The Roars are Coming

The Roars are Coming

By Michael Shimek

It was supposed to be an easy job: kidnap the kid, hold and watch the kid for five days until the bosses show up, get paid. Easy as pie, as his mother used to say, God rest her soul. Well, okay, maybe not that easy. There was the responsibility of feeding him and keeping him in line, making sure he didn’t try anything stupid like trying to escape. But no one said he would be babysitting a little monster.

       Monty sat on the fancy black and leather couch--most likely stolen--that was up against the wall opposite the room, the cell, that held the kidnapped child. His foot tapped the cement ground repeatedly, his nerves getting the better of him as he stared at the closed and locked door. Whoops, playful yells, and the sound of things being thrown around, all the sounds of someone making a messy ruckus, came from behind the steel door.

       “The roars are coming, Mr. Man. Rawr!” The kid was loud whenever he made the roaring noise, louder and deeper than a normal kid his age should be.

       “Shut up, kid!” Monty couldn’t think straight with the kid acting weird and loud and annoying. The child was really starting to get on his nerves. The thought of striking a child had never crossed his mind, but this little brat was testing him for sure. “If you don’t shut up, I will come back there and shut you up myself!”

       A child’s laugh came from the back room, followed by more roaring noises and his incessant jumping around.

       “Ugh!” Monty screamed. He got up and stormed out of the warehouse, slamming the door behind him. He wanted to yell into the cool night air, but he knew that really loud noises could bring unwanted attention if someone happened to be within hearing distance. It was late, with the large, full moon--maybe that was it, the kid was acting out because it was a full moon--peeking out now and then to say hello from the cloud scattered sky that was lit up from the bright city lights, and they were situated in a part of the city even the police were hesitant about. But as much as he wanted to scream at the top of his lungs, he still couldn’t risk it.

       He pulled out a cigarette from the pack--Marlboro 27s--in his jeans, lit the end, and inhaled deeply as he let the smoke fill his tar-ridden lungs. Ah, his vice. Smoking always helped him calm down, a temporary escape from the world’s stresses and anxieties. As much as he willed them to, the cancer sticks just weren’t cutting it lately. It was this job; he wasn’t going to be able to handle this goddamn job much longer. One more night. Just one more night and he would be rich.

#

       “Hey, Monty,” the scruffy voice said on the other end of the cell phone. “It’s Vince.”

       “I know who it is. What do you want? My debt with you has been paid off for five months now.”

       “Hey, I know, I know. Don’t get your panties in a bunch. You remember Donny?”

       “That fat-ass piece-of-shit you call a boss?”

       “Whoa, Monty. Don’t go saying such hurtful things. You never know who could be listening.”

       Monty made sure to keep his running mouth quiet. Donny was a lazy sack who had his minions do all his bidding for him. He vowed never to get involved with Donny and his goons again once his ten thousand dollar gambling debt had been paid off earlier in the year.

       “Why are you calling me, Vince?” Monty got straight to the point.

       There was a slight pause before the man on the other end continued. “I was wondering if you wanted to help out with a job.”

       “I’m not interested. Sorry.”

       “It pays well.”

       “I told you, I’m not interested.”

       “It pays very well, Monty.”

       “I’m hanging up.”

       Monty was about to end the call when Vince spoke up one more time.

       “Five hundred thousand dollars, Monty.”

       The high numbers flashing through his head caused him to pause for a long time. That was a lot of money. A lot of money. Retiring money. Not that he really had anything to retire from, though; he was currently between jobs, earning his money by peddling fake designer watches, wallets, shirts, and the like on the streets. That kind of stuff would be a thing of the past if the money were true. He would be set for life.

       “You still there?” Vince asked.

       “Yeah, yeah. I’m thinking.”

       “You’d be rich, Monty. That’s settling down money. Donny needs an answer in two days, so don’t take too long thinking about it.”

       Vince hung up, leaving Monty to regret ever picking up the phone in the first place.

#

       That was one week ago, and now he was stuck babysitting a five-year-old child with a major ADD problem. The only thing getting him through it was the thought of all that money coming his way in the end. That and the many cigarette breaks to help calm his nerves.

       Monty finished the last of his cigarette and snubbed the butt out under his shoe. He needed to get back inside and make sure little Jimmy was behaving himself.

       Little Jimmy Reinhold, son of Alexander and Meredith Reinhold, was worth an estimated fifteen million. At least that’s how much Donny “Big D” Pantini was ransoming the kid for. The Reinhold’s could afford it. Easily. The Reinhold name was stamped onto every art gallery and museum in the eastern half of the United States. Getting his start in the stock market, and getting very lucky, Alexander Reinhold III began investing in finding places to house small galleries or artists he liked or were his friends. He quickly became popular, finding the hippest and trendiest spots in a city to open a new art center, and with that popularity came even more fortune. He was an artist himself, selling several paintings and sculptures to other rich and famous people around the world--Johnny Depp owned a piece that was proudly displayed in his home. With the Reinhold name at its peak in popularity, Donny thought it was about time he got in on his share of the profits. The man was operating and living in New York City, Donny’s neighborhood, so it made perfect sense for Big D to get his cut.

       And now Monty would be getting a cut as well, even if the amount was small compared to what Big D was asking for. Money is money, and now he’ll have enough to live his life how he really envisioned it. He was already making plans in his head with what to do with all that cash. He’d always wanted to live in the Caribbean and with five hundred thousand dollars his dream would come true. A life of quiet relaxation in the sun. Who would want more? Not Monty. He was a simple guy who enjoyed the simple things in the world.

       Walking back into the warehouse, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to finish the job. He could hear the thrashing and destruction that kid was making in the tiny room. That kid, man! He’d never had to put up with someone as obnoxious and troublesome as that kid. He probably should have known the minute Vince put Jimmy in his care.

#

       “Here ya go, kid,” the large and thick man said, throwing the screaming and flailing child into the small room.  He landed against the wall on the other side with a thud and then landed on the mattresses that had been laid out for his arrival. “Make sure you behave yourself for good ole’ Monty here. Otherwise you’ll be seeing me again.” Jimmy got up from the makeshift bed and made a run for the door, but Vince was quicker and slammed it in the kid’s face.

       Monty stood nervously in the background of it all, wincing every time he thought Vince’s large hands were hurting the little boy. He looked so small and frail, a skinny little twerp who was probably not even four-and-a-half feet tall. While Vince had been manhandling Jimmy, Monty noticed one of the man’s hands could almost envelop the child’s head. He envisioned Vince doing so and then squeezing until the head burst like a grapefruit. Vince’s muscular hands could probably do it, too; Monty once saw him crush a man’s windpipe with only one hand. The man was vicious.

       “Well, my job is done for now.” Vince turned his attention away from the prison cell and turned to Monty. “Now it’s your turn, Monty. This is a big a job. The biggest job Donny’s ever attempted. Keep him fed and attend to his needs. Make sure nothing happens. You have no idea how important this is. Don’t. Fuck. This. Up.”

       Monty choked down a gulp. He was always so nervous and fidgety around the intimidating brute. He reached down into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette from his pack to smoke. He greeted the soothing smoke with pleasure. Jimmy Reinhold was constantly screaming and pounding in the background; Monty tried his best to ignore the wailing pleas.

       “So, can you handle this, Monty? Did we find the right guy for the job?”

       “Yeah. Of course.” He had to take a few more long drags to soothe his mind.

       “Good,” Vince said, now with a large grin on his face. “And, put that out. No smoking in here. You can smoke outside.” He plucked the half-smoked stick from Monty’s mouth and crushed it under one of his large boots. Monty knew well enough not to protest.

       “Now, before I go, are there any questions?”

       “Well...”

       “Because there should be none. We went through everything you need and need to know. You have money for food, I think Donny was a little too generous in that department. How much can a kid really eat in five days anyways? And you have all the amenities in this warehouse a normal apartment would have. You’re set, and will be set if it all goes as planned. You have my cell, but I don’t want to hear from you. Donny and me will come by on Friday to pick up and deliver him back to his parents. That is, if they pay.”

       Monty didn’t want to think about what would happen if the kid’s parents didn’t pony up the dough. The message left was loud and clear: if you don’t pay, little Jimmy’s throat gets slit and his body gets thrown in the Hudson. Would Big D really kill a child? He pushed the gruesome thought out of his head.

       Without saying another word, Vince had left Monty. He was now alone, all by himself, babysitting a ten-year-old for the better part of a week. It was a big job, a huge responsibility. He’d never taken care of a child before. He never wanted kids. And now he was stuck with one. One worth five hundred thousand. And then there was the possibility of getting caught. He knew if anyone was going down, it would be him. That’s why he was asked to take care of Jimmy Reinhold; he was the perfect chump to pin it all on.

       Was it worth it?

#

       That question had run through his head so many times in the past four days he had lost count. And it was definitely going through his head now as he approached little Jimmy’s holding cell. Things seemed a little quieter than they should be. Too quiet. What was that little shit up to?

       Monty’s footsteps echoed through the suspiciously quiet warehouse. The place was basically a big, huge empty room. Large, rusty beams shot up from the ground, barely holding the old structure from caving in. The only windows were a single row that ran along the entire building near the top--most of them were probably broken by hooligans trying to have a quick blast by breaking some glass, which littered the floor along the walls. The only other thing in the warehouse was the previously empty room--well, there was a toilet and sink in there--that now made do as a holding cell for a small, young boy.

       Jimmy’s usual wild behavior had quieted down and now there wasn’t a peep coming from the other side of the steel door. Monty’s hand rested on the door handle, his nerves making his hand shake a little as he gripped the handle. He put his ear up to the door. There was nothing. The only time the child was quiet was during the night, but even then the kid’s snoring was loud enough to wake all of New York City. There wasn’t even the snoring this time.

       Something was up. And if that brat thought he was going to get the better of him, then he truly underestimated Montgomery James. He was thirty-eight, and Jimmy was only ten. So why was he still afraid?

       “I’m coming in, kid!” he yelled through the door. “If you try anything at all I’m gonna wring that little neck of yours. Capiche?”

       There was no answer.

       Sighing, hoping there wasn’t going to be any trouble, Monty unlocked the door and slowly pulled it open. The bright light from inside seeped out into the darker warehouse. There was no movement, so Monty opened the door until it was wide open. He studied the inside, but there was no Jimmy Reinhold.

       The room was a mess. Jimmy had been given many things to keep him busy and entertained while being held ransom. There were coloring books, crayons, and markers for him to draw with. A shitty TV was placed in the corner with a Nintendo 64 attached to it with several cables and many games to choose from. He had a couple of mattresses to sleep and play on. The kid had everything he needed. All of it, everything he had been given, was broken and shredded and thrown around the room. The TV was broken and shattered on the floor. Papers were torn and scattered. The mattresses were ripped apart, with the foamy insides gutted and their skeletal springs showing. The walls had been colored on; squiggly lines were drawn around the room in every color.

       But there was no sign of the kid.

       “What the? Kid you better show--”

       A deep, growly voice that came from behind the messy mattresses cut him off. “The roars are here, Mr. Man! I told you they were coming.” The voice was followed by an unearthly growl. Tufts of black hair poked out from behind the mattresses. When they moved, he slammed the door.

       What the hell was that?

       He locked the door as fast as he could. A loud crashing noise, probably the lights breaking, came from behind the steel door. Monty, trembling in his sneakers, backed away from the door. He fell onto the couch when the pounding began.

       Bang! The steel door shuddered in its frame.

       “I’m coming for you, Mr. Man!”

       Bang! The steel door shuddered again.

       “Mr. Maaaannnn! You’re going to be so tasty!”

       Bang! The steel door almost came free, barely holding.

       “I can smell you! Mmmmm!”

       Bang! The steel door flew from its frame, flying to the ground.

       Deep, yellow eyes glowed from the darkness that was within. A rough snarl echoed.

       It was at that moment Monty finally found his nerves and ran. Never turning back--because he knew the second he turned his head the kid, that thing, would have him--he ran for his life. His footfalls echoed through the warehouse. He was halfway to the door when he heard the loud and heavy stomps behind him, gaining on him. His right arm reached the door to the outside. He pulled and was slammed against the door, shutting his escape. Sharp pains dug into his back as he was brought face-first into the ground. Something weighing a ton began to drag him back into the warehouse. Monty screamed and clawed at the cement ground. His fingernails snapped off, leaving bloody clawing marks on the floor.

       Before disappearing into the cell that once held a kid, and then a monster, Monty couldn’t help but think how this was not the way this should have ended. He should have ended up rich, living on a beach somewhere in the tropics. He wasn’t supposed to die by what was once a ten-year-old boy biting into his neck and ripping his head off.

#

       “Try him one more time, and then we’re going in.”

       Vince sat nervously in the driver’s seat of Donny’s black GMC Denali XT. He had his cell phone up to his ear. Come on, Monty. What’s taking you so long? You know the boss doesn’t like to be kept waiting. I’m gonna hurt that fucker. It was the third time he had tried Monty’s cell phone and received no answer. They were parked outside the warehouse, and if they had to go in, Vince would get some shit for it.

       “That’s it,” Big D said. “I’m going in there. If those rich assholes won’t pony up the money, I’ll have to show them I mean business with a few mailed boxes, each containing one of the boy’s ten fingers. Did you hear what they responded back with? They said we better watch ourselves, that we are in store for a special treat. How dare they mock me! I really should just kill the kid outright and show them who runs this city.”

       Donny opened the back door--he liked to have someone be his chauffeur, making him look important--and stepped out into the cool night. Vince sighed; he knew this was not going to end well. He got out of the car and followed the boss. It was a short walk to the other side of the building, where the entrance was, and Big D never stopped complaining.

       “Damn that Monty character, making me wait and waist precious time. What did you promise him after this whole deal?”

       “Five hundred thousand,” Vince answered, quickly to add, “Like you said, boss.”

       “Maybe we should just let him go. He doesn’t have any friends, does he? He wouldn’t be missed?”

       “No one would know.” Monty was usually a decent enough guy, and Vince didn’t really want to put a bullet in the man. But if Big D decided it was so, then it was so.

       “Hmm, I’ll think about it. Maybe he could do some more business for us to get on my good side. I’ll have a little talk with him when he finally shows himself.”

       The two arrived to find the door to the warehouse busted out from its hinges, wide open for anyone to just enter.

       “Is this a joke? Is Monty not taking this job seriously?”

       Vince laid his hand on the gun at his hip. “Monty wouldn’t be that stupid to leave the door open. Look how it’s all busted up. I think something’s up.”

       Vince could see a little fright enter Big D’s eyes. The man always tried to play it smooth and cool, but Vince knew the man got scared fairly easily. And whenever the boss was scared, he would send one of his goons to solve the problem, so Vince knew exactly how this would play out. He would get sent in to make sure everything was safe.

       “Well, what are you waiting for?” the large man asked his lackey. “Go in and see what’s going on.”

       “Of course,” he replied, taking out his silenced pistol.

       Vince walked into the empty warehouse. There was no one around. But there were definite signs of something out of place going on. He could see a spot on the ground where it looked like someone had been dragged and the cement had been clawed at. Looking closer, he saw spots of blood and six to seven bloody things that looked like fingernails. He followed the trail of blood, which grew larger and larger, until he reached the room where the kid was supposed to be staying. God, Monty, if you let that kid escape... The door to the room was lying in front of the black couch; it looked like it had been torn off by something large. Big dents were in the steel door and nothing small could have done that. The bloody trail led into the dark room that should have held Jimmy Reinhold.

       “Monty? You in there?” He waited, his pistol pointed down into the room, but there was no answer in return. “Monty? Jimmy?” Nothing.

       Vince cautiously walked into the dark room. He couldn’t make much out, but it looked like the placed had been ransacked. He could make out a broken television on the ground and a large lump that had to be the mattresses. Then there was the other large lump on the floor, the one that looked an awful lot like a body. He took a slow step forward and stepped into a slimy substance that was pooled on the floor around the body-like lump.

       “Monty?”

       “Vince!” The yell came from inside the warehouse. It was followed by two shots from a gun. Then by more yelling. “Oh, God! Help me, Vince! Ah!” Two more shots, and then a horrible ripping and gurgling sound. And was that a snarl? Vince heard a splash and then saw a round object looking a lot like Donny’s big, bald head roll by the entrance to the small room he was in. It left a line of red across the dirty and grey cement floor.

       “Who’s there? I have a gun!” He yelled into the outside, hoping to God that whoever was out there would get scared and run.

       A deep roar answered him. “It’s me. I remember your smell. You brought me here and hurt me. And now I’m going to hurt you.”

       Vince aimed his pistol at the light that poured into the room. He could see the couch on the other side of the warehouse and that line of blood. Then there was a dark shadow that began to loom forward. Vince fired into the opening. The giggle of a child and a deep growl challenged him back. Vince backed up, walking deeper into the dark room that he was trapped in. He cowered behind the dirty, ripped apart mattresses.

       “The roars are here! I told the other one but he didn’t believe me. Here I come!”

       Vince was able to get three more shots off from his gun before the furry creature that was once a young little Jimmy Reinhold tore his neck wide open. He could see his own red blood splash against the dark, black fur and sharp, white teeth that snapped at him. The last thing he heard were snarls, growls, and a child’s giggles.

END

        

Nudging

Nudging

By Michael Shimek

“I never meant to hurt anyone. Well, at least not at first. It’s hard to get what you want, though, when there are people standing in your way of success.”
          The homeless man--I assume this, looking at his ratty, dirty, smelly clothes, his scraggly, knotted beard and hair, and the bags around him that were most certainly his belongings--is sitting upright on the bench next to me, snoring slightly with his hands folded in his lap. I can see each breath in the cool, autumn morning, as well as my own. He continues his sleeping as I continue my talking.
          “That was my problem, my downfall. Ever since I was a little boy, succeeding in anything and everything dominated my thoughts. The thing is, I was never any good at anything and everything, just average. I was never the smartest in my classes, but I always managed to be in the top twenty-five percent. Athleticism had skipped my thin body from building much muscle, but I still played basketball, football, golf, and lacrosse through high school and my freshman year at Princeton.  My mother made me take music lessons in junior high, both piano and violin, but that didn’t last too long. I wasn’t average when it came to playing music; I was just plain bad. Despite lacking any great skills, I still managed to succeed in life thanks to one little, hidden talent.
          “You see,” I said, looking at the unmoving man, “I nudge things.”  Somewhere in my mind I want him to react to this, but he never awakes. A little disappointed, I carry on with my story.
          “The discovery came to me when I was only eight-years old. It could have happened before that age, but it’s the first memory I have of the power coming forth.
          “Hanging out with a few neighbor friends, we all decided to see who could run the fastest. Each of us threw a dollar bill into a baseball cap, and the first person to run around the house and cross the finish line would win and get to keep the four dollars. By the time we rounded the last corner of my neighbor’s house I was in last place. Jimmy was leading, with Randy and Henry close behind, while I was lagging several paces behind everyone. There was no hope at winning. I could see the hat, with the earnings sticking out and mocking me. I imagined Jimmy’s right foot tripping over his left. To my surprise, that’s exactly what happened. He flew headfirst into the ground, and because Randy and Henry were so close behind him, they couldn’t avoid tripping over him and falling as well. I bounded over them with ease, claiming my prize as I crossed the finish line.
          “I didn’t realize what I had done at the time, categorizing the event under strange luck. Years would pass by before this odd talent would manifest again. Thankfully, it showed up just in time to escape getting arrested for drinking and driving.
          “God, I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Maybe I just need to tell someone. Anyone. You know? I’ve been holding onto this secret, and I think I just need to speak it. To get it out there. And it’s not like you’re going to go blabbing about this.” The reason escapes me, but I feel compelled to tell this passed out bum my whole story. “Anyway, let me go on.”
          “It was late at night, probably just after midnight, and I was on my way home from a party. Several of my football buddies decided to celebrate a win against our high school’s biggest rival, Pendleton High Seahawks, by throwing a party. After a few keg stands and drunkenly making out with my high school crush, the party began dying down. Instead of choosing to sleep on the floor, I thought driving home to sleep in my comfy bed would be a good idea. The drive was a couple of miles through back roads, so I figured it would be a piece of cake getting home without causing any accidents. And I was right. Sort of.
          “It was one of the few times I foolishly got behind the wheel of a car to drive after feeling inebriated. It was stupid, I know, but I figured I could make it without any trouble. I was doing fine, and probably only had a mile left, when the flashing lights of red and blue appeared in my mirrors. I knew I was too drunk to be let off with just a warning, so I started panicking. I almost ran for it, thinking if I just made it home I would be safe. Knowing that running from the police would make matters worse, I focused all of my attention on the lights behind me, wishing they would disappear.
          “The feeling that went through my body when I focused on that cop car was intense. I had never had sex before that moment, but it was better than any orgasm my hands had ever given me. It was like my brain had opened up to a whole new wonderful world. Power and happiness washed over me. There was nothing in the world that could be compared to this feeling, and it only lasted for a second or two.
          “I get this feeling every time the moment before I nudge. It is heaven.”
          The sound of an early morning jogger approaching makes me pause my story. Taking a sip from my cup--I drink a large caramel latte every morning, with an extra shot or two of espresso to help wake me up--I look out into the park, pretending to enjoy the view. Actually, the green grass and changing leaves swaying in the gentle, cool breeze is quite nice, so there is no need to pretend. A younger, in-shape man strolls by as he nods to the music in his headphones. Huge clouds of breath vapor can be seen with each puff of air. I wait for the jogger to disappear before speaking again.
          “Where was I? Oh, yes! Moving the cop car. I don’t know how, but suddenly I could feel myself push the car and its obnoxious flashing lights away from my own Jeep Cherokee. Watching the lights in my mirror, they disappeared as the cop swerved on the road and into the ditch, flipping several times before coming to a halt.
          “Slowing my vehicle down, I weighed the options in my head. I could pretend as if nothing had happened, ignore the police officer, and then head home. This option almost won me over, but I knew that I had caused the accident. As impossible as it was, my mind had pushed the car into that ditch. I didn’t want to hurt the person; I just didn’t want the car behind me anymore. My conscience got the better of me, so I turned around to see if help was needed.
          “The car was upside down, and the officer behind the wheel was passed out. Knowing first aid from a lifeguarding class I had taken the previous semester in the school year, I pulled him out and offered the best help I could. He was unhurt, but he was also unconscious. Since cell phones weren’t really around at the time--shit, you look older than me, no offense, you remember how rough that was--I got back into the officer’s cruiser and radioed for some help. When he finally came to, he was so relieved to be safe that he let me go with a warning and had another officer drive me home, while another drove my car home. They were even quiet enough to make sure my parents wouldn’t wake up. That probably would have been worse than being arrested; my parents were very strict when I was younger.”
          I stop to take a few more sips of my beverage, savoring the warm pick-me-up. It hits the spot.
          “So,” I say, turning back to the snoring man, “the next day, after a very rough night of drunken sleep, I wake up thinking it was all my imagination. How wrong I was! I immediately try my skeptical ability and nudge my alarm clock right off my nightstand and onto the floor. You wouldn’t believe my amazement! It was impossible, but it was happening. I spent the whole day locked in my bedroom moving things around with my mind.”
          “Let me explain something. It’s not telekinesis; understand. Yes, I can move things with my mind, but only slightly. Which is why I call it nudging. I ‘nudge’ things the way I want them to go.
          “You wouldn’t believe how excited I was! Finally, I could make things go my way.
          “I couldn’t really do much with it, at first. I mostly just played around with my new power and toyed around with minor things. The ability came in handy to change the channels on the television or play practical jokes on my friends. It really wasn’t until I turned eighteen that my life really got interesting. You see, in Minnesota, once a person turns eighteen it is legal for them to gamble. And wouldn’t you believe it that a large casino happened to be right in my hometown. Craps and roulette, those were my games. I was never any good at card games, but it was easy to make the dice roll my way or make the little, white ball land on my number. So as to not draw any unwanted attention, I traveled the state to different casinos, winning money left and right. In the following six months before deciding to attend college, I had racked up over fifty thousand dollars. I couldn’t believe it! Success was racing through my mind.
          “After a while, I began to experiment a bit more with my newfound secret. I knew I could move physical things, but I had wondered if I could nudge someone’s mind. Testing it out on my father, I asked him if I could borrow twenty bucks from him. I didn’t need the money, but the second I asked the question, I could feel him thinking about it in his head. Everyone thinks about a question they are asked. Everyone. Even if their answer seems automatic, there is always the slightest hint of what they are choosing to say. I can feel this, almost like time slows down to a complete stop. Then I use this to nudge the person’s choice into my favor. This is how I persuaded Princeton into accepting me into their university. Oh, and of course I got the twenty from my father.”
          A few more joggers run by and I stop again, waiting for them to pass. Soon this park will be a bit more crowded with people, enjoying the perfect autumn day. My story will have to speed up if I want to get it completely off my chest.
          “Skipping ahead through a few years of studying heavily, and earning money while gambling on the side, I finally became a millionaire on my twenty-first birthday.
          “A few buddies and I thought it would be a blast to travel on over to Las Vegas and have a couple nights of fun. I footed the bill for plane tickets and a hotel room; it was my idea in the first place. After casino hopping through the night, we ended up staying in a suite at Caesars Palace, fully compensated for being a high roller. The rest of the trip was basically free, and by the end of the trip I was two million dollars richer.
          “Once again, success was on my mind. I poured a good amount of money into my studying and school degree--it’s quite expensive getting a B.A.S from Princeton; they gouge you for your money while having the nerve to ask for more in donations after graduating--and then I spent a fair amount investing in different business opportunities. I was getting richer and richer every year. I could have retired by twenty-five, but I just couldn’t stop wanting more success.
          “Then I wanted power.
          “You see, the money was great, but I was missing something. I was having fun buying houses and boats while throwing extravagant parties to entice some lovely lady friends into spending some quality time with me, if you catch my drift. But soon I found you could have all the money in the world and still be nothing if no one respected you. Once you have that, you’re golden.
          “Earning respect from others is a type of power. When people respect you, they listen to you.
          “So, what do I do next? I start to give away millions of dollars to all sorts of different kinds of charities. I donated money to hospitals, schools, and homeless people, like yourself. I gave money to foundations that research and study different diseases in hopes of a cure. I also look into businesses that try to develop new, more affordable, and energy efficient technology. I still give to these charities, and I’m always looking for more to donate to. By doing all of this, I’ve earned a very positive reputation, not only in the United States but in several other countries as well. In fact, maybe you’ve heard of me? Anthony McWeather?”
          The homeless man never makes even the slightest move from his snoring perch in reference to my name. I frown but keep talking.
          “No? Well, everyone will eventually. Anyway, while donating all of this money, I also went back to school and earned a degree in accountancy and finance so I could understand the business world a little more. The degrees helped immensely. Through knowing people, I was able to obtain a job working for one of the most successful companies in history. While climbing up the ranks, I quickly became close friends with the founder and CEO, Mr. Mitchell Robinson--who is currently ranked as the thirty-fifth richest person in the world, mind you--along with most of the board of directors, the vice president, and many other people within the company. I’ve been with the company for several years now, and they all love me. And, you’ll never get this, they even have me in their succession plan! You know what that means, right? When Mr. Mitchell Robinson dies, I become the new CEO!
          “You wouldn’t believe how excited I was when I first found this out a year ago. Imagine, me, pretty much running a whole company. I would be rich, while becoming richer, and have power. There’s only one problem with this; I’m a very impatient man.
          “I’m currently in my early thirties. I’m not old by any means, but I’m also not getting any younger. Mr. Mitchell Robinson is a fit, healthy man in his mid-fifties with plenty of time on this planet before nature would take its course. The only thing I could hope for would be a fatal disease, like cancer, or possibly some sort of accident…”
          Trailing off into my own thoughts, I see the homeless man finally stir. Hacking up some nasty phlegm, he yawns several times before turning to see me sitting next to him.
          He stares at me with drowsy, bloodshot eyes. His face is full of confusion, trying to understand why a dressed up businessman is sitting on a bench next to him while he wakes up. I give him a warm, friendly smile, which seems to only add more confusion to his face.
          “What’re you doin’ here?” he asks, slurring his speech.
          “I was just looking for someone to talk to, someone to confide in. Can I trust you to keep my secret?”
          “Huh? What?” He gives me a queer look and then gazes down into his hands that are resting in his lap. “Crazy birds stealin’ my food again. Damn birds. Don’t know what they’re doin’. They tryin’ to arrest me. I aint done nothin’ wrong! Money. Gonna need me some money. Find me some bitches. Cigarettes and matches. Booze. Gonna need all that.”
          The man’s insane ramblings go on about nothing. Standing up, I contemplate giving him a hemorrhage in his brain. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve nudged someone into dying this way. Instead, I take out several coins from one of the pockets of my brown, wool topcoat and toss them into his lap. His hands catch them, and then he looks up at me smiling a wide, toothless grin.
          “I think I can trust you,” I say as I walk down the paved path that brought me to the comforting bench.
          The leaves are just beginning to fall and pepper the land, which is one of my favorite times of the year. Finding a nearby trashcan, I finish the last few sips of my beverage and throw it in. Looking at my wrist, my Rolex tells me I have twenty minutes to get to my destination on time. That is, if I still want to adhere to my plan.
          As I walk a brisk pace, I can feel nerves begin to travel through my body. Whether they are nerves of fear or excitement, I’m not sure. I try to take my mind away from the subject, but it’s the only thing I can think about. I weigh out the pros and cons. I go through every possible reason why I should do it and every possible reason why I shouldn’t do it. I feel like my mind is trying to back out of something it has already decided.
          Reaching the edge of the park, I cross the street into the busy city. People are hustling and bustling about, making their morning commute to work or wherever they need to be. Taxis, buses, bicyclists, and other vehicles rev, squeal, ding, and break in the packed streets. I blend in with the crowd, walking along with the traffic that moves in waves at the obedience of the traffic lights. It doesn’t take me too long to traverse the two blocks, making my timing perfect.
          Standing outside the Time Warner Center, I don’t have to wait long before Mr. Mitchell Robinson walks out of the building after an early morning meeting. Being the prompt, punctual, on-the-dot kind of man, he looks around the crowd of people for me. We are supposed to meet at exactly nine o’clock to make a meeting across the city. Not seeing my face among the many people, he pulls out his phone and begins to call me as he strolls to the curb to wait for his limo.
          There are two things I’ve noticed about the salt and pepper haired man when he travels. First, he always steps right on the curb, dangerously close to the street, so his limo driver can see him clearly. Second, I’ve noticed the limo driver always drives a little too fast when pulling up to his boss. The two in combination is an accident waiting to happen.
          Today is no different. 
          As soon as Mr. Mitchell Robinson steps onto the curb, I call out his name and wave at him. Turning towards the call of his name, he is momentarily distracted from his limo that I can already see driving in his direction. He sees me and puts his phone back in his pocket as he gives a small wave back. His limo is only seconds away from driving up next to him, once again driving way too fast
          One little nudge. That’s all it will take to continue on my way to success.
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