Bryan Blockson and Robert Scott

Introduction to the author:

I like writing stories and essays and stories written like essays because, in the long run, someone might actually read this shit.


Every morning around 6a I wake-up, walk to the bathroom and wash my face with water. I don’t use soap. My girlfriend has explained to me on numerous occasions how soap dries your skin and can cause visual discoloration. Which is something that I want no parts of. When she gives me advice like this I wonder if she’s telling me this for knowledge simply, or for me to take into practice. It could be that she simply loves me and knows that I like to look good. She might just be giving her slightly narcissistic boyfriend some beauty tips before it’s too late. After the wash, it’s off to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. I recently visited Paris and stayed with a friend in a small city called Montpellier. In a smaller town, called Rivieres, a village type town where the old way of doing things is still quite popular. Don’t get me wrong they had running water and electricity, but most of the roads were not paved and you may walk into a home that still has a VHS player hooked to an old tube television that may or may not work. I say this only to discuss the percolator I brought. It took longer to make than your instant Keurig brand, but the wait was always worth it. The coffee was rich, robust, and thick. There was always a spoonful of coffee sludge left resting at the bottom of the carafe which I stirred into my cup of coffee. While waiting for the coffee to come to a boil I roll a cigar with some weed my girlfriend left on the kitchen table for me last night. With the cigar behind my ear and coffee mug in my hand, I head off to the living room and onto the couch where my laptop lay resting.
I light my cigar, inhale the smoke, slowly exhale the smoke, and begin typing.
I think love is most assuredly the most dangerous and volatile emotion that exists. The love I have for the woman sleeping in the other room as I smoke her weed and drink our coffee comforts me. Not the comfort a baby feels being held by its mother in the warmest of blankets as a cool breeze kisses the child’s forehead the same time the father leans in and does the same. No, nothing like that, that’s beautiful. It’s a comfort knowing that there is someone in this world whose view of reality is just as fucked up as mine. I question my sanity, hoping that questioning my sanity is a good thing because accepting this strange world of loving someone else is insane. Why have I given her free will to stomp on my heart and roam around my brain? These areas of emotion are usually restricted, however, she moves about them freely, untethered and unsupervised. Love must be why I allowed her into a physically restricted area when one of her friends told her that her husband liked it and that we should try it… I told her I wouldn’t like it… Anyway.
Have you ever said you were wrong about something, but knew you were actually right? Is that love, or have I learned that apologizing makes her stop talking? Being wrong never sounded so good.
How thin is the line between love and hate? Can you see it? Is there an eye chart to measure such a thing? I think love is hate. If the feelings aren’t the same why do they seem to cause so many of the same problems? They are at least in the same family. Love creates hate. If you’re a spiritual or religious person then a great love created everything. That great love would have also created hate. Without love, there would be no hate. Without hate, how would we recognize love?
Right now I hate my girlfriend. I can’t remember why, and will most likely forgive her for it because I can’t recall why I hate her. The reason, I’m sure, will not be worth the argument, discussion, or conversation that will ensue if I decide to bring it up. I do know that I don’t dislike her right now. It’s the power of love or the lack of power a person has whilst in love. The only power we truly have is our partner's daily path to happiness. You may disagree, but allow me to explain.
Choosing to be happy may be up to the individual, but the path to happiness can be full of detours and roadblocks. It can be a slow climb to happiness when there’s no morning coffee and even slower when he’s the one who forgot the coffee, but I’m not the one who drinks coffee. I’m starting to remember something I forgot.
I can accept most things I can’t change or control. The things I can’t change or control are generally shrugged off and ignored. I choose how I involve myself in conversations or certain altercations in public settings. Choosing to stay out of a situation is the only control I have in an uncontrollable situation. I know I shouldn’t get involved in this conversation about racism… It could get loud.
If someone outside of “Love” says something disrespectful to me I can chalk it up to ignorance. I allow it to roll off my back as if it never happened. They don’t know they offended me, and I can tell that they did not intentionally disrespect me. At home, it’s a different story… respect and disrespect are both intentional. You’ve both got dirt on each other. Whatever this person says, is personal. Your office buddy telling a joke about you getting drunk is different than your girlfriend telling a story about the same subject because there’s no hidden agenda. While your office mate tells the story- he laughs.
He may also only have one story of your drunkard buffoonery. Your wife’s story is only funny to the people she tells it to, but her retelling of the story brings up negative feelings in you. Even though the story’s funny she barely laughs while reciting it. The story, in fact, made your drinking at the current party, uncomfortable. You suddenly feel resentment. You step outside, you reach into your pocket… no joints- she told me to leave the weed in the car.
There is no line between love and hate. It’s the same thing. Right now I choose to call it hate. I hate her. She’s my best friend but I hate her guts. Which just means I love her guts and that she’s my best friend. No line. Eventually, I will go back inside. I stay outside briefly not to arouse suspicion of an argument amongst our friends, but long enough to make my wife uncomfortable. Not that our friends would notice they know I smoke weed and most of them smoke or want to. I walk back into the soiree. My wife looks at me, but smiles genuinely and even lifts her right eyebrow a bit seductively towards me. Maybe I do love her. She is pretty. She begins walking towards me and I meet her halfway. She leans against my body, and I kiss her forehead, she lifts her lips to my cheek…a kiss?
The story must have brought up sentimental memories of fun times we shared way back when. Like last weekend. It was during this contemplation when I felt the bullet enter my chest and rip through my back shattering my vertebrae rendering me paralyzed, but luckily I died.
That’s not exactly how it happened. It seemed like the perfect set up for such an incident. If she had done that my last words would’ve have been; “Kudos to style points”. Death, however, is imminent… for all of us. It’s biology or at least some form of science.
I should be writing something else.
Procrastination is definitely a strong point of mine, but when deadlines are involved that specific mutant power does not provide much assistance. Self-made deadlines have also never proven to work for me. I don’t like being told what to do. Even if I’m the one providing the instruction. Interesting. My confidence in this endeavor is steadily shrinking. Having dealt with little to no confidence or my widely used and abused fake confidence these waters of no-confidence are familiar territory. I’ve drowned and been resuscitated in these waters of misery and disappointment. I’ve mastered this form of self-loathing motivation. They say you should start with the truth.
I’ll start with what I know… First off. I killed my wife years ago, so who in the fuck is in my bedroom? Secondly…

I am a liar.

Introduction to the Story:

I am a liar. It feels good to finally admit that. However, what is a storyteller if not a liar. Lying to himself or herself, and convincing themselves it's just imagination. A storyteller allows others to believe his lies. They call it creativity. I’ve yet to see the difference. My life is a true story surrounded by fictitious tales of the truth. A love story if you will. A love story is interesting because love is stupid. Same as hate.
You see, love creates a security that chips away insecurities. That security builds up and turns into confidence. Confidence in itself is a drug or at least a con. Confidence as a drug can be abused. The con becomes strung out on confidence, and overconfidence becomes the downfall. Now blinded by what love started, the goal of two becomes the mission of one with the labor of love falling onto the other. With only one person working at love, it reminds of the cheetah chasing the gazelle. Although they seem to be running in the same direction, their goals are completely different.
The cheetah is actually the animal more inclined to their feelings in this analogy seeing that it's the one doing the chasing. If the cheetah and gazelle are a couple, the gazelle represents the goal-oriented animal running into the world to conquer everything the cheetah convinced the gazelle was possible. The cheetah is chasing after the Love they built to get this far in the first place. The unthinkable, but expected occurs when the gazelle maneuvers unexpectedly, sending the cheetah on an embarrassing reel. Rolling and falling, foolishly trying to regain his/her footing, and causing quite the spectacle. For onlookers, it's a surprise, but an expected surprise. We knew the gazelle was cheating on the cheetah. One of us should have told the cheetah. Too bad the cheetah is kind of a bitch.
When the dust clears the gazelle is being devoured by a lion. The lion doesn't have to be a person, it could be an idea of a life without the cheetah, a life without you. Maybe it is a person, or a place, either way, the gazelle is happily getting devoured, and the cheetah is too tired to fight. Love is a topic that has all the juiciness of every topic. Lies exist in love as do hard truths. Lies like; That dress doesn't make you look fat, and truths like; they don't love me anymore. The worst truth could be finding out that you no longer love them and they love you very much.
If a story could be written that would topple all other stories, love would have to be the main character with the co-star being hate which is derived from love. For God created the world. The world represents hate. Throughout the Bible, it states how we are not to be worldly or of the world.
God (or whatever) also created angels. The fallen angels of heaven are called demons. Which means God created the devil. It was God’s love and/or confidence (and/or overconfidence) that led to the devils hate. Hate plays a large role in a story. A great story has a little violence. Even a great or at least an entertaining relationship is a love/hate relationship. How boring this world would be if both entities (God/Devil) vying for our love or attention truly wanted the best for us. It's better that it's a competition They both just want to be loved the most. Sometimes sacrificing the innocent just to make a point (i.e. Job).
Imagine a couple who only love and understand each other… How disturbing. How boring. We’d all wait for their relationship to come to a stress-filled demise. We’d relish every argument leading up to the demise, and when one of them finally killed the other, we’d accept it. That makes more sense. So, my plan is not a plan of reality, just a creative story filled with true reactions. Some of these stories may be true, but I’ll never tell.
Your humanity will come into question. Not the fate of humanity, but what it means to be a human. If a vote were taken I believe we’d all agree that down to the core we are all decent human beings, but what's "being decent".
Let us build a scene. I’d like to start outside in a parking lot. Of course, there are cars in this parking lot but there’s one car in particular that has been sitting still for quite some time. Its' been sitting so long in fact that the children who’ve been playing at the jungle gym have forgotten about it. They haven't noticed that no one has actually exited the car. From sunlight to street light the car has sat in a now dark apartment complex parking lot for more than four hours. An apartment complex not known for hosting the savoriest of characters.
I could start in the car…

Chapter 1


It’s hard to see or think clearly here. Not inside the car, but considering the amount of the smoke in the car I wouldn't be speaking figuratively if I admitted that I can't see anything in here. It’s the fog in my brain. The fog is so thick that figuratively 10ft of visibility is all that can be expected. This place drives me crazy. My thoughts are relentless ramblings of inconsequential bullshit. I do however find solace in my memories, not true. I attempt to mentally re-live beautiful scenarios of my days spent, but the happy polaroid's of my past are harder to find nowadays with most of the details forgotten or changed. Even the wonderful and/or horrible “spank bank” memories that I've collected have also quite literally run dry.
“Get out of your head Viktor”.
Viktor is my last name. Everyone else calls me by my first name, but Charlie has always called me Viktor. She likes it more than my first. She tells me I’m a manic depressant. So do the doctors. More depressant than manic she says.

“You know I hate being here”.
“This car is not so bad”. She says smugly. “Besides, I’m in here, how could you hate it”?

She leans her back against the passenger door turning her body sideways but towards me. She pulls the zipper of her shirt down exposing the top flesh of her lightly tanned breast. I lazily glance over lifting my eyebrows showing little interest. Showing little interest is a specialty of mine. I remain professionally emotionless on purpose. Truth be told Charlie is very sexy. Truth be told, so am I. We are a black and white duo. I’m the black one. Right now she is very sexy, but I only find her amazing when she’s not trying. I appreciate the flirt, but my mind is elsewhere.
It’s not the car I hate. It’s Kentucky. I hate this place. It feels godforsaken. I doubt that God has truly forsaken this place because where it is good there is evil, so I must assume where it is evil there must be some good. I do feel, however, that the good remains here as long as I do, and leaves when I leave.
Kentucky bores me. Most of the people in Kentucky bore me. No culture. At least not a culture that rises the "give a fuck" bone in my body. It is a culture of basketball, horses, tobacco, and alcohol. Not to forget the racism. Throw in a couple of rednecks and we’ve got a country song that starts on a farm and ends back on the farm in which it started on. More in the head ramblings. I come out of my head long enough to hear Charlie tell me to get out of my head.
“I hate this place”, I say.
“Shut-up Viktor, I think that's him”.
My reply… “Thank God”.

They’ve been sitting in her rental car outside an apartment complex for more than 3 hours. They’ve staked out this individuals residence three times a day for three hours at a time for about three weeks. A married couple doesn't compare to two people who actually know each other. The best of best friends don't stand a chance in how well these two get along or don't get along at times. The random mundane information that truly develops or make a human who they are is known. The annoying traits, habits, and reflexes have been memorized. With them, a lazy laugh and genuine laugh are all the same. Aside from the occasional complaint of hunger, this stakeout has been comfortably quiet.

The “him” that Charlie is referring to is a “he” that robbed her at gunpoint. I was in the room when this robbery occurred, but the gun was too close to her and me too far away from the gun to react. I was not going to lose my friend over a nervous shot caused by me moving too fast or too slow to stop it. Needless to say, I’m a bit upset. She knows I’m upset. Without her telling me I know she’s nervous about this confrontation. Her anxiety is very real. I can feel it. So, when Charlie exits the vehicle I tell her to wait. When she begins running across the parking lot I tell her to slow down. He’s going to hear you. He’s going to see us. When she begins beating his head in with a golf club she brought to scare him I tell her to stop because he is no longer moving. When he does move I crush his neck with my size 12 work boot. My foot was in the work boot at the time. After that, we didn't say anything.
“Now he’s not moving”, says Charlie.
After that, we didn't say anything.
We drove to a 24-hour diner for a very late/ early breakfast.

We fucked before we ate.
Viktor doesn’t talk much about it, sex that is, but we have the best sex ever. After the incident, we didn't speak to each other. It was a very quiet drive to the diner. He decided to let me drive. I don't think he was shaken up but he's night blind, and him driving at night is dangerous for the both of us. We parked a block away from the diner. He couldn't take his eyes off me. The only time Viktor looks at me like this is when we are in a serious conversation or when he's about to tear my clothes off. It was the latter, luckily, because I wasn't sure if I was ready for a serious conversation. You'd think it would be difficult in a car. The movies make it seem easy. It was hard alright, but not the task.
I noticed him looking at me. I leaned back against the door. He helped me remove my shoes and pants. I was wearing my top... He was working on his bottoms. He didn't rush. He was calm. Which made it more intense. His movements are methodical. He removed his whole belt, which I thought was for theatrics. It wasn't the best sex but my goodness I needed that. I took it too far and he followed me with no hesitation. I love selling weed and felt that letting this person rob me would send the wrong message. A message that said you can rob me. I wanted to make a point. And afterward, he still wants me... The way that he holds me and hungrily grabs me and eats me... His hands are both hard and soft, but his body is just hard. I know he's strong, but it's never until we fuck that I remember and realize how strong and powerful he truly is. He kisses me hard. Because of our size difference, he's not just taller than I am, but bigger. I'm tiny. Slim. Long, but kind of curvy 5'8" and gorgeous. He fucked me like I wasn't a delicate flower, not that I ever claim to be. There was sweat involved I may have bitten him once or twice. I came more than that. I'm not one to be vocal but a few "fuck me's" may have escaped my lips.
I love Viktor. I know he loves me. I can tell he's thinking about this while we eat. He used to not be so quiet. I remember the playful loud Viktor who always had a joke or something smart to say. Something happened during our friendship that changed him. I'm not sure what, but at times he seems emotionless. He used to be an open book, but now I have to read in between the lines.
Like usual I couldn't finish the food I ordered and like usual Viktor finished mine and his food. We paid our tab and left a 30% tip, we figured we should do something good (for karma) before our life turns to shit.
My phone is not connected to me legally, so the messages from the "he" or "him" would be tracked to a figment of my imagination named Jessica Toddy. We didn't move the body on account of all the DNA they'd find in the car if we did. The body, however, is still in the parking lot, an immediate investigation would ensue.
We got rid of the clothes we were wearing and cleaned the car and ourselves as best as we could. The brutality of the murder will bring a lot of attention. We needed to get rid of the rental car but felt if we did it too soon it could be viewed as suspicious. We decided a vacation was in order. We can return the rental to another one of their offices in... Florida. Florida sounds like a great place to lay low for a while. Sarasota, Siesta Keys, FL where we planned going before... This.
"Let's leave tomorrow morning."
"Sounds good to me", said Viktor.
We slept in the same bed. If the police break the door down, I want Viktor holding me or vice versa. I fell asleep under his chin on top of his chest. The police did not kick down the door. We did not change position the whole night and Viktor did not snore (for most of the night) which is why we generally don't sleep together.

My wife is still asleep. I wonder if I should wake her. This story is not going anywhere. I'd like to create something that's one of a kind…