult. I can read your mind — I know you think I’m lying — but, honest to god, that’s exactly what has happened.”

“You’re luckier than my pops!” one follower retorted. “He was told that he would commit suicide, after going to Dr. Ford’s hospital for being insanely sane. Get this? He did.”

The room flared with more disagreements and comparisons. Priest Carvel attempted to quell the frenzy, only for people to begin clearing a spot for Fletcher. They placed a plush chair for him, its arms ornamented with a staff and a glass.

“Take the cup of Venus’ saliva,” they began to chant. “Take the cup of Venus’ saliva.”

“No, let’s not!” shouted Priest Carvel. “That’s only for sacred ceremonies! Please everybody, stop! Listen to me!”

Fletcher was manhandled into the chair, with the staff placed in his hands and the glass brought toward his lips. He considered struggling, but what was the point? He went with the flow, as Priest Carvel had said. He was just a mini god, being fiddled with at the whims of larger gods.

“Fine, fine!” Priest Carvel said, snatching the glass. “Let’s test his mettle. I doubt he’ll have the courage to truly drink this drink.”

He gave Fletcher a wink. Though, his lip twitched nervously until Fletcher gave a wink back.

“Whoever drinks of the glass will have full control of the Purloined Believers, and all their knowledge,” Priest Carvel rambled, as if he were reading from a script. “Though, those who are unworthy will instantly die. Dearest Mr. Fletcher, will you partake?”

Fletcher’s instinct was to say no. He could just end it here and now. However, a seed of doubt was in his mind.

Full control was a lot — there were countless people here. Doubtless, some of them would know what to do about the lost oil baron. Some might even know who Linda was. They were all at his fingertips, just waiting to be directed.

“Does it taste good?” Fletcher asked.

“Of course. It’s the saliva of gods. How could it not? But — but it’s poison.”

“That’s all I need to hear.”

Fletcher’s head swam with the possibilities. These people could be used for anything. There was even always the outside possibility that they could be used to mend his relationship with Margaret. Maybe — just maybe.

He downed the drink.

“Wait, you can’t drink that!” Priest Carvel said, voice going shrill. “That’s the holy drink. Only those who are chosen can partake of it!”

He leaned into Fletcher’s ear. “That was my smoothie, man. I was saving that.”

Fletcher gave a solemn nod. Then, mimicking the commanding inflections of Priest Carvel’s voice, he declared, “Only the chosen one, you say? Well, it’s a great thing that I am he! I could tell, just this morning, that everything today was going to be grand. You’ve shown me the light!”

Priest Carvel flushed red with rage. He wasn’t going to forgive this. Nonetheless, the redness faded quick as it came.

“Yes — yes, I’ve shown you the light,” said Priest Carvel. “Please remember that, ladies and gentlemen. It’s through my holy water that he was redeemed. Praises be to Allah, Jehovah, Jesus, Buddha, Zeus, Krishna… And me.”

The crowd paid no attention to Priest Carvel. Fletcher outstretched his arms, tossing his books into the crowd. People groped at him and bowed at his feet.

“I have a grand plan to bring restoration to the universe,” said Fletcher, his eyes dancing. “There are two things that I need: a toy, and the name of a certain woman.”

“A toy and a certain woman,” shouted the crowd.

“Will that save us from the certain doom?” one asked.

“What doom?” Fletcher asked. “Oh, yes… Yes, the doomsday prophecy of the chaos theorem will be undone!”

The crowd erupted.

“Does anybody know a mysterious woman named Linda, who’s building a website?” Fletcher asked.

The uproar died out, being replaced by an uncomfortable silence.

Fletcher fought back a rush of embarrassment. “It — it’s alright,” he said, raising his hands. “Have you guys seen any sign of a stolen toy? A toy oil baron, in particular? Or, are there anybody suspicious persons who might’ve stolen one? I promise — it’ll answer the divine.”

Priest Carvel shoved through the crowd and grabbed Fletcher by his jacket collar. “How on Earth will that answer the divine?” he shouted. “Are you pulling our legs?”

“No, no, I know exactly what he’s talking about!” one of the followers said, with a whoop. “The other day, I was in the healing bath for a headache… I met this odd woman, who struck me as a hoarder. She just did. And, she told me she was working for some man. She wanted to know about any valuables in the area…”

“What type of valuables?” Fletcher said, eyebrows raised.

“Anything: money, antiques, trinkets. I told her I didn’t know.”

“What did she look like?”

“Tall, slim… She had dark hair. Her face was kind of square.”

Margaret matched that description perfectly. However, she never had any relationships with strange men, so far as Fletcher could recall. Besides, was she really the kind of person who would steal? It didn’t sound like her.

“That sounds exactly like a woman that I met,” said someone. “I thought she might’ve been that pickpocket who’s been going around. At least, that’s the tingle I’m feeling in my spirit-head.”

There were a series of nods. Fletcher snatched his books back from a follower and pushed his way through the crowd. Everything was falling into place — the shunning by Margaret, the strange targeting of his favorite toy, Margaret’s evasiveness. The thief had to have been her. Why hadn’t he thought her a suspect sooner?

Nearing the exit, he and put on a smile. “Thank you for your help, purloined believers. I’ll make sure to find this person and complete my quest!”

He pumped a fist in the air, prompting a round of cheers.

“No you won’t,” said Priest Carvel, grabbing Fletcher’s sleeve. “This ‘pickpocket’ woman sounds skeevy. You can’t talk to her. It defies the code of —.”

“Well, he will,” somebody interrupted.

Fletcher looked up and beamed. Filtering through the crowd was a man with a molting head of hair.

“Marvin!” Fletcher said.

“It’s Mr. Whisk, and you’re coming with me,” Marvin said, gripping Fletcher’s other sleeve. “If none of you guys knew, the police are after this man. I need to sort that out.”

Fletcher’s eyes widened. The cops were after him. He’d completely forgotten.

“Thank you!” Fletcher said. “I knew you’d help me prove my innocence. How’d you find me?”

Marvin Whisk scoffed. “I was actually trying to get to the police.”

Marvin looked away — he was likely directing his disgust at the cult. Fletcher completely sympathized.

“He’s a sacred follower in the Purloin Believers,” Priest Carvel said to Marvin. “You’re not taking him anywhere.”

“He’s the chosen one,” the crowd chanted. “The chosen one. The chosen one.”

Marvin Whisk laughed. “The chosen one? Please, Fletcher couldn’t tell you the difference between a Bible and a door stop. Hell, I think he uses his Bible as a door stop. Plus, the cops are after him because they think he’s a drug dealer. Did I mention he’s one of the most aggravating people that I know? He’s no chosen one, that’s for sure.”

Fletcher smiled — Marvin’s plan was genius. They’d get out of here with ease, now that everybody thought he was a fraud.

Yet, the crowd wasn’t taking it as easy as Fletcher had hoped. Ruptures of anger rose through countless eyes. There were rounds of grumbling and muttering.

Somebody elbowed Fletcher, then snatched the books out of his arms.

“I’ve purloined this faker’s holy books,” they shouted. “We no longer need this fraudulent chosen one any longer.”

Priest Carvel puffed his chest, confidence surging. “Yes!” he said. “Let’s tear this faker apart, limb from limb. He’s sown doubt among us, dear faithful ones. We must show him what it truly means to be chosen.”

Priest Carvel grappled Fletcher, yanking him toward himself. Fletcher attempted to fight back, before giving in. His hands fumbled at Priest Carvel’s body, before finally reaching into his pockets. He grabbed at a knife. He winced as the blade sliced his palm, and he put it back. He found a wallet.

That could be useful.

The crowd charged on Fletcher as he pocketed the wallet, and caressed his damaged hand. They clawed at his skin and shoved him in multiple directions. The only thing moving him forward was Marvin’s steady hand.

“I’m going to die, I’m going to die, I’m going to die,” Marvin said, his voice reduced to wheezy breaths.

Fletcher glanced at his wounded palm and felt the same way.

“Maybe that’ll be a good thing,” said Fletcher, gritting his teeth against the pain. “Right about now, I want death more than anything else. At least they have some nice cushions to rest on, up in heaven. Or, so I’m told.”

As Marvin pulled Fletcher further through the crowd, the fighting dissipated.

“These followers don’t have any idea what’s going on,” said Fletcher. “If we hurry, we can get out of here.”

“Does anybody in this town have any idea what’s going on?” asked Marvin, eyes frantic. “In any case, what do you think I’m doing?”

They ran out of the house, knocking a few people over as they went.

“I think that old lady just hit the dirt,” Marvin said, with a choke.

“She’ll be fine,” said Fletcher. “Pretty sure that these people have special healing abilities.”

Marvin led Fletcher toward his dilapidated truck. Fletcher buckled himself in the crusty passenger seat, and wrapped his wounded hand with a pile of napkins. Marvin fought to bring the engine to life.

“Come on!” Marvin shouted.

Priest Carvel let out a shriek from his shack, running toward them. His cult was behind him, following at full throttle.

“You can’t just yell at a stalling engine, during a chase,” said Fletcher. “You need to punch it. It’s more dramatic.”

Fletcher gave the dashboard a heavy pound, knocking the radio box out of its place.

“What did you just do to my car?” Marvin cried.

Yet, his voice was drowned out by the roar of the engine.

Fletcher leaned back and put his hands over his head. Rocks crunched underneath, the tires accelerating away. After they’d been driving for about a minute, there were distant echoes of other cars revving. Yet, they were so far away. There was no chance of them being caught.

“Thanks Marvin,” Fletcher said. “If it weren’t for you, I’d be dead meat.”

“You still are,” Marvin said. His voice cracked. “I need to turn you in. I — the police think you’re in a gang. You need to set things right with them.”

“Turn me in? That makes no sense…”

“Neither is what you’re planning.”

“You think I have a plan? Please. I’m the antithesis of a planner.”

“You must be planning something, because it feels like you are. According to the police, you’re breaking the law… Thus, I have to turn you in.”

Fletcher nodded. He had a twinge of understanding for Marvin’s position. Marvin was just doing what made sense to him.

“Have you read the chaos equation?” Fletcher asked, his mind spinning.

The car swerved, and Marvin stammered. “Well, no. I know I’m supposed to, according to Mayor Haddock… But I’m not into the idea of being told exactly what I’m going to do before I do it.”

“Don’t you like following orders though?” Fletcher asked.

“Only when there’s no order. Once there’s a set order to everything, what’s the point in trying to have order? The order is already in place, whether you like it or not.”

“Is it? What if the order of things is for you to break order? And, what if you’re breaking that?”

Marvin gave Fletcher a look. “What do you—?”

“There’s always the possibility that you’re not supposed to drive me to the police, because even if you’re supposed to drive me to the police, you’ll be doing what you’re not supposed to do. You get me?”

“That doesn’t—.”

“You want to let me go, don’t you? We’re friends, right?”

“We’re not—.”

“You can just stop this car, step out, and let me drive off. Nobody could blame you. You wouldn’t have been able to help it — you were only doing what you were always supposed to do, because it’s what you were always going to do. The chaos theorem can’t be defied, nor controlled. So, why not just do this?”

Marvin gulped. The brakes slammed and the vehicle grinded to a halt. He popped the driver’s door and stepped out.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” Marvin moaned.

“It’s fine,” Fletcher said, scooting to the driver’s seat and taking the wheel. He gave Marvin a wink. “Thank you.”

Marvin cradled his head in his hands, rubbing profusely. “I hate you.”

“Heh. Ever the sarcastic one, eh?”

The driver’s door swung shut, and the gas pedal pressed to the floor. Fletcher was off.

. . .

“Hit it, Mayhew!” Springs shouts at me.

Priest Carvel and a brigade of his followers are making their way through a forest, just outside his property. It’s as though he’d known we were coming.

Of course, with the chaos theorem, I suppose he did. I knew that this chase was going to happen, myself. Still, I wasn’t prepared for it to actually happen.

“This car is already going as fast as it can go!” I say to Springs.

“Good god man, we’re losing them! Next time, we take my squad car, instead of yours. This thing is a piece of crap.”

I can’t disagree with him one bit. My one chance at a serious car chase, and I’m blowing it.

Screw this job.

. . .

I hate Jack. Such a jackass. Makes us drive all the way out here, to get this loser. Why can’t we just lie to the boss, and say that this Fletcher guy offed himself before we could do anything?

“I swear, this entire place is empty,” I tell Jack, as he ruffles through the shack. “Dan Carvel knew we were coming and ditched.”

“He’s playing hide-and-seek, I swear.”

Jack doesn’t want to believe me, for whatever reason. Whatever. He can keep waltzing around this empty house for all I care. It’s not like the police are on our ass, or anything.

We’re so screwed.

Wait — there are some deep tire tracks leading into the forest. Just noticed them. Those fresh? They must be.

There are only two explanations for them. Either the postman got horribly lost from his route, or Dan Carvel took a secret trail in the forest.

Kind of having a tough time deciding. Either way, I tell Jack. He takes notice, and now we’re back in the truck. We’re driving off, into the forest.

We’re going to catch up with this Carvel guy. Hopefully we’ll find Stuart Fletcher too.

Nobody pulls one over on us and gets away with it.

Chapter 14:

Fletcher attempted parallel parking between a meaty pickup truck and a bug. He was cutting it close when he hit park and cut off the engine. He pulled his foot off the brake. The car jolted forward. There was a slight crack; the front bumper swung into the backend of the pickup truck. One of the taillights were knocked out.

It was fine. It’d be fine. Nobody looked at the taillights of other cars anyway. He looked around — weren’t any stop signs anywhere, either. Just a sign saying, “bus stop”.

He gave a sigh of relief. How was he to know when to stop his car, when the only stop signs around applied to buses?

Fletcher glanced through his phone. There were no new messages from Linda. Had she seen his email yet? Maybe she was busy.

He kept scrolling. More complaints from customers. A message from the bank.

From the bank? That was new. He crossed his fingers, hoping it was a loan approval.

“Warning: if you don’t pay your loans back by the end of tomorrow, we’re going to seize your teeny tiny little toy store away,” the email read. “Get fucked. Sincerely, Jim Harrigan”

Fletcher quivered. This email had been on the horizon, but he hadn’t expected it to come so soon.

He shook his head. It’d be fine. If he found the oil baron, he could probably sell it and make enough money.

He slipped Priest Carvel’s wallet from his pocket. There were no credit cards of any kind. He unzipped it, spilling a wad of dollar bills.

He counted them out. There were ten in total. Not bad. It would help.

He slammed his head into the car horn. Like hell it would help.

Stumbling out of Marvin’s car, he fixed his eyes toward the apartment complex across the street. Margaret’s complex.

Talking to her would be the cure to his woes. She probably had the oil baron. She had money too — maybe she’d be willing to give him a loan. Everything was going to click into place.

“Give me your bathing shorts!”

Fletcher stumbled back, being shoved into a vehicle. An alarm went off, piercing his ears.

Fletcher stared into the face of a woman with a crazed face. A broken plastic spoon was in her hand. She reeled it behind her head.

“Hey, lay off, I’m injured,” Fletcher said, raising his wounded hand. “Besides, I left my bathing shorts in my dishwasher, back at the toy shop.”

The woman gave a cry and her hand thrust forward. Fletcher’s shoulder was stabbed with the edge of her plastic spoon.

“What — what was that for?” Fletcher said, clutching the gash along his shoulder.

“I need a collection of bathing suit trunks,” the woman said. “The chaos theorem has deemed it so.”

Fletcher slid from under her and ran into the street. To his left, a stampede of people charged toward him.

“You can’t escape it,” the woman with the spoon shouted. “I tried. I used to be normal too. In the end, the calamity of reality always win out!”

Biting as the words were, Fletcher wasn’t convinced of the reality of calamity. At least, that’s what he told himself. As the crowd of people barreled on him, he reconsidered his position.

His legs pumped, speeding across the street. He slid between two cars, then rushed toward the complex. The door was just ahead.

There was a splat. A raw chicken breast hit the pavement. Several more pelted at Fletcher.

“Food fight!” somebody cried.

“What in god’s name —?” Fletcher said.

A gruff man shot from behind a car, and shoulder checked Fletcher. Fletcher teetered back and struggled to keep his balance. His foot slipped on a raw chicken breast, before he caught a sturdy hand on the brick wall.

“My wallet!” Fletcher cried.

It wasn’t his wallet, but Priest Carvel’s. Nevertheless, Fletcher scrambled toward it. Upon picking it up, he was given a swift kick to the gut.

“You going to buy my poultry, or not?” the gruff man asked.

“Please,” Fletcher said, his legs turning to sticks of butter. “I don’t want your paltry poultry. It’s on the ground, for god’s sake. I will now be on my way.”

“It tastes better after it’s been marinated by the ground, I swear. I need some money. Please!”

Shock jolted through Fletcher. He gave the man a second look and squinted. The man was John. Fletcher had been shoulder checked by one of his closest friends.

Fletcher’s horror switched to pride when he realized how great of a football player John could’ve made.

John jumped toward Fletcher, and pride switched back to horror.

“Wait, wait,” Fletcher said. “John, it’s me. What are you doing? You’ve gone nuts, John.”

John stepped back and looked on his hands. He gave them a sniff. “You’re right… I really should’ve put on gloves, before throwing raw meat around.”

“You should’ve let me put on some gloves before throwing me around, as well,” Fletcher said. “We’re friends, John. And, I thought you were getting a job!”

John’s voice broke into a shrill laugh.

“I was never getting a job,” he said. “Kent Burgess is a tightwad. Besides, the theorem says everything was always going here. I was doomed to wind up in the gutter, from the get. It was just getting there that I was getting hung up on.”

“This isn’t right. John, you’re one of the smartest people I know.”

John winced at the words. Fletcher couldn’t help but wince in return.

“I just want some money, so that I can feel alive again,” John said. He barred his teeth. “Give me some money. Be happy that your fate isn’t mine — that you can handle the chaos equation, without going insane.”

Hands trembling, Fletcher unzipped Priest Carvel’s wallet and tossed the money to the wind. While John bounded after the cash, Fletcher tried the door to the apartment complex. Annoyingly, the doorknob was busted — but, the door was also unlocked.

He didn’t bother turning his head, to see what had become of John. He couldn’t bring himself to look.

While he scaled the stairway, a paradox lapped at him. The more that people suffered under the chaos theorem, the more he wanted to take it. It wasn’t fair that he could enjoy blissful ignorance, was it? Though, he also couldn’t bring himself to go to a theorem booth. If what everybody said was true, it would be an action that couldn’t be reversed. It wasn’t worth it.

In any case, perhaps the chaos theorem had deemed that Fletcher never take it. In which case, maybe Fletcher was safe from the theorem controlling his life. Maybe.

He knocked on the door to room number 12. His racing thoughts melted away. It was just him and Margaret now. Just how it was supposed to be.

“Who in god’s name is out there?” an old woman crooned, bringing her eye to the peephole. Fletcher jumped.

“Just looking for Margaret Wilkins,” he said, stuttering. “This is room 12, right?”

“No, this is room 13! And if you knock on this door again, I’m going to yank you in this room, bash you with my rotary telephone, string you up by its wire, drag you toward the window…”

Fletcher’s skin went blotchy. He caught the faded etchings of a “13” on the door, rather than a “12”. The number “3” had chipped away a bit. Yet, when Fletcher looked at the neighboring rooms — 10, 14, 16, and onward — room 13 should’ve been room 12, even if it wasn’t.

He turned around, ignoring old woman’s rants. Whether in the right place or not, door 12 had been behind him. It was nestled just between room numbers 11 and 15

He gave another knock and bit his lip. He could only hope his knocks would be heard over the women’s shouting.

“… And then the bones will be ground up to put in my gelatin...” the old woman went on.

“Who is it?” Margaret asked.

There was no doubting it was Margaret. Dozens of memories streamed through Fletcher, at the mere sound of her voice.

“Is this room 12?” Fletcher asked.

Margaret let out a shout of epithets, joining in with the old lady from across the hall. The hallway devolved into a chaotic cacophony

“I thought I told you to stay away from me!” Margaret shrieked. “I’m calling the cops if you don’t get away from my door!”

“I’m bleeding,” Fletcher said. Suddenly, he was glad he’d been stabbed in the neck. “I’m injured, and I’m bleeding. I need help, and I thought room 12 might be able to help me.”

“Well, this isn’t room 12,” Margaret said bitterly. “Seriously, it isn’t — when the landlord decided to put engravings on our doors, he labeled them backwards. He didn’t even bother trying to fix it, so the address stuck. But, I technically should be room 13.”

Fletcher laughed. “Just my luck.”

Margaret made slight chuckle back. It died quickly as it came. “I need you to get away from my door,” she said. “I don’t care why you came here. Nothing is going to change. We’re through, and I never want to see you again.”

Fletcher’s eyes burned. They’d been through so much together. And she was just going to cast him aside, just like that.

“I need a bandage,” Fletcher said. “All you have to do is open the door a crack and push a bandage out. Then, I’ll be on my way. I promise.”

Margaret didn’t give a response. Yet, Fletcher listened as she pattered to the kitchen. There was the shuttering of cabinets and drawers.

One of Margaret’s green eyes peeked out of the peephole. The door clicked as the top lock unlocked.

Another click. The door cracked open slightly, and the bandage tumbled out. Just as she went to shut it, Fletcher shoved his hand in the gap, propping the door open.

“Ow —my fingers,” he said. “God, I think you broke one of my fingers.”

Blood had already been pouring through his palm. The fresh pain in his fingers only made the bleeding worse.

“Get your hand out of my door,” Margaret said.

“It hurts so much.”

The door loosened, and the pain lessened. Margaret stepped out, her face stolid. However, Fletcher caught a flicker of a smile pass over her face. Possibly.

“Come in, and let me look at that,” she said. “Then, I don’t want to see you again. I’m serious.”

Fletcher scooped up the bandage and entered the apartment, caressing his wounded hand. To each side of him was a coat rack and a hat rack. Keeping his jacket on, he looked for a place to put his shoes. He left them under the coat rack.

Margaret’s brow arched.

“Sorry, I just don’t want to dirty your carpet,” Fletcher said, gesturing at a crusty floor. “Those new, by the way? Because, they look brand new.”

“I’ve had them for about a year,” said Margaret. “Bought them in a half off sale — half pay for twice what it’s worth. Not like you’d know anything about that…”

“I don’t know anything about a lot of things,” Fletcher said, unabashedly. “I think it’s part of what makes me so successful. Ignorance is bliss, right?”

“Last I checked, you weren’t successful at anything.”

Margaret pulled out a first-aid kit and brought over a chair. Fletcher sat in it, letting his shoulder be dabbed by a disinfectant wipe. A stinging ran through his nerves, which crisscrossed over themselves.

“I was successful at getting in here, wasn’t I?”

Margaret smiled. She scoffed. “I know you, Stuart. You didn’t just come here because you miss me. And, I’m not just fixing you up because I care about you. Deep down, we both want something: namely, to go insane. I’m just crazy enough to admit it, and somehow still go along with it.”

Fletcher swallowed as the bandage coiled taut around his wound.

“Okay, fine… I need a loan, for one thing,” Fletcher said. “Your parents still have money, right? Because, I’m about to go out of business. Been thinking about becoming an ice cream man, but somehow that doesn’t appeal to me.”

Margaret wrapped another bandage around Fletcher’s hand in hard, rigid movements.

“I don’t rely on others for money anymore,” Margaret said. “I’ve grown up, Fletcher.”

Fletcher blinked. “I need help with a loan. That’s all I’m asking for. What, did the chaos theorem tell you that you can’t help me, or something?”

“Not sure what you’re talking about.” She stood and reclipped the first-aid kit. “But I think it’s time for you to get out. This was a bad idea. I wasn’t prepared for this.”

She tipped the chair, dumping Fletcher out.

“Get your shoes on, and leave,” she said.

The apartment’s walls seemed to bend inward, turning on him. He took note of the various pictures Margaret had — all of them were her together with Harry. They made him feel alone. Left behind.

“You can’t make me leave,” Fletcher said.

Margaret pulled out her phone. “Oh yes I can.”

“There’s so much I need to ask you about,” Fletcher said. “The oil baron, for one — did you steal the oil baron?”

Margaret shook her head, lips furling in disgust.

“I know that you stole it!” Fletcher went on. “You had to have. All of the evidence points towards it being you.”

“You need to get out,” Margaret said. Her face was harsh. “I thought you’d finally gone clean, but clearly you still need help.”

“Please, are you honestly telling me that all the stuff I saw from those drug dealers was bunk?”

Margaret’s jaw slacked. “You’re working with drug dealers now?”

“You knew that the toy oil baron would be extremely valuable to me, and you stole him.”

“I haven’t been within ten miles of your ugly toy shop in over a year.”

Fletcher ignored the horror on her face and surged ahead. “Well, tell me that I’m crazy about this then: you’ve been ghosting me, as a woman named ‘Linda’, online. It all lines up. You’re Linda.”

Margaret raised a finger and tilted her head into her phone. “Hello? Yes, officer? Stuart Fletcher has broken into my apartment and refuses to leave. Yes, he’s the man I have a restraining order against. Yes. Yes.”

She shot Fletcher a look of pure venom and put down the phone.

“It’s over, Fletcher,” Margaret said. “You can walk out of here on your own, and never talk to me again. Or, we can have the police walk you out of here. Your choice.”

Fletcher shook his head. “I’m sorry — I must’ve been mistaken about all those accusations I made,” he said. “Really, I had no idea that this conversation was going to get so toxic.”

“There’s always a conversation, Fletcher. It always goes south. And, I always have to sit back and pretend that everything is alright. Not anymore.”

“You don’t understand, Margaret. The entire city is after me, right now. The police, a gang, a cult… They all want to kill me. See, I’m one of the few people in town that hasn’t taken in the chaos theorem. It makes them out to get me.”

Margaret had moved to her kitchen and was ruffling through her drawers. She put the first aid kit back.

“You need some serious help,” she said, with a choke. “If you came here for opioids, I don’t have anymore. I can’t take care of you. You have to get out of here before this escalates into something we regret.”

Fletcher’s eyes misted over.

“I’m sorry that I blamed you,” Fletcher said. “I really am. It all seemed to fit. But, I can’t go on without you. I need you in my life. Margaret, we’re meant for each other.”

Margaret shook her head. Her face was hot and puffy. Her posture was rumpled. With trembling arms, she took a step forward.

“No,” she said. “No, no, no. No going back.”

“Remember our second date? When we went to that picnic?” Fletcher laughed. “I brought banana and peanut butter sandwiches, instead of turkey sandwiches. Had to have been one of the biggest fails of the day. We had so much fun.”

Crinkles of disgust mapped Margaret’s nose. “The type of sandwich wasn’t the problem. The bread was moldy, and you still tried to make me eat it.”

“I don’t remember that. In any case, new experiences are what life is made of. Remember that time when we went to the museum, and I tried touching the —.”

“I don’t remember, and don’t want to. It never worked, and it never will. There’s a reason why we were only together for four months.”

“It didn’t feel like four months… They must’ve been the longest four months of my life,” Fletcher said, grinning.

Margaret shook her head. “Yeah, they were the longest four months of my life too.”

Fletcher took another look around the room and noted the large number of posters for Mayor Haddock. Margaret had always been quite politically active. Though, never to this extent.

Perhaps her advertising agency was paying off after all.

“’Don’t vote for the guy who doesn’t even like honey, honey…’” Fletcher monotoned, reading one of the flyers sitting on Margaret’s coffee table. “’Vote for the guy who cares.’ Have to say, that’s almost convincing. Who wrote that?”

“Haddock came up with it himself,” Margaret said, proudly. She skimmed cabinets in her kitchen, before pulling out a stack of flyers. Mayor Haddock’s face was emblazoned on them all, his teeth white as bone. Bare bones as the slogans were, something about him bore down on Fletcher.

Fletcher snorted and kicked his legs up. “If you wanted to get me out of this apartment, I think you’re finally starting to succeed. That guy is pathetic.”

Margaret’s face furled in disgust, clearly affronted. “Mayor Haddock is among the few people still fighting for change in this town. He’s already drafting a plan to figure out the problems with President Marigold, the Chinese and the Russians… He’s going to erase drugs completely. And Kent Burgess — he’s going to give him tax incentives to completely expand. He can probably save our country.”

She held up a coffee mug that had Mayor Haddock mugging on it.

“Come on, Stuart,” she said, “tell me that he doesn’t look impressive. He’s going to plaster these all over his fundraiser. It’s today.”

“Looks like he’s had a silver spoon in his mouth since birth, in his mansion off 123 Rich-boy Avenue,” Fletcher sneered. “You like him, don’t you?”

“It’s in Otto’s Grove, and I’ll have you know: me and Harry are happy together. I happen to be running Mayor Haddock’s advertising campaign for him.”

Fletcher’s eyes went fierce. That was the first confirmation she and Harry were an item.

“Oh, that explains everything,” Fletcher said. “And I’m sure that he’s not hiding every corrupt thing from you, right? He has no ulterior motives, and is so much better than me?”

“It’s not,” Margaret stuttered. She couldn’t tell if Fletcher had been talking about Harry or Haddock. Fletcher couldn’t either. Her eyes betrayed a bit of distrust. “It’s not like that.”

“You sure?”

Margaret shifted her stance, her gaze dodgy.

“Haddock has been courting a lot of crazy people…” Margaret said. “Potential donors, I guess. There’s this one guy who drives me up the wall. An eccentric collector. I swear he’s a kleptomaniac. People even say he’s a crook, just trying to gain political sway. But I mean, that’s what you have to —.”

The room froze in time.

“Kleptomaniac?” Fletcher asked. “Sounds like somebody I’m looking for. Tell me more about him.”

Margaret covered her hand over her mouth and hung her head. “I shouldn’t have told you any of this. This was all a huge mistake.”

“What? Is there something personal about this person?”

She looked up, eyes flaring. “You shouldn’t even be here!”

Fletcher smirked. “Where did you say Haddock lived again? Otto’s Grove?”

“No!” Margaret said. “You leave him alone! Go on your crazy antics someplace else! He has nothing to do with you!”

Sirens wailed. They were distant, but sliced Fletcher to the heart.

“I have a fundraiser to get to. I guess this is it between us?” Fletcher asked. He clenched his hand into a fist, fighting off a quivering.

He had his answers. Margaret never cared from the start, and it was time to move on.

“We never should’ve been a thing to begin with!” Margaret shouted.

“No, we shouldn’t have.”

Fletcher’s head throbbed. He took the prompt, shutting the door behind him.

. . .

“High Priest, almighty. Are you sure that we’re going to the right place?”

I shake my head, before bobbing it up and down. How on Earth am I supposed to know if we’re going to the right place? I mean — I know it’s the place that the chaos theorem said we were supposed to be at. But then, the chaos theorem isn’t supposed to be right, is it? At this point, it’s hard to say.

Either way, my methods are foolproof.

I skim through one of the books we’ve stolen from Fletcher.

“Fletcher must’ve circled that women’s address in that book for a reason,” I say, as I reach the page of a Margaret Wilkins. “Plus, I heard him talking to her on the phone. He’s with her, with god as my witness. There’s no way I’m wrong.”

Also, I took a good load of spiritual enlightenment before this trip. That always helps.

“Do you want another injection of the spirit?” my lackey asks, again.

“Yeah,” I say. “Praises be. It always helps.”

Chapter 15:

The sirens rang in Fletcher’s ears, before cutting off entirely. The police had arrived

“Where do I go?” he muttered to himself.

If he went to the roof, he could hop from building to building. Frogs could jump far enough to do that, right? Surely, he was at least as strong as a frog. Of course, maybe he could just take the elevator down. The police couldn’t possibly recognize him.

“Looks like I’m going down,” he finally said.

“Damn right,” the old woman cried, from behind her door. “Get the hell out of my apartment complex you moron, before I tear you a new larynx!”

“Will do, ma’am,” Fletcher said.

His fingers pushed frantically against the elevator button. Though, no matter how hard he pressed, the elevator didn’t move any faster. It were as though it was taunting him.

The door gave a ding.

“Finally!” Fletcher said, with a whoop.

He stepped into the elevator, only to accidentally bump into one of the passengers.

“Sorry about that,” Fletcher said, giving the passengers half a look, and pressing “Floor 1” on the elevator.

He gave the passengers a second look. The passenger he’d bumped into was a burly police officer, who’d been standing among two others.

“It’s alright, we were just leaving,” one of the officers said, pulling a pair of dark shades to his face. The other officers did the same, as if in sync. Fletcher squinted — it was Officer Mayhew.

The other officers stepped out, and the doors began to shut. Mayhew used his foot to prop the door open, just before they closed.

“Say,” he said, clearing his throat. “You wouldn’t happen to have seen this gentleman mucking about, would you?”

He held a picture of Fletcher, from only a few months prior. He was slightly happier, and healthier looking. It was from long before the chaos theorem had taken its toll.

“Don’t recognize that man at all,” said Fletcher.

Officer Mayhew looked at Fletcher, then back at the photo. He pulled his sunglasses off to give them a rub, then placed them back on his face. He whistled.

“Yeah, guess I shouldn’t be too surprised,” Officer Mayhew said. “Master criminals like this — they’re great at hiding in plain sight. I swear, we need to put electric shock collars on all criminals. It’d solve all our problems in a jiffy.”

Officer Mayhew tipped his police cap, and the elevator door shut.

Fletcher ran to the street, through a fresh hive of people. They were as frenzied and crazed as John had been. Yet, they were also oblivious to Fletcher, moving like zombies.

“Crud,” Fletcher said.

Marvin’s truck and the truck it’d crashed into were gone. They must’ve been towed away.

This day was getting better and better. Losing the truck, losing his girlfriend, being chased down by everybody in town. He kicked at a signpost. Nothing was working.

There was a ding from his phone. Fletcher looked down. He gushed with a fresh pride.

It was Linda. She’d emailed back.

“Anything for you,” she said. “Make sure to bring it there, as soon as possible. I’ll do anything you need.”

Fletcher’s eyes bulged, and he lingered on the last words. They were the antithesis to everything Margaret had been. Despite the tundra of people he’d just walked out through, his chest felt light. Warm.

“Going to be honest,” he typed. His tongue hung in the corner of his mouth. Hopefully all the right intentions would come across. “I’m doing real bad, right now. I need somebody to talk to. It also might be a bit before I can go to the alley. Also, I might not be able to bring you the money when we do meet. You’re the best!”

He hit send. Maybe him and Margaret were over. Yet, he still had a chance with somebody. At least, there was a chance he had a chance.

He turned around and jumped.

A dozen of the townspeople had been standing over his shoulder, watching what he wrote.

“Dear god, what are you guys doing?” he said. “Can’t you leave a guy in peace?”

“We can’t, because the theorem says,” one said.

“The theorem says that this many of you are supposed to be here, for no reason?”

They nodded. “We’re meant to go on the bus, to nowhere.”

“I have no idea what you guys are—.”

Fletcher smirked. Just down the street was the Dexburg bus. He could see the bus driver’s face through the window — his expression of absolute apathy could be recognized from anywhere.

Tire’s screeched. A large black van careened to a stop behind Fletcher.

“Stop!” Priest Carvel cried. “You aren’t going to get away, Mr. Fletcher! The lord of bananas deems it so!”

He had his head hanging out the van’s passenger window. His van was first in a caravan of several vans, all of which were part of Priest Carvel’s cult.

“Sorry old man, but he’s ours!”

A gunshot went off. Jack and Clair barreled beside the caravan, in their shaggy pickup truck.

“Fletcher!” Marvin wheezed from far in the distance. He was atop a dinky bike, sweat pouring down his face. “Where the hell is my truck?”

Fletcher’s head spun. This wasn’t supposed to be happening all at once. It were as though fate itself had forced his pursuers all to unite in this one spot.

The bus banked to a halt, and the door sighed open. A stream of people bumbled in. Fletcher pushed his way forward but was jostled by a mess of shoulders and elbows. The door to the bus shuddered, threatening to shut.

“Wait! Wait for me!” Fletcher said. He tried catching the bus driver’s eye, but the driver’s eyes were half-closed.

Fletcher glanced back. The priest, the thugs, and Marvin were almost on him. Grimacing, he stretched out his bandaged hand, shoving it between the door. It was already bandaged — what would it hurt?

Fletcher cried out. The door cried with him, its gears grinding. God, it hurt!

“Looks like you have nowhere to run,” Clair said. She’d jumped out of the truck and was reloading her gun. “That is, unless you want to run to me. That’s somewhere you have left, I guess.”

Officer Mayhew stumbled into her, knocking her over. His mustache was wild. “Stop in the name of… The name of god?”

Fletcher banged on the bus door, striving to ignore the pain coursing through him.

“Hey guys, do I need to read him his Miranda Rights before I arrest him?” Officer Mayhew asked, his voice suddenly unsteady. He readjusted his belt. “Or, can I just remain silent? Because, I kind of have trouble remembering them…”

Officer Mayhew was rendered mute as an earthquake erupted, putting him off balance. Gargoyles tumbled from one of the buildings, falling into cars below. Both Jack and Marvin ran back, rubble falling in their path.

“Oh my god!” Officer Mayhew cried, as a gargoyle fell into his crap cop car. “My baby!”

He went after it, when a stampede of Priest Carvel’s cult members trampled over him.

“Behold, my holy army!” Priest Carvel said, leading the forefront. The earthquake was still in full force, causing bits of brick and dust to fall into his path street. “God himself is fighting on our side.”

The bus door shuttered back open. Fletcher scrambled in, only barely getting a glimpse of Priest Carvel tripping over his robe.

“Gun it to Otto’s Grove, stat! I need to see Haddock!”

The bus door closed back up, with Fletcher still climbing the steps.

The bus driver gave Fletcher a glare.

“I have a route to take, and we’re at full capacity,” he said. “These people need me to take them to the toll bridge, and out of this town.”

Fletcher looked down the bus, to see every seat crammed full. He looked back out the bus door. The earthquake had stopped, but his pursuers were still clamoring to get in.

“Look I’ll pay you…” Fletcher rummaged through his pockets, only to come up empty. Priest Carvel’s wallet only had a few stray coins.

For a split-second, he considered bringing up the chaos theorem to convince the bus driver. Though, the bus driver’s scowl told him that he’d be unwilling to put up with nonsense.

“I’ll scrape all the gum from the bottom of your seats,” Fletcher said. “You know me. I drive your bus all the time.”

The bus driver shrugged his shoulders. “Whatever. Steal yourself a seat… It’s not as though things haven’t already gone off course today.”

The bus pulled out from its spot and turned the corner. Clusters of people jumped in its path, attempting to bring it to a stop. The bus driver didn’t bother, picking up speed and chuckling as people had to dive away.

The bus trembled. Had they run somebody over. It was probably another earthquake. Besides, the people in this town weren’t worth worrying about anyway. Fletcher squatted on the bus steps. His eyes glazed over as the bus made its way through town. They passed numerous decaying shops, and dejected people. Dexburg had gotten old, since Fletcher was born. When did that happen?

Fletcher’s phone rumbled in his pocket. His heart skipped a beat. Linda? No, it couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. He pulled his phone out of his pocket — it was Harry. What could he possibly want?

Reluctantly, Fletcher answered it.

“Where the hell are you?” Harry yelled. “Margaret just called me! What’s going on? Didn’t I tell you to stay out of trouble?”

Fletcher considered pulling the phone away and hanging up entirely.

“I’m just doing what I told you I’d do,” Fletcher said, reluctantly. “Is that so wrong?”

“Fletcher, this isn’t about what you told me you’d do. This is about what you should do. Give this up. Go take the chaos theorem, like the rest of us. Become sane again. The world doesn’t revolve around you, Fletcher…”

“Have you seen what happened to John?” Fletcher asked.

“He’s just hit a rough patch. I’m telling you — you can keep your head about you. Just do what I say and abandon all this. Life can still go back to normal.”

Fletcher shook his head. “I’m sorry. You’ve deluded yourself. I can’t listen to any more of this.”

He hung up the phone and went through his emails. Linda had responded.

“If we can’t talk in the alley, maybe we should just talk now. How’s life?”

Fletcher couldn’t help himself. He poured it all out in email —his thoughts on the chaos theorem, his failing business…

He thought about bringing up the toy chase. His friendship struggles. Margaret. His uncle.

Though, a twinge shot through him. That would be like pulling off a bandage.

Certain parts of the past were best left private. Nevertheless, it was reassuring to know there was somebody out there, who felt just like him.

. . .

“I’m telling you Jack, I heard him say something about Mayor Haddock and Otto’s Grove,” I say.

He doesn’t want to listen to me. Classic Jack. Though, I can already see the priest and the police listened. They’re heading to their vehicles, to go catch this Fletcher guy.

“Well, it’s not as though I remember anything from the chaos theorem,” Jack says, face contorted. “Do we catch him? Do we not? It’s tough to say.”

“We could go check on the chaos theorem again,” I suggest.

I think it makes perfect sense. Though, Jack only seems more infuriated.

“I don’t want to go back. If we go back and listen to the theorem, we suddenly become part of the theorem. And, we can’t become part of the theorem, because we want to be in the theorem — not of it.”

My mind twists, attempting to wriggle its way through Jack’s logic. However, the task is unforgiving.

“Hallelujah! In the equation, but not of it! You can say that again!” shouts the Priest.

I give Jack a glare. “We’re going to Otto’s Grove, just to make sure.”

My phone rumbles in my pocket. I pull it out and show it to Jack. It’s Logan.

“I’m going to tell the boss what’s going on,” I say. “Now, do you want me to tell him that you don’t want to go to Otto’s Grove?”

Jack gives me a sheepish look.

“I’ll go, so long as I get to kill somebody before the end of today,” he says. “I bought myself a new knife. You better have a reason for me to use it.”

Chapter 16:

The bus door creaked open. Fletcher tumbled out, hoping to get ahead of the other passengers. They knocked him on the head and clamored past him. He was left curled on the ground, gasping for breath.

“Good luck, moneybags,” the bus driver said. He spat. “Next time, I expect more than scraping gum off my seats. You owe me cash, and a pedicure while you’re at it.”

The bus drove away, leaving Fletcher to pray that the bus driver wouldn’t cash in on his pedicure request.

An explosion went off. Fletcher gave a jump, then looked to the sky. The dimmest of fireworks were exploding in the air.

“That was the big one,” somebody said. “Wasn’t it impressive?”

Who was the genius who decided to launch fireworks in the daytime?

He looked to both sides of himself. All down the street were gated driveways, undoubtedly leading to oversized houses on hilltops. A large line of people had formed in front of a specific house. What were they gathered for?

Although he searched for the answer, Fletcher’s eyes become lost among the river between two hills. It sparkled a crystal green, and the spire of Kent Burgess’ smokestack gleamed along the edge of it.

Somebody stepped on Fletcher’s heel, nearly knocking him over. They snickered. “See, I told you he was a wax figure!”

Their buddy snickered with them. “I’m still not so sure…”

Fletcher limped to the front of the line, before running into a heavyset man dressed in black. Fletcher was given a shove back and colliding into a brick wall

“Is this Mayor Haddock’s place?” Fletcher asked, attempting assertiveness.

Ahead of the guard was yet another line, winding down the block.

“Excuse me,” Fletcher said, cutting between the guard and the line.

“You’re excused,” the bodyguard said. “Now, back of the line.”

“But I — I’m important, see.”

“That’s what they all say. Last person I talked to said he was some internet celebrity, for cooking dinners or something… Doesn’t mean I’ll let you in.”

The bodyguard glowered over Fletcher. Fletcher counted the veins and muscles pulsating beneath the guard’s skin.

“What if I was the sole arbiter of God’s great word?” Fletcher said, suddenly.

Having no idea what had taken over him, he pulled Priest Carvel’s wallet from his pocket and shoved it toward the bodyguard’s face.

“I’m the highest of high priests, in all of town,” Fletcher continued. “Surely I’m on the list.”

The bodyguard looked at his list. He looked at Fletcher’s fake ID card.

“You’re right,” he said, with a grunt. “I guess you can head on in.”

The gates shuttered open, and Fletcher slipped through. Immediately, a crowd of people groped at his coattails, straining to force themselves through.

“Don’t worry, you guys will make it eventually,” Fletcher said, despite not believing his words.

“No we won’t,” they said. “The chaos theorem deems it so.”

The chaos theorem couldn’t be wrong about everything.

He strode past various socialites, who clinked glasses and laughed amongst each other. He frowned inwardly. There were so many of them up here, living high on the horse. They were utterly cut off from the suffering throughout town.

It was wrong —he should’ve been living up here with these people.

Such an idiot.

He walked by a group setting fireworks into the air. Fire flared in their faces as the rockets went off — some of them even caught bits of their clothing on fire. Nonetheless, every time the fireworks went off they clapped.

“It’ll be fine,” one of the people consoled a woman, as she tried putting her enflamed dress out. “Just enjoy the show. Fire burns people every day, and I’ve never once been harmed by it.”

Fletcher studied the faces, looking for the glib face of Mayor Haddock. He had to be around here somewhere.

“Looking for someone?”

A reedy looking man tapped Fletcher on the shoulder. The man was done up in a tight suit, and drew his glasses close to his face. Overall, he seemed composed. Though, he had the odd quirk of a bowtie cinched overtop a regular tie.

Perhaps he hadn’t looked in the mirror?

“I just need to talk with Mayor Haddock,” Fletcher said. “You know where he might be?”

The man laughed.

“Yes, of course,” he said. He outstretched his hand. “I’m Mr. Pardus, by the way. I’m the historian at a prestigious college, here in Dexburg.”

“I’m — I’m Priest Carvel,” Fletcher said. “Of a great religion. Also, I didn’t realize we had a college here in Dexburg. That is, aside from Dexburg Community College.”

“We don’t,”

“Oh. Ha, of course. Sorry.”

He went to give Mr. Pardus a handshake when Mr. Pardus snatched his hand away and pulled it down the side of his head.

“You have to be fast, or you’ll be stuck in the past,” Mr. Pardus said, with a wink.

Fletcher began to laugh, only for Mr. Pardus cut him off.

“So, you said that you need to talk to Mayor Haddock? I can walk you to him — he’s just inside, getting prepared for this big bash.”

Mr. Pardus became a peacock, weaving between waiters and guests. He sprung up the steps to Mayor Haddock’s mansion, giving Fletcher only the briefest glance back.

Fletcher ran after him, hoping his heart wouldn’t fly out of his throat.

“What do you need to talk to Haddock about, anyway?” Mr. Pardus asked.

He made a curt smile and gave Fletcher a lookover. He popped the doors to Mayor Haddock’s mansion. Fletcher rubbed his bandaged hand, suddenly aware of how shabby his clothes were. Maybe he could steal something from somebody in the bathroom.

“Well?” Mr. Pardus said, with a snap.

They rushed down a maple hued gallery, with portraits of various rock musicians along the walls. Fletcher strained to recognize any of them.

“Oh — well, there’s something I’m looking for,” Fletcher said.

“Isn’t there always something?” Mr. Pardus asked, chuckling to himself. “Hell, I was looking for you only a few minutes ago.”

Fletcher was going to ask why but stopped to dodge a waiter who came running at him.

“The chaos theorem,” Mr. Pardus said, as if that explained anything.

What was the chaos theorem supposed to be, that it could answer any problem, and create every problem at the same time?

“I’m looking for a valuable possession of mine,” Fletcher continued. “I’m led to believe that it was stolen by a pickpocket who’s been going around town. And, apparently Mayor Haddock knows somebody that sounded like a pickpocket to me.”

Mr. Pardus nodded, dragging Fletcher through a bedroom. His straw legs jumped atop the plush bed and paced around, before finally settling down. “I might just know a thing or two about that. Maybe more. Yes — isn’t it just wonderful how our leadership is so intimately involved with the criminal element? Sometimes, it’s hard to discern the difference. And letting that pickpocket around… Bleh.”

“You — you know the pickpocket too?”

“I know enough to know that he’s real bad news, yeah. Or she… That part is real inconsistent, depending on who you talk to.”

“That actually lines up with—.”

“Save it for the Mayor.”

There was a thick smell of aftershave about the room. Running water echoed behind the walls. Light poured from underneath what must’ve been a bathroom door. His muscles tensing, Fletcher searched for a place to sit. Though, nothing looked comfortable.

Mr. Pardus lounged further back in the bed, staring at the ceiling fan.

“Mayor Haddock should be just in there, by the way,” he said, “probably hanging in his hot tub. He’ll be out soon, I’m sure. Just have to wait it out.”

“And you’re sure that we’re fine in his bedroom? Couldn’t we wait out in the hall?”

“Please, people come in and out of his room all the time! This is practically the city’s room. We’re fine!”

“What if he comes out undressed, and isn’t expecting us?”

Mr. Pardus gave a knowing smile. “I’m sure he’d love that. Be a climactic topper, to his day.”

For all the confidence that Mr. Pardus asserted, his words didn’t seem true.

“So, might as well burn some time,” said Mr. Pardus. “After reading the theorem, I’ve wondered: how is it, doing what you do?”

Fletcher sighed. “I mean, being a toy shop owner sucks. I have to do a ton of web development on the side. I would just abandon it, but there’s this whole thing with my uncle’s legacy… It tugs on me real hard.”

Mr. Pardus smirked. “You operate a toy shop, develop websites, and are a priest?”

The words were a sledgehammer to Fletcher’s gut. He moved from his place, knocking a set of Russian nesting dolls to the ground. He bent down, fumbling the pieces in his hands.

“Of course,” Fletcher said. “My holy connection to the spirit world keeps me constantly awake. I need something to do with that time. Besides —I need money.”

“A man of faith, needing money? Funny.”

“Yes, well… Learning to live with contradictions is part of the faith, I believe. At least, I think…”

Mr. Pardus’ face switched from smug to sympathetic. He readjusted his tie. Then, his bowtie. “No, I get it. Completely. I’m a walking contradiction myself.”

“Yeah, the bowtie and the tie…”

“Beg my pardon!” Mr. Pardus gave a huff. “What’s wrong with having a tie and a bow tie together? You have something against the bi-tie?”

“No, no. It’s just—.”

“No matter. My true contradiction is that I’m a historian who… Well, I hate history. Past history, that is. Though, I love new history.”

Fletcher had very nearly finished putting the nesting dolls back together, when they fell back to the ground.

“What?” Fletcher said, with annoyance.

“New history? You’ve never heard of it? All of the old history is clearly baloney… Bottled up by stodgy historians, to make us feel confined to a single sense of place.”

“I’m not sure I follow…”

“Did you know that the Americans never betrayed the British, for example? No, no. They loved the British, and they loved taxes. They loved them so much, in fact, that the British practically gifted them freedom.”

“Hmm… Yes, I do think I remember hearing that.”

Mr. Pardus jumped on the bed, l limbs wild. “No you didn’t! Nobody has heard it before! It’s new history. I just made it. See, history changes based upon the history of the present and the future. It moves, to fit with where our head space is now. I understand that my theory makes causality a casualty… But, in truth, causality was always a myth. The chaos theorem proves it!”

“So, you’re telling me George Crum didn’t invent the potato chip? Some other guy did?”

“Crummy, but yes. We must let the chips fall how they may.”

“And Napoleon never lost at the battle of Waterloo?”

“Of course. Why, Napoleon was never born in the first place! Look, my fellow historians already agree that Edison didn’t really invent the lightbulb… And Columbus didn’t truly discover America. We’ve been being lied to about the little things since birth. Sucking it from our binkies, without a blink. How much of a stretch is it to assume that it’s all been lies? That history is constantly changing, without our knowledge?”

Fletcher shook his head and listened for the running water of Mayor Haddock’s bathroom. Hopefully he’d be out soon. “I guess it’s a way of taking things.”

“It’s the only way. The chaos theorem proves that the entire future is mapped out and set in stone. Thus, what does the past matter really? It has no tangible bearing on anything. Unless we can touch and observe the past, it didn’t exist. Not really.”

“That’s not true, though. Yesterday… After starting my morning, I brushed my teeth. That can’t change.”

“Only because you believe it can’t. If you believe you had brushed your hair instead, even if you didn’t, who’s to say you didn’t? The truth is, you did, even if you didn’t, because that’s what your brain says you did.”

Fletcher’s brain said Mr. Pardus’ reasoning was utterly off. Though, he had no way of articulating why.

“History is what we make of it,” Mr. Pardus said, ruffling the bedsheets, “nothing more. Don’t make more out of it than you have to.”

The repaired nesting doll was carefully placed on Mayor Haddock’s mantelpiece. Flecks of dust whirled about, falling atop the doll. Was it in the right spot? Fletcher rolled his eyes — what did it matter? As if the Mayor would notice.

The doorknob to the bathroom turned, and the door swung open. There was a scream. Fletcher jumped, then burrowed under Mayor Haddock’s covers.

“Get the hell out of my room!”

Peeking out from under the sheets, Fletcher watched a candlestick hurtle toward him. He tried going back under, only for the candlestick to smack him in the face.

“No, it’s fine!” Mr. Pardus said. “It’s just me, and one other guy.”

Fletcher pulled himself from out of under the sheets and stared at Mayor Haddock. His dingy mop of hair was done up in curlers, and a bathrobe did a shoddy job of obscuring his flabby body.

This was the guy who Fletcher thought was a threat of stealing Margaret from him?

Mayor Haddock’s eyes were locked on Mr. Pardus. His lips spread into a smile.

“Oh, hey Mr. Pardus,” he said. “You gave me such a scare!”

“Sorry about that. I figured you’d be expecting me.”

“Yeah, but not like this,” Mayor Haddock said. “Anyway, how’s your latest history paper coming along?”

“Oh, just great,” Mr. Pardus said. He lounged languidly. “You might’ve loved what the last one did in furthering the cause of ‘new history’. But, this one? Everybody in town is going to devour, and finally get it.”

“Good,” Mayor Haddock said. “’New history’ will definitely be key to winning me this election.”

He chuckled and gave Mr. Pardus a pat on the back. He then rummaged through his drawers, moving through piles of socks.

“So, who’s the slobby looking hobo over there?”

It occurred to Fletcher that he couldn’t tell Mayor Haddock he was Priest Carvel. Mayor Haddock knew Priest Carvel well enough to put on the top of his guest list, he would automatically recognize Fletcher as a poser.

Mr. Pardus glanced over, as though Fletcher were no more than a pest on the wall. “He’s just priest—.”

“I’m — I’m Marvin Whisk,” Fletcher said, drowning Mr. Pardus out.

“That’s odd, I don’t remember inviting a Marvin Whisk,” Mayor Haddock began, drowning out Mr. Pardus’ attempts at protestation. “Have we met—?"

Fletcher lifted the candlestick, and smacked Mr. Pardus in the head. Mr. Pardus rolled back, unconscious.

Mayor Haddock’s socks dropped to the floor, followed by his jaw. “What was that for?”

Mr. Pardus’ slumped head looked at Fletcher serenely, as if taunting him to come up with an explanation. Fletcher gulped.

“This is a demonstration of why you shouldn’t throw candlesticks at people,” Fletcher said. “As you can see, they can be dangerous.”

“You knocked out one of the most important people in my campaign,” Mayor Haddock said. He looked up, and blinked. “Who am I kidding? He should be easy to replace. You want a job on my campaign?”

Mayor Haddock leaned on his bed and pulled his socks on. He shimmied into his pants.

“That’d be great, really,” said Fletcher. “But, I’m here to get a few questions answered, first.”

Mayor Haddock snorted. “Don’t tell me that you’re one of those petty journalists. For the last time: the deal with the President, me, the Chinese, and the Russians is underway. Our city will be fine.”

“No, it has nothing to do with that,” Fletcher said. “I’m no journalist. I’m actually trying to… Run for senator. In another town. The town just over, actually.”

Mayor Haddock gave a look of reverence. “A senator, eh? So that’s why I invited you. Good.” He sighed in relief. “Great. Glad I don’t have to keep lying to you. Because, yeah… Dexburg is totally screwed.”

The words prowled around the room. Fletcher squirmed back in the bed, hoping to avoid their full bite.

“Don’t worry,” Fletcher said, more to himself than Mayor Haddock. “A screwed city sounds like just another day with you in office, to me.” Fletcher paused and gave a firm nod. “Anyway, there’s this pickpocket who’s been going around town. That’s what I really need to talk to you about. See, he stole something of mine, and I need to get ahold of him.”

“Pickpocket?” Mayor Haddock nodded. “Ah, yes… That guy.”

“So, you know him! Can you tell me anything about him?” Fletcher asked.

Mayor Haddock pulled down his shirt and tightened his belt around the waist.

“Not his name,” Mayor Haddock said. “He really doesn’t want to let that get out. He hasn’t even told me his name before.”

“What about what he looks like?”

“Well, he’s always wearing a mask… I’m fine with it. Money is money, no matter how you get it. But yeah, I have no idea what he looks like. He could be a Russian, for all I know. Boy, would the journalists love that!”

He let out a laugh, buttoning the jacket to his suit. He pulled a pack of powder from his breast pocket.

“Ah, that hits the spot,” he said, breathing some of the powder through his nose.

“Is that what I think —.”

“Yes. Pure cocaine. Dr. Ford is the best source for the good stuff — and I always make sure that I spend on the best stuff. Want to try some?”

Fletcher watched on in horror, as the Mayor breathed copious amounts of the cocaine. He rolled back onto his bed, in a fit of laughter.

“We need to stay on task,” said Fletcher. “If you can’t tell me anything about him, how have you been contacting him?”

“We meet at some place… Oh, it slips my mind now. I’m sure it’ll come to me, eventually.”

Mayor Haddock snorted more, his pupils dilating to bowling balls.

“Stop taking that stuff and listen to me!”

“No can do, buttercup. I’m in the grasp of euphoria, right now.”

“I thought that you had a hard stance on drugs and crime,” Fletcher said, incredulously. “How can you even afford drugs, with your big campaign going on?”

“All of that war on drugs stuff is just a load of bull. Dr. Ford’s hospital is the main supplier. You haven’t figured that out, by now? I have the cops bust all the criminals who buy from him, and then I rake in the goodies. It’s a win-win. Plus, most drug dealers actually love me for buying from them. I think I’m one of their biggest buyers.”

“Biggest?”

“Campaign money, baby. It stretches real far. Especially since all I need to do is put up a few cheap billboards with snappy slogans, to get everybody’s attention.”

“So, this pickpocket… You’re spending most of the money that he gives you on drugs?”

The euphoria on Mayor Haddock’s face melted away. He sat up with a glare. “What else am I supposed to do with it? Nobody in this town has any clue what they want out of life. Life is a massive game. A charade.”

The Mayor was going into a trance. Fletcher was losing him.

“Sort of like, the pickpocket,” Fletcher said, quickly. “Speaking of the pickpocket, where—?”

“No, not sort of like the pickpocket,” Mayor Haddock slurred. “More like running a town. Which you should know about, right?”

“Of course,” said Fletcher. “Well, honestly… I’m just faking the senator thing. It’s a complete sham that I told you about.”

For once, he was telling the truth. Yet, Mayor Haddock remained unperturbed.

“Exactly!” Mayor Haddock punched a fist in the air. “Nobody in power wants to do anything. We all know we’re hopelessly stupid, and that our people are hopelessly stupid. The chaos theorem only confirms that everything is going to fall apart real soon here. So, what’s even the point in putting in any effort?”

He stood and tore one of his posters from the wall. The poster was carefully airbrushed and angled, to give Haddock the perfect appearance. Though, Haddock himself somehow managed to look more impressive than his image. He gave it a kiss.

“Look at these things,” Mayor Haddock said. “This is all it takes to win, these days. The chaos theorem was perhaps the best thing that ever happened to me — in everyone’s complacency, they realized that they couldn’t do any better than me. All of America realized.”

“And this theorem doesn’t bother you at all?”

“Bother me? All that it’s told me is that the whole world is going to fall in my lap. Why on Earth would I fight against the chaos theorem?”

Fletcher shook his head, while rereading the poster. “’A vote for me is a vote for my victory’. Can you get any more generic than that?”

“It’s what people want — the same old thing, in the same old package that it’s always been in. Nobody dares to create anymore. To risk. What’s the point?”

“My girlfriend, Margaret Wilkins...” Fletcher began, despite himself. “Do you know anything about her?”

Mayor Haddock shook his head. “Fun woman. Bit odd though. She’s constantly giving me advice on this whole America vs. China-Russia thing… Doesn’t realize how futile it is.”

“What thing? People are constantly talking about some thing…”

“Russia and China don’t have the chaos theorem, but want it badly,” said Mayor Haddock. “That, or they want us to disable our nuclear weapons. And, American leaders — they all know that this is going to escalate into a massive war. The chaos theorem says as much.”

Fletcher tightened his lips. Was that the fate of the town John and Clair had been afraid to reveal to him? If so, it didn’t seem quite so dire as they’d made it out to be.

“Like I’ve said, I’m negotiating,” said Mayor Haddock. “It’ll be fine.”

“Of course.”

Fletcher’s head was spiraling off course, though. How much did finding the oil baron matter, in the current state of things? Was anything he was trying to do rational?

Mayor Haddock took another snort of the cocaine, before walking toward the door.

“Well, I guess it’s about to be showtime,” he said. “You coming, senator?”

“Yes, yes,” Fletcher said. “I just need to know one thing: where has the pickpocket been at, whenever you’ve spoken with him?”

Mayor Haddock beamed. “Why, in an alley by the bank of Dexburg, naturally. Such wonderful people by that bank, by the way. One of the bankers — Jim Harrigan — is an absolute gem.”

Jim Harrigan — Fletcher’s face burned at the mention of his name.

A woman in a tweed suit stepped into the room. Her hair was frizzed, and her glasses sat slightly lopsided on her face.

Debby Crowner.

“Who’s the new guy?” she asked. “Haddock, you’re not trying to put somebody in indentured servitude again are you?”

Mayor Haddock shook his head. “Please, that was a phase. Butlers are in right now, anyway.”

“An improvement, I guess.” Despite her words, she still sounded disappointed.

Fletcher cowered, waiting for Debby Crowner to recognize him. However, the moment never came.

Mayor Haddock puffed himself up, hooked Fletcher’s arm into his, and waltzed into the hall. “Indeed,” he said. “Let’s go out to enjoy to food and fireworks. I think we had some pizzas brought in from Chef Bernardo’s. It’s going to be the highlight of this entire event!”

Fletcher squinted. Mayor Haddock had some of the biggest socialites in town over, and Chef Bernardo’s was his choice?

“The speech will be the highlight too, right?” Debby Crowner asked. “Also, you are going to go with my speech, instead of Margaret Wilkin’s speech. Kent Burgess is paying you good money. Right?”

“Of course, Downer, of course,” Mayor Haddock said.

“Crowner.”

“Right. I have the speech right on me. I don’t promise to do something and then not follow through.”

Fletcher hadn’t noticed any papers while sitting in Mayor Haddock’s room. He squinted his eyes, studying Mayor Haddock’s face. If Haddock had been lying, he was too good to give anything away.

Perhaps it didn’t matter. Laughs banked around Fletcher, removing weights from his feet. His heart pumped with a new life. The hallway gave off a glow, flowering clusters of people into bouquets. Haddock had a calming sway over the space.

Yet, Mayor Haddock’s talk about the pickpocket and the bank kept pressing against Fletcher. Fletcher needed to leave, and fast. He couldn’t let himself fall under Mayor Haddock’s easygoing charm.

Mayor Haddock stepped outside, following Crowner. They managed to slip behind a stage at the edge of the yard, avoiding any eyes.

“Alright, who is he, really?” Crowner finally said with annoyance, once fully backstage. “I swear I’ve seen him somewhere, and I don’t like his face.”

“Some guy I found,” said Mayor Haddock, his eyes sparkling. “He’s apparently a senator, or something. My main guy was knocked out, so I figure he’s a good replacement. At least, it seemed that way. I’m high.”

He chuckled, while Crowner shot a concerned glance.

Fletcher scanned for some sort of escape. He couldn’t let himself be thrown on a stage again. Not after Priest Carvel. Not with Crowner dissecting him.

He needed to get out of this weather, too. The sun gave a marmalade light. It was too nice, and it gnawed at him.

He tunneled back to years past — to his youth, in the ritzy toy shop. Crunching numbers for Uncle Timothy. Making sales. Keeping on a smile, while the sun lazed its way through the window.

So many hours, working on someone else’s dime. So little recognition.

“He was knocked unconscious?” Crowner said, with a hiss. “I told you Haddock — getting yourself high with those drugs is one thing. But, if you knock up another guy in your bedroom like this, you’re going to get caught. People always get caught.”

“Not according to the chaos theorem,” Mayor Haddock said, stepping out from behind the stage and into the crowd. “It always seems guilty people get caught. But, it’s only because we only hear about the guilty ones.”

His face suddenly was covered in pricks of sweat. Gait swaying, he was a gust of wind away from matching a falling tree. Fletcher sped next to him and nudged him deeper into the crowd. The further from the stage he got, the better.

“Get back over here,” Crowner said. “We’re going to do this speech, and we’re going to do this right.”

“I think I can wing it,” Mayor Haddock said, with a twitchy wink.

He leaned into Fletcher’s ear. “She’s nuts,” he said. His voice came in a thin rasp. Though, it was loud enough for anybody to hear. “She thinks we should try keeping order, even when all of the order is already mapped out for us. I just try entertaining her, because it’s funny seeing her struggle.”

People crowded around Mayor Haddock, their faces lit up and their mouths filled with praise.

Mayor Haddock raised his hands, gesturing for everyone to simmer down. He gave a loud sniffle.

“I — I have a speech prepared,” he said. “And, by prepared, I mean that the universe prepared it. I’m utterly unprepared. Which, of course, is something I always prepare for. Just look at this town!”

Mayor Haddock laughed, and everybody laughed with him.

Fletcher attempted to run off, but was yanked back in. Why was it that insane leaders had such an affinity for him?

“I really have to go,” Fletcher said. “To the bank.”

“You can’t go yet, and you can take that to the bank,” Mayor Haddock said.

Mayor Haddock looked back to the crowd. “So many poor suckers out here, who still haven’t realized how things operate. Whales eat the little fishies, not the reverse. I feel slightly bad for the earthquakes. But, hey: federal loans help, and I can’t help that.”

Cheers resounded, but Fletcher struggled to follow along.

“Loans always help, actually,” Mayor Haddock said. “This is why I’ll be instating the future loser tax. If the chaos theorem deems that you’ll be a loser in your future? You must report it to me, so you can get taxed heavily and help our economy out. No point in investing in somebody who’ll suck us dry, am I right?”

A few people dipped from the crowd, uncomfortable. The rest of the crowd took deep swills of their expensive drinks and tittered from under their elaborate masks.

“I know I may not have the best past,” said Mayor Haddock, slumping his posture in false guilt. He quickly raised himself back up, and gestured at Fletcher. “However! A genius in our town cooked up a brilliant new theory, which will be of help to all of us. According to him, the past doesn’t exist. It’s just a figment of our imagination, which can be changed to our will. Only the present and the future are concrete. We are all entirely new people every moment, because nothing we did before has any effect on what’s happening right now.”

The crowd burst into applause.

“I didn’t devise it,” Fletcher said, feigning an abashed grin. “That historian did.”

Mayor Haddock shook his head. “No, no. See, you are the historian, because I said so. That’s your new history, now.”

He turned to the crowd. “See, everybody? Anything can be changed, in a heartbeat. That’s the heart of my campaign: we’re going to remake the facts, to match our internal reality! We’re going to change history!”

Everybody cheered.

“With so much new history, how can we be sure what new history is the truth?” Fletcher asked.

“Whichever new history we all believe in, of course.” Mayor Haddock shook his head, patronizingly. “That’s the thing about truth: it’s not about what’s real or not. What’s real tends to be real fake. No. I believe the truth is this: the thing that defines ‘truth’ is what everybody chooses to believe. It’s whatever the people deem trustworthy.”

Mayor Haddock gave Fletcher a slap on the back and leapt into the crowd. His hands gripped the hands of others in tight handshakes, and he pulled a crisp smile around his face.

“Say it with me,” Mayor Haddock said. “I didn’t embezzle money from the government. I didn’t send our economy into an economic spiral. I didn’t punch that old man in the nuts, at the town parade. I’m the greatest mayor that Dexburg has ever had. And, it’s all thanks to Marvin Whisk!”

The crowd promptly repeated Mayor Haddock’s words — which didn’t sound quite right coming out of their mouths. Nonetheless, they pressed on.

That is, all but one.

Logan Gerri pushed a few people aside, making his way to the front of the crowd. His suit was partially unbuttoned, exposing his bare, oiled chest to the sunlight.

“That man is not Marvin Whisk!” he said, pointing a meaty finger. His brow furrowed and his mustache bobbed with it.

The crowd gasped. Another burly man had made his way through the crowd — it was a bodyguard.

“Hey, what’s the big idea?” said Mayor Haddock.

“That man is not Priest Carvel, like he pretends to be,” the bodyguard said, catching his breath. He gave Mayor Haddock a look. “The real Priest Carvel is at the gate, and he’s furious.”

Mayor Haddock raised his hands putting himself within the triangle of Fletcher, Logan, and the bodyguard.

“Alright, hold up guys,” he said.

He attempted a deepthroated laugh, but it came out as a cough. He punched himself in the chest, to clear his throat.

“This man is obviously not Priest Carvel,” Mayor Haddock continued, his eyes going watery. Fletcher couldn’t tell if it was from the betrayal, a coughing fit, or the cocaine. Probably from the cocaine betraying him with a coughing fit. “Trust me, I would’ve recognized Marvin as a fraud, if he’d ever tried to claim that. And, what’s this about Marvin not being Marvin?”

Logan prepared to explain when Fletcher was dragged by the bodyguard. The bodyguard shoved his hand in one of Fletcher’s pockets and pulled out Priest Carvel’s wallet.

“What’s this?” the bodyguard said, voice heavy. He pointed at the name on the card. “It says Priest Carvel, right on it!”

Mayor Haddock glared at Fletcher. “Why did you have Priest Carvel’s wallet, Marvin?”

“I already told you, he’s not Marvin!” Logan said.

Logan tore Fletcher from the bodyguard’s grip and held him up by the collar.

“His name is Stuart Fletcher!” Logan was practically feral. “The punk broke into my house, just the other day!”

Mayor Haddock went enraged.

“Stuart Fletcher?” he said. His voice dropped all sense of glib, showman inflections. “You — you’re the guy that the pickpocket won’t stop yammering on about? It can’t be. He’s been chasing you everywhere. You’re a very wanted man!”

It was Fletcher’s turn to be in shock. The pickpocket who’d stolen his oil baron was now after him? Things were far more dangerous than they seemed.

“Get him out of here,” said Mayor Haddock, to the bodyguard. “Make sure that he the cops get to him. I don’t want him anywhere near me.”

Fletcher’s head spun as a top, desperately looking for a way out.

“I’m not Stuart Fletcher though,” Fletcher said, even as his arms were being forced behind his back. “I — I only used to be Stuart Fletcher. Now, I’m somebody else entirely.”

“Is this guy for real?” Logan said, taking a fighting stance.

“It’s my new history. A different truth than the one I had before.”

“That’s a load of bull,” Mayor Haddock, gauging the crowd to make sure he still had their support. “You can’t just create new history out of thin air. People around you have to believe it, too.”

“I believe it stronger than the rest of you combined, though,” said Fletcher. “I have to… Or else, I’ll wind up in jail. I’ll be no different from any thug… Or, drug dealer.”

His eyes bored through Mayor Haddock’s head. Mayor Haddock scratched the back of his nec, uncomfortably.

“He’s right,” Mayor Haddock said. “He couldn’t possibly be Stuart Fletcher, because Stuart Fletcher is no longer part of new history.”

Logan shifted his fighting stance toward Mayor Haddock. “Are you for real?”

Yet, Fletcher had already broken from the bodyguard’s hold, and was sprinting for the gates.

He had enough of Mayor Haddock’s group of loons, for one day. Dealing with Priest Carvel had already been terrible. Though, seeing insanity in a place of such power was only more demoralizing.

“Prepare to taste the fires of hell, anti-chosen-one!” Priest Carvel said.

The locks to the gate lay shattered on the concrete. Priest Carvel held a large axe in his hand.

“Stop!” Priest Carvel said, as Fletcher came closer. Priest Carvel’s cult flanked around him, hoods drawn tight.

Fletcher picked up his pace. Barreling through them was likely the only way to go.

“No, seriously, stop,” said Priest Carvel said. “I have a ton of axe puns that I need to try out… ‘I need to axe you a question’. ‘I have an axe to grind with you’. ‘I think it’s finally time that you get the axe’. ‘Today, the axes’ powers will claim victory!’ Wait… That last one is actually quite terrible.”

Fletcher slipped around Priest Carvel, causing Carvel to trip on his robe. Priest Carvel hit the ground and gave a grunt. “You’re going to regret that!” he shouted. “Boys, take him out!”

Fletcher was making his way through the swarm of cult members when Marvin let out a shout.

“Marvin?” Fletcher cried.

Marvin was tied in the fetal position, at Priest Carvel’s feet.

“Every religion needs its sacrificial lamb,” said Priest Carvel, his face solemn. He slapped the hilt of his axe against his palm. “Any takers?”

Fletcher’s instincts yearned to escape through the gate. His heart concurred. Marvin didn’t matter that much, right?

Nonetheless, Fletcher found himself clambering toward Priest Carvel. He grappled Priest Carvel around the legs, taking him to the ground.

“Dear Krishna,” Priest Carvel winced, “I think you crushed my tushy, Fletcher. I really shouldn’t have done that heroin, before playing hero…”

Snatching Priest Carvel’s axe from the ground, Fletcher cut Marvin’s constraints..

“Don’t kill me, don’t kill me!” Marvin moaned. “You already have taken enough away from me.”

The rope fell away. Fletcher dropped the axe. “It’s alright, you’re safe,” Fletcher said. “Now get out of here.”

Marvin stumbled to his feet and ran toward the crowd of socialites. He gave a glance back before fully disappeared among them. In his eyes was a heavy gratitude. It was a new look on Marvin. Weary lines on his face faded, if for a moment.

“Give it up,” Priest Carvel said, grabbing Fletcher around the neck. Fletcher’s grip tightened around the axe.

The rest of the cult crowded around Fletcher. Accompanying the cult were a few bodyguards, attempting to maintain the peace. Yet, to no avail.

“Can’t give it up. I need the axe for… For cutting my hair.” Fletcher choked.

It was the best he had.

“Let go of him!” Mayor Haddock shouted. “This house is my jurisdiction!”

Fletcher tried to turn, but blood drained from his head. Breaths came in shallow. Perception was a shadow of itself.

“This universe is my jurisdiction!” shouted Priest Carvel. “It terrifies you, doesn’t it Mayor? Despite all your political power, the world doesn’t spin on its axis anymore. Me and my radicals… We’re the new rulers. I’m going to make this guy into burrito meat, and you must remain helpless to the inevitability of it.”

Sirens blared, followed by the familiar rumble of Jack and Clair’s truck. Priest Carvel’s grip around Fletcher’s neck loosened.

“The cops are back!” Priest Carvel shouted to his cult. “How are they always tailing us? Everybody, run!”

He dropped Fletcher altogether. Blood rushing back to Fletcher’s head, Fletcher made out a blurry image of Priest Carvel trampling over the guests and Mayor Haddock.

Fletcher scratched his chin; the cops were likely just down the block. Despite this, he grabbed the axe and stumbled into the street. Fletcher looked to the sky, and saw the sun hitting noontime. Would this day ever come to an end?

One of Priest Carvel’s vans gave a thrum. Fletcher walked up to it and thrust the door open.

“Get out!” Fletcher said. “The holy one demands it!”

A cult member trembled in their seat, his eyes glued to the tip of Fletcher’s axe. Fletcher jumped forward, prompting a flinch from the cult member. They scurried out.

Fletcher hopped into the van and slammed the door. His hand cranked the windows down, and he gave a wretch. The van stank of liquor and incense. Shifting the car into drive and hitting the pedal, he took a gulp of fresh air. With it, he got a good look at the police and the drug-dealers’ truck, as they sped past him.

His muscles froze. Though, the cars kept moving, oblivious to him. He let out a laugh.

He needed to head to the bank, and he’d be home free.

. . .

“He never said where he was going. All I know is that we talked about a banker… Jim Harrigan. Doubt the idiot even knew where the bank is though.”

“Well, he was smart enough to escape from us three times,” I say.

I look around to see if anybody is watching. Sure enough, there’s a couple just behind us. They’re looking at me like I’m the dumbest man alive. I look over to Mayor Haddock; his expression is no more forgiving.

“Wait, wait… You’ve let him escape from you three times? And, you’re just now telling me this?”

Mayor Haddock is pissed. I mean, I don’t blame him. Me and my officers haven’t done the best job, even if it was the damn best we could do.

“We initially didn’t view him as a priority,” I say, knowing full well that this is a lie. “Besides, you should’ve called us. You’re lucky we followed that cult.”

“Who also escaped!”

The Mayor gestures to his yard, which is ravaged.

So that’s why everybody was fleeing the premises when we arrived...

“Can’t we just focus on busting drug dealers and whatnot?” I say. “Honestly, we have no idea where he’s at, at this point.”

Mayor Haddock shakes his head. “No can do. I’ve already let you bust all the best ones. Besides, this town is about to be taken to task, by the U.S government. I’m going to need all the drugs I can get.”

I want to believe that he’s joking. Though, at this point, I’m pretty sure he’s just an airhead.

“Just think hard,” says Mayor Haddock. “If you were an utterly corrupt individual, where is the first place would you go?”

Screw Mayor Haddock, and screw this chase. Me and Officer Springs should go to Chef Bernardo’s, to get some doughnuts.

Chapter 17:

The van had been parked in front of the bank for fifteen minutes. Yet, Fletcher didn’t flinch. His focus was on his email.

“That sounds rough. Thankfully, I have something that might cheer you up. I have that toy you’ve been looking for — the oil baron. Just tell me where you’re at, and we can make some better memories. Linda.”

Fletcher wanted the easygoing peace he usually had, when reading Linda’s emails. He wanted to be able to tell her that he was near the bank; that he could see her. However, something was amiss.

Fletcher had never written a thing about the toy oil baron to Linda. How on earth did she know about it?

He did the only thing he could consider rational, on the spur of the moment. He typed in a response.

“How do you know about the oil baron?”

The moment he’d sent it, he knew he’d committed a stroke of genius

The moment after, he knew he was a hair away from having a stroke.

Completely stupid. That’s what he’d been. He had a chance to interrogate Linda, and mine information from her. Instead, he’d utterly compromised his suspicions. She would know he thought something was up. There would be no way for him to parse out if her following responses were honest or not.

Yet, for Linda to already know a bit about him, was she ever honest?

He put his head in his hands, letting himself sweat it out. He just needed to breathe and think.

His thoughts whipped him around in several directions.

The pickpocket was chasing him down. That much was certain. Yet, why was it that he was being chased down? To his knowledge, he hadn’t done anything. Yet, here was the pickpocket, with his stolen oil baron toy, trying to find him.

Now, Linda knew where the oil baron toy was. Did she know the pickpocket? Was she the pickpocket?

Was she real?

No, she had to be real. It wouldn’t make any sense if she wasn’t. That would be too much. Even for him.

Still, the perturbing thought sat at the edge of Fletcher’s mind. With it came another one: the only people who should’ve known that he was looking for the toy oil baron were the people who were chasing him. Officer Mayhew, Marvin Whisk, Priest Carvel, and the drug dealers… That is, them and his friends. Was it possible that any of them were somehow also the pickpocket?

He told himself that he was being delusional. There couldn’t possibly be a conspiracy against him. Yet then, there was already a crowd of people who hated his guts, wasn’t there? How much of a stretch was it that one of them was toying with him?

Nonetheless, maybe Linda’s unfounded knowledge was innocent coincidence. Maybe — just maybe.

His phone squawked at him. He looked at the number. Harry, naturally. Why did he have to call at the most inopportune of times?

“Hello?” Fletcher said, furling his lips.

“I just got a call from Margaret,” Harry said, in rushed breaths. “You were at her apartment again, weren’t you?”

“It was a new apartment this time, Harry... Nothing ‘again’ about it.”

“Cut the bullshit! You weren’t supposed to be at her place!”

“Wasn’t I though? According to the chaos theorem...”

“Enough with that. You knew what you were supposed to do, and you didn’t do it. The restraining orders — they were put against you for a reason. Fletcher, you can be better than this. You can do better than her and move on.”

“I have moved on,” Fletcher said.

His mind whipped to an image of himself on his bathroom floor, surrounded by pills. He was languishing on the tile, waiting for the pills to kick in. He didn’t want to feel cold anymore. Just numb.

He shook his head. So dumb. Mints were so much better than pills.

Watching as people walked out from the bank, Fletcher caught the eyes of a few. Their strides were slow, and their faces heavy. He’d have to go in that bank, soon.

“You clearly haven’t. Fletcher, she has the cops after you. You probably are going to get arrested. Do you realize how much trouble that you’re in? Don’t get me wrong, I’m going to help you if I can... But, after what happened with John, I don’t want to see another one of my friends go insane. Do you get me?”

Fletcher rolled his tongue around in his mouth, marinating it in Harry’s words.

“Yes... And, why is it that John is insane, Harry?”

“I see what you’re doing,” Harry said, chuckling derisively. “Look, it had nothing to do with the theorem. John couldn’t handle reality. The theorem would’ve worked on him if he’d just been the person that could handle. But, he couldn’t.”

“And, what if I can’t handle the inevitability of my own life? What if I’m another John?”

“What if you’re another me? My life is going just fine, despite all the absurdity that’s all around me. I know where everything is going to wind up... Rather than winding me up, this gives me a sense of peace. Can’t you be that kind of person?”

“That kind of person isn’t a kind person though, are they?” Fletcher asked, dodging Harry’s inquiries. “You only called me because you want me to be just like you — to let the chaos theorem become me. Tell me this, Harry: if the chaos theorem hadn’t told you to call me, would you have? Would you have even cared?”

“Of course I care, Fletcher! Deep down, I’m a good person! You know that!”

“Do I? Do you do what you’re supposed to do, because you genuinely want to do what you’re supposed to do? Or, do you do it merely because you’re supposed to do it?”

The other end of the line went static. Then, Harry opened his mouth again. Fletcher could tell from Harry’s lips smacking as he did it. “Is there a difference?”

“I like to think that there is,” Fletcher said, “to the people who make a difference.”

Fletcher slammed the phone down, his blood boiling. Perhaps he’d been too harsh on Harry — but then, Harry didn’t really care did he? He couldn’t have. Harry had never been help during the worst of Fletcher’s addiction. Yet, once Margaret came in the picture, Harry was suddenly a white knight.

Harry’s call was all just self-oriented ego, and nothing more.

Fletcher stepped out of his car, smiling to himself. It was time to take care of the thing that mattered to him.

“Woe to those who enter here!”

A man was curled up into a ball, in front of the bank’s revolving door. Fletcher stepped over and pushed through the door.

“You go in, and something else comes out!” he said. “I saw in the newspaper that the bankers were having a ball, in there. I think what I saw was a fall — the world’s greatest typo.”

Spinning through the revolving door, Fletcher watched light warp and filter through the windows. The bank’s interior gave off a balmy glow. When he stepped into it, he was met by a cold rush of air; heavy air-conditioning. Fletcher looked to the dozens of desks covering the floor space. He looked up to the second level, littered with more desks. At any moment, he expected bankers to suddenly appear at them, talking with clients. Yet, no bankers came. The place was a wasteland.

He walked up to the bank teller’s desk, near the entrance.

“Hi, I’d like to speak about a loan,” he said. “Specifically, with Jim Harrigan.”

“Name?” the teller said, in mild annoyance.

“Stuart Fletcher. Now, could you hurry on up?”

The bank teller wiped a plume of sweat from his forehead and typed into his computer with the pace of a scurrying rat.

“I’m not sure you’d actually like to speak with Harrigan, at just this moment,” the bank teller said, in a hushed breath. “If I were you, I’d...”

The bank teller craned their neck toward the door. Fletcher’s own neck and shoulder muscles tightened. Perhaps leaving would be best. There were other things to do, right?

Fletcher shook his head. Harrigan was the only good lead that he had.

“Come on,” Fletcher said. He glanced at the bank teller’s nametag. “Don Key, is it? Just cool it, okay?”

“My name is not Don,” the bank teller said, their face now reddening. “I’m just borrowing my coworker’s clothes. My real name is Noah Nam.”

“No name?”

“No... Noah Nam, not no name, you no name.”

Fletcher blinked blankly.

The bank teller huffed. “Whatever, I’m done...”

Fletcher shrugged. “Whatever, Don. Anyway, what’s the worst that could happen?” Fletcher gave the bank teller a pat on the back. “I get turned down for a loan?”

The bank teller grinned. “That, or thrown into the river...”

A door behind the bank teller burst open.

“Harrigan, here again! Sorry for the wait! I was just filing a couple of people’s bankruptcies.”

Harrigan’s hair shone chrome, and he smelled of fresh tires. He leaned over the desk with a Cheshire grin, gripped Fletcher’s forearm, and gave a firm shake.

“So, you in here to talk about a loan?” Harrigan asked.

A thick minty smell wafted from his mouth. His hands wove through the bank teller’s drawers, nimble as threading with thimble. He lifted a file the size of a brick.

“There we go,” he said. He swung from behind the desk, and slapped Fletcher on the back. “Follow me. Hey, you feel cold. You cold?”

Fletcher rubbed his arm, to find an outbreak of goosebumps. Rumbles of the ceiling fan rolled over his head.

“Now that you mention it,” Fletcher said, “it is pretty cold in here.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll take care of you, here. I’ll have you in a spiffy hot seat in a jiffy.”

Harrigan slowed his pace to sync with Fletcher’s. The syncing gave a moment’s reassurance. Harrigan was left under the control of Fletcher’s every step. However, when Harrigan’s steps sped, and Fletcher inexplicably found himself speeding with him, he questioned who was truly in control.

Harrigan banked at a couple of plush chairs, near a coffee table. A coffee, labeled ‘Jim’ was already on the table — almost as though Harrigan had predicted this meeting. Yet, with the chaos theorem, hadn’t he been able to?

“Heated seats,” Harrigan said, practically pushing Fletcher into it. “Some of the best we could find, too.”

He turned the dial on the side of his seat. His eyes flitted to the window at the side of him. The employee parking lot was just outside it, glittering with freshly paved asphalt, and brand new sportscars. Harrigan swiftly brought the shutters down.

Fletcher attempted to comfortably situate himself, only to go stiffer.

“And why don’t I sit right with ya?’” Harrigan said, already letting himself stretch into the chair. Easing into a comfortable position, his file thudded onto the coffee table. “Ah. It’s warm. Maybe too much, I should warn!”

Fletcher nodded primly, while his hand groped toward the dial. The heat was putting his butt on fire. Yet, could lower it, without drawing ire? He needed to stay on Harrigan’s good side, if he ever hoped to draw info of the pickpocket from him.

“So, let’s just dig into this,” Harrigan said. He wagged his head, and his tongue panted out.

Whisks whipped from the file, as Harrigan thumbed through them.

“It looks like you’ve taken a lot of loans in the past year, here,” Harrigan said. “Of course, plenty of successful businesses do that, so no worries there...”

“Plenty of successful business,” repeated Fletcher. “Yes. I’m doing that.”

“Seems to come so natural to you. Just lie back, and let things do their thing.”

The pages stopped turning. Harrigan drank them in, and muttered something beneath his breath.

“Of course,” Harrigan said, looking up to Fletcher with a saccharine grin. “Still shocking to hear, considering how business has been doing lately.”

“Definitely. Speaking of which, how are businesses doing around here?”

Fletcher had thought it was a good leading question, toward the pickpocket. Though, Harrigan simply set the file aside, and took a long drink of his coffee.

“It’s the lopsided circle cycle,” he said. “The economy goes through a surge of profits, only to fall off it. Don’t have to be a prophet, to predict it... Still, this whole new chaos theorem thing hasn’t helped matters. You should’ve seen how many bankers that committed suicide the other day, when the stock market crashed. To die for!”

Fletcher laughed. “Would’ve loved to see that.”

Harrigan’s face went to stone. Great — stupid Fletcher. What had he been thinking?

“Of course, because it’s so tragic,” Fletcher said, backtracking. “Seeing death helps it feel all the more real. It’s so hard to know that all of them dove to the end, upon seeing their fate. So enlivening to know we didn’t.”

“It’s fine,” said Harrigan. He let out a bursting laugh, then cut it off. “You know the old joke... What’s a good banker? A dead banker. Anyway, you know your fate? Have to say, that’s surprising. You don’t seem like the type of guy who would know.”

Fletcher nodded proudly. “Yes, I’m not into seeing my fate myself. Been avoiding it.”

“Smart enough, I suppose,” said the banker. “Me? I’ve found it beneficial to know where everything is going. I knew I was destined to win, so preparing myself for the upcoming slumps and successes in life only made sense. Gives me an edge over the poor suckers who have no control.”

Fletcher smiled. “Yeah. I can see that.”

“Can you?”

“I just said that—.”

“Alright, it’s time that I cut the bullshit.” Harrigan slammed a fist on the table. “You clearly never read the chaos theorem, like you claim to have. But, you really should’ve. All this? I’m putting an end to it.”

He took a sip of his coffee, studying Fletcher’s face all the while. His eyes held the twinkle of anticipation. Though, rather than giving a reaction, Fletcher sat dumbfounded.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” Fletcher said. “Honestly, I’ve been going through so much rigmarole lately… Am I missing something?”

“You’re not getting a loan,” Harrigan said. “From all the numbers here? It’s safe to say your business is dead. Done. Kaput.”

“It’s not dead until it’s dead.”

Fletcher clenched a fist. Anger was rising in him now. Harrigan leaned back and rested his hands on his stomach. He’d been preparing for this, hadn’t he?

“That’s what they all say,” said Harrigan. He looked around and gestured at the door to the bank. Several people entered. “Take those guys, for example. I bet they think the world is smiling kindly at them. It’s not. They’re dead. The world doesn’t care about any of us. We’re chess pieces on a board, moving in a discorded game that will never hit checkmate.”

“I never was one to participate in chess,” said Fletcher.

“We don’t have a choice. Nonsense is brewing. Everything is about to come to a head… And, if you don’t suck up everything you can, when you can? Everything that’s yours? You’re going to go down the tubes, with nothing to your name.”

Harrigan’s coffee cup crumpled under the tight squeeze of his hand.

“I’m going to have to repossess your business,” Harrigan said, his voice steel. “You’re probably going to have to declare bankruptcy, to account for all the loans you have weighing you down. You should’ve paid more attention to the payments. The numbers. You would’ve seen this coming.”

The words cut to the bone. Being turned down for a loan was predictable. Yet, being told that the business was failing? That it was going to be repossessed? His finances hadn’t been brought to that dire of straits, had they?

There had to be a way to change the course of things. It wasn’t inevitable unless something said it was. Who was Harrigan to say what was possible, and what wasn’t?

However, Fletcher could already feel Harrigan’s attention shifting to new clients pouring through the doors. Harrigan’s pose was easy, and his breaths uniform. He knew. He probably knew every step of this interaction. Fletcher suddenly felt inferior, in his shabby hoody, disheveled hair, and torn jeans.

Much as Fletcher didn’t want to believe the chaos theorem, it’d gifted Harrigan the upper hand.

Why hadn’t he just gone and taken the chaos theorem himself? Perhaps if he’d been the type of person who would’ve read the theorem sooner, he would’ve had a better fate.

A moan fled Fletcher’s lips. “I’ve lived in that toy shop for years,” Fletcher said. “It was my uncle’s shop. He raised me there. It’s how I learned everything I know about business… About life… It wasn’t the best, but it’s mine now.”

His eyes burned. Flashes of anguish and mildew memories flitted by. The bank flushed with fresh murmurs and faces, but Fletcher barely noted them. All focus was on keeping his flushed face from spilling tears.

“Sorry,” Harrigan said, bluntly. He held his crushed coffee cup in the air. “Don! Hey Don, I need more coffee!”

The bank teller came stumbling through a swath of people. They were all crazed, sobbing about death and destiny. Despite their anguish, they held a zombified air about them. Much of them were peering at Fletcher, as though he were some exotic exhibit.

Couldn’t the quiet of the bank have stayed quiet? Why did insanity coalesce wherever he went?

“Your coffee sir,” the bank teller said, setting a new cup on the table and taking the crushed one.

Harrigan nodded up at the bank teller serenely. He didn’t touch the cup. “If you’d just consulted us sooner, you might’ve been put on a debt plan that could save you from all this.”

“Maybe I didn’t want to consult you. Maybe I thought I could handle it, because I always have!”

“The world sometimes moves us into doing things we thought we’d never do,” Harrigan said. His hands folded into a pyramid. “Though, if it’s any consolation, I’m a genius financier. I can get you through all of this muck, so that you can at least get back on your feet from this.”

Fletcher wanted to get back on his feet more than ever. Namely, to leave his seat and run out of the bank. Yet, with all the people clustered around, no clear escape was afforded.

“I think I’ll be fine having you suck me dry, without paying a fee for you to do it.”

Harrigan laughed.

“Yes, well… I suppose it does look real bad for you, doesn’t it?” He smiled. “Of course, for me it was an amazing turn of events. All my comrades were so focused on stocks, and investments… Stocks are such a sad thing to put stock in though, when everybody can now know what everything is really worth — nothing. Me? I bet on people losing all their money. I wound up winning out with that.”

Harrigan’s face filled with glee.

Fletcher shook his head. “Is there any way you could cut me a break? Help me with this?”

“No, no. Why would I? Too much money in this.”

“All you can focus on is money, isn’t it?”

“It’s the closest thing we have to a value system, in this society.”

“Value? And what is the value of value? See what your value does for you years from now, when justice finally comes knocking…”

Harrigan’s eyes hooded over. He snorted.

“Justice? Me? You really need to read that theorem. I’m going to become untouchable.”

Fletcher turned down the dial of his seat. The heat was too much, with the crowd of people making the room ever stodgier and stuffier.

“Do you want a private room?” Harrigan asked, his eyes dissecting Fletcher.

This time, Fletcher took the turn to smile. “No. I actually have a plan for how to dig myself out of this.”

“Do you now?”

“Yes… I just need a bit of help from you. There’s this person I’ve been looking for, see…”

Harrigan’s head bobbed, invitingly. The questions concerning the pickpocket and the oil baron seemed futile, at this juncture. The business was doomed, after all. Still, Fletcher told himself that pursuing it was better than giving in.

“There’s a pickpocket going around, apparently,” Fletcher continued, “and they have something of mine, that is extraordinarily valuable.”

“Something that can pull you out of debt?”

“Possibly, but that’s irrelevant. I was told that you know who they are? Mayor Haddock told me.”

Harrigan’s jaw dropped. He groomed his hair. “You’ve spoken with Mayor Haddock? About me?”

“Just about. More the pickpocket, though. What do you know about them?”

Harrigan cleared his throat and took a sip of his coffee. There was a bit of sweat on his brow.

“Now, I don’t know much,” Harrigan said. “I’ve only handled the money transfers between him and the mayor. Honestly, I’ve tried to keep my name out of most of these things, and Haddock’s too. The real person who’s been signing their name to all these transactions, and who introduced me to the pickpocket? Mr. Glenn Clover.”

“Already sounds like a great guy…”

“He’s been the middleman to my position of middleman. You can never have too many middles. Besides, this guy deserves it. We used to be friends, but he’s a bit of a pathetic prick.”

Fletcher gave a blank stare.

“Surprised to see you’ve never met him, Fletcher. I know he only ever hangs around with his wife, these days… Never leaves her side. Still, you didn’t even know he’s Mrs. Clover’s wife?”

“Never heard of her, either.”

“If only you’d heard her,” Harrigan said, bringing his hand to his heart. “She was an amazing singer, in her heyday. She toured across country. You should’ve seen her perform! These days though, she’s a major conservationist. Runs a greenhouse.”

Harrigan pulled a pen and pad from his breast-pocket. After a bit of scribbling, he handed a note over to Fletcher.

There was Mrs. Clover’s full name — Melinda Clover — and her address. Harrigan’s phone number and business information was tucked at the bottom, as well.

Fletcher took a second glance at the name — Melinda. It was like Linda, wasn’t it? It had to have been a coincidence. Yet, coincidences had been anything but coincidental, lately.

Fletcher looked up, to see Harrigan giving him a diamond stare.

“Hopefully that helps,” Harrigan said. “Specifically, my business information. I wouldn’t mess with the pickpocket myself. Going to be honest: I heard him say he was looking for you. That he had some grudge to settle. He didn’t say it nicely. Heard he recently killed a guy just for their fruit cup. And now he’s looking for you…”

Fletcher’s head buzzed. There was no doubting it anymore — whatever was going on between him and the pickpocket was personal. Yet, worse was that the pickpocket knew who he was. He wanted him dead.

Suddenly, Fletcher wished he was dead.

“He’s a fruitcake, with a lot of money,” Harrigan said, finishing his thought. “Not a good combo, from personal experience.”

Fletcher glanced at Harrigan’s gold watch. It was already an hour past noon.

“Not a good combo from my experience either,” Fletcher said. “Anyway, I really have to be going. Somewhere to be.”

He stood up and outstretched his hand. Harrigan squeezed it, as though it were one of his coffee cups.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Fletcher said.

“No, the pleasure is all mine,” said Harrigan. “I look forward to seeing you here again.”

“I look forward to…” Fletcher began, before dropping it entirely.

If he were back in this bank, that would mean the end. He wasn’t ready for that. Shoes dragging on the marble floor, Fletcher shuffled away. People filtered past him, eyes crazed and distant.

“Alright, what the hell is going on in here?” Harrigan cried. “What’s with all the people?”

“The stock market just crashed,” the bank teller squeaked, from somewhere deep in the crowd. “People want their money.”

“To hell with the people! Get them out of here!”

Fletcher ducked as a chair hurled over his head. There were crashes and bangs as the bank was turned over for everything it was worth. All around him, people were gnashing at the teeth, begging for money.

One man grabbed Fletcher by the shoulders and throttled him.

“I was recently diagnosed with middle age,” the man said, eyes red with tears. “I need money, now! It’s a crisis, I’m telling you! A crisis!”

There was a slap as Fletcher smacked the man in the face and ducked back into the crowd. He felt invisible among them, and utterly naked, all at the same time.

“Doomsday clock is nigh,” somebody monotoned. “And our mayor just sits there, high.”

Fletcher reached for the revolving door. It poured out a fresh cluster of people, when Fletcher hit the glass.

“I’m getting the hell out of here,” Harrigan said.

His business suit was torn at the seams, and his hair was lopsided. His skin flushed orange under its fake tan, and rush of fear.

“Coming in today was a mistake,” Harrigan continued, slipping through the door. “Big mistake…”

The ceiling buckled from a man swinging on the chandelier, overhead. The air was raining papers and desks, tossed from the floor above. The people had come for a remedy. They’d settled for disrepair.

Despair filling his veins, Fletcher plowed through the revolving door and back into the street. He glanced at the note in his hand and laughed. It was completely smudged, and he could barely make out the address. Though, he was one step closer to his goal.

That much couldn’t be overstated.

Now, how long was the bus going to take?

. . .

“Tell us where Fletcher is, donkey!”

“That’s not my name!”

Likely story. Real likely. I think about telling the reedy bank teller that. But, then, who gives a flying fuck about what he knows about what I think?

No. I have to keep pushing. Gunning for him.

I shove my gun further against his nuts.

“Talk!”

“I — I can’t disclose info on our clients.”

Shit, I think he’s getting hard. This is getting hard. I look over to Clair, but she’s clearly no help. Just twiddling her cheap cigarette and ogling at Logan Gerri. Typical.

Why’d I even lug that rat with us?

“We overheard the mayor telling the cops that Fletcher would be here,” Clair said, putting out her cigarette on the bank teller’s forehead.

Maybe she does care. Maybe.

“Alright, alright!” the bank teller squeaks. “I’ll talk. I’ll talk. I saw him talking with Jim Harrigan. I think he said—.”

Then, Logan Gerri gives the bank teller a heavy punch to the head.

“He told you to fucking spill, cretin!” Logan Gerri shouts.

His veins are pulsing, and his muscles are raised. The bank teller’s head, though? It’s slumped to the table.

Logan Gerri just knocked him out cold.

“Wow, you pack some punch,” Clair swoons.

I shoot a glare in Clair’s direction, and shove Logan in the chest with the butt of my gun.

“He was our only lead!” I say.

Logan rubs the back of his thick neck. “I think he said something about Jimmy Hendricks.”

“Jim Harrigan,” I say. “I’ll look in our files, for his number. Then, I’m going to dump you on the side of the road, you dumbass.”

. . .

I’ve never met a man quite like myself. I used to take pride in that fact. Though, this Fletcher… What if he’s holier than me?

I ransacked the mayor’s entire party and found no sign of him in there. Somehow, he managed to slip away, and steal one of our vans. Worse yet, he seems to have stolen my keys — I’m now trapped in a cramped van, without any way of getting back into our house.

Am I now the fool, who I used to take my followers for? Am I just as much a follower of Fletcher, as my believers are of me? It seems so, from how much I’m chasing him.

I have no idea where I’m looking anymore. Perhaps spraying myself with more holy water will help do the trick. Still, something tells me I’ll just be tricking myself.

. . .

Fletcher continuously refreshed his phone. At any moment, Linda could send him another message to contact him. It was inevitable. Though, the message still hadn’t come yet. It were as if she was ignoring him.

She’d taken some time responding to him earlier, throughout the day. Though, this was new. This was several hours.

The bus groaned, careening to a halt.

“Alright, there you are,” the bus driver said. “Hopefully for the last ride of the day…”

“Trust me, I expect plenty more bus rides where that came from,” Fletcher said, walking toward the exit.

The bus driver rubbed his scruffy face. “You’re already due to scrub this entire bus clean, Fletcher. How much more do you plan on offering me? Because, I’m nearing where I won’t keep biting.

Fletcher shrugged. “I’ll find something.”

“You better, because I’m sick of this crap.”

The door swung shut, and the bus sped away. Fletcher moved tiredly forward. The greenhouse was just in front of him. Yet, he felt hopelessly behind.

He couldn’t disagree with the bus driver. He’d gotten sick of this crap too. He couldn’t let himself give up — but he sure as hell wanted to.

Peering into the greenhouse, he saw stalks of sunflowers craning for the sky. They obscured the rest of the greenhouse, and Fletcher began wondering the sunflowers’ functionality. There was no way that the sunflowers could be sold, was there?

He knocked on the glass and listened to the hollow ringing sound it created. He tried the handle, but it wouldn’t budge.

A woman came from behind the sunflowers and sped down the cobbled walkway.

Her hair was done up in a lopsided bun, with bobby pins. She wore a plain, loose t-shirt and baggy jeans, and held a sunhat at her side.

She smiled, showing her teeth. She frowned when Fletcher tried to return it. The door jiggled a few times, before finally coming open.

“Hi, this is the Clover Greenhouse,” she said.

“Don’t see many clovers.”

She gave a tight smile. “Yes, heard that one before. Anyway, I’m Melinda Clover. You are?”

“Stuart Fletcher.”

Fletcher cautiously stepped inside. An overpowering aroma swooped him up, and he held back tears from his eyes.

“Beautiful place,” said Fletcher, still only making out the sunflowers.

Bad as the flower shop had been, this was somehow leagues worse.

“I wanted to come see your husband, actually,” Fletcher said. “Glenn Clover?”

Melinda looked dumbfounded, before switching to a gleam.

“Oh yes, of course! Glenn!”

She smiled to herself.

“I love Glenn,” she said. “He should be here any minute, actually. Me and my gal pals are just having a bit of a fling back here. Yes, I’m sure he’s coming.”

There was a dreamy way in which she said it. Her eyes brimmed with her coffee pupils, and her voice spilled out as silk.

“Glad he’s coming, rather than not,” Fletcher said. “Because, if he wasn’t, I’d be… I’d be mad. Mildly, of course.”

“Of course,” Melinda said, with a curt nod.

Fletcher studied her face — the creases from her faded smile. The supine curves of her neck and chin. She matched his vision of Linda. Though then, visions always fell short of reality.

“Why are you here?” Melinda asked.

“Isn’t that the million-dollar question?” Fletcher said, beaming. “To be ground into ash in a few decades, maybe? I used to think I was here to find why I was here. Though, now that we all have a way of finding it, I find my old meaning meaningless.”

“Very funny,” she said, “but I meant why are you looking for Mr. Clover.”

“To get answers about a person who stole something from me,” Fletcher said.

Melinda took a step back, letting the sunflowers brush against her back. The sunlight made her skin glisten, but it’d pruned prudishly, toward Fletcher.

“I can assure you he hasn’t stolen anything. My husband is a wonderful man. He never harmed a single soul.”

Fletcher shook his head. “No, that’s not what I meant at all. I’m sure he is. It’s just, somebody — a banker, Jim Harrigan — told me that Mr. Clover was the guy I was looking for. Said he was buddies with a real shady pickpocket. Are you familiar with that?”

Melinda’s face broadened purely into smile.

“Did you say Jim Harrigan?”

It was the first time her voice sounded genuinely interested.

“Yeah. Yes. Bit of a prick, though.”

“My husband was friends with a ton of harmful individuals,” said Melinda. “If Jim Harrigan told you that, he wasn’t wrong.”

“Was friends?”

“Was, is, will be… No difference. We’re splitting hairs now, Mr. Fletcher.”

She put an arm around Fletcher and pulled him deeper into the greenhouse. Passing the sunflowers, Fletcher saw overgrowths of weedy plants, and vines. There was no vegetation though. At least, not any he could make out.

“Would you like to join me and my friends in our little game, while we wait for — uh — Mr. Clover?” Melinda asked.

Fletcher shrugged, continuing to look around the greenhouse. They approached a shed at the greenhouse’s center. It was a fresh yellow, the wood and nails sitting firm. The air it exuded was entirely wrong, amid the weedy ground.

“Did you already harvest all your plants, for the season?” Fletcher asked.

“What plants? Power plants?” Melinda snickered to herself. More of a snorting squeal, than anything. “No, I don’t do much gardening in this greenhouse. The sunflowers up front are plenty, to make people think we grow food in here.”

“Then how do you make money? Harrigan told me that you sell fresh produce.”

They were already turning around the shed. Fletcher could see a burbling fountain, and a group of people clustered around it.

Melinda’s expression went sharp. “I do sell fresh produce, though. Of course I do. It’s simply that I buy it from the supermarket, at a very low rate. Then, I sell it back to them as “organic” produce, at a very high rate.”

“Sounds scummy.”

“Money is money — don’t care how it sounds. Isn’t that what we’re all here for?”

A woman gave a whoop, holding a deck of cards in the air. She was dressed in frumpy clothes, and her jewelry dangled loosely. She was unabashed, oblivious to herself. Fletcher walked up to the table and snatched himself a seat. He kept his head down. He very suddenly felt out of place. He knew none of these people. None of them knew him.

He didn’t belong.

“You took the last seat?” Melinda said, with a laugh.

Fletcher looked up, to see the four other chairs occupied by people who were hidden behind their cards. “Sorry, I thought you’d already have an extra one out for Mr. Clover.”

A woman stood from her seat and gestured toward Melinda. Fletcher squinted — it was the same woman from Mayor Haddock’s fundraising party. He stiffened. Lydia, was it?

“You can have mine,” she said. “I can go get us more chairs.”

If she’d recognized Fletcher, she didn’t show it. She scurried off to the shed, before Melinda could even manage a “thank you”. Holding her grin, Melinda took up the man’s deck of cards and took his seat. She then shuffled the stack of cards at the center of the table and began handing a deck to Fletcher.

“Why hello, Fletcher.”

Fletcher snapped his head up from his makeshift deck.

“Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten about me.”

It was Debby Crowner. She was in the chair just across from him. She readjusted her glasses and gave a lopsided smile. On her face, traces of scowls came out more prominently.

“What are you doing here?” Fletcher asked.

“Just got off my shift, and decided to play cards with one of my best friends of course!” she winked at Melinda, and Melinda winked back. “You’re still considering the job at the factory, right?”

“Considering is the operative word,” Fletcher said, cautiously.

“You should take it!” said the other woman at the table. “I work at the coal refinement plant, just a couple blocks at the factory. Very rewarding work, if I do say so myself.”

A man pulled his cards down from his face. “I work on the trash barge. It’s also like factory work — you’d think it’d be intense, but it’s real fun. Trust me, nothing beats the thrill of trying to find places in the river where you can dump people’s trash, without anybody catching you.”

Fletcher glanced at Melinda, hoping for help. She merely nodded her head receptively.

“Yes, they have a point,” she said. “Very fine work, they all do.”

Fletcher fought to keep his jaw from dropping. Why weren’t Melinda’s conservationist tendencies affected by the words around her.

“I’m Anna Gingras,” the woman said.

“Larry Puck,” the other man said. “Your name?”

Fletcher cleared his throat. “Stuart Fletcher.”

“And what brings you here?” pressed Larry, voice gruff.

“He’s a friend of Jim Harrigan’s!” Melinda said, proudly.

“Harrigan?” Anna said with a squeal. “Oh, I can’t believe it. He’s so dreamy, isn’t he?”

Fletcher nodded softly. “He’s definitely like something out of a dream… I’m not really his friend, though. More like a client.”

Melinda gave Fletcher a playful nudge with her elbow. “Please… Harrigan doesn’t just help anybody, for no reason. There must’ve been something that got him to melt.”

She winked. Suddenly, Harrigan made mounds more sense. He loved Melinda. Melinda? She must’ve still loved him. Yet, what about Mr. Clover? Didn’t she care about him?

“Damn right he doesn’t care about helping anybody,” Larry said. He raised his hands in the air, letting a card slip out. “He ran my brother over last week, while he was crossing the street. Gave him a coupon to the local barber shop. He told my brother he would have never run him over, if his head had just been shiny enough.”

He broke out into a wheezing laugh. “Good thing is: I hate my brother’s guts.”

Anna laughed with him. “I hate your brother too.”

Melinda nodded. “Same.”

Debby gave an icy stare to Larry, before breaking. “I hate your brother, and you.”

“Right back at you.”

“I hate you all,” said Fletcher, with a wide grin.

The table went dead silent. Fletcher went to give Larry a playful jab, but Larry shifted to the side.

Fletcher glanced at the pile of cards at the center of the table.

“So, what game are we playing?” he asked.

“Nothing, until Lydia gets her ass back out here,” Larry said.

He rolled up the sleeves to his shirt. It was a plaid material that looked so thin it could slice an atom.

“I’m coming!” Lydia said. There was crash. “I’ll be out there in just a minute.”

Fletcher’s foot tapped against his will. He felt his skin go flush.

“Speaking of people, Mr. Clover will be here real soon,” Fletcher said. “Right?

Anna let out a long breath of air. “Oh yeah. Right… You were friends with that tight-ass.”

“Never met him, actually.”

Debby clucked her tongue. “So you were online friends? Even worse…”

The shed door sputtered open, with Lydia heaving the chair behind herself. It was a cushioned armchair, complete with elaborate engravings on its legs and backing. The legs thudded as they were set by the table.

Fletcher hid behind his cards as Lydia sat down. Though, she was wincing as she did, clearly distracted.

“We can finally start Go Fish, with you back in!” Melinda said, with a clap.

“Think I threw my back out,” moaned Lydia. “Seriously, you didn’t have any lighter chairs than that?”

“I don’t know, but it’s pretty messed up that you didn’t say anything while you carried the chair out,” said Larry. “Honestly — you couldn’t be bothered to ask me to ask you if you needed help?”

“Sorry, didn’t think of that,” Lydia said, adjusting herself in the chair.

Fletcher tried breathing easy. He couldn’t let Lydia think he was guilty of anything. How much longer would it be until Mr. Clover finally showed his face?

“No chair for Mr. Clover?” he blurted, despite himself.

“If he can crawl out of his hole, he can come get one himself,” said Lydia.

The whole table laughed.

“Got any tens?” asked Melinda.

The table gave a resounding round of “no”. Fletcher looked at his cards and gave a “no” of his own.

“Hey, do I know you?” Lydia asked. Her face contorted as she looked him over.

Fletcher gave yet another “no”, followed by a “go fish”.

“Odd,” she said. “You look so familiar.”

“I knew him already!” said Debby, her glasses bobbing over her nose. “He’s going to get a job at my factory!”

“I never said that,” Fletcher said.

“Factory worker, huh?” said Lydia. “You like working through the soot, and shit?”

“Anybody got any nines?” Fletcher asked. He tugged on the collar to his shirt, peeling it from his drenched skin.

As the table went up in another round of “no”, Melinda leaned in Fletcher and Lydia’s direction.

“Go fish,” she said. Her eyes were inexplicably on Lydia. “He’s friends with Jim Harrigan too. And, he apparently likes toy oil barons.”

Lydia nodded, then gave Fletcher a thumbs up.

“Glad to hear that we’re all in the same boat, here!” she said.

Fletcher pulled a card from the center of the table. He thought up ways to perhaps steer the conversation back toward Mr. Clover. Yet, the more he tried thinking them up, the more at a loss he found himself.

The entire group was grating at his mind. They all seemed privy to something, and he was desperately flailing behind them.

“Alright, I’m confused here,” he finally said.

“We’re all confused in this world, aren’t we?” Larry said. “I can’t even tell if I put my shoes on the right feet this morning.”

Fletcher gave a glare. God — was he that annoying when he pulled the same sort of line on Melinda?

“No, I mean — I don’t get why Melinda is friends with all you people,” he said. “No offense intended, but you guys should all be scum of the earth to her. You make money by finding clever ways of muddying up the environment!”

“No offense taken,” said Debby. “In fact, thank you for recognizing the brilliance of our work.”

Melinda’s smile went thin as she set her cards down.

“Let’s not pretend that none of us are responsible for environmental damage,” she said. “Just the act being alive slowly kills the world. It’s only nature. As a conservationist, isn’t nature what I’m supposed to conserve?”

“Damn straight,” said Larry. “All this fuss about conserving trees… But never any talk about conserving the people who don’t want trees!”

The table had gone around to Fletcher’s turn. He inevitably took another card from the deck — he had no matches.

Thus far, the entire table had no matches. Logically, it didn’t line up. Though, his brain cautioned him against speaking up.

“You’re a conservationist, but you support pollution?” Fletcher said, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m a classical conservationist, Mr. Fletcher,” she said, giving a snide glare. “It’s no surprise you don’t understand. Though, it’s why I’m friends with all these people. They need the support of a gal like me, to have the public on their sides.”

Anna snorted. “It’s so true. She sent out a report to the community that my coal factory was ten times better for the environment, emissions-wise, than solar energy. I’m not quite sure how she pulled it off, but… She did. Quite the feat!”

Melinda blushed, and finally set down two matches.

“It’s all simple arithmetic, really,” she said. “Just add a few numbers together and say that they’re related to pollution. I’m surprised more statisticians don’t use it.”

“And I thought that my client, Mayor Haddock, was the next Weinstein!” said Lydia.

Fletcher cleared his throat. “Don’t you mean Einstein?”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “As if I don’t know the difference.”

The entire table turned toward Fletcher, as though awaiting a standoff. Sunlight baked through the greenhouse’s glass, burning Fletcher’s skin. Not that he needed the sun’s help. His skin burned two times hotter than the sun, all on its own.

“How’s the campaign with Haddock going, anyway?” asked Melinda.

Tension ratcheted up. It was in the air, carried on the faintest scent of sweat and terror. Fletcher’s gut clenched.

“Oh, just dandy,” said Lydia. Her eyes remained on Fletcher. “Mayor Haddock’s conservationist stance has saved him quite a lot of voters, like you predicted. Everybody is for his reverse recycling stance.”

“Reverse recycling stance?” Fletcher asked, innocently.

“You haven’t heard? He’s having one of our factories produce a ton of bicycles, which can cycle in reverse.”

“My factory,” Debby said, waving her cards.

“Then, he’s going to have us smelt them all back into metal blocks, at a coal factory.”

Anna gave a grin. “Mine.”

“Finally, we’re going to toss the metal blocks into the river.”

Larry straightened up with pride. “My specialty.”

“The plan is perfect and involves everybody. See, we all know bicycles are better for the environment than cars. Plus, building bikes and trashing them is a quick way to drive business. I couldn’t come up with something more genius if I tried!”

“I definitely wouldn’t try,” said Fletcher. “You guys sound smart. But, the plan sounds so dumb, it has to fail.”

“That’s where you’d be wrong.”

Nimbly, Lydia plucked a card out of Fletcher’s deck, and added it to her own. Fletcher thought to point it out, but Lydia’s eyes burrowed into him. She was peering into his soul. Had she finally recognized him?

“The dumber a plan is?” Lydia continued, setting a freshly matched pair down. “The more likely that people are to buy into it.”

The table went up in murmuring agreement.

“Besides, it’s destined to work anyway,” said Melinda. “The chaos theorem predicted it.”

“We didn’t need the theorem to predict it. Everybody saw this working, especially that one weird guy,” said Lydia, with a laugh. “You remember me telling you about him, right? He’s really into polluting the environment. Good distraction, or whatever. He’s planning on going all out with the marketing, and everything.”

Fletcher’s breath escaped his throat.

“What one guy?” he snapped.

“You ever hear about that pickpocket?” Lydia said.

“He definitely heard about him,” Melinda said, putting a hand on Lydia’s wrist. “Why, apparently the pickpocket wants to kill him. Isn’t that just sublime?”

“She’s right!” Fletcher shouted. “My life is on the line! Who is he?”

“Hell do I know… Mr. Clover knew though, didn’t he?”

Lydia looked over to Melinda, who gave another nod.

“When will Mr. Clover get here, then?” Fletcher asked.

The table went quiet.

“Got any tens?” Larry asked.

The table went into another series of “no”.

Precious time was being wasted. Fletcher squirmed in his seat and looked toward the exit. The weeds and plants around it seemed to crane toward the handle, as though they too desperately wished to escape. That, or they wished to bar anybody else from escaping.

“Do you know where Mr. Clover—,” Fletcher began.

“So,” Larry said, cutting him off. Larry readjusted his overalls and stared at Lydia’s trim suit. “Is there anything the chaos theorem predicted for Haddock’s inevitable win that we donors might want to watch out for? Don’t want my money going to waste.”

“Well, the nuclear strike is all but official,” said Lydia. “In fact, time has caught up with the theorem. The president announced the planned strike about an hour ago.”

Larry shrugged. “I’ve stuck my head in the microwave a few times. A little radiation never hurt anybody.”

Nuclear strike? Fletcher’s heart turned inside out. He wanted to wriggle out of his skin. He had to get out of here. Out of this town.

“I saw that,” said Melinda. “Quite crazy. Still, it’s hard to believe that it’s launching tonight. I heard it’ll hit by midnight.”

“I know what I’ll be doing until then,” said Anna. She mimed a wine bottle and made a few glugs.

“Wait, wait, wait!” Fletcher said, his voice coming out in a wheeze. “We’re going to be hit by a nuclear strike?”

“Yeah, apparently it’s the most affordable option,” said Lydia. “See, Dexburg is constantly hit by earthquakes. We’re on track to have one that’s going to level the whole city. Every time that happens? Federal must step in and shell out cash for us to rebuild. They figured out it’d just be more affordable to nuke us all and be done with it.”

“It only makes sense,” said Larry. “I mean, it’s hard to blame them for being efficient.”

“They’ll probably just pin it all on the Russians, anyway,” said Lydia. “Say that they’d been attacking Dexburg with earthquakes, and forced their hand. They’ll use it as an excuse for war… “

“The lousy Russians deserve it, for being Russian,” Debby said, with a firm nod. “Never met a Russian that I liked. That’s what I always say.”

“Agreed,” said Melinda. “Hell, I’ve never even met a Russian.”

Nausea filling his gut, Fletcher shook his head. “This entire town is about to be blown to smithereens, and we’re just going to sit here? We’ll do nothing to stop it?”

Lydia chortled, and readjusted her business suit. “Look at the people around you. Look at yourself. You working class folk… Doing nothing is the only thing that you can do. Guys like Mayor Haddock are the ones in control, and even they know that there’s no controlling this.”

“If we don’t get out of here, we’re all probably going to die.”

“We’re all definitely going to die, at some point. My doctor told me everyone is born with a preset amount of heartbeats. Running around in a frenzy will only speed up our heartrate — bring our deaths to us faster. Enjoying the flames as they come down upon us is the true order of life.”

Anna looked up from her cards, eyes welling. “That’s beautiful. Are you going to make that into a speech for Mayor Haddock?”

Lydia gave an abashed shrug of the shoulders. “Maybe. If I combined this, with his new ‘new history’ slogan, he might just win in a landslide.”

For Fletcher, death wasn’t good enough. He needed to get out of this town. Perhaps if he collected all his possessions, and hauled them away, he’d have a surefire means of rebuilding. Though, without the oil baron, and all its value, would he really be able to get back on his feet?

He couldn’t leave this town. At least, not without the last parts of his questionings answered.

“As much as I adore Mayor Haddock and his policies, I’m probably going to want to leave this town,” said Fletcher. “I need my life. More importantly, I need this valuable item that was stolen from me… It’s the only way I can get back on my feet.”

The entire table looked at Fletcher with blank faces.

“I’m here waiting for Mr. Clover, remember?” Fletcher said, putting on a smile. “I — you guys haven’t already forgotten, have you? I want to meet the pickpocket?”

Melinda blinked. “Mr. who?”

“Mr. Clover? Your husband? You said that he’d be here, soon!”

Melinda gave a slow shake of her head. “That’s right… Uh, Mr. Clover died the other day. Yes, the pickpocket killed him. Something about him getting too close. I’m sure you know how that is.”

Fletcher didn’t know. His body went completely numb.

“He was a moron,” said Debby.

Melinda nodded. “True. He always was leaving the toilet seat up… And, whenever he made eggs, he’d burn the things to charcoal.”

“Aren’t they hosting a funeral for him this evening?” asked Lydia.

“Probably. Think his family sent me an invite. The burial is at Drudge’s Cemetery. I sure as hell am not going, though.”

All this time, he’d been waiting for a dead man? A man who was killed by the very man he was searching for? Nonetheless, his mind was stirring up all the pieces that he did know. Clearly this pickpocket was somebody he was already familiar with. They had political goals at the forefront of their motives. They were in support of pollution. Moreover, they were capable of murder.

He tried narrowing the suspects, as he considered who it could be. Marvin? Carvel? Jack? Logan Gerri? Officer Mayhew? Haddock himself?

Lydia was staring at Fletcher, her forehead raised.

“What did you say you were looking for, again?”

“Sorry, I’m still shocked that this Mr. Clover guy is dead,” Fletcher said, wiping a bead of sweat away.

Melinda played with her hair. “Yeah well… In case Jim Harrigan asks anything about me, I’m definitely single.”

“He didn’t answer my question,” Lydia said. “What did you say you were looking for?”

“A toy oil baron,” said Fletcher. “The town pickpocket stole it from me.”

Lydia nodded. “I thought you looked familiar… You’re that guy from the Mayor’s fundraiser, right? Marvin Whisk?”

Fletcher shook his head. “Me? No. My name is definitely Stuart Fletcher.”

Lydia pulled up her phone. “You sure about that? Because, the Mayor is on his way. He’s been looking for you. I called him, little while ago.”

Fletcher’s face flushed red.

“You can’t be serious,” he said. “I haven’t done anything. Honest to god.”

Yet, he was already stepping away from the table, and moving toward the door. He suddenly noticed all the thorns on the plants that covered it. All this time, he’d been caught in a trap. He hadn’t even known it.

“I really have to get going, now that I think about it,” said Fletcher. “If Mr. Clover isn’t here, that leaves my leads dead… I have other places to be.”

Larry laughed. “You can’t just drop your cards like that. The Mayor is looking for you! I mean, Christ, I wish I were you!”

Fletcher bit his lip. He wished he could only be so naïve as Larry.

“It was nice having you,” said Melinda.

As Fletcher made a brisk stride through the grass, he was gripped around the forearm. “I can’t have you leave,” said Lydia. “Come on — finish the game with us. Who knows? Maybe you’ll have a good draw.”

Fletcher attempted to yank his arm away, but her grip was too firm. There’d be no breaking away without breaking an arm, would there?

Glass shattered from above. Shimmering shards sprinkled in Fletcher’s hair. He glanced up, then clenched his eyes shut. A portion of the ceiling had fallen away. Somebody in a ski mask had fallen with it.

Shrieks and shouts resounded from the card table. There was a thud. Fletcher reopened his eyes, to see Lydia fleeing the scene, and somebody in a ski mask flailing on the ground.

“That hurt…” they wheezed, “Hurt much more than I expected.”

It was difficult to determine the voice. They were dressed in all black, and their head was covered by a ski-mask. It had to be the pickpocket. Fletcher stood dumbfounded, while the rest of the card party ran around him. He didn’t want to leave his only chance of retrieving his oil baron and discovering the identity of this pickpocket at the door.

He snatched up a gun from the ground — it must’ve fallen from the pickpocket’s hands. He trembled, gripping it, and stepped back. He wasn’t all that keen on dying, either.

He made a swift kick to the pickpocket’s side.

He grunted. It was most definitely a he — there was no mistaking that.

Fletcher made a few more kicks, then ran for the exit. Yet, the pickpocket gripped him by the shoelace, bringing him to the ground. There was a blast as Fletcher accidentally pulled the gun’s trigger. The gun went flying from his hands.

His head throbbed after hitting the grass and taking in a mouthful of dirt. Even as he spit it out, the dirt maintained a muddy mixture with the saliva.

“Get over here, you fuck,” the pickpocket wretched, crawling toward Fletcher on his elbows.

Fletcher struggled to get back to his feet, only for the pickpocket to clasp a deft hand around the ankle. He gave a swift kick back, hoping to remove the grip. To no avail.

“Just — just come with me,” the pickpocket wheezed. Blood burbled from his exposed skin, where shards of glass had cut it. “This has been far too much trouble, at this point. We can keep this simple. I — I have that stupid toy you want. It’s at my place. Promise.”

“Taking promises from a pickpocket? Better than promises from my banker, I guess…”

“So long as you follow me, and cut me a fair deal, we can get out of this. Even as pi.”

“Wrong idiom, idiot.”

Fletcher managed to land a kick to the pickpocket’s head. Back on his feet, he ran for the exit. After bounding a few strides, it occurred to him that he should’ve grabbed the gun. At this same instant, gunshots rippled through the air. Fletcher ducked and went for the door.

It was too late to try confronting the pickpocket. In any case, Fletcher felt that the pickpocket wasn’t one to be talked with. He glanced back. No — too risky. He could die.

A bit of his jeans snagged on a plant, ripping. He tore forward, until he’d barreled through the door.

His eyes widened, and he skidded to a halt. Harry was right ahead of him. Harry gripped Fletcher around the shoulders, straightening his balance.

“Woah, woah, woah!” Harry said. “Where are you going, slick?”

Fletcher shook his head, flabbergasted.

“Where did you come from?”

“I heard you on the police intercoms,” said Harry. “Apparently, the cops are on their way. Plus… It always helps that I saw us meeting here in the chaos theorem. It was inevitable.”

Fletcher nodded. It was an acceptable enough answer.

“Look, I don’t have much time to talk,” said Fletcher. “I’m glad you’re here. But, did you bring your truck with you?”

Harry clicked the fob to his key, causing a truck behind him to beep.

“Of course I brought my truck,” he said. “But, if you’re coming with me, we’re going to need to talk.”

A gunshot went off.

“I’ll talk about whatever you want,” Fletcher said. “Just start the truck.”

. . .

I always knew that greenhouses are supposed to make people feel green. However, I feel a whole lot greener than I think I should.

The entire place has been reduced to shards of glass. The greenhouse’s metal frame has been preserved, at least. Maybe it could make a nice jungle gym, still? Yeah, I’d pay to have that.

“And how are you doing, Marvin?”

It’s Officer Haynam. He’s doodling a flimsy sketch of the crime scene on his notepad. It looks more like a lopsided pizza, than anything. Though, he’s clearly trying. At least there’s that.

The police are putting yellow tape around the whole scene. Priest Carvel and his cult are being pushed back. It looks like Logan Gerri and a couple of his buddies are being blocked off too. For whatever reason though, Officer Haynam still hasn’t made me leave.

“Did you see anything suspicious when coming through here?” he asks. He takes a bite of his doughnut, and brushes a couple of crumbs off his upper lip — classy.

“I never saw anything,” I say. “I just was walking by here, when the entire place went up in gunshots. A ton of people were screaming and running away… It was a madhouse.”

Officer Haynam gave a grunt.

“I could imagine. I can imagine a lot of things, actually.”

I give Haynam a look. He’s looking at me.

“Like what?” I say.

“Maybe you rode in here on a dragon. You know those awesome looking ones, from the videogames?”

He looks to his fellow officers for support, who give firm nods.

“But, something tells me that you didn’t come in on an awesome dragon,” said Officer Haynam. “Something tells me that you didn’t. Something that you didn’t just walk by here, either. You’re friends with Fletcher.”

“Not true! I hate that man’s guts!”

Officer Haynam grabs me by the arm. “Oh well. You’re coming with us, and you’re going to talk.

I guess I’m in his custody now. Just brilliant.

Even when he’s not around, Fletcher is screwing me over.

. . .

“You’re going to explain what’s going on,” Harry said. “Like, right now. No games.”

Fletcher rubbed the back of his wrist.

“I’m just looking for my lost oil baron toy, okay?” he said. “It’s a very valuable item. This guy stole it from me. And, I want it back. For some reason though, this whole town is against it.”

Harry glared at Fletcher. “You’re telling me that you risked your entire fucking life to get back a toy, just now?”

“It matters a lot,” Fletcher said, with a shrug.

The truck rattled, as it picked up speed. They were climbing up a steep hill, into the heart of the city. Slouching office buildings flew past, and quivering signs waved them by.

“Why, though?” Harry asked.

Fletcher’s memories flashed by him again. He pinched his eyes shut and attempted to wipe them away. Though, they flailed at the gates of his consciousness, doing everything to break their way through.

“It — there’s no why,” said Fletcher, “What, is what you should be looking for. There are a lot of what answers. What I was doing, what I knew, what I had… All things that were around, when I had the oil baron. It has memory attached to it. Value. I have to have it back.”

Fletcher’s eyelids fluttered going heavy. He strained to keep them open, suddenly wishing he had pliers or toothpicks to pry them open with. He was in a room. A dim room, with a label maker. He was sticking prices on toys — searching for a window outside of the room. All the while, his uncle looked over his shoulder, piping mad. Perhaps a little drunk.

“Stop letting them stick to you like a spider, stupid bug boy,” he roared.

His Uncle was always a dumb drunk.

“It can’t possibly mean that much to you,” said Harry.

He’d put on a face as though he were only joking. Yet, beneath the brim of his brow was concern.

“It does, because it does,” said Fletcher. “Things don’t have any meaning, aside from what we ascribe to them.”

The truck swerved around a bend, before entering a parking lot. Harry slowed his speed — they’d entered the Elementary school parking lot. If it hadn’t been for the fact that Fletcher had grown up in this school, he would’ve hardly recognized it. It was utterly abandoned, save for a couple of school buses and a rusting car parked near a dumpster.

“You don’t mean that,” said Harry. “I can tell you’ve been in a rough patch… I — it doesn’t matter. But, like it or not, some things have inherent meaning.”

He tried putting a hand on Fletcher’s shoulder, but Fletcher leaned away.

“Gee, jumpy, huh?” Harry said.

“It’s been a long day.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Okay, look: maybe nothing means anything unless you give it meaning… I’ll give you that. Though, if you’re dead? You can’t give anything meaning to begin with. Thus, isn’t life the most meaningful state of being? Thus, doesn’t life, at the very least, have meaning?”

The truck sputtered to a stop, when Harry turned the key out of the ignition. All the while, Fletcher’s mind turned, weighing the question.

“Can water be wet?” Fletcher asked.

Harry shrugged. “Course it can. Fire can be hot, right?”

“Yes. But, fire can’t be caught on fire. Life is a conduit, through which we’re given meaning… But it can’t be meaningful. The very fact that life gives meaning makes it so life can’t have inherent meaning of its own.”

Harry sat for a moment, dumbstruck. He leaned back and looked toward the ceiling of the car. Biting his lip, he gave Fletcher a glance.

He winked. “Ice can be dry though, can’t it? Therefore, water must be wet. Seems you have another think coming, buddy.”

“Dry ice, wet water, room temperature slush… I don’t even care anymore.”

Harry flipped his keys in the air. “See, that’s why I actually followed you to the greenhouse Fletcher. See, I know that you’ve been considering suicide. I know that you want to give up. But, you just can’t, okay?”

Fletcher raised an eyebrow. “What are you talking about? I feel more alive than I ever have. This whole toy chase — it gives me a sense of purpose. Isn’t that good?”

“You have half the town on your tail, at this point. We’ve talked about this.”

“Why do you care so much? You haven’t talked to me in weeks, and suddenly I’m the most important person in the world to you?”

Harry’s eyes went downcast, and his voice soft. “Margaret and I have been talking. And, I really think you could benefit from taking the chaos theorem. Seriously, it could clear so much shit up for you.”

Fletcher’s face went hot. His muscles stiffened. His voice came out as ice.

“You’ve been talking to Margaret?” Fletcher asked.

Harry shook his head. “I’ve been — I’ve been dating Margaret. For quite some time, actually. It’s been going great. However, you… You can’t keep coming to her apartment like that. I know you’re a good guy, Fletcher. But, you need to find a life.”

The sun was drooping behind the school. Yet, obscured as it was, its rays pierced Fletcher’s eyes. Its heat left Fletcher’s skin a hot wax.

“You promised me that you wouldn’t date her,” Fletcher said.

“A wise man once said, things happen. Penguins start flying, the President goes loony, our town falls into ruin… It’s just life. You live it and move on.”

“Who?”

“Me.”

“Sounds more like a wise guy than a wise man, to me.”

The truck stewed for a bit, as the sun and their body heat steadily turned it to an oven.

“This school is actually the hub for chaos theorem tests,” said Harry.

“I figured.”

“It’s set up just like any election booth. Go in there, and you can finally have your entire life plotted out for you.”

Fletcher laughed. “I hate elections. A game of pick your poison.”

“Look… I know that you haven’t been getting anywhere with your toy oil baron search. It’s going to run you ragged man. If you just take this thing, you’ll have all your answers. The past can be left in the past. Hell, you can create a new past. You can finally enjoy your future.”

“You want me to completely give up on searching for something, and read the equation?”

“You’ll know how everything is meant to be. Imagine a life where you don’t have to worry about whether you’re doing the wrong thing — where what you choose, whatever you choose, was the choice you were going to choose no matter what. You can finally have that, Fletcher. All the answers you could ever want. And, it’s right inside that building. In that booth.”

Harry gave Fletcher a smile. It was the odd smile that could melt icecaps, yet completely freeze someone in their place. Unlatching the door, Harry stepped into the sunlight. His skin was a light bronze, and his hair swung with the wind. The summer had been good to him.

Fletcher realized how tight his seatbelt was against his chest. The car’s air was stuffy. Suffocating, even. He unlatched his seatbelt and opened his door.

“You going to step out, or not?” Harry asked.

Harry was right. It was a terrible thing, really. Though, the logic couldn’t be denied. Life was a futile endeavor. If the chaos theorem existed, there must have been a set plan to everything. There was no point in continuing to try avoiding it, was there?

He stepped out of the car and followed Harry toward the school. Somehow, the parking lot was emptier than it’d been when they’d entered. It was just a slab of drab concrete. The finer details of the scenery filtered through Fletcher, in a aloof osmosis.

The metal doors to the school yawned open. A guard stood in the way. He patted down Fletcher’s pants, before guiding him through another security check. Trembles shot through Fletcher’s body. Everywhere he looked, there were security guards. The school building wasn’t in the best of shape either, with bits of eroded brick scattered along the linoleum.

Fletcher read the messages scrawled along the walls.

“The universe can suck it.”

“I broke my pointer, to make a point.”

He shook his head. This was what needed to be done.

Harry broke into a sprint as they reached the end of the main hall and neared the doors to the school gym. Bursting through the door, he let out a hoot.

“You’re finally going to do it!” Harry said.

Fletcher entered the gym. A small line wrapped around the outer wall, as people worked their way toward the theorem booths. Fletcher took his place in the back of the line.

The gym was notably cheerier than the rest of the school had been. The lights gave off a reassuring glow. A sheen hung over the floor. A janitor must’ve recently buffed it. Indeed, it felt as if the entire gym had been recently tightened up, in preparation for his arrival. Had it? Much as Fletcher told himself this question was irrational, he gave it more thought than he wanted.

It wouldn’t stop coming back at him. Perhaps the universe was arranging itself in his favor. It wanted this.

It was like Harry had said, wasn’t it? It didn’t matter what he chose, because it was what he chose.

“You’re doing the right thing,” Harry whispered into Fletcher’s ear. “Just look at how I turned out. You can have what I have. Maybe more.”

Harry slipped away, behind the crowd. Fletcher looked for him among the bleachers. His eyes flitted to the door. However, Harry was nowhere to be seen.

He’d probably just gone to the bathroom. He certainly couldn’t have made it far.

The line crept forward. Giggles gushed from the end of it. A lady handed out the tickets to each booth, a smile plastered to her face. Her face said she loved her job. Fletcher could’ve believed it. Yet, did anybody love something, truly?

Things of no note droned by, until it was nearly Fletcher’s turn. John’s voice burst from the front of the line.

“Please!” John intoned. “I want to forget! I want a refund! Please, take it back!”

John was a shriveled ball. His jacket was wadded over his shoulders, caked with mud. Ruddy clumps were on his hands and face. Had he been bleeding? In any case, he’d been battered. Alongside the muck were clusters of scrapes and bruises.

Yet, the crowd held no sympathy for John. Rather, their eyes were distant, holding disgust. Worse, Fletcher found himself going the distance with them. John had lost every shred of his humanity. A viscous foam seeped from his mouth. His eyes were fiercely bloodshot. Patches of his hair were mangled, and others were torn out entirely.

A day could change a person. Nonetheless, the change Fletcher saw was beyond any he could comprehend.

“We don’t give refunds here,” the lady said, despite John’s pleas. “Once you’ve learned your destiny, there is no denying it. No defying it. It remains stuck to you, and you with it.”

A chill ran down Fletcher’s spine. What he found in the chaos theorem — whatever he found — was something that couldn’t be changed. Could he truly be prepared for it?

“But you must!” John shrieked. “I can’t live like this! This isn’t me!”

The lady’s smile deepened, keeping with her air of patient accommodation.

“It must be you,” she said. “Who else could you be?”

John growled, then leapt toward her. He was given a swift kick to the head, by a member of the crowd. Several guards rushed toward him, but John was already being picked apart by the crowd. The guards gave a few bats with their batons, breaking the crowd apart. They lifted John from the ground, and dragged him from the room.

There wasn’t much left of John to be dragged. His mouth had burst, upon losing several teeth. He flailed at the air, but one of his arms moved against its joints. Indeed, it seemed the crowd had broken it.

Ghastly black marks were left on the gym’s basketball court, from the heels to John’s shoes.

The gym echoed with a muffled cry, as John disappeared through the doors.

Ahead of Fletcher, one of the people snickered to themselves.

“Good riddance,” they said. “Inferiors… Why can’t we just keep them all in ditches, like a civilized civilization?”

Fletcher’s mouth went dry. John had been an inferior. That was why his life had frayed. Yes, it all made sense now. Only inferiors fell to pieces from the theorem.

Concern welled as the man was handed a ticket and directed toward a booth. It was nearly Fletcher’s turn. Yet, his uncertainty was higher than ever.

John may have been an inferior. Though, wasn’t there just as much chance that Fletcher, too, was an inferior?

Granted, there was just as much chance that he was doomed to become insane either way. Turning out as John was something to be feared, but surely he wasn’t a destined failure like John. Was he? No — he was meant for success. The theorem would attest to this.

It would have to.

“You get what you deserve out of life, not what you want,” said Uncle Timothy. “You must remember that. It’ll keep your head on straight. You can either be a failure or be a success. Take your pick, then pick at it.”

Uncle Timothy’s face was bloodshot, and bloated. He’d been out drinking.

There was a shatter as Uncle Timothy bumbled into a table. He let out a howl — he’d just broken a ceramic pizza maker into eighty pieces. Fletcher stared at the pizza maker’s face. The jaw and its smiling mouth were decimated. All that remained of the face’s lower half was its mustache — a black gape.

“Look at what you did, you moron!” Uncle Timothy cried, both to himself and at Fletcher.

He gripped Fletcher by the shoulders, shaking him as though he were a ragdoll.

“Look what you did!”

“How’s your day going sir?”

Fletcher blinked, holding back the mist rising over his eyes.

“Sir?”

Fletcher read the nametag on the woman’s chest — Petunia.

“Peculiar name,” Fletcher said.

“Excuse me?” Petunia said.

A ticket hung slackly from the edge of her fingers, bearing Fletcher’s name and booth number.

Fletcher cleared his throat. “Your name is peculiar. See, I hate petunias. I’m allergic to them. Quite a funny coincidence, really.”

Petunia nodded stiffly.

“You have booth number 13,” she said. “Also, another funny coincidence: I happen to be allergic to coincidences.”

Her skin stretched in a smile that might’ve covered a mile, if mapped.

Sapped of all energy, Fletcher stumbled his way toward his booth. He drew back the curtain. It clung to the skin, with an annoying static. The interior of the booth was dimly lit, save for a single screen. It shone as a pale moon would, dull and barren in all its luminosity.

Harry had been right. The past could be left in the past.

Fletcher tapped the screen and entered his name. His address. He was about to press the enter button. He truly was.

However, he had no clue as to how to go about it. What should’ve been the last thought in his head, before he took that last step? Should he just press it without another thought? Could he?

Life would never be the same again. Indeed, it would lose all spontaneity. It would be entirely the same as whatever flow of information this machine spat out. No matter how much he may wind up wishing to damn it, there would be no damn that could stop it.

His finger hovered. Wavered.

He placed it back in his pocket. That was when his phone buzzed.

It was his email. His heart gave a flutter. Linda had emailed him.

“I’m sorry that I’ve been so evasive,” the email read. “I thought I could talk to you — tell you the truth about what’s going on. But, I don’t know how much I can trust. I don’t have too much time. The truth is, I don’t know who you are, or where you are. I’ll have to cut off our ties, before things get worse.”

There was an image attached to it. Fletcher clicked on it, downloading it.

It was the grainy image of an eye. It was a light hazel, with a hint of green. Long, delicate lashes led from the lids. The skin was soft. Blur from the camera probably helped. Yet, the eye held an undeniable grace. Fletcher had spent many a day obsessing over the eyes of older toys — polishing them, and refining them — though, this eye had an inherently Euclidian texture about it. It exceeded what any craftsman could replicate.

It was just an eye. That, he couldn’t deny. However, it was proof that this person was tangible. Real.

“You can tell me anything that’s going on,” Fletcher said. “I’m at the school right now. I’m about to leave. I will find you. I’ll help you. I love you.”

He sent it. When he did, his head was a flurry of second thoughts. Though, he knew sending the message was the right step.

He stepped out of the booth and sprinted toward the exit.

“Sir!” Petunia shouted. “Sir, you’re not to abandon your booth until you’ve completed the process! You haven’t finished, sir!”

There were heavy footfalls from the guards chasing after him. Fletcher looked behind — their faces were damp with concern and rage.

Fletcher lightly pushed open the doors, sliding between the crack. The door slammed behind him, and he considered taking action to lock it. Though, the guards were bound to break through before he could manage that, weren’t they?

He kept running.

“Fletcher?” Harry said. “What’s the rush? You finally get the theorem?”

“I have somewhere I have to be,” Fletcher panted.

He had no idea where to go. Yet, it couldn’t be here. Anywhere but here.

Harry blocked Fletcher’s path.

“Woah, woah, woah,” he said. “Slow down there. You can’t just chicken out now. You’re nothing like a chicken —more a pigeon, than anything. Seriously, how bad can what’s in the theorem really be.”

“It could be the end of me,” said Fletcher. “Pigeon though I may be, I can’t be pigeon-holed.”

He gave Harry a shove and tried to make his way through the door. Though, the sheer look of dejection gave Fletcher pause. Clean-cut as Harry’s face was, a part of him appeared broken by Fletcher. Betrayed.

Fletcher slipped his hand into Harry’s pocket, and pulled out his keys. The metal winked at him, with the gleam of fading sunlight.

The sun would be gone, soon enough.

“I know a part of your journey,” Harry said, “at least, the parts that intersect with mine.”

Fletcher could hear the guards making their way down the hall. Heart pounding, he barreled through the door and into the parking lot. The gravel was aggressive on his feet, and his chest pooled with sweat. A slight breeze carried him. Harry’s voice tried drawing him back.

“Fletcher, you have a good future, predicted by the chaos theorem!” Harry said.

His voice was shallow, and full of desperate pants. Though, the words rattled inside Fletcher’s skull.

“Then why don’t you tell me it?” Fletcher said. He’d turned around, running backwards. “Why don’t you just spare me the trouble, and give all this information to me? Huh?”

“I can’t,” Harry moaned. “The theorem doesn’t work that way, Fletcher. If I compromise it, I become compromised — unless the theorem predicted that I could compromise it. It’s a rule.”

“I overrule the rules. Harry. I can control every step of the way — right down to the number of seconds I spend washing my hands, or the number of times I shave my knuckles.”

Harry’s face furled in disgust. “You shave your knuckles?”

“Not the point! You think that life can be labeled, and stuffed in a file? It can’t. I’m in control of my own destiny.”

“Turkeys think they’re in control of their own destiny on thanksgiving,” Harry shouted. “That doesn’t mean squat though, when thanksgiving rolls around. Our births aren’t in our hands. Neither are our deaths. Why do we have the hubris to think we have control of what comes in between?”

“There’s always that one turkey who our president pardons, though. What if I’m that?”

“Our president is a mistake. Look — just come back! What are you going to do? Where are you going to go?”

The school was already several yards away, and Harry a small speck in it. Two guards burst out and ran past him. Fletcher looked over his shoulder and hit the unlock button on the keys. Cherry red and cheery, Harry’s car gave a beep.

Harry’s small figure desperately fumbled at his pants pockets. It must’ve only just been dawning on him as to what happened to his keys. He was reminiscent to one of the windup soldiers that Fletcher had dusted on his shelves, all these years. He was stiff. Though, his movements were quick. Frantic.

“Fletcher get back here!” Harry shouted. “That’s my truck! Fletcher, you can’t have my truck!”

Fletcher snorted to himself. As if any of this was something he had a say in, anymore.

“We order you to stop!” one of the guards said, mimicking Harry’s tone. “You must complete the theorem!”

“Nice to see you that you dodos finally caught up to me,” Fletcher said, beneath the roar of Harry’s engine. “I’m amazed it took so long, though. The place isn’t a maze…”

Foot hitting the gas, the truck petered out of its spot. The guards and Harry fell further away, even as their voices went louder. Shriller.

Fletcher’s phone beeped aggressively. It was undoubtedly Harry — he must’ve been desperate to get him to stop. Though, then, why would he stop? There was nothing here. No hope. No life. No friends.

Just raw calculation. The place was dead inside.

It reminded him too much of his uncle. It all had held a glossy, childish texture to it. However, at its belly, there was no escape. The wonder drew itself in, until it smothered — and one was left wondering why they ever felt such wonder in the first place.

Fletcher smiled to himself. He’d escaped though. He’d proven himself. It was a great thing he was a good pickpocket.

He only had one step left to truly proving himself, didn’t he? Finishing out his search for Linda, and the oil baron — showing up the pickpocket — it was the sole goal. Now, if only he were equally as good at finding the real pickpocket’s whereabouts as he was at being a pickpocket…

That said, he did only need to find the whereabouts. Fighting the pickpocket was out of the question. He needed to avoid another confrontation, as best he could. The pickpocket would pay, no doubt. Though, it couldn’t be done through fisticuffs.

Fletcher’s only lead was dead, though. Trying to find the whereabouts was a fool’s errand.

“Fool’s errands are my kind of errands,” Fletcher muttered to himself.

He bit his lip. His only lead was Mr. Clover. He was literally dead. Deader than a politician at a charity fundraiser. For Christ’s sake, today was Mr. Clover’s funeral. It could be Fletcher, next. Did he really want this?

Yes… It could be him next. At the funeral.

Wasn’t Mr. Clover supposed to have family at the funeral and burial?

Harry’s truck skidded to a halt. Fletcher turned it around.

He needed to get to the burial, before his lead was buried once and for all.

. . .

“You moron,” Jack says, tires squealing as he turns the corner.

I sway into the wall of the car and grip the handle to keep balance.

I can’t tell if he’s talking to me, or himself.

He pulls the gun from his pocket and aims it at my head.

“Hey, what’s the big idea?” I say.

“The cops were here right when we got here,” Jack says. “You squealed to the cops. You must’ve.”

I laugh to myself. I could take this guy with ease. I’ve chewed up and spit out guys half his size. Somebody twice the size of them should barely be harder, right?

Still, a part of myself feels slightly intimidated.

Slightly.

“Look, I didn’t think that they’d be here anymore than you did,” I say. “Sure, I might’ve thought about calling the cops once or twice. But, do you think I would have myself implicated with you scumbags, if I could help it? I’d be arrested too, dumbass!”

Nodding stiffly, Jack relieves the gun from my head and slides it back into his pocket.

“At least this guy is dead though, right?” Clair says, looking through the car’s window. “I mean, there’s no way he survived all of that, right?”

She gestures at the decimated greenhouse. I’m inclined to agree with her. However, Jack merely shakes his head dejectedly.

“Saw him get away in a truck, with some buddy of his,” says John. “Couldn’t get the plates though. Couldn’t have us chase him either, with the cops arriving — needed to keep a low profile.”

“So, I guess we’re fucked again then?” Clair asks.

Jack nods, morosely.

Much as Jack likes to call me the king of morons? He’s definitely the king of the kings of morons.

Kings have kings, right?

Crud, now I feel like king isn’t even a word…

. . .

Chapped grass crunched beneath Fletcher’s feet. Clouds obscured the sky, reducing it to gray. He looked over his shoulder to see if anybody was following him. A crow squawked, from its perch on the iron fencing. A gash was mapped down its face. Fletcher winced at what could’ve caused it.

Another series of iron gates swung open, engraved faces upon their spires scowling down at Fletcher. One of the faces was that of a sphinx. Another was of a man who looked so ancient, he might as well have been a sphinx.

Fletcher took note of the tombstones he passed, upon entering through the gates. Weeds strangled them, leaving cracks and fissures throughout the rock. Some tombstones were reduced to disparate chunks of rock, undoubtedly caused by the many earthquakes throughout the decades. Of these unfortunate tombstones, only metal plaques left to hold them together. Yet, even the plaques of some were decaying to rust and grime.

Fletcher paused by a tombstone with a small statue placed atop it. It was reminiscent to a Greek sculpture, featuring a man in a relaxed contrapposto. The muscles along its body rippled and flowed. Its face, made of stone though it was, had a soft texture. A delicate design and craftsmanship had been put into every bit of its structure. It was all going to waste, in a place where nobody would remember to view it.

Though, perhaps art that went unnoticed was art in the truest sense of the word. The toy shop was like this, wasn’t it? People no longer cared for those who worked hard to produce a bit of joy in the world. Quick fix businesses like Mrs. Clover’s and Kent Burgess’ — those were all that anybody cared about.

There was a rustle. Fletcher turned, hoping to find some sign of people around him. Yet, there was none. Just the shuffling of dead leaves in the breeze. Either Mr. Clover’s burial had already occurred, or it was still yet to occur.

Then again, there was a third possibility — the burial was currently occurring, and absolutely nobody had bothered to show up.

Fletcher made his way toward the cyclone of dead leaves. There was a tree near the end of the graveyard. A craggy magnolia, magnificently insignificant in its placement. Its branches were sturdy and told stories of bountiful leaves. Though, they were currently scant sticks.

Fletcher picked a yellowed leaf from the ground, revealing a bald patch of dust beneath. Beautiful as the tree might’ve once been, it was killing the grass surrounding it. Perhaps chopping it down entirely would be a solution.

A root tripped Fletcher up. They’d weaved their way between the dozens of tombstones surrounding it, as if straining to grasp something just beyond its reach. If chopped and uprooted, the tree would leave a massive hole in its wake. What could go in its place?

Shudders ran through Fletcher’s body as he drew closer to the tree. Specifically, to the gravestone centering in front of it. Much as he desired to avoid it, it was something that needed to be faced head on.

“Timothy Fletcher,” the tombstone read. “Dexburg’s toy-shop owner of fairytales.”

Fletcher swallowed, eyes brimming with tears. He collapsed in front of the tombstone and ran his hand along its surface. The familiar overgrowths covered it, and cracks were all throughout. However, so far as Fletcher could tell, it was impenetrable. The words inscribed upon it would never disappear.

Uncle Timothy had always been such a towering figure throughout town. He was truly impossible to live up to.

The day Uncle Timothy had been buried was a balmy one. In fact, it was one of the hottest days of that summer. Nonetheless, Uncle Timothy had put it in his will that he’d prefer his funeral be within a month of his death. Dozens of people from throughout town were dressed within their best dark suits, sweating their guts out.

Even from beyond the grave, Uncle Timothy knew how to make everybody miserable while maintaining the veneer of a pure soul.

Indeed, among the dozens were some of the most influential people in town. Wealthy business owners, socialites, officers — even Mayor Haddock had been there.

Mayor Haddock had always been mayor, hadn’t he?

Fletcher was much younger, then. He’d felt it then, too. People looked down on him, but more in a pitying sympathy than the disgust he now knew.

His role was to replace Uncle Tim as the toy shop owner — to keep the place running smoothly as it ever had. Yet, was he truly up to the task?

The legacy Uncle Tim left behind was broad and suggested nobody could. Fletcher wasn’t enough. He could never be enough.

However, perhaps none of it had happened that way. Perhaps he was just misremembering. The past was flux, and utterly subject to change, wasn’t it?

That’s certainly how everybody acted toward Uncle Tim’s past. His darker nature was lost from memory. Everybody remembered when he’d helped some old lady cross the sidewalk, or when he’d muttered some inspiring speech to his garbage man. Yet, the times when he’d dropped his twinkie, and then slapped Fletcher across the face? Or when his shouts from a stubbed toe turned to tearing up rooms, and throwing furniture into the street?

Those remained forgotten. They’d never happened at all.

Perhaps it was just as well. Uncle Tim had always told him this was how it would be, in the end. He’d been obsessed with horoscopes. Specifically, of the astrological variety. The day, hour, and months where he was born, burped, and bred all had some sort of significance. He had some sort of significance — all the good he’d done would outweigh the bad. The bad was necessary to outdo the good, even.

Hell, bad was good. A constant flow of good was bad.

That’s what had always been wrong with Fletcher. He’d been too good. Too much of a pushover.

“You never push enough toys!” Uncle Tim seethed. “You let yourself get ignored by everybody around you. Nobody will remember you! You don’t even polish or dust the toys well enough. You could at least use a little spit, to give them a little sheen, you little shit! How will you ever get rid of them if you don’t take care of them? Don’t build them up?”

Uncle Tim had always been right. Even when he was wrong, he was right, as he’d so often say. Fletcher was meant to take over and make the toy shop into something big — something greater than it’d ever been. Yet, he always fell flat.

Meanwhile Uncle Tim, wrapped in all his sorcery and mysticism, constantly proved his superiority. His life flowed with a general ease. People loved Uncle Tim. He was the town favorite. The golden boy.

He knew how to make people happy through his toys — many of which he designed himself. Even middle-aged men would play with them, in an unbridled glee. Fletcher didn’t know how to design like Uncle Tim, much as he tried. These days, he only ever sold toys from manufacturers, or old toys that Uncle Tim had built all those years ago. The toys Fletcher made were always just short of perfect. A craggy joint in the elbow here, a bit of asymmetry in the face there — the uncertainty had no end.

He’d once built a toy toy-builder, hoping it would solve his problems. Beyond all rationality, there was a desire for it to build the toys in Fletcher’s stead.

Fletcher wound up bashing the thing into a million pieces. Its hair was slightly off.

Every day, Fletcher steadily became older. The toy shop was approaching entropic decay at an ever-increasing rate. Though, the figure of Uncle Tim loomed larger than ever. He’d prophesied Fletcher’s failure. Now that failure was here? Fletcher wasn’t ready for it.

Tears spilled from Fletcher’s eyes. He licked them from his lips and cheeks after they’d rolled down. They’d tasted salty.

Perhaps Fletcher could go for a burger.

He cried again. Burgers had been Uncle Tim’s nineteenth favorite food.

Somebody placed a hand around Fletcher’s shoulder.

“Sir, are you okay?”

An older man dressed in a jet-black shirt and frayed jeans stood behind him. His face was weathered at the edges, but much of it was obscured by a white beard. Much as Fletcher wanted to observe the old man’s eyes they were hidden behind the tint of sunglasses. Most of the man was obscured, in fact. The sleeves to his shirt rode over his wrists, and his hat kept the rest of his scalp from view.

“Excuse me?” Fletcher managed, catching his sopping breath.

“Sorry, I’m the groundskeeper here,” the man said. “Groundskeeper Greg, I like to call myself. Though, you can just call me groundskeeper.”

Fletcher gave a blank stare, while trying to recollect himself. Though, the groundskeeper merely took it as invitation to keep going.

“I know that the flora around here isn’t much to scoff at. But trust me: I have one of the most dangerous jobs in the world. As groundskeeper, I have to keep these dead people in the ground. Can’t have them becoming zombies on us, after all.”

He pulled his arm away. It had held a sturdier than Fletcher would’ve expected, coming from somebody the groundskeeper’s age.

“Pardon my talking a lot,” the groundskeeper continued, with a wheeze. “It’s just, talking to these tombstones is so dull, compared to a real person. And seeing somebody crying in this place… Well, it’s a rare sight.”

Fletcher looked around. “This is a graveyard.”

“Yes, well… Crying is still rare. Most of the time, people seem rather happy to be rid of their loved ones. I once had a guy stage a dance-off during a burial here, on their brother’s grave. Quite the feat, I must admit.”

The wind began to howl. Perhaps it was laughing, in its own way. Fletcher gave a slight snort, to appease it if nothing else.

“I only wish I could’ve escaped the stages of grief, like he did,” said Fletcher.

“Well, technically he made quite the stage out of his grief… But yeah, I get what you mean. Anyway, what’s bringing you down?”

Fletcher gave a glare. “Isn’t it clear? I’m mourning a dead loved one.”

The groundskeeper stroked his beard and shook his head. “Yeah, still not buying it. Never seen a person in this place cry, myself.”

Fletcher glared at the groundskeeper. “Not even once?”

The groundskeeper shrugged, and pulled down the brim of his sunglasses. “Well, I do have a lazy eye,” he said, pointing at his left eye that hung slackly. “Makes things a bit rough, every so often. And, of course, I sleep through half the day… Or more. Same goes for nights. Being a groundskeeper is hard work, don’t you know?”

“Hard work, hardly work… Hardly a difference,” said Fletcher. “You can either die from boring holes in the soles of your feet, or die from boredom. In any case, you die.”

Light glared off the edges of the smoother tombstones. The wind picked up, wailing at the magnolia tree. Its branches creaked at each gust, cautioning against breakage.

“Nobody just comes here for the dead though,” the groundskeeper said, walking away.

Inexplicably, Fletcher followed. There was no point in letting himself be crushed by a falling tree. Being crushed by a nonsensical centaur was vastly more sensible.

“I used to be a farmer, myself,” the groundskeeper continued. “I grew bamboo. If you can believe it, a lot of people are loving that stuff right now. Putting it in their salads — think they call it the panda diet.”

“Ah, yes. Caused quite the pandemonium when it came out.”

“Don’t you know it. The people in this town love the taste of cyanide that the bamboo contains. It really does help bring out the flavor in everything. But… My crops were crap. The ground here is cursed, I swear. Plus, as it turns out, I accidentally seeded weeds instead of bamboo in my fields.”

“This going somewhere? Because, I’m really needing to get back to mourning, before it becomes morning.”

“Well, I was smoking a blunt one day… And, my grand-nephew bluntly told me that my green thumb was gnarled as all shit, and I had one foot in the grave. I figured that I may as well put both of my feet in the grave, right?”

The groundskeeper walked to a ring of tombstones, near the outskirts of the graveyard. Surrounding it was a barren patch of dirt, pimpled with weeds and bits of grass. Unlike the graves from the front, these ones were decades old. The names inscribed on them belonged to family lines that Fletcher found wholly foreign.

“I gave shooting myself a thought,” said the groundskeeper, voice cracking. “Then, I decided to come here. Now, shooting myself is all I can ever think about.”

Fletcher’s eyes burned at the sight of him. He went to put an arm on the groundskeeper’s shoulder, only for the groundskeeper to burst into a fit of hysterics.

“Why are you laughing?” Fletcher said.

“Nobody cries, in this graveyard,” said the groundskeeper, simply. “You can’t spell ‘funeral’ without ‘fun’!”

“Yeah, but you can’t spell ‘grave’ without ‘grave’ either…”

The groundskeeper snorted, then stroked his beard a bit.

“Huh,” he said. “I never thought of that. You do have a point, don’t you?”

“I have a lot of points… My biggest one is that there is no point. To anything.”

“Glad you pointed that out,” said the groundskeeper. “But, see... I’ve found quite a lot of points to being, being here. The closer that I’ve gotten to all these dead bodies, the more I’ve realized how beautiful it all is. Closeness to death — it’s a remarkable thing. There’s a sort of elegance to it. Everything is situated in its place. Organized. It stays exactly where it belongs. It never aspires for anything greater, because nothing is everything that anything needs.”

There was a throbbing in the side of Fletcher’s head. He’d been out too long today — he could feel the stressors steadily wearing at him.

“My Uncle always believed in greatness, though,” Fletcher said. “I’d say that it worked out pretty well for him. He has some nice real estate here.”

The old man scoffed. “The real estate in this grave is all alike. Whether you die filthy rich or die dirt poor, you still wind up buried in the filthy dirt. There is no prejudice here. No hierarchy. That’s the true reason why people fear death so much. When one truly confronts the core of death, they must come to terms that nonexistence isn’t the true horror of life. Rather, the true horror of life is existing — of pretending that making order out of chaos was ever possible.”

He sat on a tombstone and began to stretch out his limbs. Picking a wilted rose from the ground, he gave it a whiff. The tip of the stalk entered his mouth. His lips smacked as he chewed.

“Back to your uncle — I don’t reckon any man was ever meant to be great,” the groundskeeper said. He chewed deeper. “What the hell did a guy like Leonardo Da Vinci ever to help with my electric bill? Huh? Bet he was too busy kissing his ugly-ass paintings.”

Fletcher pondered on those words. Da Vinci had been a bit of a loser, hadn’t he? Locking himself in a cave, working on stencils for no purpose? For no person, other than himself?

He could’ve become the greatest bagel maker. The greatest house builder. There were countless people who’d kill for a bagel, or a house. Especially a house shaped like a bagel.

Though, Da Vinci was revered, nonetheless. What logic was there to it? For what reason did the universe grant him such fame?

A desperation railed at Fletcher’s throat, begging him to speak his mind. However, his tongue kept tame. The groundskeeper had the demeanor of a scrappy old dog about him. Perhaps befriending him would work — however, caution was imperative.

The tombstones glowered at Fletcher, their elaborate designs taunting him. An etching of a mermaid sprawled from the end of one tombstone. Fletcher followed its curves and edges, which gushed with the life of oceans. Yet, as he reached the mermaid’s head, it became more ghastly. Gashes had been put in its once seemly face.

The statuette was near the center of the circle of graves. No doubt, the sculptor had once thought it significant enough to hold this place. Yet, clearly its beauty had dulled. Clever as the painter had thought himself, he must’ve been a dullard.

“In subtraction with my disbelief in greatness, I don’t believe a great many things.” The groundskeeper spat the chewed head of his rose to the ground. “It’s probably because I don’t know a whole lot at all, honestly. You might call me stupid. Thankfully, stupid is the best thing any person can be. Stupid people are the happiest people you’ll ever meet. You’ll never find a sad stupid person.”

Chunks of dirt fell from the mermaid’s slackened jaw, as the wind picked up. Flecks of rain fell from the sky, stinging Fletcher’s skin as they landed. Parts of the ground were already muddying up with eddies of water.

He swiped a few droplets of rain from his face. He needed a jacket, or an umbrella. Anything to keep him out of this rain.

“Never find one? I think you’re talking to one,” said Fletcher. “I’m here. But, I’m not happy. And, I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You’ve come to the center of the town,” said the groundskeeper. “I’d say that only the smartest people in town come here. The rest of the town might have a pristine sheen about it… But, in here? In here is where the truth about this town comes out. Death and decay is the true destiny of this place.”

“You can say that a million times, but that doesn’t make it profound.”

“I’d like to know why you find yourself here. Really, truly.”

Fletcher scratched the back of his neck, measuring the words he was about to say. “Besides mourning my uncle’s grave? I was planning on hijacking the grave of a complete stranger. I heard there was supposed to be a burial for a man who goes by the name of ‘Mr. Clover’.”

The groundskeeper dug a heel into the dirt and gave another stretch over the tombstone. “Ah yes… Mr. Clover,” he said. “Funny… For somebody so insistent on that being why they came here, it sure took you a while to ask me about him.”

The collar of Fletcher’s shirt tightened around his neck, his skin going clammy. Why hadn’t he bothered asking about Mr. Clover? He’d practically forgotten about him the moment he’d entered this graveyard. Was it just the melancholy of it all? Or, did the groundskeeper have a pint?

Did he come here for Uncle Timothy, more than anybody else?

“Mr. Clover had his burial earlier today,” said the groundskeeper. “You just missed him. Of course, only two people showed up to his funeral. They spent most of the time checking their phones, and discussing what they should do with the rest of their evening. And, even then, they left after about ten minutes, when they saw to it that he was tossed in his hole.”

“They didn’t even care?”

“If you want to put it that way. They cared a whole lot more than most of the people who come here. Besides, if you care so much, why were you late to his death?”

“I didn’t need him… I just needed to talk to his family about something… I needed information, for something I’m doing.”

“Yes, I suppose that holds true for most of the dead, doesn’t it? They were utterly useless to people in life and are only useful in death to get something out of. I’ve never seen a person die, and not have vultures surround them. Well, okay… I’ve seen a few people with just gophers. Trust me though: gophers are far worse than vultures.”

“Yes, well… If it were up to me, nobody would die.”

“You can’t know life without death. Something must always die, for another thing to live. Maybe I just noticed because working at this graveyard is what puts food on my plate… But, the food on everybody’s plate is something once living.”

“Pretty sure that there was no life in the processed twinkie I ate with breakfast…”

“Twinkie or not, you can’t have being in the absence of not being. It’s just like you can’t know peace without war. Or, happiness without sadness. Comfort without pain.”

“Maybe a world without life would be better. At least there would be no death. You yourself said it: the horrors we endure vastly exceed whatever anybody deals with in the grave.”

“Aye. I can’t fight there.”

Droplets of rain clouded Wally Walrus’s hands, and Fletcher had to squint to make them out. It was already four. There were eight hours left until midnight — and he had made no headway.

“I should just turn in, for the day,” said Fletcher. “I heard that this town will become a blast zone, at midnight. Might as well be able to enjoy the show. Beats running around town for something I have no hope at getting...”

Fletcher turned, moving toward the entrance of the graveyard. Hopefully Harry’s car would have enough fuel in it to get him back to the toy shop. Of course, getting it back to Harry would be another thing entirely. That, and there was the unfortunate fact that the cops would be after him.

Whatever. He’d deal with it when he came to it.

“Wait,” said the groundskeeper. “Could you at least tell me what you needed Mr. Clover was for? Who knows: maybe I could help you.”

Fletcher gave the groundskeeper a derisive shake of the head. “If there’s anything I’ve learned today, it’s that nobody can help.”

He was going to add to that thought, when his phone buzzed.

Linda. Again. What were the chances?

Clouds whirled in the sky, like milk against a heavy brew of coffee. Milk in coffee always made Fletcher feel sick. The clouds weren’t much of an improvement.

Fate was toying with him, as though he were one of Uncle Timothy’s old puppets. It had to have been.

“I absolutely adore you, Fletcher,” the message from Linda read. “But, I still can’t talk. Maybe soon. I need some information from you: where exactly are you? Where are you going for the next few hours? And, if you’re planning on getting out of town: where are your savings, and how much do you have in them? I need to know these things, so that I can maybe give you back the oil baron and get out of this town with you.”

There was the slightest flush of reassurance as Fletcher read the last sentence. However, nothing at quite right.

It didn’t sound like Linda at all — the usual, “Love, Linda” that punctuated the emails was absent. Moreover, Linda had called him “Fletcher”. She never called him Fletcher. Linda only ever addressed him as Stuart.

“I think that my girlfriend just got kidnapped,” Fletcher said, hardly believing the words a they escaped his mouth.

Though, escaped they did, echoing against the gravestones. Did he really think of her in that way, after only a day of communications?

He was getting desperate, wasn’t he?

“Well, isn’t that just dandy?” said the groundskeeper. He gestured toward the exit, trying to shoo Fletcher away. “Go call the police and get her then. Otherwise, she might wind up in here. Good luck, and what have you.”

Fletcher ambled awkwardly, directed by the groundskeeper’s nudges. He bit his lip.

“Thanks,” he said. “But, here’s the thing: I’m kind of being chased by the cops right now.”

The groundskeeper stopped in his place, his mouth agape.

“Motherfucker,” he muttered. “Why is it that all of the convicts decide to come here?”

Fletcher raised his hands, innocently. “Look, technically I haven’t done anything wrong, okay? I swear. I just have a ton of bad luck, is all.”

The groundskeeper’s lips puckered, before giving a capitulating smile. “Alright then,” he said. “You want to find your girlfriend, and you can’t call the cops. Sounds like you and your girlfriend are screwed.”

“Technically, what I really want is a toy,” Fletcher said. “The girlfriend is more of the side thing. I can do with or without.”

“Glad to hear you have your priorities straight. Either way though, you aren’t going to wind up with what you want out of this. I say cut your losses and get your ass out of dodge.”

Waves of nausea rose in Fletcher’s gut. He clutched his stomach, brushed the sweat blooming on his forehead.

“I don’t think that I’m ready to leave just yet,” Fletcher said. “I — I haven’t even seriously thought about leaving town, until now. There are still so many things that I have to finish. My Uncle — he would’ve never given up if things became desperate. He would’ve found a way.”

“You taken the chaos theorem for answers about life yet?”

“No.”

“Thank god then. You’re not a complete idiot.”

“You haven’t taken the chaos theorem either?”

“That shit is toxic. Besides, look at me! I live in the middle of nowhere. Course I’m not doing what the rest of the town is doing.” The groundskeeper placed a reassuring hand on Fletcher’s shoulder. “Alright, so… Time to problem solve. Say your Uncle needs to find something. He has no idea where it is, and no sort of direction. Everybody in town is after his blood, too. What the hell would your uncle do?”

Fletcher racked his mind. This was the exact sort of situation that Uncle Timothy would’ve never found himself in. He always had everything under control. Discomfort, fear, uncertainty — they couldn’t have been a thought in his head. Those sorts of things were defects that only Fletcher himself dealt with.

Nonetheless, there’d been a few times when Uncle Timothy sought advice and direction on his affairs. Those were rare moments. Those moments hardly were a blip, even. However, he would go to people. Namely, his horoscopes. The superstitious. Fortune tellers.

Fletcher cleared his throat. “My Uncle was a mystic,” said Fletcher. “Much of a mistake as he called me, it was never all him — my astrological sign was inherently unlucky. My Uncle? All the luck in the world was on his side. He didn’t go to the mystics for answers often… But, he was never disappointed when he did.”

The groundskeeper’s face broke into an expression of utter disillusionment.

“This infallible uncle of yours believed in freaking fortune tellers?” he said. “Goddamn… And I thought that you and I were freaks. But, hey: if that’s what your uncle would do about this, who am I to shit on his memory?”

“You really think I should be talking to fortune tellers to solve my problems?”

“Buddy, you’re fucked as fucked gets. You should be talking to every existential loon in town.” He rummaged around in his pocket, before finally pulling out a wad of paper. He shoved it into Fletcher’s hand. “Here’s the card of fortune teller Judy Malcolm. She comes here all the time, dumping her business cards on me… I hope for the best of fortunes for you. And, by the end of tonight, you better pray your soul is on its way to heaven rather than hell.”

Fletcher had been ready to burst into a flood of thanking — until the groundskeeper’s final words.

“You believe in heaven and hell?” Fletcher said

“Course I do,” the groundskeeper said. “Half the people in this town are destined for eternal bliss. The other half is destined to writhe in eternal torment, having their souls sucked dry.”

“Can’t say I could see one enjoying eternal bliss in heaven, knowing there were people enduring hell…”

“That’s sure as hell the case for those who know too much. Thankfully, I never said that either of us were going to heaven…”

His eyes bore through Fletcher’s head. Fletcher gave a shaky salute and ran for the graveyard’s exit.

The fortune teller would be his last desperate attempt. He’d just about had enough of insane people, for one day. He just needed to get his stupid toy, and his online girlfriend, and get out of here.

. . .

“Looks like he created utter havoc on this place,” Officer Mand says.

I took another bite of my doughnut. I have the sinking feeling that I won’t have time for another doughnut break today.

I look over to Marvin. He’s acting the squirrely cretin, as usual.

“You knew about this, didn’t you?” I say, a chunk of doughnut flying from my mouth.

I wipe my face, then give him a death glare. He’ll crack at some point. I know it.

“As far as I knew, Fletcher was staying as far away from the chaos theorem booths as possible,” Marvin says. “I had no idea that coming over to one as something that he had in him. Why he’d come here, and then leave, makes no sense to me.”

I’m about to grab him by the collar, when a man taps me on the shoulder. I turn around, my face flushed. I should’ve just taken a sick day today. I don’t get paid enough for this.

“He’s telling the truth,” the man says. “I’m Harry — one of Fletcher’s friends. It’s true what this guy is saying. Fletcher would’ve never normally come here. I convinced him to try getting him tested for the chaos theorem… And he ducked out.”

It’s a friendly looking guy. Sharp dresser, nice face. How on Earth he became a friend of Fletcher’s I don’t know.

“How many friends does this guy have?” I ask, putting on my nice face.

My fellow officers are just keeping their traps shut. They’re reminding me exactly why I want to quit this job.

“I’m not his friend, for the last time!” Marvin says. “I’m just his neighbor, okay?”

“It’s true,” says Harry. “I have no idea who that guy is.”

“I couldn’t tell you what the guy has planned if I wanted to,” Marvin continued. “Guy steals my car, and then just goes freely throughout town…”

These idiots aren’t getting me anywhere. “What for?”

“Can’t say,” Marvin says. His eyes are dancing everywhere and tell another story.

“He stole your car too?” Harry says, with a laugh. “That’s funny — he just stole mine, too. He must just have a thing for cars.”

Okay. There’s some stuff that I can work with.

“Wait, wait, wait. Can you tell me what type of car you have?”

I’m a genius investigator. Momma would be proud.

. . .

Fletcher tapped his knee uncomfortably, with the tip of a pen. Cop sirens had been everywhere, when he was pulling into the front of the shop. Clearly they were on high alert for him.

Half the town was probably trying to evacuate, or breaking into frenzied mobs — and the cops were looking for him, of all people. Much as Fletcher tried keeping his nerves under control, he couldn’t help but find it difficult.

Taking in a deep breath, he broke into a fit of coughs. He wiped his nose with his sleeve, and made his breaths go shallow. There was a pungent stench of incense in the air. Fletcher struggled to keep himself from feeling incensed.

The entire atmosphere left Fletcher feeling as though the world were rotating backward. A pink disco ball hung from a ceiling fan, lighting up the room. The room was garnished with thin purple curtains, which itched as they brushed against Fletcher’s skin. He tried making himself comfortable in the waiting chair, but the plush cushions attempted to swallow him whole at every adjustment.

He wafted the clipboard in his face. Despite the ceiling fan above him, the room was an oven. If he’d been told it’d been hours since somebody had checked on the temperature, he wouldn’t have doubted it. Indeed, when he’d pulled the clipboard from the wall to fill out the appointment form, nobody came out to greet him. It’d been as though he were all alone.

Still, he could here whispers on the other side of one of the larger curtains. The slightest hint of music wafted out as well. Somebody was there — they were just ignoring him.

He cleared his throat and clicked his pen again.

“Anybody there?” he asked.

He hated the idea of breaking the silence. The mood of the room was a delicate porcelain dish, and his voice a hammer. Though, then, there wasn’t going to be anything gleaned from the porcelain dish until it was smashed to bits.

“Coming.”

A woman poked her head out from behind the curtain, then laughed. “And who are you supposed to be?”

“I was directed here with one of these.” Fletcher paused for effect, then pulled out the crumpled card the groundskeeper had given him. “I’m looking for a Judy Malcolm.”

The woman lit up, her smile encompassing her entire face.

“Great news, she just got back from an intense session in the ninth inning dimension,” she said, with a giggle. “How do I know this? Because I’m her! I am: Miss Mystic Malcolm!”

A puff of smoke ejected from one of her baggy sleeves. Malcolm’s face went elastic, in anticipation of Fletcher’s reaction. Fletcher remained nonplussed, staring at the billows of smoke as they dissipated.

Even by fortune teller standards, Judy was anticlimactic. She wore a tunic, which only reached halfway down her calves. From its numerous stains and frays, must’ve been circulated through five thrift stores before getting to her. Countless beaded items adorned her, from head to toe — a bead tiara, a beaded necklace, several beaded bracelets, and beaded anklets. Beneath her beaded anklets? She wore cheap flip flops, which had been worn to the bone.

“Yeah,” Fletcher said, letting his words roll in his mouth, “I’m just going to call you Malcolm, thanks.”

Malcolm shuffled, readjusting the scant decorations in the waiting room. Namely, a dying flower pot in the corner.

“Sorry, I had no idea that you were sitting there,” she said. “If I had known, I would’ve come out much sooner.”

Already, Fletcher knew this was going to be one hell of a trip. “You’re a fortune teller though, aren’t you? You could’ve just been able to tell that I was going to come in, with your predictive powers or whatever… Right?”

Malcolm had already pulled her curtain back to the main room and was readjusting the scenery. The main room had two more of the plush chairs set up, which surrounded a coffee table with a candle. Malcolm pulled a bottle of perfume from her pocket and spurted it into the air. Then, she picked a coffee cup up from the table, and tossed it into a wastebasket beneath the coffee table.

“I was busy, with another customer,” she said curtly. “That’s why I couldn’t —why I couldn’t help you, clearly. All logical, cosmologically.”

She took one of the seats. Fletcher hovered behind the other one.

“Funny, I didn’t see anybody leave,” said Fletcher.

“They turned invisible, as they were exiting. That’s another one of my powers.”

Fletcher studied her face for any signs of sarcasm. There were none.

Malcolm closed her eye and pressed her fingers to her forehead. Silence fermented in the air. It was silent as the dead. Tension rose, like yeast in bread. Fletcher’s attention redirected to the walls, in the hope of finding a conversation starter. Though, the walls were barren. They had a popcorn paint job, mixing different shades of white. Though, even this was obscured by the room’s dim lighting.

For all the fortune teller’s emphasis on open spirituality, much of her room was left hidden.

“I’m desperately trying to make a connection with you,” she said, half muttering. “Though, something is blocking me out… I sense a skepticism. You must hand over an offering, in order to reconnect with the spirits.”

Her eyes took on an ethereal paleness and turned to saucers. She reached over the chairs and made a grope at the pocket to Fletcher’s pants.

“So, you need cash?” Fletcher said.

Malcolm’s face went back to pedestrian, and she shrugged. “Just a small payment. Say twenty bucks, or so.”

Fletcher fumbled through his wallet. All his cards were maxed out, and he was fresh out of cash.

“Are you sure that you’re worth twenty bucks? What’s your track record?”

“My predictions are renowned,” Malcolm said, an air of pride in her voice. “I once gave a prediction that helped the police find the location of buried treasure. In another instance, I helped Chef Bernardo

Fletcher gulped. “Alright. Sounds like I’m dealing with somebody way above my pay grade.”

“Yes, it does. Of course, in the case of the buried treasure, the police were actually looking for a missing body… And, in the case of the chef, the secret ingredient was simply more salt… But, hey: I still predicted something immense, didn’t I?”

“That’s more like it,” said Fletcher. “Would you take a coffee shop gift card?”

He slipped a card out of his wallet, and waved it in Malcolm’s face.

“How much is on it?” Malcolm asked, twirling a strand of her dark hair.

Fletcher shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably about fifteen bucks, or so?”

Malcolm snatched it from his hand.

“So, what brings you here?” she asked, crossing her legs.

“You already know don’t you? I thought that’s what the payment was going to help you with.”

Malcolm smirked. “You paid me with a gift card. The spiritual essence just doesn’t flow as deeply in that, as it would in raw cash…”

Fletcher nodded. It was one of the first things she’d said that made complete sense.

“Alright, look: I want to figure out what’s going on with this toy I want, and my girlfriend,” Fletcher said, “And, I figured that you’d have answers.”

Malcolm scrunched an eyebrow. “A toy? And a girlfriend?”

“I’ve been explaining this to people all day… Trust me, it would make sense if I had a way of making sense out of it all.”

Malcolm inspected her nails, with scientific precision.

“It sounds like you need some very specific predictions,” she said. “Why don’t you just go to that new chaos theorem place, if you want specified answers? Is your belief in the mystic arts just that much stronger?”

Face welling with pride, she moved her arms in windmills.

“I’ve come with very specific requests. But, trust me: I didn’t come here thinking you have a shot on the moon at doing better than the chaos theorem.”

“How fortunate,” she said. Her charade had halted, and her face puckered. “Because, yeah: coming to a fortune teller is the last place you want to go for specifics. I only deal with transmogrifying, metaphorical hypotheticals. Stop wasting your time on toying with me. Just leave here go to the chaos theorem. Get some real answers.”

“I just gave you money to make a prediction, and you’re telling me to go to the competition?”

“You missed the key thing there: you just paid me money. I’m good.”

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Despite all her supernatural demeanor, Malcolm didn’t appear to give two squats about helping Fletcher.

“I don’t want to go back to the chaos theorem though,” Fletcher said. He banged the table. “I almost did that, and I realized I don’t want ‘real answers’. I just want answers that can get me somewhere. Something. Anything! I want to still feel like I have control. But, I also need somebody to tell me what to do, so that I can blame what happens to me on them — rather than myself.”

Malcolm’s mouth was agape. “Damn… And here I was, thinking that I was about to go broke in this fortune telling business. Coming to me for lies, because they exclude you from the blame when the truth hits you… It’s plain genius. I need to fix my shop’s sign!”

Shock coursed through Fletcher, as he was struck by a bolt of lightning. The whole of Malcolm’s contradictory behavior — it all wholly made sense, now.

“You don’t believe in any of this at all either?” Fletcher asked.

Malcolm winked.

“I’m just glad that you and I are on the same page here, with all that fortune-telling horseshit,” she said. She kicked her feet back, resting them on the coffee table. “Honestly, it’s super exhausting to put on this entire show… My psychologist told me that the stress of pretending to be a Zen-master is really starting to impact my health.”

“But… You went to all of this trouble, for something you don’t even believe in?”

“You think that anybody believes in the jobs that they wind up taking? I’m here to make money, man. Maybe I believed in fortune telling once, or maybe I just believed in the fortunes it’d give me. Either way, it’s cash or crash for me.”

“Coffee isn’t cash.”

“Good point. Why are you still here?”

Malcolm took a whiff of the candle on her table. She grimaced, then put it out between the tips of her fingers. “I swear, I don’t know why so many people like lavender. It’s an assault on the senses. I’d buy another scent, but… I’d probably lose some cents.”

“That’s why I never perfume my toy shop,” said Fletcher. “I just let it reek of mold, and sweaty kids. It beats having to maintain it, with a wash.”

“People only come to you when you’re masking the stench though, these days. You can’t let things smell the way they actually do — better to muddy everything up, with a million smells. It’s what sells.”

Fletcher picked at his teeth.

“So, you’re really not going to give me any advice?” Fletcher said, his mouth making a squelching sound.

“Why waste my time giving you advice that you and I both know isn’t going to be of any help?”

“I don’t know that it won’t be of help. I just know that there’s no evidence that it will be. There’s a difference!”

“Difference my ass…”

Malcolm slid a cigarette from her sleeve and lit it with the flame of the candle. She took in a deep inhale, letting her lips fully bathe in the smoke.

“It’s much more fun to have useless conversations,” said Malcolm. “I heard on the news that we’re all going to die tonight. These days, the news seems to be more accurate than me — which is a first. Of course, that’s thanks to that chaos equation… Either way, what do we have to lose, here? If we’re going to die, we’re going to die. Nothing is changing that. Might as well embrace it.”

She let out a puff of smoke. Despite himself, Fletcher lapped up as much of the scent as he could. There was something to the second-hand nicotine that was immensely alluring.

“The last way that I want to die is by wasting my time,” Fletcher said.

“But, that’s all we ever do! We’re always just wasting time, idling the hours away. Look in the mirror — your falling flecks of hair, your drying skin, your sagging eyes… You’re wasting away. I’m wasting away! We sit, we move. We do things, and we don’t do things. In any case, we wind up at the same inevitable outcome. The fatal blow of death is a fate we all will face.”

Dizzying as her speech was, Fletcher went even more off balance as he watched Malcolm’s hair. She twirled it back and forth, in dark waves. The sight mesmerized Fletcher, leaving him groping for words.

“But rocks don’t die.” Fletcher cleared his throat. There were marbles in it, choking him up. “And, the sky doesn’t die. So, you’re wrong.”

Malcolm began tapping herself on her chin. “You may have a point there,” she said. “Yes, I suppose those things don’t die. But then, who cares? Why care? Isn’t it so much more rewarding to pretend that the world isn’t going to hell, and just dwell in it? Fighting is so taxing…”

“I just want some direction. Okay? If you can’t tell me what’s going to happen today, at least tell me what would happen if you were in control… There’s a pickpocket in town who I think stole my favorite toy, and kidnapped my girlfriend. Where are you going to look?”

Malcolm’s eyes went wide for but a moment, at the mention of the pickpocket.

The moment faded. Sheh laughed as she put out her old cigarette on the table, and lit a new one. Fletcher attempted to count the flecks of ash spread across the table. She could’ve at least had the courtesy to clean it up. Yet, the ash just sat.

“If I were you, I would’ve left this room a long time ago,” she said. Her cigarette rolled between her fingers, as she held it at a tilt. “Of course, I never would’ve come here in the first place. I would’ve built my own fortune telling shop. Then again, what do I know?”

“Cut the crap. I want advice.”

“What do I look like, the advice column on a fucking newspaper? Hate to break it to you, but I don’t roll that way.”

“How do you roll, then? You can’t fortune tell, you can’t give me advice, you can’t even hold a decent conversation…”

“Look, you’re paying me peanuts, and look like a cracked-out nut on top of that. The only reason I haven’t thrown you out yet is that your pathetic story is kind of amusing. Tell me more.”

Fletcher proceeded to regale her with his entire story. All the while she sat, taking in deep puffs of smoke an letting them out. Fletcher’s eyes burned and his head went fuzzy. He was desperate for her to stop. Though, he kept on with his story, leaving her to smoke to her content.

“For a guy with something to pursue, you sure do sit around asking other people for help a whole lot…”

She pulled another cigarette from her mouth, leaving the ash on the table, and lit a new one.

“That’s all you have to say?”

“Unless you’ve got more to say,” she said.

“Do you know anything about the pickpocket?” Fletcher asked.

Malcolm gave a leading gaze, only to turn and puff smoke over her shoulder.

“You’ve gone through three cigarettes in the past twenty minutes,” said Fletcher.

“And you’ve gone through none. You really need to step up your game…”

“You really need to waste that many cigarettes, that fast?”

“I’m running out of money.”

“And you want to waste cigarettes?”

“Yes. I’m almost broke, like yourself…”

“I never told you I was almost broke!”

“Buddy, you gave me a used coffee gift-card as a payment… You’ve got broke broken all over you. Anyway, nobody seems to want to come back to me, now that the chaos theorem can perfectly predict the future… Shocker. And, cigarettes are a way of circumventing the numbness. Of constantly feeling new sensation.”

Readjusting himself in his chair, Fletcher watched the walls. In all their emptiness, they’d begun to take on a form of their own. A loneliness cloaked them. The chipping paint and fissures in the wood spoke to a decay and idleness.

“I still think your business might be useful,” Fletcher said. “Everybody has their place. Their use. You hear about the whole ‘new history’ thing, posited by that historian?”

Malcolm rolled her eyes. “As if Mayor Haddock hadn’t put out the ads enough,” she said.

“Well, hey: if predicting the future doesn’t work out for you, maybe you can start predicting a person’s past.”

Her face went grim. “That business is worse than my current one — which is saying a lot. Predicting our futures might be hard. But, figuring out where all of this came from? Deciphering the past? That’s nearly impossible.”

“Hey, don’t give up hope. That’s all I’m saying. Even as our businesses are all failing, I think this town wants them to be here. The town loves having businesses. Just look at how it’s treated the coal miners!”

“That palooza they threw for the coal miners a couple weeks back was amazing…”

“See. We need coal miners. We need wood cutters. We need swindlers. And, we need fortune tellers.”

Malcolm shrugged. “I guess it could be worse. At least I’m not a fortune cookie company. Those are all going nowhere, right now.”

“I’d buy fortune cookies from you, if it meant getting the fortune that I need,” Fletcher said.

Malcolm beamed. “Really?”

She ruffled through a pocket in her tunic, and pulled out a baggy of fortune cookies. “They’re a dollar each. There’s a lot of sugar and chakra in them, so you’ll really be getting your money’s worth.”

“I would…” said Fletcher. “But, remember: I have no money.”

Malcolm’s smile faded, and she bobbed her head.

“So, I guess I should be telling you about the pickpocket,” she said.

Her candle trembled, threatening to go out.

“I don’t know much about them, myself,” she continued. “Sometimes I hear things one way, sometimes the other. What I do know is that the pickpocket has been running quite the racket through town — stealing people’s possessions, hijacking places, accruing massive amounts of influence and money… It’s a weaving conspiracy, the pickpocket has created.”

“And do you know where the pickpocket might be running his base of operations out of?”

“Not a clue. I’ve had tons of people come in here who have dealt with the pickpocket. But, none of them have much to say about him. I do know this though: my doctor had a threat on his life, recently. Dr. Ford, is his name. He works right down at the hospital.”

“Which one? The general hospital, or the cosmetics hospital?”

“Cosmetics. He’s a hairline doctor. A hairbrained doctor, too. Well that, among a million other things.”

Fletcher looked to Malcolm’s hairline. He brushed his own hairline to the side. He leaned back.

“He received a message from the pickpocket, saying that he’d be killed at midnight if he didn’t give payment,” said Malcolm. “Apparently, he’d been making a few drug deals. Offering people opioids for other drugs, and that sort of thing. He’s on the pickpocket’s radar.”

“All those years of medical school, and he’s not smart enough to outwit a simple pickpocket…”

“Still, I wish I’d gone through all those years like he did. All those drugs, the money, the notoriety… It’s hard to scoff at.”

“I always thought going to medical school to become a doctor was as vanilla as it gets. Suddenly, you have me getting second thoughts.

“Being a cosmetic surgeon is a great prospect.” Malcolm took a deep inhale of her cigarette. “You can get great pay, for one of the most superficial things out there. Such a shame, what’s happening to the doctor. He was so good with giving people hair plugs. Practically an artist. And, now he’s probably going to be pot roast… The pickpocket could’ve at least let him cure a few more hairlines, before he died. But, hey: if you want to meet up with the pickpocket, that’s definitely a place he’s going to be tonight. I’d pop in.”

“I come here for the advice of a mystic… And you tell me to go to a man of science.”

“He’s about the most unscientific man of science you’ll ever meet. Thank god! But, yes, that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

Fletcher stood from his chair and walked toward the door.

“So, is that everything?” the fortune teller asked. “Or, do you have more questions?”

“I have two more questions actually, yes.” Fletcher turned to face the fortune teller. “Have you used the chaos theorem yourself?”

Malcolm nodded. “No. I probably will soon. A fortune teller that doesn’t fully know their own future — it sounds so wrong, doesn’t it? The problem is, I’m worried that the theorem is better at predicting life than I ever could be.”

“Maybe people can’t be predicted, unless they’re predictable enough to try being predicted,” said Fletcher.

The door opened, letting the flood of car engines and murmuring voices flood in.

“What was the other question?” Malcolm said.

“You stick your dog in a box, your cat in a box, but leave your goldfish in its bowl… Which one do you feel has the worst view on things?”

Malcolm took a few moments to let her thoughts bake, then shrugged. “Probably the cat,” she said. “I hate cats. If I put a cat in a box, it’d probably be because I’d killed it.”

“Perfect answer.”

.

The universe is an oyster, and I’m the fish that eats the oyster to get the pearls.

That’s a poem I’m working on. At least, I should be. Of course, I’m not quite sure if the gods will approve of the poem. I really should try consulting Zeus about it — I get the vibe that he’d have a thing or two to say about it all.

“So, you’re telling me that if I drink this thing, I’ll be given renewed spiritual awareness?” asks Mayor Haddock.

I forgot that he was here, for a moment.

Me and him are standing in the middle of the main road. Normally, I’d be scared shitless. Thankfully though, my clan of loyal cultists are all blocking the road and causing troubles for traffic.

I have such an amazing little cult.

“Yes, drink up,” I say, holding back a laugh.

We should be in this together. We’re both trying to keep up with where Fletcher is. The police are constantly sending in reports of Fletcher’s stolen car over the intercom, and there are a lot of civilians who’ve reported seeing him as well. Yet, nobody can seem to keep up with him.

A damn shame.

Yet, I just don’t trust Mayor Haddock. There’s a flare of jealousy behind his eyes. So, I’m feeding him a mixture of my spit and sperm.

“Tastes amazing,” says Mayor Haddock.

I think he’s bluffing. It seems that not a bit of the mixture has left the cup. Nonetheless, the rest of my cult seems to be in awe.

That’s another thing that has me disconcerted — my cult is ready to ditch me, in all of my cluelessness. The chaos theorem never told me where Fletcher will be, over the next hour. I only know where he’ll be in the next few hours. And, unfortunately, my cult doesn’t want to wait that long. In fact, many of them seem to be starting to think that Fletcher really was divine.

I hate doing it, but I’ve decided to try making them think that Mayor Haddock is divine. At least Mayor Haddock is somebody that I can control.

“All hail Mayor Haddock!” I say, pumping my fist into the air.

The crowd reciprocates my cheering.

I then lean into Mayor Haddock’s ear. “They’re all under your thumb now,” I say, “now tell me everything that you know about where Fletcher might be. We can work together on this.”

He smiles, agreeably.

I can’t wait until this is all over, and I can shove his head in an oven.

.

Fletcher clenched up as an ambulance roared by him, and out of the parking lot. The sirens left an aching throb in his ears. Though, the stress it left wheeling through his mind was worse than anything from the sound itself.

Sirens were still all throughout the city, just behind him wherever he went. At any moment, the cops might show up to take him in. That would be the end of it all.

Thankfully, the cops had proven to be slow. That, or he’d proven to be lucky.

It had to be the former. Wherever he went, luck never followed.

Fletcher weaved between the fancy sportscars and convertibles littering the parking lot. His eyes honed in on the door to the hospital. It wasn’t like that of the regular hospital — cold, and clinical. It was painted with soft flower designs and built of bright red brick. The sign was made of gold engravings, which shone boldly in the sunlight.

There were ads in the windows, of cheery people with grins plastered to their faces.

“Medic’s Cosmetics,” one read, “the cheapest place where you can legally fix your ugly appearance.”

It instilled a newfound confidence in Fletcher, to be certain.

He walked through the door as it slid open, the tip of his shoe just barely grazing the bottom of it. The doors to these buildings were always so slow to open. Or, was he just moving too fast?

Fletcher stepped into the waiting room. The linoleum shone as a pale moon, and the chairs yawned, yearning for somebody to sit in them. A woman’s tinny voice filtered from out of a television set, in the corner.

“Blast your finger fat away, with our new liposuction treatment,” she said. “And, to make your face boxier, try our Botox.”

Nobody was around to try it, though. The place was utterly empty.

“Can I help you?”

A man, dressed in a purple pantsuit, sat behind a desk.

“You the receptionist?” asked Fletcher.

“Yes,” the man said, putting on a husky voice. “You have a question?”

Fletcher looked the man up and down. There were all sorts of questions.

“What’s with all the purple?” Fletcher asked. “You trying to look like a grape?”

“I like grapes,” the man said, “so much that I tend to squish people. Like grapes.”

Fletcher cleared his throat.

“Why aren’t there any people here?” he asked.

“All of our customers are dead,” said the man.

He gave a booming laugh and clutched his chest as he did. Oddly, there was no nametag on his chest.

“What would you say was the cause? Your surgeons kill them?” Fletcher asked, trying to sound nonchalant as possible.

“Did our surgeons kill them? Please! I couldn’t say that at all!”

The receptionist pushed a clipboard toward Fletcher.

“I’m going to need you to just set up your appointment for who you want to see, and whatnot… For formality’s sake, naturally.”

Fletcher pushed the clipboard aside.

“It’s cute that you want me to go through all of that,” he said. “But, we have a nuclear strike that’ll hit our city, by midnight. The whole town has lost their minds. And, there’s nobody in this entire building. Now, I want to talk to a doctor by the name of Dr. Ford. I’m doing some interrogating, around these parts. Can you do that for me?”

The receptionist slapped the counter in a long, wheezing laugh. His face looked as though it were about to roll off his shoulders.

“I didn’t ask to speak to the king of France,” Fletcher said. “What, you can’t get your high and mighty doctor to speak to me?”

The receptionist let out a few more laughs despite himself, before finally letting up.

“Sorry,” he said, catching his breath. “It’s just — I am Dr. Ford.”

Fletcher scanned the man up and down. He certainly didn’t have the look of a doctor — his hair was styled into a thick wave, his face was covered in foundation, and his eyes had a ditzy energy to them. Fletcher gave a slow nod. “And, you’re working at the help desk?”

“None of the other employees came in this morning,” Dr. Ford said, readjusting the collar to his purple tracksuit. “I guess there was something that the chaos theorem predicted? People weren’t supposed to come today? I don’t know. I barely focus on that theorem, myself.”

He blinked a few times. Fletcher couldn’t tell if he was batting his eyelashes or trying to blink through his thick eyeliner.

“And, you didn’t decide to close this place down?” Fletcher pressed on.

Dr. Ford shrugged. He then flipped the “We’re Open” sign in his window to a “We’re Closed” sign. He slipped out through his narrow door and gave Fletcher a pat on the back.

“I guess that I’m closed now,” he said. “Which means, I guess, that we’re free to talk mano-a-mano.”

It wasn’t quite an answer to the question. Though, it was good enough.

“Great,” Fletcher said. “Because, I was just wondering about—.”

“You a private investigator?” Dr. Ford asked.

Fletcher shook his head. “No, actually. I’m just a man on a mission. Toy shop owner actually.”

“Funny, because you really give me a hard-boiled detective vibe,” Dr. Ford said, using jazz hands as he gestured at Fletcher. “Of course, your nose could use a little work. It’s definitely not the firm hook-nose that most people are used to…”

“I was told that the town pickpocket has a hit out on your life,” Fletcher spat out. He couldn’t give Dr. Ford another opportunity to interrupt him.

“Ouch, he actually said that?” Dr. Ford said, walking from the waiting area, and through the flap doors of the hospital.

Dr. Ford’s shoes made a squeal as he stopped and beckoned for Fletcher to follow. Fletcher could only stare at Dr. Ford’s shoes — an expensive pair of soccer cleats. He would’ve asked. Though, he only had so many questions that he could ask the man, and it wasn’t worth risking wasting them.

“We probably shouldn’t waste our time standing out there,” Dr. Ford said. Fletcher thought he could detect the slightest waver in his voice. “My office is a far more comfortable place to discuss things.”

Despite Dr. Ford’s words, he wound up leading Fletcher into a cramped ward. There was a click as he locked the door behind him.

“Locking the door?” Fletcher asked.

“We’re completely safe in this building,” said Dr. Ford, with slight annoyance. “But, still… Better safe than sorry, right?”

There was a stretcher pressed against one of the walls, and a dinky desk fixed on the opposite side. Dr. Ford quickly took the chair to the desk and began spinning around in it. The only other object in the room was hidden beneath a thick tarp. Fletcher went to lift the tarp, when Dr. Ford slapped him on the wrist.

“Hey, hey, no touching,” said Dr. Ford. “That’s Rodney, the skeleton, okay? He’s very insecure about having his tarp removed.”

“He’s an inanimate object,” Fletcher said. “How can he possibly mean anything to you?”

He was about to lift the tarp again, when he caught himself on his words. He’d known himself to ascribe physical properties to his own toys. The oil baron in particular had always felt like such a real person to him.

Dr. Ford gingerly brushed the edge of the tarp, before snapping his hand back. He gave Fletcher a side-eyed glance. “Me and Rodney… We have a special connection.”

Fletcher stood agape, before Dr. Ford gave a firm point to the stretcher. Fletcher then sat on the stretcher and pointed his body away from the skeleton. He wanted to simply block it from his mind entirely.

Every moment, Dr. Ford became stranger.

“So, the reason I brought you in here is because I was thinking that we could probably give you a face lift, and a tummy tuck,” Dr. Ford said.

Fletcher furrowed his brow. “Excuse me?” he said, incredulous.

“They’re really not intimidating procedures,” said Dr. Ford. “We have a decent success rate… 50% or so. They don’t call me ‘coin-toss’ in the medical community for nothing!”

Fletcher glanced at his distorted reflection in the ceiling mirror, before promptly looking away.

“I don’t need cosmetic surgery,” Fletcher said. “Besides, those are incredibly poor statistics.”

“Not true,” said Dr. Ford. “My closest competition in this area yields 25% success. Besides, statistically speaking, 30% of statistics are bound to be 100% bunk.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“I know, right? I can make you look beautiful, man. We don’t control how we’re born looking. But, damn it, we can control how we’re made to look!”

“With the way you put things, you’d think that more people would be in this office right now…”

“Yeah, well, the chaos theorem tipped everybody off that they’d be disappointed in their surgeries later in life if they took them. So, they didn’t take them — and now, they’re totally going to be disappointed, because their surgery was cancelled! Can you believe that?”

Fletcher leaned back on his stretcher and laughed. “People are idiots,” he said. “This chaos theorem has made everybody too soft to live life on the seat of their pants.”

“Damn right,” said Dr Ford. “It’s only been a few days, and I’m already seeing people starting to stop experimenting. And, trust me: experimenting in cosmetics is the only way to truly make advancements in the world.”

The conversation was trailing off from where it was supposed to go. All conversations seemed to do that, didn’t they? Fletcher grinned. He’d finally gotten Dr. Ford comfortable, though. He was in his element. Perhaps he’d begin to give him the information he needed.

“Have you ever experimented with, say, drugs?” Fletcher asked.

“Oh, of course,” said Dr. Ford. His eyes jumped about, evasive. “We doctors — we experiment with all kinds of things.”

He slid a binder from his rickety desk, and began flipping through the pages.

“My favorite experiment would be when one of my peers attempted to remove a wart on their patient’s knee via a grand procedure: detaching the person’s leg, and then reattaching it. My peer admittedly wound up reattaching the person’s leg on backwards. But I’ll tell you what: you’ll never see me pulling something like that off.”

A slight chuckle escaped his lips, and he smiled to himself. “If you only knew all the awards I’ve won, for my expertise… People give so many awards to people who tell them that they can be made perfect.”

“Of course,” said Fletcher. “But, the drugs though… Those are what I’m most interested by. See, I was wondering if I could get a fix. You fixed up the pickpocket, didn’t you?”

“Fixed up the pickpocket? Hardly,” said Dr. Ford. “Trust me. Nobody can fix that guy. Such a shame, too. Why does reality always have to punish us, simply for making it a prettier place?”

Dr. Ford’s eyes went glassy, disappearing underneath the mascara and eyeliner.

“That’s why drugs are the best part of this world,” Fletcher said. “Who cares about how ugly you look, when you’re too high to tell the difference?”

“To be ugly is the saddest fate that can befall a person,” said Dr. Ford. “We all have our lots cast in life. Some of us are meant to die in the gutter. Others are meant to clean those gutters. The lucky few are meant to buy up all the gutters and turn them around for massive profits.”

“You’ve put a lot of thought into the business of gutters.”

“They’re quite beautiful, this time of year. But, see, an ugly person never is. From the start, they know what they’re meant to be. There’s never any doubt.”

Dr. Ford stared at Fletcher as he said this, before forcing himself to look away. His face twisted into a frown and welled with tears. Fletcher began to groom his hair and took another look at the mirror.

“I’ve always thought of myself as a medical Medusa,” said Dr. Ford. “I’m sure you’ve heard the myth. Medusa entered Athena’s great temple, in an attempt to learn the secrets of her beauty. Yet, for her noble pursuit? She was cursed, so that every man she looked at turned to stone.”

Dr. Ford gave a flamboyant swipe of the arm, and then turned to the front page of his binder.

“Look at all these chiseled faces,” said Dr. Ford, his voice cracking as he spoke.

His voice had every right to crack. The men were practically pixies. Their faces held a perfect Euclidian structure, without an ounce of asymmetry. Furthermore, their skin was spotless, giving off an ethereal glow. It was practically plastic.

Fletcher hadn’t had an action figure look quite as good as them.

“They’re perfect, Divine. Though, they’re also all stiff as cardboard… I simply have too much difficulty figuring out how to make these men look perfect.”

Fletcher’s hands ached. His mind was roaring from resurging memories of hours spent hunched over a workbench, toiling at toys. Attempting to make them whole, at of their disparate pieces. It really was difficult making the things work, wasn’t it?

“Take this first man, for instance,” said Dr. Ford, pointing at a man with a striking jawline and stubble. “After giving him facial reconstruction, he can barely move his lips now. He says that something simple as taking a sip of water gives him immense pain. Such is the case for most of the reconstructions I’ve performed. I strive at beauty, only to turn men to stone. It’s such a shame…

“Did you give him any sort of treatments, to relieve the pain?” asked Fletcher.

“You really are obsessed with those opioids,” said Dr. Ford. “Yes, I do give people a good amount of pain-killer after these procedures. Indeed, that’s probably the biggest way I’ve been making my money as of late — prescribing pain-killers.”

The eyes of the stubbled man tore out a slice of Fletcher’s heart, filling him with sympathy. Though, what was there to be done? He had to move on.

“I’ve been told that you prescribed a ton of pain killers to a certain killer in this town,” Fletcher said. “I know you hate to talk about the pickpocket, but we need to talk about him…”

Dr. Ford slammed his binder on the desk and leaned toward Fletcher. “Okay, clearly you’re not going to lay off on this, are you?”

Fletcher could count out all thirty-two of Dr. Ford’s perfect teeth. Only one of the molars appeared to be slightly crooked.

“The pickpocket wants to kill you today, and he’ll probably kill me. I’m a bit interested, yes.”

“Our generation, always hopelessly afraid of empty threats,” said Dr. Ford, rolling his eyes. “There’s no way that the pickpocket will be able to find us in here, in this office. We’re simply too tucked away.”

Fletcher recalled how easy it was to walk through the flap doors, and into this office. Though, his lips remained pressed together.

“You promise you won’t breathe a word of this to anybody?” Dr. Ford said.

“We’re all doomed to die,” said Fletcher. “I don’t have any reason to rat you out.”

Dr. Ford took deep breaths, clearly reassured, and began pacing around the room.

“He’s nothing, okay?” said Dr. Ford. “I tried convincing the pickpocket to get surgery when he came here, like I do for everyone… He wouldn’t take it. Then, he decided to take all of my drugs. He forced my hand. It’s not my fault, really.”

“Funny, I heard that you’ve been doling out opioids to a lot of people,” said Fletcher.

“It’s a decent business, sure. I’ve been making more money off them, than I have on my surgeries. But, that’s neither here nor there, okay?”

Fletcher peeled his hands from the sheets and observed them — they’d gone sheet white. He rolled his tongue between his cheeks and slipped from his place on the stretcher. He towered over Dr. Ford and glowered at him.

“Hey, what’s the big idea?” Dr. Ford snapped. “You’re the patient, and I’m the doctor here. Get back on the stretcher.”

“I think I’ve been patient enough,” said Fletcher. “I know that you’ve been trading your opioids for other drugs, Dr. Ford. Behind all your beautiful makeup is the face of a druggie, isn’t it?”

Dr. Ford flipped his hair abashedly, before making doe eyes at Fletcher.

“This ‘makeup’ is all natural, bud,” said Dr. Ford. “What makes you think that I do drugs?”

Fletcher showed off his palms. “This is cocaine,” Fletcher said. “Besides, I have it on good authority that somebody has a hit out on your life, tonight.”

Dr. Ford snorted incredulously. Then, he pinched a bit of the powder from Fletcher’s hands and snorted that too.

“So, I’ve done a little bit of coke?” Dr. Ford said, with a shrug. “Who hasn’t done something they regret? We’re all short of ideals, much as we hate to admit it. We’re perfectly stuck in our place…”

Dr. Ford kept an easy smile. It was soft. The lamplight of the office had his skin shining as porcelain. Fletcher could hardly make out a blemish. Yet, the words coming through his teeth left Fletcher’s stomach queasy with disgust.

Dr. Ford’s desk was stacked with papers that spoke to his intelligence. His acuity of mind. Though, beneath it all, he was a dullard and high as a kite.

“You’ve made countless dollars, all by taking advantage of people who knew no better,” Fletcher said, seething. “You make money off those who feel ugly, and unloved. You make money off those with addictions that they can’t help. And, all the while, you…”

“I enjoy myself,” said Dr. Ford. “Have you ever wondered how a goat can eat wrappers and cloth, wholesale? And enjoy it? It’s because they freaking enjoy it, okay? That’s how they feel. That’s what they are. And, that can’t be changed.”

He laughed, then pinched more cocaine from Fletcher’s hands. Fletcher pulled his hands back, only to see Dr. Ford pull a packet of cocaine out from his pocket.

“Cat is out of the bag, I suppose,” Dr. Ford said, pouring cocaine into his hands, and snorting it. “Or coke is out of the bag… Whatever.”

He gave a high-pitched laugh and spun in his chair. The wheels groaned and squeaked, but he ignored it in all his laughter.

“So, what are you still doing here?” he finally said, once his chair had careened to a stop.

Fletcher’s ears felt hot. He wanted to cover them, along with the rest of his face. Though, he kept his hands at his sides in fear of spreading the cocaine across his body.

Strong as the part of him that desired to get high was, there was nothing quite so surreal as what was going on around him.

“I need to save you, and my girlfriend, and the toy from the pickpocket,” said Fletcher. “You know stuff about the pickpocket. You need to help me. And we need to get out of here.”

Dr. Ford gave another nonchalant shrug of the shoulder. “Did you know that I wrote my college thesis in a single night, while stoned out of my mind?” Dr. Ford asked. “It was about how nostril hairs are the undiscovered vestigial limb, or something… I knew it was shit, and my professor knew it was shit. I still received my PhD though. You want to know why? Because, nobody cares in this world, and I had parents with money. There are always strings pulling things.”

Fletcher broke, and put his hand in his face. “Dear god, you really are high,” Fletcher said. “And I thought that my awful florist of a neighbor was bad.”

“You haven’t you caught on yet to what I’m saying, have you? Fletcher, the pickpocket has me in their pocket. They have the entire town in their pocket — trafficking drugs around, and whatnot. Tons of people owe them favors. Practically everybody. And, another thing about the pickpocket? It’s not just one person. It’s two people.”

Fletcher’s jaw dropped. “Two? That’s twice as much as I thought.”

“Yes, I’m pretty sure that’s how math works. Also — dear lord — close your mouth. I’m sorry, but you have a massive underbite.”

There was a loud crash. Fletcher’s head darted around, prompting Dr. Ford to put a steady hand on his shoulder.

“Nothing to worry about,” said Dr. Ford. “Just rats. I have a bit of a rat infestation in this place.”

“You have rats in here?” Fletcher’s face furled in disgust.

“I hardly think it’s worth making a fuss over. We live among rats every day, we’re talking about rats, and I’m sure that you’re intimately familiar with what rats are like yourself…”

Dr. Ford gave an annoyed look at Fletcher, before looking away.

“Are you implying that I’m—?” Fletcher began, before stopping himself. “Look, just tell me more about the pickpocket.”

Dr. Ford pursed his lips and brushed off a bit of cocaine dust from his purple tracksuit. “One of them is definitely a dude. The other one though? I’m not so sure…”

Fletcher scrunched an eyebrow.

“What’s that supposed to mean? Tell me what you’re sure about!”

“You should give up trying to find them,” said Dr. Ford. “Trust me, they’ll find you — if you’re not careful. And, you’ll be wishing you’d kept them from finding you for longer.”

“Do you know anything about where they’re based out of? And, what’s all this about them being two people?”

“They operate out of some big empty building in town, naturally,” said Dr. Ford. “Granted, about half the buildings in this town are empty… They also keep themselves very masked, and never show up in masks together. It’s only ever one person. Though—.”

Blood spurted through Dr. Ford’s chest, as a burst shot through the air. He flung from his chair and began flopping on the ground like a live fish in a frying pan.

Fletcher ducked behind what meager cover the stretcher provided, staring at a bullet hole that’d been put through the wall. It was jagged, and pitch black. He watched it as though it were an eye, studying him. Dissecting him. Though, the hole made no movement. It remained.

Fletcher couldn’t help but feel relief in knowing that he remained. Though, then — if the pickpocket was lurking, it was likely he wouldn’t remain much longer.

Wheezing gasps escaped from Dr. Ford’s throat, his chest spasmodically rising and falling. Grabbing him by his limp arm, Fletcher dragged Dr. Ford toward himself. His face was mottled with blood. The erudite smile that had lain there was slain, replaced with one of distress. Rage flooded Dr. Ford’s eyes.

“That has to be the worst acupuncture I’ve ever experienced,” Dr. Ford said, still wheezing.

The door to the office jiggled violently, then finally stopped.

“I know that you’re in there,” the pickpocket roared. “And, I know that you keep your keys somewhere in this hall, like an idiot. Now open the door, or I’ll force my way in. And, I’ll shoot again.”

Fletcher used one of his hands to cover the blood pooling in Dr. Ford’s chest, and the other to caress Dr. Ford’s face. The pickpocket’s steps pattered out in the hall. Yet, were they moving closer or further? Fletcher couldn’t tell. If anything, they were pacing in place.

The pickpocket must’ve been bluffing — waiting to see if Dr. Ford was truly on his dying breaths, or if there was still life left in him. It was cowardly. Though, the cowardly thing was always the smarter thing to do, wasn’t it?

Heartrate raising, Fletcher, drew Dr. Ford closer to himself. Whatever the pickpocket’s mindset, Dr. Ford’s strained breaths said that he wouldn’t be breathing for much longer.

“You’re going to get out of here, and you’re going to be fine,” Fletcher whispered into Dr. Ford’s ear. “I’m going to get you to a hospital.”

“We’re already in a hospital, fucker,” said Dr. Ford. He moaned and rolled onto his side. “Lord, we’re screwed…”

“Alright, you’re right,” Fletcher said, hurriedly, “You’re going to die, probably. So, just tell me where the pickpocket’s base is.

“I knew it! I’m dying! My mom always told me that I was going to eventually die some day. Why didn’t I believe her?”

“Please. Can you answer my question?”

“My life is flashing before my eyes,” said Dr. Ford. “I spent way too much time doing online shopping… All those crocs. Why did I buy all those horrid crocs?”

“Let’s just forget the crocs for a second. Tell me what I need to know.”

“Jesus, can’t a guy regret his life in peace?” Dr. Ford moaned. “It’s at Chef Bernardo’s, okay? They’ve been stockpiling drugs at Chef Bernardo’s!”

Fletcher put his finger over his lips to quiet Dr. Ford down, but it was already too late. His voice was booming off the walls.

“Hey!” the pickpocket suddenly shouted, from outside the door. “Is somebody else in there? Because, if there is, I’m going to shoot your head off too!”

“His food… Is trash,” Dr. Ford continued. “He has a real nice storage vault though. Your stuff is probably there.”

Dr. Ford wrenched his head away from Fletcher’s hands and went into a bout of convulsions. It were as though some wicked, writhing thing had entered Dr. Ford and was fighting from within. Once the convulsions had stopped, Dr. Ford’s body relaxed. However, whatever life had been in him was reduced to the slightest tremble.

“Open up!” said the pickpocket banging on the door. “I don’t want to have to bust this door down! If I can, I want this to be as clean as possible! But, you have to work with me!”

Fletcher’s eyes darted about the room, looking for some place to hide. He looked back to Dr. Ford.

“Do you know who the pickpocket is?” Fletcher asked.

“They… They hate your guts,” said Dr. Ford, with a guttural choke.

“So, they’re somebody I know?”

Dr. Ford’s hacking continued, until a fountain of blood sprayed out of his mouth. Fletcher winced as a bit of it splattered onto his own face.

“Do you know who they are?” Fletcher pressed.

“I hit my head once as a child, by running into a stop sign,” said Dr. Ford. “Probably why I wound up so stupid.”

“You’re on your last breaths,” said Fletcher. “If there’s anything you want to tell me, or want to get off your chest, do it now.”

Dr. Ford lifted frail arm and stared into Fletcher’s face. “My surgery rates are 50%... Off,” said Dr. Ford. His lips were blue. His foundation left his skin more waxen looking than ever, as the color waned. “You really need to fix that underbite…”

Dr. Ford shoved himself away from Fletcher, collapsing on the ground. As he did, his eyes went frail. They were just orbs now. His skin was just a flesh covering, over a jumble of bones.

Fletcher looked around — jumble of bones. Of course.

“Alright, that’s it, I’m breaking in there,” said the pickpocket. “Didn’t want to do this, but you forced me!”

Fletcher lifted the tarp to Dr. Ford’s skeleton, covering himself under it. Just as he did, the handle to the office door was shot off, and the door was kicked open.

“Alright, if anybody is in here, you better show yourself now,” the pickpocket roared. “I’m fully ready to kill. If you don’t come out, I’m going to kill you twice as hard.”

Fletcher closed his eyes and held his breath. Perhaps it would make no difference, but he’d heard stories of escape artists who’d succeeded by holding their breath.

The pickpocket shuffled around a bit, the sound of their movements stiff and jerky. There was a click as the pickpocket reloaded his gun. Several gunshots went off.

Fletcher flinched, and nearly lost his balance. He gripped tightly to the back of the skeleton as it swayed back, praying that it wouldn’t collapse. The human skeleton was meant to be a resilient thing, wasn’t it?

True as that may have been, his bones ached while pressed tightly against the skeleton’s anatomy. The plastic bones were jagged and jabbed into the flesh. Couldn’t the manufacturer have produced a friendlier model of the human body?

A cruel laugh came from the pickpocket. Swallowing, Fletcher opened an eye, and peered through a slit in the covering cloth.

The pickpocket hunched over Dr. Ford’s dead body, nudging him in the buttocks with the butt of his gun.

“You really the only one in here?” said the pickpocket. “Or, your corpse, anyway? For the record, not what I wanted. Ah well. At least I get this…”

He pulled the packet of cocaine from Dr. Ford’s pockets. Then, he pulled out Dr. Ford’s wallet. The pickpocket’s head bobbed around, to make sure he wasn’t being watched. Relief flooded Fletcher upon the pickpocket not looking in his direction.

“You poor son of a bitch…” said the pickpocket, head hanging. “Did you really think that you could slip one by me? In your own office, of all places?”

Fletcher considered tiptoeing out of the tarp and running down the hall. The mouth of the door hung open, practically begging for him to leave. Though, Fletcher’s gut told him otherwise. A predatory alertness remained in the pickpocket’s muscles.

“I’m talking to you!” the pickpocket shouted. “I know that you’re in here, Fletcher! I saw the extra car in the parking lot! There are only so many places that you can hide!”

Sweat poured down Fletcher’s face. The pickpocket knew, and Fletcher was clueless on how to escape.

The pickpocket’s rear in the air and nose to the ground, like some deformed bloodhound, the pickpocket shoved his head under the stretcher.

Fletcher blinked. His golden opportunity, for escape, and it’d practically fallen into his lap. He slipped from beneath the tarp and tiptoed out the door. All the while, the pickpocket’s head remained stuck beneath the stretcher.

His calves tensed, preparing to break into a sprint. Though, just before he did, he paused to blow the skeleton a kiss. It’d saved his life, after all. Furthermore, being pressed against it had been oddly intimate. He rubbed a tender bruise that the skeleton had left behind.

“I’m a master tracker!” the pickpocket shouted. “Trust me: in the boy scouts, I gained countless merit badges! You don’t know who you’re messing with!”

His voice could barely be heard beneath a series of bangs. The foreboding message struck a chord with Fletcher nonetheless.

There were certain organizations that simply had a knack for producing deadly trackers. The marines. The green berets. The CIA. Yet, the boy scouts? One was practically dead meat.

He sprinted down the hallway. If the pickpocket had heard him running, there hadn’t been a way to tell. No gunshots followed him. Yet, as he hopped in Harry’s car and hit the gas, the heavy weight of being watched donned on him.

The pickpocket knew where he was going. He had to have, didn’t he?

It was purely going to be a matter of outdoing him. Whoever got to Chef Bernardo’s first would have the girl of his wildest imagination — only really existing in his imagination, come to think of it — and the toy oil baron for keeps. Worse yet, he wasn’t quite sure where Chef Bernardo’s was from here. Fletcher’s brow furrowed, and he pushed the gas down harder.

Fletcher looked down to his phone. No new messages had come in from Linda. It was odd —she’d always seemed to text him after his heady confrontations. Had she finally been silenced?

Wheeling in a circle around a block of crusty buildings, he plugged in the address for Chef Bernardo’s. All the while, his fears stewed.

There were two of these pickpockets. At least, that was what Dr. Ford had claimed. There was a chance that the pickpockets already had him beaten to Chef Bernardo’s.

Who was the second pickpocket, anyway? Dr. Ford had suggested a man, and maybe a woman? Though, then, he could have just been referring somebody who was a very effeminate man. Who, out of everybody he’d met, could’ve fit the bill?

The truck picked up speed, but Fletcher tried keeping to the back roads. There was still a solid chance that the cops were after him. Mayor Haddock likely had the entire city on high alert.

Fletcher blinked. Mayor Haddock.

As his car squealed and swerved along the road, he ran through the possibilities. The banker and his teller seemed to fit, but the teller wasn’t quite a woman. There was Jack and Clair, but they’d been clear that the pickpocket was their competition. Priest Carvel had always seemed like more of a solo person, despite his massive following. Officer Haynam and Officer Thatcher seemed close enough, but too incompetent to do something so sinister.

He shuddered — Marvin and Carol were possibilities. As were Harry and Margaret. Though, they were too close. They were his best friends. It couldn’t have been them, could it have?

No, it had to be Haddock. Haddock and Lydia. Haddock was a clear influencer, who commanded immense fear over the entire town. Furthermore, he had a close relationship with Chef Bernardo.

No, it had to be Haddock. Haddock and Lydia. Haddock was a clear influencer, who commanded immense fear over the entire town. Furthermore, he had a close relationship with Chef Bernardo. He’d had Chef Bernardo’s food catered at his ceremony, hadn’t he? Furthermore, he had a strange fixation towards Fletcher. He’d known Fletcher’s uncle and had a hatred for how Fletcher was moving about town.

It all seemed to fit perfectly. All he needed now was to prepare himself for running into Mayor Haddock, once he reached Chef Bernardo’s. That, and hope Mayor Haddock wasn’t spry enough to make him die.

He was going to be completely alone in this.

Fletcher blinked. He didn’t have to be completely alone though, did he?

He yanked his phone out of his pocket. His eyes roved over his list of contacts. He couldn’t call Harry — there was no trusting him at this point, even if he was driving around in his stolen car. John? He was also completely out of the question.

He saw Marvin’s name. He dialed it.

At this point, while he may not have been much, Marvin was the closest thing that he had to a confidant.

“Paxton,” Marvin said, after a pregnant wait.

“No, it’s Fletcher,” Fletcher shouted, swerving through the narrow roads. He’d accidentally turned into the other lane, prompting a series of honks from nearby drivers.

“Yeah, I know it’s you,” Marvin said with a hiss. “I can’t really talk right now, though — the police have me in their custody.”

“They what?” Fletcher said, incredulously. “I thought that you were going to get off scot-free. Don’t you have a ton of exciting antiques you’re supposed to be selling?”

“I was going to do a giant sale today, too,” Marvin said, “Finally was going to get rid of some of the garage I had in storage, for good prices. But, yeah… Now I’m stuck trying to catch a massive criminal.”

“I’m going to need your help, though,” said Fletcher. “See, I’m going to Chef Bernardo’s. Apparently, there’s a giant drug stash in that place. The thing is though, I think the town pickpocket is on my tail… Everywhere I go, he somehow knows to be there.”

“You want me to follow you? To Chef Bernardo’s?”

“Yeah. Is there any way you can escape, and help me out?”

Marvin snickered. “Just your luck. I’m being driven there right now. I guess the cops got a tip that a certain Fletcher was going to be there.”

Fletcher became nauseous, and his head swam. “A tip? How? I guess it doesn’t matter… Can you help me, and stall the cops for me? I just need to get in and out of there.”

“Look, you’re asking for a lot,” said Marvin. “I’m in police custody right now, and you want to know whose fault it is? I don’t care about you. Nobody does. There’s a reason why the entire town seems to see you as a nuisance. All you care about is what you want, everything else be damned.”

There were warbled voices from off the phone. Marvin’s own voice became distant, for a moment.

“I’m just talking to my grandmother,” Marvin hastily explained. His voice then became close again.

“Marvin, we’re friends,” said Fletcher. “Deep down, you know that. I know that. Why else have you stuck your neck out for me, all those times?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Marvin. “Things are falling into place exactly how they’re meant to be: we’re business competitors. That automatically makes us sworn enemies. We never had a real relationship. You just thought that we did.”

“We can finally make this town make sense, for once,” Fletcher said. “We can show up the bureaucracy and corruption! Expose them for what they really are. We’d be sort of like those star wrestlers.”

“Star basketball players are good at exposing government corruption?”

“When they’re not taking steroids, I’m pretty sure…”

“If we were really so close as you say we are, why are we talking on a phone?” asked Marvin. “Why aren’t we talking face to face?”

The phone suddenly went dead. Fletcher’s eyes stung.

All this time, Marvin had seemed one of the few people who truly understood him. Yet, it’d all just been an illusion. His uncle had been right. He’d always been right. Fletcher was a terrible craftsman. He couldn’t make toys for anything. He couldn’t make money. And, he sure as hell couldn’t make friends.

In the end, the only person who cared about how anything turned out was himself.

Chef Bernardo’s was only about a mile away. Yet, Fletcher was beginning to wonder if it wouldn’t be better to just invest in a bunker and spend the rest of his life in it.

.

“Damn, that sounded harsh,” says Officer Haynam.

“What, is your grandmother the spawn of Satan?” Harry asks, with a chuckle.

If only they knew. I mean, Fletcher is close enough to the spawn of Satan, isn’t he? That’s what the town is convinced of, by this point. That’s what I thought of him this morning, as well.

Still, as we drive by the dilapidated buildings, and make our way toward Chef Bernardo’s on main street, I feel self-doubt.

Self-doubt is a rare thing, to me. Usually, I feel so certain. However, Fletcher has been making some valid points, hasn’t he? Perhaps life really isn’t meant to be calculated, and written out on a piece of paper. Perhaps randomness is the true answer.

“Do you really think we’re going to catch him, this time?” I ask.

Officer Haynam laughs to himself. “At this point, the entire town is listening to these intercoms. Everybody is going to be there. Fletcher is dead meat, whether he knows it or not.”

“And what are we going to do when he’s caught?”

Officer Haynam paused for a moment, and stroked his chin. “After all that effort, and deliberation? I’m going to get drunk as hell.”

“Amen,” says Harry.

Isn’t Harry supposed to be Fletcher’s friend. I mean, sure — Fletcher stole his car. Though, why is he acting like his prayers have been answered?

Either way, I feel like maybe I should start making some prayers of my own.

.

“Shit,” said Fletcher.

His truck teetered to the side of the rode, behind a moving truck. The parking lot of Chef Bernardo’s was just out of view, hidden behind the truck — though, Fletcher found himself wishing that the parking lot hadn’t been there at all.

Despite the anxiety rising within him, he had to move. Just off in the distance was an ice cream truck, playing the latest pop music.

He jumped out of the truck, in lock-step with the ice cream truck’s beat. As he did, he nearly ran into a couple of movers who were heaving a sofa through the sidewalk. Fletcher stood patient as he could manage, tapping his foot all the while. I was about a minute until the mover’s had finally rested the sofa on the truck. For a man without a minute to lose, this came as immensely aggravating. Though, Fletcher simply jogged past — their slowness it wasn’t worth complaining to them about.

“Hey, hey, hey, what’s the big idea!?” one of the movers shouted.

He bumped into Fletcher, biceps rippling from taking the weight of the sofa again.

Stepping back, Fletcher watched as they pulled the sofa from the moving truck and moved it back toward the apartment building.

“What are you doing?” Fletcher hissed.

He darted his head around, making sure nobody was behind him. At any moment, somebody might jump out and attack. It was simply a matter of time.

“We’re movers,” said the other mover, with a surly look. Even his tattoo of a cartoonish monkey seemed peeved. “Only, too many people are trying to move out of town, today. So, instead of busting our backs trying to move everybody out of their homes? We figured it would be much more useful to just move our own furniture back and forth.”

Fletcher was dumbfounded.

“You’re getting paid for that?” Fletcher asked. “I know that most jobs accomplish effectively nothing, but I still thought that movers had to be effective…”

“If we’re moving stuff, our company pays us,” said one of the movers. “That’s how it works, I think. Nobody said things had to make sense. We’re following the chaos theorem!”

The other mover laughed. As he did, the couch slipped out of his hands, and hit his foot. He kept at laughing, nonetheless.

“Yes, we’re following the chaos theorem,” he howled. “From here on out, things are only going to get crazier!”

Fletcher pushed by them, before they could pick the couch back up. Curious as the movers were, he couldn’t keep talking with them. An air of unease hovered about them. Besides, the ice cream truck had gotten twice as loud in the time he’d been sitting behind them. They were merely a distraction from the true problem at hand. Deep down, he was too afraid to face what was ahead of him.

Gusts picked up, tousling Fletcher’s hair. Clouds swirled in the air, carrying the same disorder as static on a TV screen. Shadows hovered over the day, with a few rays of the sun just barely eking out light from over the tops of buildings. The Wally Walrus watch on Fletcher’s wrist said that it was 7:00.

Night was right around the corner. Only five minutes remained, until apocalypse.

Fletcher’s head peeked over the roofs of cars. The ice cream truck was just off in the distance, pulling from over the hilly street. Perhaps he could wait for the truck and get some ice cream.

However, Chef Bernardo’s was just across the street. It was a one-story diner nestled between two grubby office buildings. Its neon sign blinked in the dim light. Most of the letters in “Bernardo” had been knocked out, with just the letters “B”, “A” and “D” remaining. Fletcher’s eyes normally would’ve lingered on those letters.

Though, no night in Dexburg was ever normal.

The main entrance to Chef Bernardo’s was blocked off by a cluster of squad cars. In front of the entrance stood Officer Haynam with a few of his fellow officers. Harry and Marvin were there too. Worse, in the parking lot there was a whole lot of Priest Carvel’s cult. Strangely, Mayor Haddock and Lydia appeared to be standing with Priest Carvel, helping to give orders. Fletcher squinted — were Jack, Clair, and Logan, all standing by the parking lot entrance? The bank teller and the banker appeared to be there too. It had to have been them. All of them.

Brilliant. It was simply brilliant. All these people had arrived, all at once. It was a lion’s den. The clock was ticking, and he was being tested on how long it would take to enter.

He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. Mayor Haddock must’ve planned for this to go this way. At least, it seemed it was him, wasn’t it? At this point, it was impossible to tell. Too many people had their hats in the ring.

Sweat poured down his face. He clenched his fists and stood up from behind the cars. Upon looking across, he came to the realization that there was no way he’d make it without being detected. Yet then — the very fact that he had no chance emboldened him.

If he failed, at least it would be because there was no other outcome in the cards.

His legs carried him across the street, and he ducked behind the squad cars. Everybody had to have seen him. He could already hear the frenzied shouts of officers.

“I swear, he just disappeared,” Officer Haynam shouted. “You guys all saw him, didn’t you? That was definitely him, right?”

“I don’t know, the guy looked more like an angry yodeler, to me,” Harry said.

“We have those in Dexburg?

“I think he’s going to the ice cream truck!” Marvin shouted.

“Really?” asked Officer Haynam, skeptically. “I didn’t see him.”

“It’s an ice cream truck,” one of the other officers said, ecstatic. “Even if he’s not there, at least we get some ice cream.”

“He’s definitely went that way!” said Marvin. “Follow me!”

Fletcher gave the quickest of glances from behind the car. Everybody was following Marvin, as he led them away from Fletcher. As Marvin did, he looked over his shoulder and met Fletcher’s eyes.

It was for no more than a split-second. Nevertheless, a warmth flooded Fletcher’s chest.

Barreling from behind the squad cars, he made it through the door to the restaurant.

Fletcher took in a big whiff of the greasy air. The place was a dump.

Half the tables were cluttered. Vague traces of soda and gum stained the walls and floor. In the corner was a group of guys huddled around the flat-screen, watching a game of baseball. They flung fries and shouts into the air, all while taking shots.

Dump as it may have been, it was Dexburg’s dump.

Ahead of Fletcher was the overlong line to the counter. He walked toward it, trying to make out the cruddy blackboard hung over them all. Over the years, Fletcher had come to believe that the blackboard held the menu items — though it was impossible to truly tell.

It probably didn’t matter. Chef Bernardo would serve out anything anyone asked for anyway. At least, he’d serve out the burnt attempts.

“Hey there.”

An officer had been standing on the other side of the door, watching him. Fletcher swallowed. It was Officer Baker.

Of course, they’d made sure to have an officer keeping guard. How could he have been so stupid as to let his guard down?

“You going to say hello, or what?” Officer Baker asked, her eyes piercing through Fletcher.

“Hi,” Fletcher said, sheepishly.

Officer Baker didn’t seem to recognize him. Or, she didn’t care if she did.

Officer Baker gave a firm nod and took a large bite out of a charred burrito she had in her hands.

“Aren’t you going to pat me down and check me and stuff?” Fletcher asked.

He was orbiting around Officer Baker now, and toward the line. It was surprisingly crowded, considering the blockade Officer Haynam had outside the building.

“I’m off the clock,” Officer Baker said. She gave a burp. “This is my lunch break.”

“It’s seven in the evening.”

“Exactly. Couldn’t care less what you do, now that you’re in here.”

Fletcher gave a sigh of relief, and wiped a plume of sweat from his forehead.

“Thank god,” he said. “And you’re the only one here?”

“What does it look like?”

“I thought that you’d have ton of officers in here too.”

“Too?” Officer Baker asked, incredulously. “I thought I was the only one here.”

“There’s a blockade of officers, just outside this building.”

Officer Baker snorted. “Huh. Had no idea. We’re nowhere near coordinated enough to talk to each other about these things. Hell, it’ll probably be fifteen more minutes before they even bother to look in this building.”

Fletcher’s muscles tensed. Yes — they could look in the building and find him at any moment.

He made a weak chuckle at Officer Baker’s comments and rushed himself into the line.

Immediately, questions arose as to what his plan was supposed to do. It was all so nebulous — clearly there was a secret bunker in the restaurant, somewhere. But then, where? How was he supposed to convince the staff to even let him into the kitchen?

Despite the line’s length, it seemed to fly by. People were ordering their burgers, bowls of shrimp, pastas, soups, and subs without second thoughts. What was Chef Bernardo’s supposed to be, anyway? It didn’t matter. The line dwindled to nothing, and Fletcher remained stressed over what he was to do. Why couldn’t the line ever stay slow when he needed it to?

Once the line had reached the last customer in front of him, Fletcher finally reached a brilliant conclusion.

He’d just wing it.

Air bleated into Fletcher’s face, from supersized ceiling fans fixed on the counter. Did everything have to be supersized here? They made for sizable hurdles.

A hefty customer standing ahead of him let out an extended groan. Fletcher considered bypassing him, to jump over the counter and into the kitchen. Though, then — the man was probably large enough to knock him over.

“How many calories are in the salad, compared to the milkshake?” the man asked, popping a piece of mint in his mouth, mid-sentence.

The word “milkshake” came out as a pudding of spittle. Fletcher wiped a bit of the spittle from his face, once it had arced back from the fans. At least the spittle smelled alright. However, Fletcher couldn’t help but wish breath mints could be made for a person’s entire body. Sweat had eked through the man’s shirt, leaving him smelling like a week old mud puddle.

“Just buy the milkshake, man,” said the cashier, standing behind the counter. “We all know that you want the shake.”

It was a reedy looking teenager. His face was broken out in acne, and his voice was in just as much of a wreck. A smirk stretched across Fletcher’s face. Getting through him would be a piece of cake.

“Maybe I don’t want the shake, though,” said the man. “See, the chaos theorem said I’d drop dead from a heart attack in two weeks. And, it said that I should start eating healthy right about now. So, I’m trying to stay healthy. Do you have any low fat milkshakes? Or, maybe, could you pour a little bit of milkshake on my salad instead of dressing? Hell, are salads really that much better than milkshakes?”

“You only have two weeks left,” said the cashier, “you can blow it all while standing in line, or you can buy some food. Take your pick.”

The entrance door chimed. Fletcher glanced behind, to see Priest Carvel entering with Mayor Haddock at his side. A breathless Marvin entered in after him.

Fletcher whipped back toward the counter and hung his head low. Hopefully they hadn’t seen him. If they had, maybe they didn’t recognize him.

“Give me the biggest salad that you have, and the smallest milkshake,” the man said. “Or the smallest salad, and the biggest milkshake. Surprise me.”

“Your total will be ten dollars, or thirty dollars,” said the cashier. “We’ll surprise you.”

He printed off a ticket and handed it to the man. Relieved to finally have the man out of the way, Fletcher stepped toward the counter. Though, even then, the man was still attempting to talk to the cashier.

“I’m so confused,” he said. “I know everything that I’m supposed to be doing, but I can’t do it. Instead, I’ve been doing the things that I have to be doing, according to the theorem — but, they’re also the things that I shouldn’t be doing.”

A flicker of sympathy dashed across Fletcher’s lips. Though, he locked his gaze with the cashier. The irrationality of reality affected everyone. There was no point in focusing on the impact it had on one person.

“And, what do you want?” the cashier asked.

Fletcher shrugged and attempted to make out the shaky menu above him. “Still deciding,” he said.

The cashier gave a groan. “The chaos theorem lays out a person’s entire order for them. Most of the time, it’s the same thing you always were going to get, anyway. And you still can’t figure out what you’re going to eat?”

Fletcher thought about explaining that he hadn’t taken the chaos theorem yet, when he heard footsteps approaching him from behind.

“I want some pigeon eye, myself,” Priest Carvel said, in an undertone Fletcher could only just make out. “I heard it helps strengthen one’s third eye.”

Priest Carvel must’ve been talking with Mayor Haddock. They must’ve been distracted. Though, they also must’ve been hungry, and he was in their way.

“Well, actually,” Fletcher said, weighing his words, “I came here to see if you had any job applications available.”

Jealousy flashed through the cashier’s face, followed by annoyance. The cashier stroked the scant hairs growing on his chin.

“In this economy, we’re not exactly providing jobs,” said the cashier. “If you haven’t heard on the news yet, the president finally sent out an air force jet to our town. They’ll be here in an hour, and hover in the sky until midnight. This whole place is going to blow.”

“Maybe if I just chatted with the chef…”

“This whole place blows!”

The cashier was laughing to himself now, while the fans quivered. They almost seemed to be trying to make laughs of their own. Yet, tension coiled in Fletcher’s chest as a spring. He leaned toward the cashier.

“Let me in, so that I can talk to Chef Bernardo,” Fletcher said, his voice a razor. “We need to talk.”

“You can talk to the chef after you order your food,” said the cashier.

Fletcher smirked. “Technically, according to the chaos equation, I’ve already ordered my food.”

“You have, have you? How do I know you’re not tricking me?” the cashier asked.

“The chaos equation doesn’t allow you to be tricked, does it? Everything is clean cut. I can’t trick you.”

“What if the chaos equation says that I have to be tricked, then?”

Fletcher stopped short. It should’ve been easy enough to answer. However, could somebody still be tricked if they were told exactly how they were going to be tricked? Probably not, since they’d be prepared. Yet, if somebody thought they were prepared enough to not be tricked, would that then make it easier to trick them? Would it not matter?

“That’s a trick question. That, or a tricky question.”

Fletcher lunged toward the counter.

“Come on already,” whined Priest Carvel. “I want to order my—.”

Fletcher landed on the other side of the counter in Priest Carvel’s mid-sentence. Yet, graceful could hardly describe the landing. His stomach and chest had broken the fall, with the two fans crashing atop Fletcher.

“Not… Fun,” Fletcher moaned.

He wobbled to his feet.

“Not… A fan?” the cashier moaned from beneath him.

Fletcher’s eyes bulged. Even after all that, the cashier remained conscious. Fletcher lifted one of the fans from the ground, and dropped it on the cashier’s head.

“That too,” said Fletcher. He then raised his voice. “Just keep calm, everybody. You’re all just observing a shift switch. It’s a new protocol. Store policy.”

He ran from the counter, and down a narrow passage that led into the kitchen.

“See, I told you,” he could hear Mayor Haddock saying.

“Didn’t he sound like Fletcher, though?” asked Priest Carvel.

Fletcher was already in the kitchen before he could hear the response. His gut told him that they knew. They’d be after him.

He just had to get through the kitchen fast enough.

“Is Chef Bernardo in here?” Fletcher asked.

Each counter was a galaxy unto itself, filled with clusters of food particles and dirtied dishes. Yet, only two people were in the kitchen. There was a teen, hunched over a sink with a mountain of dishes. Then, there was a reedy man dressed in a torn t-shirt and jeans. Rather than an apron, he had a ragged towel tied around his waist. Rather than a chef’s hat, he wore a backwards ballcap.

“Who in the hell are you?” the man asked, glaring at Fletcher.

Fletcher instantly knew it had to be Chef Bernardo.

“I was expecting you to look different,” said Fletcher. “You must be Chef Bernardo. And I — I’m new.”

“I’m not Chef Bernardo,” the man said, with a snicker. “That’s my stage name. My real name is Bernard. Or, Bernie. Who hired you, because I never approved a new hire? Was it Dave?”

“I’m here about the secret stash,” said Fletcher.

Bernie nodded his head, then winked. “Okay. So, not a new hire then. Got it. Thing is: you’re shit out of luck.”

“Trust me, I know I have terrible luck...” Fletcher said, rolling his eyes.

“No, I mean — look, the stash is gone,” said Bernie.

His pupils dilated and his eyes went wide. Fletcher squinted and gave him a closer look. The dry skin, the sallow bags beneath his eyes, the bloodshot veins crosswording across his eyes — Bernie was high. He had to be.

The kitchen’s aroma of burning charcoal swirled around Fletcher. Suddenly, it all made sense.

“You used up all of those drugs?” Fletcher said, in shock.

Bernie shook his head and chuckled. “No. The guy who owns all the stuff — the pickpocket — he came back here not ten minutes ago and stuffed all his stuff in the back of an ice cream truck.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“And, there’s no trick to it? You’re not going to make me weed through a million riddles, or listen to a speech, or anything?”

“Look dude, the dude is on his way out of here,” said Bernie. He’d turned to his stove now and was flipping a couple of hockey pucks for pancakes. “You can try to catch him, or keep talking to me. Meantime? I have a mean meal to make.”

Just beneath the sizzle of the food, there was the faintest melody of “row-row-row your boat”. It was becoming ever fainter. It was unmistakably there, nonetheless.

“You’re the most reasonable person I’ve talked to, today,” said Fletcher. “Thanks for the food.”

Bernard nodded, with an empty smile burned to his face. Then, his face flashed with concern.

“Wait, what food?”

Fletcher grabbed a burrito off a plate and plowed back out the kitchen. He’d gone practically all day without eating, and he realized how starving he really felt.

“Also, I accidentally knocked your server unconscious,” Fletcher shouted over his shoulder.

He was already bounding back over the counter, as Bernard’s shrill cries echoed through the kitchen. Immediately, he was met by a swarm of disgruntled customers.

“Where’s our food?”

“We want our money back!”

“They just announced an air strike! I deserve my last burger!”

“Do you accept personal bank notes, in the form of note paper?”

Their eyes were rabid, and their faces construed into something from out of a zoo. Despite their folksy clothes, and the fact they were people Fletcher had seen a million times before, he hardly recognized anyone.

“Everybody, everybody, calm down!”

It was Marvin’s voice. He was somewhere in the crowd, somewhere.

“I’m the new chef, for the day,” he continued. “If you wish to put in any complaints, all you have to do is talk with me.”

The crowd turned from Fletcher and centered somewhere near the restaurant jukebox. There were crashes and shouts, as the situation steadily devolved. Though, Marvin’s voice remained above it all, confident and strong.

“Get out of here, Fletcher,” Marvin said. “I’ll hold them off.”

Fletcher gave a genuine smile — one of the few he’d made all day. Hell — he hardly ever smiled. Though, people hardly ever did anything for him, either.

Did people never do anything for him because he never smiled, or did he never smile because people never did anything for him? Quite the question.

Then he squinted, looking for the officer, Priest Carvel, and the Mayor. Presumably, they were in the crowd somewhere. However, he couldn’t make them out. Perhaps they’d already escaped, for the ice cream truck.

He took a large bite of his burrito and hurtled out the door.

“Howdy,” Officer Haynam said.

He’d been standing stiff as a pole, beside the restaurant’s door. His eyes had gone dull, and his face expressionless. Fletcher tipped his burrito toward Officer Haynam, before jumping over the hood of his car.

“Wait, stop!” Officer Haynam shouted. “If you’re Fletcher, I need you to stop!”

“History has changed!” Fletcher said, through a mouthful of food. “I’m Marvin Whisk!”

The streetlights cast a milky sheen to the street, blinding out the budding starlight from above. Glaring sunrays had all but disappeared, leaving the day for the night. Upon pressing the button to his keys, Fletcher watched Harry’s truck blink into the darkness.

Fletcher smirked and gave a last look to the withering sunlight on the horizon. It was one of the few places where day and night met.

The lights of the ice cream truck were just beneath the setting sun, winking at him. Fletcher pulled open the door to Harry’s car, and hopped in.

“Guys, he’s not inside the restaurant,” Officer Haynam yelled, from behind him. “He’s out here! We can’t let him make fools of us again, damn it!”

Fletcher hit the gas to his car, speeding down the road. His tires squealed behind him, pulling up a plume of smoke. Though, Fletcher kept his pedal to the floorboards. He couldn’t let the ice cream truck get away.

Whoever was in there, they had his oil baron. They might’ve even had Linda. He couldn’t let them escape.

The truck made a turn at Elmer Street. Fletcher’s truck careened sideways as he pulled it into the sharp turn. Already, the road had become narrower, and the buildings were covered with bits of graffiti. He plunged forward, nonetheless.

His head throttled. He’d just been hit in the rear by Officer Haynam. Fletcher took a glance in the mirror — Officer Baker was with him too.

Fletcher took one last bite of his burrito, and tossed it out the window. Following this, Officer Baker jumped out of the car, after it. She was on all fours upon reaching the burrito, and scooping it in her mouth. Officer Haynam’s came to a prompt halt, and craned his neck out of the window.

He shouted something at Officer Baker. Though, the words were lost to the air. Officer Haynam’s head was already becoming miniscule when Fletcher turned another corner after the ice cream truck.

The road was cragged now, covered in a patchwork of potholes and mismatched gravel. Swerving and whining, the truck went around as many of the potholes as Fletcher could make it. However, he finally gave in upon running over three potholes in a row. There was no avoiding them.

The street was covered in bits of trash and shards of glass. Apartment complexes banked either side of the road, built of a bright red brick. They were newer structures, having been built within the past five years. However, they were also cheaper — the residents had betrayed them to the elements.

Indeed, the ice cream truck picked up speed, clearly to get out as fast as possible. Already, there were people chasing after the truck, their eyes enraged and ravenous. An alley cat jumped in front of the ice cream truck, but, the ice cream truck simply barreled over it. A heart-piercing yowl resounded as the cat was creamed.

“No! Snowball!” one of the residents to the buildings bawled.

Fletcher’s headlights gleamed off the boxy rear of the ice cream truck. The apartment buildings leaned inward, glowering over the pursuit. Fletcher’s friend’s truck’s engine sputtered. An explosion shot from its tailpipe, threatening to do it in. All the while, the ice cream truck remained at a steady speed, showing no sign of struggle. Its stereo let off the calming song of “wheels on the bus”.

Fletcher wheezed. Nothing was going to stop the ice cream truck. He was going to lose it.

A glass bottle went flying, before landing in the street.

“You cheated!” somebody shouted.

“You can’t cheat at spin the bottle!” shouted another.

Fletcher swallowed. Flashes of his adolescence returned with a fury — the rejection he’d faced by so many peers. His Uncle’s claims of his incompetence. He’d never managed to land a kiss, without being laughed or yelled at straight afterward.

The ice cream truck spun out of control. Fletcher’s own truck squealed, as Fletcher hit the breaks. He nearly hit the dash, but already jumped out of his car as the fatal implications of his halt began to hit him.

“Stop in the name of me,” Fletcher said.

The ice cream truck had crashed into a street light on the side of the road. Sparks spat from overhead. The backdoor of the truck hung open, a sugary sludge spilling out of it. The back tires were flattened — they must’ve been shredded by the bits of broken glass.

Fletcher smiled to himself and looked behind. There was no sign of the cops, still. It was better that the ice cream truck went down, than himself.

Fletcher waded through the vomit of ice cream and hopped into the back of the truck, just as people clustered about the spill and lapped up the ice cream.

People had a way of reveling in the devastation of others, didn’t they?

“Alright, I’ve had enough of these games,” Fletcher shouted, upon entering the ice cream truck.

The interior of the truck was surprisingly bright, almost to a blinding level. He kept his head down, kicking away the toppled buckets beneath him. He pulled up his pants, to keeping them out of the river of ice cream.

Nearly all the ice cream had been knocked from out of the coolers, and off the shelves. Yet, there were still sacks atop the shelves. Specifically, sacks of powder. Sacks with needles. Sacks with pills.

Countless drugs surrounded him. An indescribable urge suddenly overtook Fletcher to snatch one of the sacks, for his own use. Surely nobody would notice. Hell, he probably wouldn’t even notice. How could anybody verify if he took drugs or not.

He shook his head. He had a person to sack. People may have been worse than drugs — but, at least they weren’t drugs.

“Did you hear me?” Fletcher said, speeding up his face toward the front of the truck. “The cops are almost here. You’re not going to have time to get back up and running, to escape. This is over.”

There was a moan.

“I can still teleport away, can’t I?” they said. “Or, maybe I can pretend that I was framed? Yes, that’s it! I was framed.”

The front of the truck looked worse than the inside of Fletcher’s closet. The passenger’s seat had been torn loose, the windscreen was shattered, and both airbags hung limply. A man sat in the driver’s seat, arms outstretched and quivering.

“Please, don’t do anything to me,” he whimpered.

He was a pale dumpy man. He was dressed in all white, even if his apron was smeared with chocolate and strawberry ice cream. If the truck’s interior had been a bit dimmer, and Fletcher a bit more dim-witted, he may have mistaken the man for one of the polar bears that covered so many ice cream labels.

“Oh don’t worry, I can’t just do anything,” Fletcher said, with a smirk. “According to the chaos theorem, there’s only one thing I can do. Now, where is the toy oil baron? Where is Linda?”

Fletcher lifted a soggy ice cream cone, and reeled it behind his head. “Come on, tell me,” said Fletcher. “There are only a few more hours left in today. You better not waste them.”

The man gulped. “I think I might know what you’re talking about,” he said. “The pickpocket said something about you wanting something…”

“We all want something out of life! Is that a crime?”

“Maybe? The cops are after you too, right?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

The man scrambled back in his seat, into the fetal position.

“Just don’t hurt me, okay? We’re in the same boat, with the cops after us.”

A twinge of sympathy formed in Fletcher’s chest. The ice cream man’s face had gone pale, his lips quivered, and the hairs on his arm stood on end. It was chilly in the ice cream truck, but it was clear that fear had the stronger sway.

“I just wanted to sell some ice cream to some depressed suckers, today,” the man whimpered. “Is that really so wrong? It’s not my fault that the pickpocket stormed my truck, and shoved a ton of drugs in it…”

“So, the pickpocket just dumped all of this on you, despite you having no relation to them?” Fletcher asked, his voice harsh.

It took all his restraint not to roll his eyes. The ice cream man could’ve resisted the pickpocket, couldn’t he have? Or, at the very least, cried for help? Why didn’t anybody ever cry for help, in times of desperation? Why did the ice cream man simply let this all happen to him?

The ice cream man let out a long wheezing laugh. “Yes, well… It is hilarious, isn’t it? The pickpocket thought that, if you were busy chasing me, you’d get caught by the cops. Plus, you wouldn’t be able to go chasing them.”

“That’s pathetic. That doesn’t make any sense!”

“They told me they were a champ at playing tag, when they were a kid. According to them, now it’s just a game of figuring out who’s it.” The man paused, to let his eyes dart around the truck. He wiped away a dribble of blood rolling down his face. “Also,” he said, “the pickpocket told me he wanted to get out of this dump. He was going to the toll booth to leave town, apparently.”

Fletcher snorted. Of course — the pickpocket must’ve known that he was chronically afraid of leaving town. Indeed, doing so would be a betrayal of his family legacy. There’d never been somebody in his family who’d ever stepped foot out of town.

Yet, he had an obligation to his toy. To Linda.

“You’re never going to catch them, by the way,” said the ice cream man. “It’s inevitable. They told me. You might as well give in, now.”

Sirens wailed from the distance. Head pounding, Fletcher bounded from the front of the truck and toward the back. He grabbed a glob of ice cream from the ground and shoved it in his mouth.

“Hey, that ice cream is expensive!” the ice cream man said, a quiver in his voice. “I’m going to need you to pay for that!”

“Why pay for something that’s already ruined?” Fletcher asked. He spat the ice cream out, and kicked another glob into the air with his foot.

“I’m going to salvage it! I’m going to stick it back in the buckets!” the ice cream man said, voice going shrill.

The music went shrill with him, as the lamppost came loose and crashed on the roof of the truck. Fletcher hopped into the Harry’s truck, and hit the gas. He checked his mirrors — Officer Haynam was just behind him. He looked ahead, and his brow furrowed. The mayor’s limousine had stretched across the road, blocking the exit.

Mayor Haddock stood atop a man’s back, shouting into the distance. Fletcher couldn’t make out what he was saying, but it sounded furious.

He turned a sharp left, down a back alley, before emerging on another street. Haddock probably should’ve invested in more limousines.

Hopefully this nightmare was all almost over. How much worse could the day become, really?

. . .

. . .

The pickpockets couldn’t have been Marvin. It couldn’t have been the Mayor and Lydia, either. And, it couldn’t have been the police. At least, if anything that the ice cream man had said was to be believed. After all, the pickpockets were supposed to have been heading toward the toll booth. They couldn’t have been busy chasing Fletcher, during all that time.

Albeit, trusting in ice cream men had never served Fletcher well in the past. They always managed to get something wrong.

While the ice cream man had said the pickpockets would be by the toll booth, they weren’t anywhere to be seen. Harry’s truck puttered down a chapped stretch of road, lit only by its headlights and the sparse glow of the toll-booth’s sign. Surrounding the tollbooth were bulrushes and a thick metal gate. Behind it was a bridge, which led over Dexburg River and into the world outside.

Fletcher shuddered. Harry’s truck shuddered with him. The entire world seemed to shudder.

Only as he crawled towards the toll both did the shuddering stop. Had there just been a minor earthquake? Fletcher couldn’t tell.

A thin metal rod lowered from the toll booth, between him and the bridge. Fletcher rolled down his window and looked to the toll booth operator.

It was an older woman, with fraying hair and spotty teeth. A cigarette hung from her mouth, and her eyes hung to the ground.

“It’ll be eighteen bucks,” she said. She took a deep whiff of her cigarette, then looked Fletcher dead in the eye.

Fletcher ruffled through his pockets, his face heating up. He had no money. It were as though the toll booth operator knew he had no money, too.

“I — I forgot my cash,” Fletcher said, with an awkward chuckle.

“We can just charge it to your plates,” the woman said, tiredly. “You’ll be sent the bill, or whatever.”

Fletcher gulped. His plates might’ve been on a wanted list already, since he’d stolen it from Harry. He couldn’t afford to be traced.

“It — it’s fine,” Fletcher said.

His foot tensed, preparing to jump from the brake to the gas. He could probably ram through the blockade, if need be. Or, at least he could try.

“Did anybody shady come through here, recently?” Fletcher asked. “I’m just asking because… Well, I’m chasing someone shady.”

“Sounds like you’re chasing yourself,” said the operator.

Her face creased rigid, like the spine of a weathered, leather-bound book. She peered at Fletcher, as though she were analyzing him. Looking into his very soul.

“I think you have a bit of spinach in between your teeth,” she said.

Fletcher wiped his mouth. “Must’ve been the burrito,” he said sheepishly. “But, look, I’m definitely not chasing myself. If I was chasing myself, I’d know it.”

He looked in the mirror. His eyes were black marbles, in the dim light. He hardly recognized the person staring back out at him. If he really was chasing himself, would he be able to tell?

“The people in our dreams are ourselves,” Fletcher’s Uncle once told him, vigor in his voice. Fletcher had just woken up from terrors, and hallucinations of people burglarizing the toy shop. Even as his heart hammered at his chest, he thought he could still hear the burglars down in the shop. “So too goes for our nightmares. The things we’re most afraid of are within…”

“If you aren’t chasing your own tail, then who are you tailing?” the operator asked.

She inspected her yellowed nails, then snickered. “Anyhow, I’m not going to let you in, unless you have cash.”

“I don’t quite know who I’m chasing!” Fletcher said. “That’s the thing! They have my online girlfriend captured, along with one of my valuables… That’s all I know!”

“You have an online girlfriend?” the operator said, with a snort. “What an accomplishment. Bet you worked real hard to reel her in…”

“Actually, she just contacted me out of the blue,” said Fletcher. “She wanted me to help build a website, for her — I’m a pretty tech savvy guy — and we’ve taken a liking to each other ever since. Totally beats my ex-girlfriend. It’s like she knows me, inside and out!”

Harry’s truck sputtered as it sat, as if it were groaning at Fletcher. The operator gave a reflexive roll of her eyes.

“How long have you known this cat?” she said. “A week? A month? Because, she smells more like a catfish, to me...”

“A day,” Fletcher said.

“A day?”

“Love at first type is a thing. I read about it in an article once. I think I’m going to marry her.”

The operator burst out, nearly falling back in her chair. A paralyzed horse would’ve had a more appealing face than her, with her incessant braying and snorting. Yet, her laughs had a way of getting beneath Fletcher’s skin. She had a point, didn’t she?

“I married my husband after getting extremely hungover in the back of his band’s tour truck,” she said. “But, even for me, it took me three days… And, I saw his face, damn it!”

Fletcher’s face flushed red. It was true — all of it, so true. His relationship was built on the flimsiest of explanations.

He’d never drawn Linda in. Rather, she’d drawn in him, tricking him into a false sense of security. The way she pretended she cared, the way she shared things about herself, the way she called Fletcher by “Stuart”… It’d all seemed so perfect. Too perfect. Could she have ever been real at all?

The eye from the picture she’d sent railed at his mind. It’d been so familiar, and so distant, all the same. A photo that he’d seen before? It was something out of a sculpture or oil painting.

Fletcher shifted his truck into park.

“I’m going to have to ask you to pay, or get fined. That, or turn around,” said the operator. “Honestly, it’s all the same to me. I just want to get back to watching my reality TV, on my tiny screen.”

She gestured to her phone.

“Can’t,” Fletcher mumbled.

“Can’t what?”

“Can’t be,” said Fletcher. “But it must be.”

“Sounds like nonsense.”

“Who ever said that reality had to make sense, though?”

Margaret. It’d been Margaret, all along.

The dark eye from the photo matched hers, perfectly. And, the use of the name “Stuart”, instead of Fletcher? Nobody else, outside of Margaret, had ever called Fletcher that. Furthermore, Linda had known an uncanny amount about Fletcher, as if she’d researched him. It only made sense that she was somebody close.

“My ex-girlfriend,” said Fletcher, “I think she’s been posing as my online girlfriend. Everything that’s been going on around me — it’s all been a plot, between her and my best friend, Harry! It all fits! All the pieces fit!”

Fletcher broke into a hysterical laugh.

“That’s just beautiful,” said the operator, scrolling through her phone. “You’ve been made a punk by your ex-girlfriend. A tale for the ages.”

“You believe me, don’t you?”

The operator looked up from her phone, and gave a shrug. “Look, man, I have no idea what the hell is going on in this town anymore. Figure it out, and get out of my booth before the crazies all get here.”

“What are you talking about?”

The operator nudged her head to the right. Fletcher whipped his head around, to see a caravan of headlights floating toward him. It had to be a chain of at least a hundred cars, all streaming down the road.

“Thank you so much for the help,” said Fletcher.

He put the truck in reverse, preparing to turn back around on the road.

Margaret’s apartment. That was where everything was going to go down. Her connections with the mayor, her contacting of the police, her assortment of odd collected items — she was the pickpocket. If she wasn’t it could’ve been nobody else.

“Yep, just don’t bring your ugly face here again,” said the operator. “I could’ve finally figured out which Marlboro sister is pregnant, if it weren’t for you.”

Fletcher had no idea what she was talking about. He didn’t care.

He let out a whoop as his car rushed by the endless rows of cars, all headed out of Dexburg.

“What are you doing, you moron?” A man said, craning his head out of his car window. “the entire town is going to be reduced to ash!”

“Sounds like a party to me!” Fletcher said.

He turned on his phone, shooting a text to Margaret.

“I’m going back to your place,” it read. “We need to talk. For real, this time.”

There was no response. Though, Fletcher didn’t need one.

A smile formed on his face.

.

“I don’t know… Isn’t this going a bit too far?” I ask.

“Clair, it’s about the best option that we have, at this point,” Jack says, with a chortle.

He licks his lips, and snorts a bit of coke up his nose.

Normally, I’d be snorting coke with him. However, it suddenly doesn’t feel right. My high has been wearing off, and I’ve noticed just how low I feel.

The car sways side to side, as it barrels down the road. We’re going far too fast — the boss will probably kill us, if we get another scratch on this thing. Then again, that slob barely does anything.

“Do you have any of that stuff for me?” Logan asks.

He gives a playful wink, but receives a snarl in return.

“No,” Jack says, gruffly. “If it weren’t for you, we would’ve finally caught Fletcher. Maybe, anyway…”

He’s right. Fletcher had been so close to us, in the restaurant. There were dozens of people that could’ve caught him, in fact — that should’ve caught him. Though, it was too many of them. That was the problem we’d had. Jack hadn’t planned ahead, well enough.

You can’t pull a gun in a restaurant. At least, not unless you really want to avoid giving a tip.

Jack taught me that.

“I couldn’t give two damns about Fletcher,” I say. “It’s just, we are risking a lot right now. We could be heading out of town — taking advantage of the fact that Fletcher is finally on his way out. And, you just want to reel him back in?”

“Real smart!” Logan says, flexing his muscles.

“Real stupid,” I say. “Everybody is going to be there.”

“I can take them,” says Logan. “I’ll have you know, I fought a reindeer once. And, I almost won.”

“You don’t get it.” My face is getting hot now. They really do seem clueless. “Fletcher could report us at any point. If he does? The tide of this entire town will shift. It’s already shifting. Damn it, don’t you remember what the chaos theorem predicted?”

“The cops won’t suspect a thing,” Jack says with a laugh. “Fletcher could’ve reported us to the cops to distract from himself, at any point. Yet, he didn’t. What does that tell you?”

The car careens to the side of the road. Jack turns the key, letting the

Just above us is a sagging sign, with half of its lights knocked out.

“Timothy’s Toy Shop” is what it would say, if the lights weren’t knocked out.

I look behind us. Dozens of cars have turned down the same street as us. The cops. The mayor. The cult. Tons of people I don’t know, too. Everybody.

“Run away” is what it should say, to keep the living daylights from being knocked out of us.

.

Fletcher’s palms went clammy as he sandwiched himself between a van, and a tiny European sports car. He winced as Harry’s truck made a screech against the van. The slightest twinge of regret shot through him, only for him to shrug it off.

Sure, the van was dinged up. Though, it was probably going to get dinged up anyway. Besides: it was better that a poor man’s cheap possessions be destroyed, than that of a rich man.

That’s what the town had been trying to get him to learn all this time, wasn’t it?

He stepped out of Harry’s truck, and toward the steps that led into Margaret’s apartment. Somehow, the building had shrunk since the last time he saw it. He had to bend down to avoid bumping his head on a metal rod, overhead. The railings to the steps grated against his sides.

He was some bumbling, lumbering slob. The building could hardly support the weight of him.

Still, he plowed ahead. He couldn’t wait to see the look on Margaret’s face, when she finally opened the door to her apartment. Now, if only Fletcher could remember which door her apartment was behind.

He steadied himself upon finishing the last step, and reaching the landing for the second floor.

“Fletcher, stop right now!”

A sweaty palm streaked across Fletcher’s face. He stepped back, sputtering.

“Who the hell,” Fletcher began, only to be given another shove.

The porch light to an apartment flicked on. Then, another. Fletcher could feel all the eyes through the peepholes, gawking at him. All of the people, talking about him.

“Quiet. You don’t want to create a disturbance.”

Fletcher blinked through the blinding light. He felt pins and needles shoot up his arms.

“Harry,” he said, managing a weak smile. “It’s great to see you here.”

“It’s great to be here, too,” Harry said. “But, what are you doing here?”

Fletcher looked to both sides of himself, before giving a whisper. “I’m going to see Margaret again. I figured out that she was the one who’s been sending me those messages. She’s been conspiring with—.”

A lump clogged Fletcher’s throat. It’d been Harry she’d been conspiring with. Hadn’t it? As much as that was what he wanted to believe, he couldn’t form the words while staring Harry in the face. It simply wasn’t something Harry would do. Was it?

Had the hand of fate corrupted him, too?

“Sounds bad. Sounds dumb.” It was John. He was sitting in a corner, drool dripping from his mouth. “Hey, ever notice how dumb sounds like dummy? Sort of like a puppet type dummy? Funny”

Harry took an iron grip of Fletcher’s collar. His pores oozed beneath the lamplights, and his mouth construed into a snarl. The expression looked so unnatural on him, clashing with his lithe lips, and chiseled jawline.

“Talking about my girlfriend is one thing,” Harry hissed. “But, stalking her? That’s a whole other level.”

“Well, I do love taking things to the next level,” Fletcher said, with a chuckle.

A smirk flickered past Harry’s face. He steamrolled forward, shoving Fletcher into a wall.

“Okay, that’s it,” said Harry, “you don’t get to joke like that, man.”

Fletcher’s skin stung, as Harry clawed at it. Clenched it. Twisted it. Yet, even more disconcerting was the fire in Harry’s eyes. All the warmth solidified by friendship had melted away.

“Lick him good,” John said from the corner, words slurring. “We have a lot of money riding on this fight. You might just make it into the heavyweights.”

Fletcher couldn’t quite tell if John had been joking, or if he’d finally lost what little semblance of sanity he’d had left.

“Hey, hey, break it up!”

Marvin stepped from out of the dark hall, and under the lamplight. His clothes were frayed on the edges, and had a few holes torn in them. There was some light bruising on his doughy face. Despite the wear written across him, his eyes were sharp with a confidence.

If only his lips hadn’t been quivering, in despair.

“I thought we agreed that this wouldn’t become a street brawl,” said Marvin.

“That was before he started talking smack about my girlfriend,” Harry said, practically bawling.

He’d let go of Fletcher and was walking toward Marvin now, face red with rage.

“Technically, she’s my girlfriend,” Fletcher said. “You’ve just stolen her from me. That’s all.”

Harry turned back.

“She was never yours,” he said. “You never even knew her. You just had some idealized picture of her — some idol —and you pretended that it was a real person. She’s told me everything about you two! Fletcher, it’s over!”

Fletcher’s head throbbed. He’d always worried other people thought these things about him. Indeed, a part of him had always worried people thought these words were true.

“I just need to talk to her in person, and see what she really thinks,” Fletcher said. “May the best man win, and all that. Right?”

“You can’t talk to her,” said Harry, muscles tensing.

Marvin stood behind Harry, assuming a snide air of superiority. “Yeah, you really can’t talk to her, Fletcher.”

Fletcher shook his head slowly.

“I thought we were friends.”

Harry morphed back into the welcoming person Fletcher had come to know. His voice went soft again. “We’ll always be friends, Fletcher. But, Margaret is also my girlfriend. You have to understand… I’m being pulled both ways.”

John snorted, a bubble of spit forming in the side of his mouth. “Ha. Pulled in both directions. We’re like kids on a jungle gym, hanging upside down.”

“You didn’t need to show up here,” said Fletcher. “Why’d you even bother to pick a side?”

Harry deteriorated, leaning on the wall and massaging his forehead.

“Margaret called me,” he said. “She said you texted her that you were coming to her place. What was I supposed to do?”

Fletcher ignored Harry, and pointed his finger at Marvin. “And you!” Fletcher said. “You have no business in any of this!”

“I’m just trying to keep you from doing something that you’re going to regret,” said Marvin.

“I’ll leave that for Margaret to decide,” Fletcher said. “You guys both sure act like you can speak for Margaret. But, how abut letting me have the chance to speak with her. Huh?

“She’s not even here, Fletcher,” said Marvin. “She left.”

A rock formed in Fletcher’s stomach, and his mouth went dry.

Harry nodded. “She heard that you were coming, and went straight for your house. She said that, if she has to see you again, it may as well be where you’ll be finished.”

As the hallway began to sway, Fletcher raised an eyebrow.

“What are you talking about?”

“The chaos theorem,” Harry said simply, studying his fingernails. “It predicted that you’d be back at home, by tonight. Not that crazy of a prediction, honestly. I mean, where else are you going to go?”

“There’s apparently a whole horde at your house,” Marvin continued, his voice heavy. “They’re ready to take you in. I don’t know if you’ll be making it through, this time.”

Fletcher scoffed. “Please, you think I’m dumb enough to go back to my house tonight?”

“You were dumb enough to chase that toy, all day today,” said Harry. “Nobody would’ve thought that would happen.”

“You do dumb things, okay?” Marvin said. “Let’s not forget, you got my car towed the last time you came over here. Now, look: you can just hitch a ride with us, and get out of this town. This place is pretty much hopeless, anyway.”

“Good luck getting him to agree to that,” said Harry. “Trust me, fate has already been decided. I read the chaos theorem. My night is going to end at Fletcher’s, with me giving Margaret a kiss, and watching Fletcher run away from the horde.”

Fletcher’s heart throbbed. These were words he wasn’t supposed to hear, weren’t they? Yet, Harry didn’t seem to care.

“Harry has a point, to a certain point,” said Fletcher. “How will I even be riding with you guys?”

“We can just use John’s car. We ran in to him, and had him drive us in his sports car,” said Marvin, gesturing to John.

John let out a triumphant snort, before spitting on the ground.

“Think I just spit out a bit of the universe,” John said.

Harry gave John a pandering pat on the back. “Well, you’re not wrong, buddy…”

Much as Fletcher wanted to burst into a fight, a world of possibilities itched at the back of his mind.

The pickpocket wasn’t Harry. It probably wasn’t Margaret either, if she still didn’t want to talk to him. After all, if she’d been parading around as Linda, she’d still have feelings for him — which she probably didn’t. Probably being the operative word.

The pickpocket was probably still in this town. That, or out of town. It was difficult to say.

Still, did he really want to leave with Marvin and Harry, and divorce himself from any possibility of resolving the mystery?

“By the way, I’m going to need my truck back,” said Harry.

“You took my girlfriend,” said Fletcher, with a shrug. “I think that your truck should be a fair trade. You?”

John stroked his chin. “You know Harry, he drives a hard bargain. If you can get him to sweeten the pot with some barbecue chickens, I’d take it!”

Harry either didn’t hear John, or pretended not to hear him. “Fletcher, god help me, you’re giving me back my truck!”

“I still want to go for a bit of a joyride, though,” said Fletcher. “Mull things over in your car, one more time. Is that a crime.”

“Yes,” said Harry. “It’s my car that you’re talking about! You’re not even on my insurance!”

“Then add me to your insurance,” Fletcher said. “That or report me to the cops. See if I care.”

He didn’t know where the anger emerged from. Harry was aghast, from shock. Even Marvin’s face was construed, in a mixture of pity and regret. Yet, now that it was erupting from him, it was impossible to put out.

“I thought we were brothers,” said Fletcher. “I thought that we’d do anything for each other.”

“Yeah, well…” said Harry, with a sigh, “There comes a day when even the best of brothers are at each other’s throats.”

“All brothers are supposed to go at the other’s throat,” shouted John. “That’s what being a brother means.”

It was a cruel sentiment. Furthermore, Fletcher was half certain that John was under psychosis. Still, not even Plato had spoken words that rung so true.

Fletcher’s phone buzzed. Instinctively, Fletcher’s hand leapt to his pocket, pulling the phone out.

Harry snatched the phone away.

“Hey! That’s mine!” said Fletcher.

Harry wagged a finger. “Incorrect. You stole my car. I steal your phone.”

Fletcher’s stomach coiled. He’d gotten a message from Linda. It had to have been from her — there was nobody else who would’ve texted him. Yet, Harry remained firm.

“But… But, the chaos theorem compels you to give the phone back,” said Fletcher. “After all… Uh, if you didn’t, then you would, because you wouldn’t otherwise.”

“You don’t make a lick of sense,” said Harry, with a tight smile across his face. “And, I love it!”

“I know that you hate me right now, Harry… But, I need that phone.”

“Just promise me that you’ll give me my car back, and we have a deal.”

“Give me my girlfriend back!”

“She’s not yours to have! My god, man! She’s not just some possession that you can trade or card around, like some… Some… Some trading card!”

“The only person who’s doing any trading is you,” said Fletcher. “You traded me out as a friend, for a girlfriend. She loved me, Harry! You know that! I don’t know where it all went wrong… But, if I just had another shot, I know I could make it right.”

Harry burst out laughing. Naturally, John burst out laughing with him — he would’ve laughed no matter what. Shockingly though, even Marvin joined the fray. Granted, he didn’t laugh — it was more of a rushed breath, and repressed smirk. Still, it was there all the same.

“I — I don’t,” Fletcher began.

Harry gave Fletcher a supplicating pat on the shoulder.

“He doesn’t remember, does he?” Harry said.

“Remember what?” said Fletcher. “Trust me, I have a great memory!”

His face flared. Nobody should’ve trusted him. Moreover, he had a terrible memory. Images of Linda — they ghosted through his mind as faint plumes of smoke. He could make out the shapes — flashing images of anger, and distress — but little else.

“Do you remember what caused you two to break up?” Harry repeated, smacking his lips.

“Harry, we don’t need to open up old skeletons…” Marvin said, feebly.

“No,” said Harry. His face was bitter now. Ravenous, too. “No, I want him to confront this, square on.”

“I was clingy, and possessive,” said Fletcher. “Couldn’t grow up. That sort of thing. That’s why she dumped me. Right?”

“Yes, and no,” said Harry. “The memory must’ve completely left your mind, huh? All those years of snorting coke have left you utterly brain dead, huh?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Fletcher.

His stomach churned. He knew completely what Harry was talking about. Images were already beginning to resurface in his head. Repressed outbursts of rage. Fights with Margaret, spawned by coke. Wild ramblings, about things that only he understood — things about the world that nobody else had seen.

“You came to Margaret, telling her that you’d figured out some big conspiracy against you,” said Harry. “You were high out of your mind. Crazed, too. She’d known you were getting worse. But, that night? You ransacked her whole place. She ended it there and kicked you out. You wouldn’t let up — that’s why she placed the restraining order. And, all this time? You’ve been trying to make it out to me and John that she was the crazy one.”

Fletcher stepped back, until he felt his balance going wobbly. He gripped the railing to the stairwell, but the weakness in his body remained.

“Look, we all know that you have issues,” Marvin said, stepping between Fletcher and Harry. “We can all just move past this. We need to get out of this place, before things happen that we’re all going to regret.

Fletcher clenched his fists. He needed to stay calm, but ever muscle fiber in his body was sending him the opposite message.

“Let’s not pretend that you and John weren’t getting high off of my coke stash too,” said Fletcher. “I was low, and I needed something to help me, okay? But, I’m better now! I swear!”

It was all flooding back though. It’d been a long night, and a month straight of losing himself. Weeks had melted away, with little to no sales at his toy shop. His internet business hadn’t been doing too hot, either.

The drugs were all that kept him satiated. Dexburg was a dump. Everybody in it was an idiot. At least the taste of cocaine on his tongue could make him feel like he had some escape. Some way out.

It wasn’t his fault that he’d been swinging between delusions. It wasn’t his fault that he drove to Margaret’s house, and regaled her with everything that ailed him. Besides, he’d gotten better since then. He’d become a better man.

As Fletcher told himself all this though, he couldn’t get the image of Margaret’s terrified face out of his mind. Nor could he forget the state of disrepair that he’d left her apartment in. He should’ve never let himself fall so far. Yet, he had. Why had he?

“It was just a few times,” Harry said, with a shout. “Trust me, we don’t have the issues that you do. We at least have some control!”

“Yeah! Some control!” John said.

He fell from his place on the wall, flat on his face.

Fletcher brushed away that had been tossed into his eyes, during his fit of rage. In all his arrogance and jealousy, Harry had a point. Even now, Harry maintained a repose that Fletcher could only wish to have. John, meanwhile? He was everything that Fletcher had let himself become. Could he really bring himself to let Margaret date a man as depressing as John? Could he really keep himself from falling back into the state John was in again.

Dexburg was infested with drugs. They practically oozed out of every street corner. So long as Dexburg stood, he wasn’t going to be able to keep himself from temptation. And, outside of Desxburg? Fletcher wouldn’t even know what to do with himself.

“You’re right,” said Fletcher. He hung his head and walked up to Marvin. “I’m a mess. Everywhere I go, I’ve been creating enemies… Margaret deserves a man more like you, Harry — a man who’s planned for everything.”

Harry’s head hung high, and he readjusted his shirt collar. He outstretched Fletcher’s phone to him.

“I’m glad,” said Harry. “You know, I really thought I’d never hear you say the words. And, trust me: I’ll make sure to treat her right.”

Fletcher returned the smile. Though, as the phone passed hands, he couldn’t tear himself away from the instinct to scroll through his phone.

“See,” said Marvin, while Fletcher began scrolling.

The message burned into Fletcher’s eyes. It couldn’t be, but it had to be, all the same.

“I told you that Fletcher would come around,” Marvin continued. He gave Fletcher a pat on the back. “Say what I will about his business tactics — and they suck — he’s always been a guy of honor. The chaos theorem can be wrong.”

“Yeah, you are a good sport,” said Harry, with a laugh. “Say could you hand the keys to my truck back? I’m going to need them, if I want to pick up Margaret.”

Fletcher walked up to Harry. Then, he pushed him aside, and sprinted down the stairwell.

He needed to get to the toy shop, fast as possible. There wasn’t a second to lose.

Stumbling into the street, Fletcher swung the door to Harry’s truck open. He shoved Harry’s keys into the ignition and went to turn it on. The engine sputtered and whined. Not a good sign.

“Hey! Hold it! Hold up!”

It was Marvin. He’d run down the stairs, but from the way he was breathing it may as well have been a triathlon. Harry was just behind him, arms crossed in disappointment.

“Where are you going?” Marvin cried. “I can get you a ride anywhere you need to go, Fletcher! You don’t need to keep hiding from us! We can help!”

Fletcher bit his lip, as he gave the engine one last turn. It roared to life, when Marvin began smacking his hands against the passenger window.

“Fletcher, just tell us what’s going on. We can get you help!”

A hood went over Fletcher’s eyes. They wouldn’t believe him. They’d never believe him.

“Linda,” Fletcher finally let spill out. “I just got a message — her kidnappers need ransom money, Marvin. I have what little remains of my savings in my toy shop. I’m going to go get it, and then get to her.”

“Fletcher, you don’t need to—.”

The tires to Harry’s truck squealed, drowning out any other sound. All that Fletcher could hear were the words of the captor’s message, replaying through his head.

“We have Linda, and your prized possession. If you want them back? Have $3,000 brought to us, in the next two hours. We’ll be awaiting your rendezvous, on the top of Mt. Bancroft.”

The pedal was pushed to the floorboard, and the truck gave the cry of a dying whale. Nonetheless, Fletcher didn’t care.

He hadn’t a moment to lose.

.

“He scratched my sports car!” John wails.

“Yeah, well, the bank is going to repossess it in the next few days anyway,” I say. “Look, I know that Fletcher might not be in the best state of mind right now—.”

“Damn right,” says Harry. “Do you think that Margaret sent him a text, or something. Because, I swear, it looked like we were getting through to him. And then, he just lost it.”

“I think he swallowed a parakeet,” John said.

“As if that makes sense,” I reply.

Why didn’t we just dump John on the side of the road, and take his car? It’s worked well enough for Fletcher, after all.

“Something happened with the toy, and his online girlfriend? Something about a ransom?” I say. I shrug. “He drove off before he could explain. Either way, he’s about to do something nuts. We have to help him.”

Harry gives a derisive laugh. He’s so jovial in Fletcher’s plight. I remember when I felt that way. Why can’t I feel that way now?

“He’s ditched us after our attempts to help him about every time,” says Harry. “What do you think he’s going to do next time we try to help him? I say tat we just ditch him, and finally find a new hobby.”

“Totally with you,” John says, with a firm nod of the head. “We might as well just buy a whole new oven on this one. No point in hiring another mechanic, to do the disco.”

Harry gives me a look of desperation, as if I’m somehow supposed to be able to translate any of that. I merely give a desperate look back.

“I’m going to get Fletcher, whether you guys are going to help me out or not,” I say.

Being honest, I do have the foggiest idea of where Fletcher is going to be — in his room, getting his money. I know that’s where he’ll be, because I know where he keeps his safe.

I stalked him way too much over the years, didn’t I?

I’m talking from nothing, in actuality. I have no idea how to help Fletcher once I get to the toy shop. Besides, Harry has a point: thus far, there’s been no point.

Nonetheless, Fletcher has some insights abut how this town is run. Whenever he talks about how the world operates, I feel alive. Maybe I’m also dying… But, it’s a living sort of dying.

Maybe that is insanity. Though, maybe that’s what it’s supposed to be.

“And how are you going to ride in John’s car, all the way to Fletcher, without any keys?” asks Harry.

His teeth glint in the moonlight, crude as bone.

“Trick question,” I say, flipping some keys into the air.

I shove them into the ignition, and let the car’s oversized engine purr.

“Maybe Fletcher taught me a thing or two, after all,” I say.

Namely, how to be a thief. I think.

.

“… Therefore, I am not going to stand for this buffoonery!”

It was Mayor Haddock. He was pacing through the street, his lips sending flecks of spittle through both sides of his megaphone. He must’ve been giving a rousing speech about how to kill Fletcher, before Fletcher had arrived. Fortunately, Fletcher only heard the tail end of it.

“I say we tear out his tail bone, and then play pin the donkey with it,” shouted somebody from the crowd.

Fletcher squinted — it was Melinda, from the greenhouse party. He’d never thought she’d have such a fiery spirit in her. Yet, there she was.

As he hooded his head, dozens of people he recognized walked by him. Not one of them wore a face anything close to pleasant. Indeed, they seemed more and more ornery as they went along.

A cluster of people formed around the entrance to his toy shop. They held a large statue of a ram, and began bashing it into the door.

Logan Gerri strode up and rolled his sleeves up his meaty forearms.

“Allow me,” he said, in a drawl of pure testosterone.

He gripped the ram with one hand and shoved it toward the door. It was a pitiful attempt, really. Yet, the crowd was galvanized by it, and began working even harder at the door. Logan stood back, and drank in the scene.

Popping open the door to Harry’s truck, Fletcher took car to keep his head low. A high pitched cacophony of shattering glass resounded behind Fletcher. A man was running down rows of cars, bashing in the windows.

“The guy has to be hiding in one of these cars,” the man shouted, hysterically. “I can find him, if I just don’t stop!”

Fletcher never did find out whether the man was right. The front entrance to Fletcher’s shop gave a crack, buckling inward. Logan stood atop the rubble, triumphantly, only for Mayor Haddock to push him out of the way.

“Thank you, my fine citizens!” Mayor Haddock said. “Now that the door is down, we can finally bring vengeance upon the person who caused our nuclear annihilation!”

Priest Carvel materialized from within the toy shop, and tossed out a bundle of puzzles. Fletcher winced — all of them were supremely limited collector’s editions. They lay on the ground, in ruined heaps.

“Let me remind you: I was the one who discovered that Fletcher was the cause of all our woes!” said Priest Carvel. “Without my vision? You’d all be lost.”

The crowd was stumbling over itself to reach Priest Carvel’s feet. Puzzle pieces flung through the air as they did. Fletcher wanted to cry — his uncle had spent years assembling those puzzles. It’d been a sort of way to create order out of chaos. Fletcher had never been much good with the puzzles himself. Though, now that the crowd was here, there was no hope.

“Stay out of my daffodils!” Carol croaked.

Carol stood by the front of her flower shop, arms crossed in fury. Much of the debris from Fletcher’s shop had transferred to hers, with some of the plants already beginning to bend under the weight of it.

Fletcher smirked. Served them right, for making him suffer from allergies all these years.

He ran up to the doorway.

“Get out of my doorway!” Carol croaked.

Just like her, as always. She clearly hated him. Sworn enemies — that’s what they were. This plan was insane.

“Sorry, but I’m not going anywhere,” Fletcher said, roaming into the shop.

Potted plants were strewn about the ground, making a miniature Pollock painting.

“Fletcher,” Carol said, shock in her voice.

Her eyes widened, studying Fletcher’s face.

She must’ve been faking the surprise. Nonetheless, the sappy intonation to her voice was undeniable.

“Come in, come in!” she said.

She shut the door, only for the remainder of its glass screen to spill to the floor. The shards crunched beneath Carol’s feet, with her grinding her teeth as she went.

“How’ve you been, about all of this?” Carol asked.

Fletcher raised an eyebrow. “Look, if you want to blame me for all of these people chasing me, I just want to put it out there: it’s not my fault, okay.”

It was Carol’s turn to raise an eyebrow. Did she not believe him? That must’ve been it. The old sad sack.

Hacks and sneezes flew from Fletcher. He grasped for breath, only to wind up leaning on the wall, gasping.

“Oh, lord bless you,” Carol said. She opened a cabinet beneath her flowers, and pulled out a rough roll of toilet paper.

“Thanks,” Fletcher managed, as the toilet paper sanded down a layer of his upper-lip.

“Glad you like it,” Carol said. “It’s gourmet toilet paper. I make sure to keep this place stocked to the brim with it.”

Waterfall still pouring out his nose, Fletcher gave a muffled, “One smart cookie.”

Carol beamed. Fletcher hadn’t meant it as a compliment, though. Already, he was stumbling around the room for Carol’s cookie jar.

Her cookies were probably the only thing she was good for. Where was the jar?

“Anyway,” she said. “I wasn’t talking about the mob out there, raiding your shop. Dear no! I have no doubt that they have no right to be in there!”

“You did one hell of a job at keeping them out,” Fletcher snorted.

Carol didn’t hear him. “I was talking about the big fireworks show that’s going on tonight. Isn’t it exciting?”

Fletcher gave Carol a slack-jawed stare. Her eyes were dull, but wide as ever. She couldn’t have possibly been so oblivious. Yet, everything told Fletcher she wasn’t pulling his leg.

“It’s a nuclear bomb,” Fletcher said. “The entire town is going to be decimated, with us inside.”

“It’s a pretty clever plan though, if you think about it,” said Carol. “Didn’t you see Haddock’s announcement? The bomb will end our earthquake problem! Plus, we’ll become the first city to ever be nuked by its own country. We’ll be in the history books! It’ll put Dexburg on the map.”

“Can’t wait to see all those mapmakers create a crater, where my cradle used to be,” Fletcher said.

“Do you want to stay here and watch the show with me?” Carol asked, a smile banding across her face.

Fletcher was struck by a sledgehammer. All this time, he’d hated Carol’s guts — and, she’d been so simple-minded. He’d been thinking so many steps ahead, that he hadn’t realized he should’ve been looking a million steps behind.

Carol was just sitting on the sidelines, waiting for this all the end. She didn’t care who she talked to, or how anything went down. Meanwhile, he’d been beating himself, struggling and striving for some brass ring that had never even mattered.

Fletcher cleared a bit of mucous from his throat, and pulled his hood further down his face. Clarity bordered on his mind — he could almost taste it. Yet, there were still things to do. Outside the shop, the mob was mopping the streets. Literally.

“Keep mopping, men! We’ll find him buried under all this street gunk at some point!”

None of it was going to go away. Not until he was done, and maybe not even then.

Fletcher shook his head of the crowd, then looked Carol in the eyes. “Ending the day, by watching everything end, sounds like the perfect way to go,” said Fletcher. “But... I still have a few things from today that I need to take care of, before I can enter tomorrow.”

“I’ve been wondering where you’ve been all day,” said Carol. “I was starting to miss all your wild antics.”

Fletcher gave a nervous chuckle. Those had never been antics. However, Carol didn’t need to know that.

“I have to save somebody,” Fletcher said. “Or, at least, I have to know who they are. I can’t spend the rest of the day without knowing.”

“That new poem you’re working on…” Carol said, “it just sounds plain beautiful. Also, what does it mean?”

Fletcher merely gave a supplicating nod. Some things would never change between him and Carol.

“Look, I just need your help,” Fletcher said. “You know the door between my shop and yours? I need you to unlock it, so that I can go and get something from in there.”

“Is it the toy oil baron?” Carol said. “Did you finally find where it was?”

He thought back to his uncle. What he would’ve thought about the toy being lost. Would he have been disappointed? Would he have been understanding?

There was no way of knowing. Though, perhaps that was for the best. Perhaps it was finally time to move on.

“No. Don’t plan on finding it. I have other obligations to keep, though.”

Carol rummaged through her pockets, then pulled out her keys.

“Well, there you go,” she said. “Not a problem at all! Good luck!”

Fletcher tossed the keys in his hand, and ogled at them. They’d been freely given. They were remarkably light, compared to Harry’s stolen keys. Granted, that just could’ve been because Harry’s keys had the giant flashlight on them.

Eyes watering from his allergies, Fletcher made his way up through the creaking steps at the back of Carol’s shop, and up into the rafters. She’d never bothered getting her second floor finished, always insisting that it would “block the plants too far from the sun.” Nonetheless, the door between her shop and Fletcher’s hung in mid-air, behind a center rafter.

His balance swung from side to side as he made his way across. He’d never been one to shy away from heights — though, that didn’t stop his stomach from ramming into his throat as he looked down. Directly beneath him was an oversized flower bed, to break his fall.

Out of everything, it just had to be a flower bed?

The key didn’t want to budge at first, when he shoved it in the door. The beam beneath him groaned, begging to snap. He looked behind, to see it bowing in the center. He jiggled the key and throttled the door. Just as it opened, the rafters gave a snap. Fletcher jumped, landing on the floor of his bedroom.

The rafter still held together, but only by the thinnest splinters of wood. He kicked the door shut — he didn’t want to watch the beam collapse. Upon the door closing, Fletcher was met by a lopsided silence. Far below him were the muffled cries of the crowd, who were no doubt still searching for him. Though, they were distant. He could also hear the steadiness of his breathing. He could hear the rhythmic gusts of the air vent above him.

The crowd would have little chance of finding him, if he was fast. He just had to get to his safe open, get the cash, then get out.

He pulled his chair from out of his computer desk, then pulled out his lunchbox. He undid the latches, then pulled out an oversized book.

Fletcher smirked. It wasn’t really a book, though. He flipped open the cover, to reveal a lock. He put in his passcode.

“Come on guys, let’s just head back down! Have some fun, party… There’s no way that Fletcher is in here, so why waste our time looking for him?”

It was Marvin. From the volume of his voice, he was just outside the door. From the pitch of his voice? Things were dire.

Nonetheless, Fletcher flushed with a sort of renewed confidence. Marvin was out there, helping him out. Though he had every reason to abandon him, he’d never given up. Maybe there were countless other people among the mob, too, bent on helping him. Who knew?

“Let us by! Let us by!” the mob shouted. “We all want to kill Fletcher!”

Maybe he’d been giving the people too much credit. He began stuffing the wads of cash in his sweatshirt pockets, sweat pouring down his face. He just needed to get in, then get out.

“I’m telling you, he’s not in there,” Marvin said, voice cracking. “What, do you guys think that I’d lie to you?”

Marvin was answered by a series of jeers. The top lock to the door was undone.

Fletcher bit his lip, then kicked his safe away. Three thousand dollars were sitting in his pockets, now. Now? He just needed to head out.

He gave a reluctant glance at the door to Carol’s shop. He gave another to

“The chaos theorem says he’s in there. And, we have to chase him. There’s nothing that will stop us!”

The door burst open, Marvin spilling through. He held the handle of an antique gun, with several barrels sprouting from its end. He shut the door, then redid its lock.

“We need to move, and fast,” said Marvin, face flushed purple.

“First thing first, what the hell is that thing?” Fletcher asked, pointing at the gun.

“Duck’s foot pistol,” said Marvin. “Doesn’t work, and I might accidentally shoot myself if it did. But, hey: it was Greg Dexburg’s favorite gun.”

“How’d you get in here?” Fletcher asked.

“The entire wall to your bottom floor has been blown open,” Marvin said. “What, you didn’t see?”

“I’m talking about this room. The door was locked.”

Just as Fletcher said this, the door to his room buckled.

“Oh, I have the keys to all the doors in your place,” said Marvin. “I paid a locksmith to come in here and build them for me.”

Fletcher gave Marvin a blank stare. Marvin gave a shrug.

“Look, we have to get you out of here, and fast,” Marvin said. He gestured toward the door into Carol’s shop, but Fletcher shook his head.

“The rafters broke,” Fletcher said. “I’m not doing that unless I want to fall into a bed of flowers.”

Marvin moaned, and tugged the skin on his face.

“I don’t know what made you act like such an idiot to come here, but… There’s a chance you won’t be coming back out.”

Fletcher strode up to the window and started shunting it open.

“You’re not going to jump out the window!” Marvin said.

He leapt at Fletcher, knocking him into his closet door.

“You’ve gone too far to just give up your life now!” Marvin said.

Fletcher sputtered, trying to catch his breath.

“There’s a giant street lamp by the window!” Fletcher said. “I can just grab onto that, and then slide my way—.”

The door to Fletcher’s bedroom went flying before wedging right between Fletcher’s bed and the wall. Dozens of people came streaming in, but Fletcher and Marvin were just blocked from view. Marvin slid open Fletcher’s closet, and slipped in. Fletcher followed, then shut the door.

“Maybe I could still make it,” Fletcher whispered.

Marvin shook his head, then moaned. “No, they’ll see you. All it’ll take is somebody jumping after you, and you’ll be egg on the sidewalk.”

“I saw a few people cooking eggs on the sidewalk. Doesn’t actually look half bad.”

While Fletcher had felt he was sweating before, he was practically melting now. With Marvin’s body pressed against his, and the crashes from people tearing up his room, stress was at a fever pitch.

Fletcher tried readjusting himself in the closet to make more room for himself, only to bump into Dave — his oversized dummy. Fletcher was suddenly beginning to seriously regret his toy collection.

“Give me your sweatshirt,” Marvin hissed.

“What?”

Marvin unzipped his own jacket and began putting it on the dummy.

“Just give me the jacket,” Marvin repeated. “They’re looking for me, and they’re looking for you. We only have one option to get rid of them: giving them both.”

Fletcher’s arms trembled as he unzipped his jacket, then gave it to Marvin. He wanted to choke as he watched Marvin zip the jacket up, then pull the hood over his face. He was about to make the greatest sacrifice he could — and he didn’t even seem to care.

“Don’t tell me you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking,” said Fletcher.

“Wouldn’t think of it,” said Marvin. “Still going to tell you what I’m thinking, though.”

“You’re going to feed yourself to the mob?”

Marvin shrugged. “Kind of. I’ll toss out the dummy, to make them think it’s my body. Then, I’ll run out there, dressed as you. Once they’re gone, and after me? You can make your escape. Like cake, right?”

Fletcher furled his lip.

“I hate cake.”

“Even better.”

Fletcher began rifling through his rack of jackets, looking for one that might give him easy camouflage once he was back in the street.

“You sure about this?” Fletcher asked.

Marvin shook his head. It was impossible to make out the look on his face, from the darkness of the closet. Though, from the heaviness of his breathing, the fear was still palpable.

“One thing I have to tell you,” said Marvin. “I hated you, for the longest time. I really did.”

Fletcher’s jaw dropped.

“You? Really? Could’ve sworn we were pals.”

“Maybe we are, maybe we aren’t… But, after this?” Marvin chuckled. “God… I don’t know why I’m doing this. But, you’re going to owe me big time, if this works.”

“On every level, there’s no way this should work,” Fletcher said.

However, Marvin didn’t hear. He’d already opened the closet door and tossed out the dummy’s body.

“Oh god!” a man shrieked. It was the voice of the banker — had to be. “Fletcher killed him! He’s going to kill us! Holy hell, why didn’t I lock him down to declare bankruptcy when I had the chance…”

Marvin stepped out. Fletcher watched the scene unfold from between the slits of his closet.

“It’s him!” the banker cried. “I’d recognize that face anywhere! We can’t let him escape — the chaos theorem says we will, and we can’t let it be right!”

Marvin bopped the banker in the head, then scrambled for the doorway. People grappled at his coat and attempted to whack him with oversized fly swatters. Yet, Marvin managed to slip through all the same.

“You want me?” Marvin said, making his voice lower and gruffer. “You’ve been chasing me all day. May as well chase me, one last time.”

The banker bumbled around the room, bumping between members of the mob. Most of them seemed equally clueless. He rammed into Logan, whose beefy frame seemed equally lost.

“I’m going to find him, and then I’m going to squash him like a grape,” Logan said, while people streamed past him.

“I think he turned invisible!” the banker said, voice shrill again. “Everybody, keep an eye out, or he might poke it out!”

The room had nearly dissipated, when the two headstrong leaders finally realized they were being abandoned. Logan gave a sniff, as though some part of him had picked up Fletcher’s scent and could tell that he lingered.

“Don’t leave me!” Logan cried, stumbling out the door. “I’m still relevant!”

The banker stepped past Logan, somehow managing to push his beefy body aside.

Once they were finally gone, Fletcher stepped out of his closet and rushed for the window. He readjusted his new jacked — a brown blazer. He’d only just pulled it out of his uncle’s chest a couple days ago, to try it on. He hadn’t thought it fit him, then. Though, now here he was, full circle, wearing it for his escape.

He peeked at his phone again. Mt. Bancroft. Whatever he did from hereon out, that would be the endgame.

He opened the window. It crackled and shuddered as he pushed it up — Fletcher almost worried it’d tear from the wall entirely.

Marvin streaked across the street. The cloud of people had already congregated to meet him, voices raised in fury. Their chants were impossible to decipher, though Fletcher could make out one thing from them: sheer terror.

Beneath the anger, they were afraid of the end. Of the inevitable. Despite everybody in the crowd knowing what was going to happen? They couldn’t live with it. They didn’t want to live with it.

Fletcher looked to the flagpole, hanging just outside his window. Nobody would notice him as he made his way down. It would be completely safe. Still, his gut rocked back and forth, with the uncertainty of it all.

Perhaps the rest of the world knew where it was headed. Yet, he had no clue. Which was more terrifying.

“I think I left my toenail clippers in here,” a man said, bumbling in. Despite himself, Fletcher gave a glance behind — it was the ice cream man, from a mere hour before.

“Wait, how the hell are you here when you’re down there?” the ice cream man croaked.

Fletcher dove out the window, and toward the flagpole. As he did, the ice cream man hurled a pillow at him.

“Take that!” the man said.

The pole was rough against Fletcher’s hands and groin. It took every ounce of willpower to hang on. That, and the fact that the ice cream man brandished his 16-ounce ice cream scoop mere feet above him.

“Come up here and face me, like a man!” the ice cream man cried.

Fletcher made a graceful landing on the sidewalk. Then, he nearly toppled over as the feeling came rushing back to his groin.

“Oh god,” Fletcher moaned.

Just across the street sat Harry’s truck. Though, the tires had been slashed, and the windows smashed. Marvin stood atop the truck, doing his best to hold back the mob.

Somebody tugged Fletcher on the sleeve.

“Are you an angel?” a woman asked.

Fletcher shook his head. “If I am, then the whole world must be on the verge of ending.”\

The woman moaned. “I knew it! The world is ending!”

“Says who?” asked some goon, from the crowd, dressed in white. It must’ve been another one of Priest Carvel’s followers.

“Wait, look at that! It’s Fletcher! A second Fletcher! That loser, who claimed to be our savior!”

“A second Fletcher?” said another. It was a man dressed in a construction uniform. Yet, they wore the badge of the cultists as well.

Fletcher rolled his eyes, and searched for a way out. Great. There were already more converts of Priest Carvel. How long would it be before people figured out that the goon was a loon?

“It’s the second coming of Fletcher!” declared the first man. “Get him!”

“What was that, my loyal slaves?”

Priest Carvel poked his ruddy head from beneath a throng of supporters.

“Why, paint me purple, and then bleach me white! It’s Fletcher!”

Fletcher shook his head, and took a few steps back. Though, he only found himself backing into more people.

“It’s not me,” Fletcher said. “I just happen to be somebody who uncannily looks like Fletcher.”

He went to gesture toward Marvin. However, he’d already been knocked from the top of the car, and dragged into his antique shop. Fletcher winced at the sounds of shrieks, and shattering glass.

“You just so happen to look like him, huh?”

Fletcher was given a light jab in the back, from behind. It was one of the guards from the school. Had they really bothered to follow him, all the way here?

A woman, foaming at the mouth, stepped out of the crowd. “I tried killing him, earlier today! And, he wouldn’t let me!”

Fletcher trembled at the sight of her, attempting to break her way through. Yet, she was only replaced by somebody more terrifying.

Indeed, the tycoon and his employee pulled her away, the tycoon standing tall and proud.

“I offered this vagrant a fine job,” he said, undulating his voice. “A damn good job too, I may add, producing gunk up our river. And, what did he do with my gracious offer? Zip.”

An old man’s voice wriggled through the crowd. “Darn right. He’s a screwy one,” he said, voice cracking as he did. It was the groundskeeper, from the graveyard. He kept balance on his cane, but still had nearly withered to the ground. “You should’ve heard some of the stuff he told me. Absolutely sickening!”

“I should’ve known this man would be trouble. His past dictates such!” cawed the historian.

“I foretold this would occur as well,” cried the fortune teller. “

Everybody Fletcher had seen that day was there. The drug dealers, Logan, Mayor Haddock, Priest Carvel, the socialites, John, the police… It was an unending stream of faces, all of whom were steaming. Fletcher bit his tongue, to keep from screaming. The crowd towered over him, faces twisted in contempt.

Some of them held hints of remorse — sympathy. The ones who’d tried helping him. Though, even then, it was the contempt that defined them all.

There were only a few people who weren’t there. His Uncle… Dear god what would he think of this?

Poor Marvin, too. He was trapped in his shop, being torn apart — and, all for nothing.

Though, at least Harry wasn’t here to see this. Or Margaret. They’d only rub in the wound further. They always had been warning him that things might come to something like this, weren’t they?

“Fletcher?”

The crowd suffocated Fletcher, their bodies thrashing against his. Holes were torn through Fletcher’s jacket. Then his shirt. His pants. Teeth and nails gnashed at his skin. Nevertheless, Fletcher managed to turn around.

Margaret’s face hovered within the crowd. Her expression was an enigma. There was delight in his plight, no doubt. Though, also pity. Even shame.

Fletcher looked away when Harry’s face showed up next to Margaret’s. Fletcher’s own shame was overpowering.

Linda, and the toy — he was just chasing a dream, wasn’t he. All of these relationships were all that mattered here, at the end.

“I warned you Fletcher,” Harry said. “I didn’t want it to come to this. But, it had to, I guess. And, I warned you.”

The fury of the crowd intensified, with them increasing the boldness of their attacks. Yet, Fletcher could hardly feel it. It all meant nothing, didn’t it? All that Fletcher could truly feel was a dumb, dull ache at the bottom of his gut, and in the back of his head.

It was the same pain, in two places at once. It shouldn’t have been possible. However, the most impossible of things were always what seemed most real, weren’t they?

“Stuart Fletcher!” Mayor Haddock said. His voice was a gunshot in the dark. The entire crowd stepped aside, allowing Mayor Haddock to stand in his full might. He should’ve been a terrifying sight of might, that is. His suit was perfectly trim along his body, accentuating his thick arms and legs. His watched shimmered, as though it were a token of past exploits. Yet, looking him in the eyes, Fletcher could only see the softness there.

Days gone by, swamped in decadence. That’s all Mayor Haddock had ever known. That’s all that life ever had to offer him.

The man was a farce. Perhaps the entire crowd was.

“Tonight is the night that you end,” Mayor Haddock continued. “The chaos theorem has deemed it such.”

A meek voice peeped up from the crowd. “Sir,” said, “doesn’t the chaos theorem dictate that we don’t dictate what it says, unless it says?”

Mayor Haddock gave a smug smile. “I’m the Mayor though, see,” he said. “And, this is my town. That overrules the theorem.”

He laughed.

“See, we’ve all been doing such a great job about keeping quiet toward you,” Mayor Haddock continued. “We couldn’t let you know how the theorem says it all ends… But, yeah: you’re doomed to be sent to your death, by us. And, in turn, we’re doomed to be killed by you.”

Fletcher glanced at Mayor Haddock’s watch. The minute and hour hand synced on the eleventh tick mark.

Mayor Haddock laughed again, his face almost maniacal.

“It’s absurd, really,” he said. “This whole town… All so absurd! It’s all destined to revolve around one man? And, you’re our demise? We’re yours? It shouldn’t work like that.”

He gave a sniffle, then raised himself up.

“I mean, it’s almost something out of a fever dream. I suppose that that’s how towns are meant to be… But then, that one man who everything revolves around? It was always supposed to be one of us!” He turned and gestured to Logan, the banker, and finally Priest Carvel. Finally, to himself. “Somebody like me!”

The crowd broke into a series of cheers. Fletcher’s stomach went inside out. He couldn’t listen to them — they were tearing him apart. Moreover, awareness of the bus bordered on the edge of his mind.

It was scheduled to come through here, at any moment. It always did, didn’t it? It was inevitable that it would again.

“I just want my fate to end,” cried the historian. “I’ve had enough of all this new history!”

“Give me a piece of him!” Logan shouted above the crowd. “Just a piece!”

He made his way through the crowd, knocking people over like a bowling ball through bowling pins.

Jack shouted something at Logan. Clair too. Logan remained enraged as ever, his eyes targeting only Fletcher. Yet, Fletcher could only hear the roar of the bus’s engine. It was near, now. The back of the crowd was already thinning out, making way for it.

Fletcher smirked. The bus driver had made it on time, after all. Admittedly, not as had probably been planned. Though, then, did anything ever go according to plan?

People screamed as the bus tore through, forcing them to dive aside. Even Logan dove away, albeit reluctantly. Yet, Fletcher ran toward the bus, waving his arms.

“Hey! Wait! I need your help!”

He banged on the side of the bus until its door slid open. Fletcher knocked away a couple of townspeople who tried to make their way through.

“Shut it!” Fletcher said.

Yet, the door had already been shut.

“Back I see…” the bus driver said, in a drawl.

Fletcher glanced out the window, at all the pandemonium. People bumbled into one another searching for him. The town was clueless as to where he’d gone.

“Tonight is insane,” Fletcher said, his breaths short and shallow.

“Every night is insane,” said the bus driver. “You should’ve seen the pack of geese that waddled onto my bus, the other night. Geese! All migrating south, on my bus. Idiots, right?”

Fletcher gave a supplicating smile.

“Ah, yes, definitely,” he said, nodding.

The bus driver smiled back.

“You’re not going to pay me tonight, are you?” he said.

The bus driver kept his bus in a crawl, as people streamed by in all their confusion. How long would it be before they figured out where Fletcher had gone?

“I never pay you,” Fletcher said, with a chuckle. “I figured we had an agreement about that, by now.”

The bus driver nodded. “It’s a nice setup. But, you want me to give up my bus to you too, tonight. Don’t you?”

Fletcher’s eyes bulged. He hadn’t thought to ask that. However, the bus driver was right. The bus was moving at such a slow pace. Moreover, the townspeople weren’t going to be slow to figure out where Fletcher was. Not if he didn’t move quicker.

“Yes, now that you mention it,” Fletcher said. “Where I’m going… Maybe I don’t want anybody else to be. How did you predict I was going to ask that?”

The bus driver shrugged. “I want to ditch the bus, tonight,” he said. “I heard a few things on the radio. Apparently the world is ending tonight? I don’t know. But, it sounds as good a time as any for me to finally go get myself a suntan.”

He stroked his beard and took a sip of his coffee. Standing from his seat, he smiled at Fletcher.

“Well, go on,” the bus driver said, nudging his head toward the seat.

He then ran for the escape at the back. Fletcher’s mouth was stuffed with cotton. He searched for the right words — the right actions to take. However, the bus driver was already leaping out the back of the bus. Fletcher pulled himself into the driver’s seat, and hit the pedal.

A unique pride welled in Fletcher’s chest. He’d stolen several cars that day. All of them were pretty good. Yet, nothing felt so right as driving the bus. Everybody got out of the way for him. Some people ran alongside the bus, in a desperate attempt to get him to stop, and let them aboard.

Laughing, Fletcher picked up his speed. His laughs were broken by an overdrawn beep. Fletcher looked in the mirror — a purple minivan was tailing him. Fletcher squinted. The driver was Logan.

Logan was hunched over, hands clutching a plush, pink steering wheel. Unnatural as the sight was, Logan looked oddly comfortable.

Fletcher turned the corner and gave a last look to Purview Street. His toy shop was being torn apart by the seams, people were having dance offs atop his broken toys, the sign was being made into a swing, and a fog of hysteria entrenched it all.

His home was gone. He finally was saying goodbye. Yet, it felt right.

He pressed his pedal further to the floorboard. However this car chase with Logan ended, and however everything turned out on the top of Mt. Bancroft? Everything was going to go exactly how it should.

That was the only way anything could ever go.

. . .

This is a real crappy golf course. It is a golf course, isn’t it? That’s why there are so many golf clubs, right?

“Get out of my antique shop.”

Some twerp is shouting at everybody. He has a golf club of his own. Doesn’t really look like he knows how to use it, though.

Oh, whatever. Who cares. This place is kind of cute, I guess. That is, if we hadn’t broken the doorway and window, searching for that Fletcher fellow. Maybe I should buy it? Nothing is stopping me, after getting all that inheritance from Mr. Clover. Yes, if I bought this place on the spot, that would surely impress tons of people. Wouldn’t it? Living to impress others is my fate, after all.

And, would you look at that? A man has just come walking in, carrying bundles of money. Looks like I have somebody new to impress!

.

“Jim Harrigan? Is that you?”

Dear god. Some woman is ogling my money. It’s the Clover lady. Doesn’t she already have enough money? Can’t I just steal some money in peace?

Here I was, thinking that this place would be in shambles due to that Fletcher fellow. But, it looks like everybody is thinking as sharp as ever. Still, maybe I have a chance at getting their money, yet.

Ah, money. The greatest green thing on god’s green earth.

“I’m just carrying some money I found,” I say. “If nobody is able to claim it, I do believe it’s mine.”

Of course, everybody in this room is going to claim it. But then, everybody in this room probably owes me money, too. Bunch of suckers, this town is…

“Wait, I think that’s Fletcher’s money!” a man says.

It’s that sickly Marvin fellow. He’s rifling through the pockets of his jacket right now, his oversized hands grabbing at thick clumps of cash. It appears I have a new victim.

“Marvin Whisk, is that you?” I say. I flash a smile, and Marvin manages one back.

God, unloading the fact that he’s two thousand in debt is going to be delicious.

“Don’t you owe me money?” I say. “If so, I do believe I should be keeping all of this…”

A man slaps me in the back. I turn around — it’s Kent Burgess.

Ah, hell.

“Hello,” he says. “I do believe that your bank owes my company quite a bit of money.”

.

Ha! Jim Harrigan, finally being done in by Kent Burgess.

That’s what he gets, for calling me Don Key!

.

Poor guy. Doesn’t know what hit him.

My chaos theorem told me that business was going to be booming tonight. I guess it wasn’t wrong.

“Thank you very much,” I say filtering through the money that I’ve snatched from his hand.

The banker’s face is ruddy from rage. He really does look like a petulant five year old in some ways. Perhaps that’s why he’s such a miser.

I should’ve never given his stupid bank cash. That he was going to hoard it all from my company was all but inevitable.

“No!” cries the man in the corner. He shoves what little cash remains in his jacket deeper into his pockets. He’s such a pitiful looking fellow. His hair is wilting from his head, and his skin is bursting with burst blood vessels.

“You don’t understand,” he continues. “Fletcher needed that money, to save somebody from a ransom. But, he stuck it all in my jacket. Fletcher has the wrong jacket!”

I ignore him while I recount my money, then give the banker a firm handshake. I couldn’t care less about what this dweeb has to say.

“Much appreciated,” I smirk. “I do believe that this should be plenty to cover me. Looks like I can go ahead and hit the road!”

This trip hasn’t been a bust, after all. I’m making my way toward the busted door of the antique shop, when somebody jumps in front and lets out a bellow.

.

“Nobody is headed anywhere,” I say. I show off my badge, and it shimmers in the pale light of the room.

If only it would shine a little brighter. I keep telling Mayor Haddock that he needs to make room for badge polish in the police budget, but he just doesn’t listen.

Honestly, “police polish” practically sells itself. Why won’t he listen?

“And why should I listen to you?” Kent Burgess says, staring me dead in the eye.

Dear lord, this guy is intimidating. No wonder we haven’t busted him for all of the drugs he’s supposed to be stockpiling.

“I just received word that there was a terrible traffic accident on the main road,” I say. “An entire bus flipped over, and exploded. It apparently got hit by some purple minivan? I don’t know, but we have to close all of the roads.”

The Marvin dude looks like he’s just been hit by a bus himself.

“Fletcher was in that bus,” he says. “Do you think he survived! I need to get to him, to help him save somebody being held under ransom.”

Sounds exhausting to me. Honestly, why do all the wackos come to me? Can’t this town have a single day where an officer like me doesn’t have to deal with anything?

“He’s dead. According to experts, nobody could’ve survived that crash,” I say. I’m talking out my ass. I have no clue what the crash looks like, but I’m probably right. “Plus, if there was a ransom involved, you should’ve come to me.”

“But I am coming to you!”

“Tough luck, buttercup. Little late for that. Ransoms and briberies aren’t things that can just be handled lightly.”

Readjusting my badge to reassert my dominance, I feel a wad of cash pressed against my chest.

“Can you let me out of here, chief?”

It’s Kent Burgess again. Tilting my mouth into his ear, I whisper, “you can just take the squad car.”

I hand him the keys. He should be fine. If he knows how to run a business, he should know how to run a car.

.

Looks like Officer Haynam just gave him the squad car. Ha. Rich. Pretty sure that rich boy has never been driven anywhere, without a chauffeur.

Why is he going to be promoted to Sherriff over me, again?

“Hey, you’re just letting him go?” a woman shouts, beneath a web of jewelry. “I knew you’d be biased toward him. That’s how it always goes!”

Great. Finally somebody is calling him out.

I take a big bite of my taco. This is going to be fun.

.

“Hey, I’m treating everybody equally here!” says Officer Haynam. “Fletcher is the root cause of all this chaos, okay? If we can all just calm down, we can get thing back in order.”

“Order will never come,” I say. “The spirits have foretold as such. As a close confidant of Fletcher’s, I know his spirit will be haunting you all for the rest of eternity.”

I have no clue what I’m saying. I’m pretty sure I was ticked off with Fletcher, no more than a few minutes ago. Wasn’t I? See, now I’m not even sure about that.

Though, there are a ton of people in this room, which means a ton of potential customers.

“Everybody who ever harmed Fletcher will soon face consequences,” I continue. “This whole town must prepare for reckoning! The rich can squander the weak no longer. People like Mayor Haddock and Kent Burgess need to pay for their crimes against the average person!”

The crowd nods their heads agreeably. I must be making some sort of impression. Maybe Fletcher was right — maybe the feeling that fate is set in stone truly is something that everybody is searching to avoid.

I’m going to continue my spiel — this is the perfect opportunity to try selling some healing crystals. Though, I’m pushed aside.

.

“Burgess truly is one of the greatest men in town,” I shout. “Everybody should know that. He pays people a decent wage, even if it’s slightly below minimum. And, for at all, our town produces great things. Like steering wheels! How could any car have direction without steering wheels?”

I hope that I’m swaying the crowd. Though, they don’t seem so convinced in what I’m saying. It doesn’t make any sense. People should be enthralled.

If only Kent Burgess were here to defend himself. When you spent hours waxing a man’s shoes, singing praise into his ears, and making sure that his company doesn’t go down the tubes, you learn a lot about them. Kent is a man for the ages.

“Besides, people like Mayor Haddock would never be where they are without guys like Kent Burgess paying them to do what they do!” I say.

More mutterings emerge from the crowd. Odd… Shouldn’t that have only instilled more faith in the people.

“Don’t you all want jobs?” I say. “We can give everybody jobs. We have tons of jobs open! We always have jobs open!”

An old man totters toward me, and stares me in the face. His dentures begins to slip out of his mouth, before he shoves them back in.

.

“I’ve lived most of my life in this town,” I moan. “And, I’ve never seen a Burgess do anything good for us. Nor a Haddock, for that matter.”

A wheeze builds in my throat. A cough pumps through my lungs. I lean against the wall and try catching my breath. Why does everything have to be so tiring these days?

All these young people are staring me in the face. They look at me like I’m some apparition. Maybe they’re not wrong. In part, I wonder where they all came from. Though, part of me wonders where I’ve come from.

“Sure, maybe Fletcher is a nutcase,” I say. “But, nutcases and crime are all over this town. A racket is being made of it, and nothing is being done.”

Memory is so hazy. I think I know who I am. Yet, all I am is what I remember. And, there’s so much about me that I don’t remember.

So much about me that I used to be, that I’m not anymore.

“We need to stop funding these greedy moneybags! We need to follow Fletcher’s example!” I raise my cane in the air, and people give cheers. “We need to start investing more money in building graveyards, instead of big, ugly factories!”

There are moans, and disgusted glances. Funny, I thought that’d go over better. Doesn’t the chaos theorem say the city is supposed to explode in an hour?

“Please,” a woman says, rolling her eyes. “And I thought Debby Crowner was a Debby Downer…”

.

“Ladies and gentlemen, perhaps Kent Burgess isn’t here to support himself,” I say. “But, Mayor Haddock and his team are.”

Mayor Haddock shoots me a supportive glance — probably the first I’ve seen from him this entire campaign. He mouths something.

“Go on, Libya.”

Still hasn’t remembered my name yet, has he?

“I know for a fact that Mayor Haddock cares about each and every individual in this town,” I say. “Do we have a drug problem? A crime problem? Perhaps. But Fletcher clearly just died. We’re in the clear now, and it’s all thanks to Mayor Haddock and his police force.”

I clap my hands, and a round of applause begins. Despite my self, a smile spreads across my face. I always knew these simpletons would eat

“Sure, maybe the rich are rich,” I continue. “But, we need rich people in society! Without them, where would all the money be?”

Killer closer. Plain killer!

.

“Pain killer! The doctor said it was pain killer but it was drugs!”

The butterfly looks at me like I just swallowed a bottle full of jars. Why is the butterfly looking at me like that?

Is it too buttery? That must be it. I need to put it in the toaster, to fix that.

“Does anybody know where Fletcher’s toaster is?” I say. “He saved the world, by the way. Greatest man ever.”

That should be enough to help out. I start building spit in my mouth. If I build up enough, it’ll almost be like I created a spit smoothie.

“There’s a big conspiracy,” I say, through my spit. “The chaos theorem said we were all going to come here, and be blown to bits. It’s because of him, and this whole town. They want us to be stupid sloths. Or, was it cloths?”

Marvin grabs me by the shoulders and pulls me from all the talking, dancing sporks. He hisses at me. He has a snaky tongue.

Where’d he buy that?

“You’re not helping,” he says. “Just stay quiet, okay?”

The chaos theorem told me he’d say that. It told me all of this would happen. So, why does it feel so unreal?

I’m a little paperclip, holding together some origami.

.

I always knew that Fletcher and his friends were decent, upstanding people. It was simply in the way that they carried themselves, around my plants. Such a positive energy about them.

Oh, I hope this all pans out well.

.

“Anybody want any ice cream? Anybody?”

Nobody seems interested. That’s definitely new. I’ve spent countless years in this town, selling people cruddy ice cream, and nobody has ever said no.

.

Too many noises are going on around me. Things were much simpler, back in my bus.

Shame that Fletcher blew the thing up. Bigger shame that it might be the Mayor’s fault somehow.

Shame that the town is blowing up, too.

Ah well. Doing nothing still counts for something, doesn’t it?

.

Did somebody say that this whole town is about to explode?

I have a pot roast in the oven, and it won’t be done cooking for three hours, at least. Why didn’t Freddy warn me?

.

Great, the boss is shooting me a dirty look.

Can’t he just drop the Chef Bernardo act for one goddamn second? The mayor might’ve caused Fletcher to die, and he just wants to ignore that.

You know what, I don’t care anymore. I lift a chair, and hurl it at the mayor’s head. Screw this. Screw it all!

“Bring back Fletcher!” I shout. “Bring back Fletcher!”

.

Somebody just hurled a chair at Mayor Haddock’s head. Looked like one of Priest Carvel’s crackpot supporters. The mayor should really be getting out of here. Why do people always listen to the loons?

I suppose it’s time that I give Lydia a layup

I clear my throat. “People of this fine town, take a piece of advice from me, a historian. Everything that we know about our history is completely bunk!”

The people become only more agitated. A natural response, really. Hopefully they keep this up — it shows that they’re comprehending.

“If the future is infinitely definite, then the past must be finitely indefinite,” I continue. “Everything that we’re talking abut tonight? It’s all just a wash! We need to go with the flow, and look to our brave leader for guidance.”

Not even Abraham Lincoln could’ve given so fine a speech.

Granted, I’m pretty sure Abraham Lincoln was bad at giving speeches. Hell, Abraham Lincoln might’ve never existed at all. He was probably just invented as a way to sell Lincoln Logs.

.

So odd how my town tosses between me, and fights over me. Perhaps the chaos theorem has them getting tired of my lies. Yet, don’t they realize that I’ve been their mayor for two decades? Don’t they realize that, no matter what anything says, they’re destined to fall for me?

It’s simply how the system is designed. It’s all so intricately built so that it comes in my favor. I don’t blame them for wanting something different. But, god… Can’t they figure out that they don’t have a choice.

“Don’t eat into the hysteria, everybody,” I say. “Are there claims that I’ve been killing my opponents to shut them up? That I’m ignoring our town’s problems? Maybe…”

I readjust my suit, and give a moment to stare several people in the eye. Staring people in the eye always helps them listen to whatever you say, for whatever reason. I should probably tell my cops that — maybe they can get more false confessions from interrogations, that way.

“But, let’s just ignore that for a moment. I’m about to take our town into the stratosphere. Indeed, the president of the United States, herself, already has a package sent our way!”

My words ring throughout the room. Yet, nobody is surrounding me. They’re all surrounding Priest Carvel. Why? Why him?

.

I spin in a circle, letting my robes majestically flutter through the air. People are enthralled.

“Lots of words are going around,” I say. “So many words. Why do we all give so much meaning to such trivial a thing as words, though? It’s so complicated. Why can’t we just run on the spiritual plane?”

Yes, everybody is walking toward me, waiting to hear what I have to say.

“Fletcher was a man obsessed with upsetting order,” I say. “I saw him as the coming of the savior. And, staying in line with his message? We need to overthrow society! We need to wake up, become aware of our surroundings, and make this town anew! We need to remake it into the image of holiness!”

The crowd loves me. Some of them are kissing the back of my neck. My feet. Others are desperate to kiss the back of the neck and feet of those who are kissing me.

They all adore me. It’s righteous! Holy! In the face of all the chaos theorem’s predictions, Fletcher wasn’t my undoing after all. No —I have the last laugh, in the end. I get to use his name, for my own means!

“Anybody want to go out to eat?” I cry out.

I have the sudden inexplicable urge to eat some rare steak. It’ll probably be amazing.

.

I look over to Jack. He’s on the verge of bursting out laughing at all these pathetic people. Especially Marvin — that guy is just sitting in the middle of the room, watching the crowd flock back and forth between each other, sending insults and lies.

He could probably end it, if he wanted. He knows enough. Yet, he’s just too simpering to do so.

“You think we should lay it on them?” I say to Jack.

Yet, he’s already walking into the fray.

.

So many people have been fooled. They’re everywhere. Half of them are my customers, too. I’d like to think that my customers would be smarter than this — buying into a conman’s desperate last-ditch effort at relevance. Though, I live in a town of antiques. I’m standing in an antique shop. Why did I ever have such high of expectations?

“You’ve all been hoodwinked,” I shout. “I more or less know what happened to Fletcher. Maybe he’s dead. Maybe he’s alive. In any case, I know what’s important: he wasn’t some god for you people to go holding up.”

I snicker. Should I tell them it all? I guess. Might as well.

“Fletcher used to be a drug addict,” I continue. “And, me and Clair… Well, we worked for Logan Gerri, the town drug dealer. He had us keep files of everybody in town who ever bought from us. As it happens, Logan’s been needing to pay off cops, to keep them off his scent… And, he was desperate for cash. So? Me and Clair began collecting money from people who owed us, as ‘the pickpocket’. We also began catfishing people from our files, with a fake email profile.”

Marvin is staring at me, jaw-dropped. He’s shocked, isn’t he? Poor guy.

“This is where it gets rich: Fletcher was the only one who responded to our catfish scheme. Apparently he was just that desperate for a date. Even funnier? At the same exact time, Fletcher was sniffing around town for some stupid toy of his. And, me and Clair?”

I break out laughing. It’s too much. Really. I’ve held it in for too long, too.

“We thought that Fletcher was some guy who was trying to bust us, at first. We tried offing him, not realizing he was the same ‘Stuart Fletcher’ from the emails, running the toy shop. That is, until we did… Ever since, we’ve been sending him on a wild goose chase, to nudge him back to us — so that we could get whatever money he had left. Nobody else in town seemed to be biting, today.”

Marvin stares at me, wide-eyed. He doesn’t want to believe, I can tell. Nobody around him does, either. Though, all the pieces are falling into place.

“You mean you guys didn’t steal the toy?” Marvin asked. “And the girl he’s trying to save… She wasn’t real?”

I snort, and orbit around him. I move my orbit further out into the crowd. “No,” I say. “Still have no idea what’s going on with that thing. Logan never got the money from Fletcher after chasing him, either. But, it’s all good. The chaos theorem predicted all of this. In the end, we still got what we wanted.”

“What do you mean?” asks Marvin.

I shrug. Then, I slip deep into the crowd.

I can see the horror on the faces of the Mayor, Officer Haynam, Priest Carvel, and so many others. They know I’m the pickpocket. They hate me for it.

Yet, I’ve moved too fast for them.

I’ll be gone before their shock ever has the chance to wear off.

.

I feel my jacket pockets. Empty.

Stupid Marvin! Why didn’t I hide the money?

I look over the crowd, in the hopes of catching where the pickpockets went. Yet, they’re gone. They have the money, and they’re never coming back. They’re just going to get away with it, aren’t they?

Fletcher was right.

My pocket vibrates. I look at my phone.

“Meet me on Mt. Bancroft.”

Oh my, god. He’s alive.

“He’s alive!” I shout. I run out the door.

Kent Burgess is sitting in the squad car, fumbling with the keys. I yank him out, and hop in.

“Sorry!” I say. “But, I have a friend to catch.”

My heart flutters. The engine thrums noisily at the night.

Time in this town is short. I’m not ready.

Though, at least I have somewhere to be.

.

So sad, to see him like that. At the start of today, Marvin couldn’t care less about Fletcher. Now, look at him — chasing a dream.

He’ll never be coming back. This vacuum of a town is just going to swallow him whole, for all he’s worth.

I put my arm around Margaret’s shoulder, and pull her close to me.

“Come on,” I say. “Let’s get out of Dexburg.”

.

The crowd is dissipating now. The hysteria has decayed. It’s finally being realized that Fletcher’s goals were just as shallow as their own.

He was never a good person. Selfishness was his primary motivator. That, and whatever felt good in the moment. If only more people could realize this about him.

In the end, none of anything he ever did is going to matter. Me and Harry — we’re going to be fine. Even when this town is in a heap, it’ll be alright.

Though, for Fletcher? For the man who always thought he was right? I only hope he learns, before he burns.

Marvin let out a heave as he reached the summit of Mt. Bancroft. He’d had to abandon his car a mile back, once the road had hit a dead end. Though, the amount of sweat he’d produced could’ve filled a river of three miles, at least. He fanned his face and unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt. Of all the places Fletcher chose for them to meet, it had to be here?

It was just like him. He’d always known how to push his buttons, hadn’t he?

Fletcher sat on the edge of a cleft, clutching a clump of grass.

“I’m here,” Marvin said. He waved his phone. “You texted me to come here?”

Fletcher tore some of the grass from the ground and inspected it.

“I lost the money,” said Marvin. He choked. “I lost it, Fletcher. The pickpockets took it. It’s gone.”

Fletcher shrugged. “I figured that they’d take it. It’s kind of what pickpockets do.”

“Everybody thought that you were dead!” said Marvin. “They thought that you’d been killed, in that car wreck!”

A breeze swept through, and Fletcher let it carry the blades of grass away. They fluttered down the height of the mountain. Marvin took in a deep breath, as he was struck by the magnitude.

“I thought I was dead myself for a bit, until I realized I wasn’t,” said Fletcher. “Logan Gerri definitely threw me for a loop. I managed to crawl out of the wreckage though. Logan was so disoriented after the crash that I think he had a heart attack. He never saw me leave for the mountain.”

Fletcher’s mouth hung open, as though he were about to add more. However, he was interrupted as the ground trembled. Fletcher’s eyes went to the sky, and Marvin’s followed. A streak of light had split through the darkness of the night. For once, they were no longer hearing an earthquake. They were hearing a missile; apocalypse.

“So, the pickpockets told me what happened,” said Marvin. “They were apparently part of a drug operation. And—.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” said Fletcher. “I think I understand the gist of what happened. I was played. Yes — I was so desperate to feel something greater, that I didn’t want to believe it. I guess it was inevitable, really.”

Fletcher stared out over the cliff, to the town of Dexburg. It seemed so small from the summit. All the lights, which had once been so blinding, barely outshone the stars. The river, the factory, all the little shops — it was so small. He practically could’ve fit it all on one of his train tables, back in the toy shop.

“After all of this, there’s just one question that I have,” said Marvin. “Did you ever wind up finding the oil baron?”

A wry smirk formed on Fletcher’s face. He put his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out the infamous doll. Fletcher had been right to obsess over it. It was practically in mint condition. Marvin ogled at the amount of artistry that had been put into painting its stern little face — it practically took on a life of its own. Furthermore, the way that the cloth of the oil baron’s suit fit so nicely was priceless.

“I did wind up—.” Fletcher paused, reeling his arm back.

Marvin gave a shout and leapt to stop Fletcher. Though, it was too late. The oil baron shot over the mountain, hurtling toward the city.

“—finding it,” Fletcher finished.

The oil baron shrunk into the distance, before finally being swallowed by the town.

“You spent all day trying to find it… And you just tossed it?” Marvin said, dumbfounded.

“It was apparently in my other coat pocket, this whole time,” said Fletcher. “This entire chase? It’d been for nothing.”

He laughed, putting a hand on Marvin’s shoulder.

“It’s gone now,” said Marvin.

“So it is. We’ll be gone soon too, buddy. This whole dump will be gone, soon.”

“We don’t know that,” said Marvin. “We haven’t seen the chaos theorem.”

Fletcher gave a grim smile and looked to the missile. “I thought about going to take the chaos theorem again. I really did. But some things can’t change. Some things are doomed to happen, no matter what…”

Fletcher glanced at his cheap, plastic watch. “According to this, it was midnight two minutes ago.” He snickered. “We should already be gone. Maybe this old toy watch is fast, though.”

Marvin picked up his phone. “I guess I can check what the time actually is,” he said.

“No,” shouted Fletcher. He then lowered his voice. “I’d rather not know. I’d rather…”

Marvin nodded. “Who needs to know exactly what’s going to happen?”

Marvin tossed his phone over the side of the mountain. Would it land in the same place as the oil baron? Would it land far away? Would there ever be a way to know?

“Exactly,” said Fletcher. “Who needs to know?”

They looked to the sky again. The missile was dipping toward the river, preparing to contact with Kent Burgess’ coal factory.

“So, I guess it’s over now,” said Marvin.

Fletcher nodded. “I guess so.”

“After this, do you want to come over to my antique shop and help me get things organized?” asked Marvin.

“Sure,” Fletcher said. “And then, an early breakfast after. I’ve been wondering what I’ll have for breakfast tomorrow.”

The world went up in a brilliant blaze of light.