The SoapBoxers

Note: This story is very different than last quarter’s story, Key Relationships. The Cell Window depicts adult situations and crimes against women. You may find this story a bit disturbing. You have been warned ….

The New Recruit

Duncan made a quick test call to verify that the phone was operational. The phone chirped out a ring tone, and Duncan declared it ready to go.

“Here you go,” he said to the brunette sitting across the table from him. “If you have any questions, please give me a call,” he said handing her his card.

The woman smiled back at Duncan. “Thank you. You have been very helpful.” She grabbed her bags, got up, and left the store.

Duncan’s eyes followed her tall, slender body as it moved away from him. He slid a small notebook out of his pocket and scribbled down the name Dana Zeller and the details of her account. Duncan rated her at about a 9.7 – not perfect, but extremely attractive. Dana was definitely worth a closer look.

Duncan stepped back into the employee room and grabbed a Pepsi. It had been a long day, and he needed a bit of a pick-me-up. The sweet buzz of caffeine helped awaken his senses a bit. Ninety very long minutes later, it was finally quitting time. Duncan usually chatted for a few minutes with Bob, the guy who came in for the evening shift. Today, however, he mumbled a quick greeting and headed for the door.

Home, Sweet Home

Duncan tossed the stack of mail onto the kitchen table. It most mostly junk mail, and he could deal with the bills later. He had more important things to do.

Duncan walked to the master bedroom and stepped inside the walk-in closet. While the closet was large, it was slightly smaller than it had been when the house was built. Duncan pushed aside a hidden panel in the wall, revealing a staircase behind it. He closed the panel behind him and descended the stairs to a secret room in the basement.

How do you like the story so far?

As you know, nearly all of the content on The Soap Boxers is free.  This is one exception.  If you want to know how the story turns out, you can purchase it in our store.  You have three options:

• The entire story is included in the PDF of The Fiction of Kosmo, Volume 2.  This collection also includes eleven other stories.
• The story is available in audio format.  The audio book consists of four MP3 files (within a ZIP file) with a total run time of 49 minutes. 
• The combo pack includes the PDF of The Fiction of Kosmo, Volume 2, as well as the audio version of The Cell Window for a lower total price than buying them separately.  The combo pack consists of one PDF file and four MP3 files within a single ZIP file.

Today’s story, Realty Bites, should not be confused with the similarly named technology column, Reality Bytes.

My progress on the end-0f-quarter long story has stalled a bit, due to minor illnesses and a toddler who hasn’t been going to bed on time.  Hoping to be finished by next Friday!

Realty Bites

Mark Salas sighed as the front door bell dinged. The Morgans could definitely count punctuality as one of their strong traits. Mark had hoped that perhaps just this one time the Morgans would forget about their appointment with him.

The Morgans were, ostensibly, in the market for a house. Mark had shown them nearly every house than anyone had put up for sale recently. At first, he had made an attempt to pick out the houses that seemed to be the best fit for them. However, over time, they had simply run out of houses that fit their criteria, and thus Mark had become less selective.

In the course of twenty seven months, the Morgans had made 107 trips to his office and Mark had shown them 304 houses. Mark really should have pawned them off on a junior associate long ago, but he had a soft spot for them. Mark wasn’t completely sure if they would ever buy a house, or if their hobby was house hunting. After a year of working with them, Mark had suggested that perhaps they might be interested in having a house built to their specifications.

“No, no”, they had exclaimed. “That would take far too long.”

Mark perked up a bit when the Morgans entered his office. Kari Morgan had brought him a plate of her world famous chocolate chip cookies. Mark had a Cookie Monster mentality when it came to Kari’s cookies – “Cookie! Cookie! Me want cookie!”

The trio headed to the parking lot and jumped into Mark’s Explorer. Mark was going to show the Morgans three houses today. The houses were just a few minutes from each other, so at least they could knock them out fairly quickly and Mark could return to work and focus more of his energies on customers who actually bought and sold houses.

Like many before it, the visit to the first house started out very well. Kari Morgan loved the stainless steel appliances in the kitchen, and Scott Morgan liked the fact that the lower level had a large bonus room that could easily be turned into a workshop for his woodworking.

The house had a large master bedroom, and the attached master bath had a whirlpool tub. Kari Morgan’s face lit up when she saw the whirlpool tub. The large walk-in closet and his-and-hers sinks added to the allure of the master suite.

They walked through the rest of the house, and the Morgan seemed to be finding a lot of positives in the house. They liked nearly everything about the house. The large windows allowed a generous amount of sunlight into the house, the three stall garage left plenty of room for a lawn mower and gardening supplies, and the large backyard had plenty of room for gardening. Scott Morgan was even pleased with the variety of birds that were attracted by the trees in the neighborhood.

Unfortunately, Mark had been down this path before.

“So,” he asked, cautiously. “What do you think.”

“We like it,” replied Kari.

“But?”

“No buts,” said Scott. “We’ll take it. Let’s go back to your office and draft an offer right away.”

Mark had to make a concerted effort to refrain from pumping his fist in celebration. He had managed to find a house that the Morgans wanted to buy! He was actually going to make a commission on the people that his co-workers mockingly referred to as “The Impossibles”. To say that he was on cloud nine was an understatement. This cloud definitely went up to eleven.

“We’ll want you to sell our old house, of course,” said Kari. “We’d like to get $300,000 for it. We think you’re just the man to get us top dollar.”

In that short moment, Mark dropped down to at least cloud four or five. He was facing the unpleasant tasks of convincing the Morgans that their own house was worth, at best, 75% of their asking price.

The day had finally arrived for Andrew McCormick.  Hours earlier, the sponsor of baseball’s All-Star game had officially announced what had been long rumored – they would be giving away free tickets, accommodations, and travel for ten lucky winners.

Andrew sent off an email that would reach millions of people across the country.

Dear Kosmopolitan Bank customer:

Earlier today, Kosmopolitan Bank, in partnership with Major League Baseball, announced a very exciting contest for our valued customers.  We are giving away sets of four (4) All-Star game tickets, hotel accommodations, and air travel to ten lucky winners!  The grand prize winner will throw out the first pitch at this year’s All-Star game.

To enter, simply visit the contest web site at www.kosmopolitanbankcontests.com.

On behalf of all of the employees of Kosmopolitan Bank, I would like to thank you for 75 years of patronage.  I hope to see you at the game!

Sincerely,

J. Robert Dobbs

CEO, Kosmopolitan Bank Holdings

The web site was not affiliated with the actual bank, of course.  Andrew had spent much time copying many visual elements from the bank’s actual web site.  Visitors to his site were greeted by a page that looked identical to the bank’s official site.  On the first screen, the visitors were asked for their mailing address (so that the tickets could be sent to them if they won) and their birthdate (must be 21 years old to enter).  After filling out the initial screen, they were directed to a second screen.  The second screen asked the visitors to verify that they were indeed a customer of Kosmopolitan Bank.  The screen asked for the visitor’s credit card number, but of course did not ask for the expiration date.  Asking for the expiration date raised too much of a red flag, and really, it wasn’t necessary.  It was child’s play to run the numbers against an authorization program to determine the correct expiration date.  After all, the number of dates was relatively finite.

Andrew sat down at the table and made himself a ham and swiss sandwich.  Certainly, it would only be a few minutes before the first numbers came dribble in, but he wouldn’t be able to project the extent of his harvest for at least an hour or two.  In his early days as an information broker, he would sit, transfixed, at his computer, waiting for the first couple of numbers to be sent to him.  He had gained much wisdom in his old age, however, and the twenty five year old Andrew had the patience to attend to other tasks while the process ran.

Andrew flipped on the TV.  COPS was on again.  It was one of Andrew’s favorite shows – he was amazed at how dumb some of the criminals were.  Andrew finished his sandwich and watched the law enforcement personnel put an end to the chase by surrounding the vehicle.  The guy staggered out – clearly drunk or under the influence of drugs – and suddenly found a dozen guns pointed right at him.  Andrew chuckled.  What a moron.

When the show ended, Andrew channel surfed until he found a baseball game.  He didn’t particularly care about either team, but one of the pitchers had a no hitter through five innings, so Andrew left the TV on the game.  It was bad luck to switch channels when a no-no was in progress.  The pitcher carried the no hitter into the eighth inning.  It was broken up by a clean single to center field – amazingly, the runner was then thrown out trying to stretch the hit into a double.  Andrew chuckled again.  The morons were out in large numbers tonight.

Andrew deserted the game and went back to his computer.  He already had 5,617 numbers.  This was a good yield.  Base on the trending analysis for his previous projects, he estimated that he would gather about 65,000 numbers before authorities shut the site down.

Andrew sent a coded message to his client.  They quickly negotiated a fair price for the numbers.  Andrew and the client had a great working relationship.  Andrew’s data always contained a very high percentage of valid numbers (because his sites looked very authentic), and the client accepted the fact that a certain percentage of the data would  be bogus – people who figured out the scam and entered false data.  Some guys could be a real dick about the bad data, but his client knew that it was the nature of the beast.

Exhausted from the day’s activities, Andrew crawled into bed and fell asleep – dreaming of newer and bigger adventures.

Myron Buford climbed out his apartment window and sat down on the ledge outside.

This was nothing new for Myron. He would, on occasion, sit on the ledge and observe the frenzy occurring ten floors below – people racing to and from in the great rat race of life, as well and the infrequent appearance of the small animals who once had this territory all to themselves. Sitting on the ledge was very relaxing for Myron.

This time was different, however. Today, Myron would jump from the ledge, his body would collide violently with the concrete below, and he would die a quick death. Myron definitely hoped that his death would be quick.

Myron’s life had been in a downward spiral for months. His old boss had been replaced by a new manager. The new guy was a relentless task master, and Myron’s life had quickly become a living hell. All of the members of Myron’s team resented the new boss, and everyone had to work long hours of unpaid overtime to meet his demands. The boss had been particularly demanding of Myron, and Myron eventually got hopelessly behind. He tried to cover up his failures with a series of lies, and the boss had eventually uncovered the truth. Myron had been fired – kicked out onto the street after ten years with the company.

His girlfriend had been very supportive at first. Eventually, though, she simply couldn’t handle having a boyfriend who was unemployed. She went looking for greener pastures. To make the situation even worse, she was now dating the son of Myron’s former boss.

Just two days ago, Myron’s dog had died. Yesterday, he got a parking ticket while he was filling out paperwork at the unemployment office. He received a notice from the video store about a long overdue video – they wanted $88.42 in late charges! His favorite TV show had been cancelled by the heartless studio executives. And Myron thought that he just might be coming down with the flu. His life really wasn’t worth a plugged nickel.

Myron decided to take in the view of the street below one last time before he ended it all. He noticed that a light snow flurry had begun, making the people quicken their pace in an effort to stay dry. The snow reminded Myron of the upcoming Christmas season.

Christmas had always been Myron’s favorite time of the year. The presents were great, of course, but they were secondary to the holiday itself. Myron loved going to midnight mass to reflect on Christ’s birth in a manger so many years ago. He loved the Christmas dinner of beef roast and mashed potatoes that his mother prepared every year. The highlight for Myron, though, was spending time with his family. Christmas was one of the rare occasions on which he was able to spend time with his parents, siblings, and nieces and nephews.

As Myron got caught up in remembrances of Christmas past, he began counting his blessings. His dog may have died, but his pet goldfish was still swimming happily along. His favorite show may have been cancelled, but he did have all eleven seasons on DVD. He could watch reruns until he found a new show to watch. He had glowing recommendations from some former co-workers and would probably land a decent job before long. If his girlfriend wouldn’t stick with him through the hard times, it was probably better to find out now, rather than five years down the line. Heck, his favorite author had a new book coming out next week – he definitely needed to wait for that. Life was indeed worth living.

Myron was lost in happy thoughts as he moved back toward the window. He didn’t notice how slippery the ledge had become until he was sliding off. He managed to grab onto the ledge with one hand for a few seconds, but quickly lost his grip and fell to his death below.

Marie Tiller heard the crunch of gravel announce the arrival of a car on the long lane to the Tiller home.

Marie poked her head into the living room.  “Hey, guys, they’re coming.  Everyone be on their best behavior”.

Her husband Jeff turned off the TV and pulled himself out of the recliner.  Seven year old Mark jump up excitedly and ran to the kitchen.  He had been chattering all week about the chance to meet his brother’s new girlfriend.  Seventeen year old Sarah grinned at her brother’s exuberance and follow him into the kitchen, exhibiting a much more restrained  manner.

The car doors slammed shut, and a moment later, the screen door creaked.  Andrew and Beth entered the house, and the gaze of four sets eyes were upon them.

“Hey everybody.  This is Beth.  Beth, this is Mom, Dad, Sarah, and Mark.”

Beth, a tall, attractive brunette, smiled nervously.

“Supper’s ready,” announced Marie.  “Everyone, find your seats.”

Jeff settled into a seat at the far end of the table, leaving the head of the table for Marie.  Andrew and Beth sat next to each other on one side of the table, and Mark quickly jumped into the chair on the other side of Beth, leaving Sarah as the lone occupant on the other side of the table.  Andrew stifled a laugh – it definitely appeared as if his little brother had a crush on Beth.

Marie set the spaghetti and meatballs on the table.

Mark immediately scooped up two meatballs and a large helping of spaghetti in an effort to help Beth.  Most of the food landed on her plate, but one of the meatballs bounced free and splattered onto Beth’s blouse before finding a final resting place on the floor.

“Oh, Mark, look what you’ve done!” exclaimed Marie.

“But, but, I was just trying to help,” explained Mark, on the verge of tears.

“It’s OK, Mark,” said Beth, in a soothing tone.  “I’m sure the stain will come out.”

“Well, I want to get to work on the stain immediately to make sure that it does.  Sarah, take Beth upstairs and find her a different blouse to wear.”

Sarah and Beth went upstairs.  When they returned in a few minutes, Beth was wearing a clean white blouse and a big smile.  Marie was happy to see that Andrew’s girlfriend wasn’t phased by the accident.

“Hey, Mom, I’ll go work on the stain so that you can spend some time with Beth.”

The crisis had been averted and everyone sat down to enjoy the spaghetti and meatballs.  The dish was a longtime family favorite, and it seemed that Beth also enjoy the pasta and garlic bread.  Mark was on his best behavior during the rest of the meals.  He was a good kid, but sometimes he just allowed himself to get a bit too excited.

When they finished supper, Beth and Sarah volunteered to do dishes, and Marie happily agreed.  Marie could hear the two girls chattering as they washed and dried the dishes.  In the living room, Andrew regaled them with crazy tales from his first town months at college.  Marie couldn’t imagine living in the midst of thirty thousand young adults.  She suspected that Andrew’s tales were only scratching the surface of the college shenanigans.

When the dishes were done, everyone went back to the kitchen table and Jeff got down the Trivial Pursuit game.  Not surprisingly, Mark wanted to be on the same team as Andrew and Beth.  Marie, Jeff, and Sarah formed the other team.  The game was close throughout, with Andrew, Beth, and Mark emerging victorious.  Marie noted that Beth’s strengths – Entertainment and and Geography – were perfectly suited to Andrew’s weaknesses in those areas.  Marie looked forward to many more games of Trivial Pursuit with Andrew and Beth in the future.

Cindy fidgeted nervously and applied lip gloss before finally knocking on the door of Professor Craig Rollins. Cindy had taken courses with the esteemed professor before, but always got a bit tingly in the presence of such an iconic academic figure. Dr. Rollins’ work on black holes was the basis of much of the current academic work on the subject.

Dr. Rollins’ head popped up at the sound of the knock.

“Oh … it’s Cindy, right? About your thesis?”

“Yes, Dr. Rollins,” squeaked Cindy. “My advisor, Dr. Miller, thought that you might be able to help me find some resources.”

“Could we possibly discuss this over a sandwich? I’m absolutely famished.”

“Sure, Dr. Rollins. Whatever works for you.”

“Please, call me Craig.”

“OK, Dr. Roll … Craig.”

Dr. Rollins quizzed Cindy on her thesis as they walked toward the student union. The professor seemed genuinely interested in her work. Cindy felt herself blush at the attention she was receiving from a man who was such respected member of her academic field.

Cindy ordered a ham and swiss sandwich, while Dr. Rollins got some sort of monstrosity that reminded her of the sandwiches that Dagwood Bumstead enjoyed eating. The conversation shifted to small talk, as they discussed current events and the weather in between bites of sandwich.

When they finished eat, Cindy explained the difficulty she had encountered when attempting to find research materials for one of the sub-topics of her thesis.

Dr. Rollins furrowed his brow and muttered to himself for a moment.

“I can definitely understand your difficulty, Cindy. There really isn’t much current research in that area. I’d recommend Knack’s work, and Atkins’s book could also be very useful. It’s a niche area, though, so I don’t think either of their books had a very large print run – they are hard to find.”

Cindy frowned at the news that she was likely to encounter further difficulties in her research.

“Oh, no need to worry, Cindy. You certainly won’t find their books at the library, but of course I have a copy in my own library.”
“That’s great news, Dr. Rollins! Could I please borrow the books?”

“Well, I’m actually leaving on a vacation tomorrow, so I wouldn’t be able to bring them in for a couple of weeks.”

Rollins glance down at his watch. “Actually, I have some time now. If you like, we could drop by my house and pick up the books. Maybe some other volumes in my collection would interest you, as well.”

“That sounds great,” gushed Cindy. At long last, she would be able to make progress on her thesis.

The library inside Dr. Rollin’s large Victorian home compared favorably to some municipal libraries Cindy had visited. There were rows upon rows of books on a wide variety of subjects. The largest area was reserved for astronomy, and Cindy naturally gravitated to that section.

“Cindy,” said Dr. Rollins, after a very brief search, “it doesn’t appear that those two books are in the library. I’m going to run up to my study to look for them. Make yourself at home.”

Cindy glanced at the hundreds of astronomy books before focusing on one – the memoirs of Dr. Craig Rollins. Cindy grabbed the book and settled down on one of the library’s couches.

She was looking through photos in the book a few minutes later when Dr. Rollins returned from the second floor with two books in his hand.

“Here they are, Cindy. They were on a shelf in my study. What book do you have there?”

Cindy held the book aloft and watched the professor’s face flush with embarrassment.

“I’m not overly pleased with that book, although there are some great photos. Let me point a few of them out to you.”

Cindy slid over on the coach to make room for Dr. Rollins. Cindy became engrossed in the book as Rollins described the academic work of the scientists who were featured alongside him in some of the book’s photos. She was so focused on the book that she didn’t notice when Dr. Rollins slid his arm around her. When he leaned toward her for a kiss, Cindy broke free from her trance and recoiled.

Cindy slapped Rollins across the face, jumped up from the couch, and raced out of the house.

It seemed that Dr. Rollins would not be any help with her thesis, after all.

Patrick Sullivan basked in the warmth of the afternoon sun as he prepared for his race.  He performed his typical stretches, preparing for this as if it were just another race.  However, much was at stake in the final race of Patrick’s stellar high school career.  It was true that Patrick’s trophy case was filled with mementos of his accomplishments.  It was, however, missing the crown jewel – a state championship.  Three times he had faced his bitter rival on the brightest stage, and three times Philip Webb had emerged victorious.  Over the course of their careers, Patrick had won a majority of their head-to-head meetings, and he held the state record for the mile.  Head-to-head meetings are quickly forgotten, and records are broken.  A championship is eternal.

The milers gathered near the start line in anticipation of instructions from the official.  At his word, the runners reported to their lanes and readied themselves for the start.

Patrick reacted instantaneously to the sound of the starter’s pistol.  Within 50 meters, he had already made up the stagger on one runner.  He raced around the corner of the track, emerged onto the straightaway as the leader, and was able to cut across to the inside lane easily.  He felt the presence of Webb fall in behind him, content to let Patrick set the pace.

Patrick continued to lead the race until the 400 meter mark, when a cocky young freshman bolted ahead of him and surged into the lead.  Patrick refused to take the bait, and continued his pace.  The younger running built an impressive lead by the time they finished the second lap.  Patrick knew that the kid was setting a pace that could not possibly be sustained, and the rabbit began to show signs of fading as they reached the 1000 meter mark.  By the time the bell rang to signify the final lap, Patrick, Philip, and two other runners had caught the front runner, and observers knew that the rabbit had run out of gas and would end up at the tail end of the pack.

As always, Patrick was beginning to feel a bit of fatigue as they began the last lap.  1200 meters were complete, and the runners needed to reach deep inside them to race the fastest 400 meters of their careers.  In past years, Patrick had tried to lead the entire final lap, only to be out-kicked by Webb down the stretch.  This time, he allowed Webb to pull ahead of him and settled into right behind him, allowing Patrick to take advantage of the lower wind resistance as he drafted behind Webb.

The other runners were unaware that this was a two man duel.  With 250 meters to go, Patrick was still right on Webb’s footsteps, but he felt himself boxed in by the other runners.  He had nowhere to go.  At that point, his familiarity with Webb’s style paid off.  He knew the exact moment when Webb would turn on the afterburners and begin his final kick.  Patrick planned to surge forward and then cut to the right at the precise moment that Webb would begin his kick.  If Patrick surged too early, he would run up Webb’s back and take them both out of the race.

Four years of racing against Philip Webb had trained him for this moment, and he timed it perfectly.  Webb bolted forward with Patrick on his heels, separating slightly from the other two runners.  Patrick veered sharply to the right and accelerated until he was dead even with Webb.

The two runners approached the finish line side by side, achieving maximum velocity as they strode for the tape.  The naked eye would deem it a tie, and the cameras would be hard pressed to pick the winner.  Patrick Sullivan felt the slight bit of resistance as his body broke through the tape.

With Peter Rabbit a hare busy this week, we’re swapping days. Fiction Friday will occur today and Carrots of Wisdom will be featured on Friday.

This is a bit of commuter fiction. The majority of the story was composed on the drive home from work on Tuesday.

Avery Miller threw his final warm up pitch. As the catcher returned the ball to him, he reflected on the enormity of the situation. Bottom of the ninth, one run lead, sacks jammed, division title on the line. This was the situation that called for a shutdown closer – a guy like the dominant reliever for the Gazelles, Antwon Stapleton. Unfortunately, Stapleton had gotten them into this mess, and his utter lack of command had forced the manager to turn the game over the Miller.

Miller took a deep breath, toed the rubber, and took a big stride toward the plate. The book on Miller was that he tended to nibble around the edges with breaking balls, so he cut loose with his best fastball. The ball took off like a missile, bound for the low, inside corner of the plate. Mark Irick of the Cougars was looking for the fastball and made solid contact. The ball soared high into the air down the left field line. The umpire twirled his finger to signify the home run. Avery cursed under his breath. The crowd roared in appreciation of the blast that propelled their team into the playoffs.

In the midst of the melee, Gazelle manager Spud Walker popped out of the dugout and headed for home plate, where he proceeded to argue that the ball was not a home run – rather, he said, the ball had drifted slightly to the left of the foul pole.

The umpires huddled briefly before heading to the instant replay booth. The crowd held its collective breath as the umpires reviewed the call. When they finally came back onto the field, they ruled that the ball was foul by inches. The crowd booed lustily.

Mark Irick readied himself for the next pitch, this time with a count of no balls and one strike. He tapped his bat against each of his spikes three times, in order to knock the imaginary dirt loose. He loosened and tightened his batting gloves. His routine finished, he stepped back into the batter’s box.

Miller shook off a couple of signs from his catcher before getting the call he wanted – a pitch outside the strike zone. He was hoping that Irick would be overaggressive and swing at the bad pitch. The former MVP was not fooled, however. The bat never left his shoulder as the pitched sailed past him for a ball.

Miller’s next pitch was a bit high and inside. Irick flinched a bit, but stood his ground in the box and watched to count go to 2-1. The next pitch was in the lower third of the strike zone, but was a bit more toward the middle of the plate than Avery would have liked, and Irick swung and drove the ball high and deep – but way foul.

Miller’s next pitch was outside by a half inch, and the count was full. With the bases loaded, Avery couldn’t afford a ball, so he was forced to throw in the strike zone. Irick fouled one pitch just out of the range of the third baseman and the next pitch was fouled into the crowd in back on home plate.

The stadium, in spite of the capacity crowd, was as quiet as a tomb – allowing Irick to focus intently on the pitches.

Miller took another deep breath before snapping off a 12-to-6 curve. As the pitch broke sharply, the bat entered the strike zone and launched the ball toward the deepest part of center field. David MacFarland raced toward the wall in a futile effort to catch up to the ball. Incredibly, he caught up to the ball as he reached the outfield fence. MacFarland timed his jump perfectly and extended his six foot four inch frame to its maximum extent. The ball hit the edge of his glove for a split second before popping back up into the air and falling to the ground. A moment later, MacFarland landed on the ground with a thud.

As the first Cougars runner crossed the plate, Mark Irick stood at home, spellbound by the play. As another runner raced toward the plate, Irick broke free from the trance and began to run toward first base.

Left fielder Brian Johnson raced to the ball and freed it from under MacFarland’s body. He set himself and gunned the ball toward first base. The first baseman stretched to catch the wild throw. He gloved the ball and tapped first base with his foot a split second before Irick crossed the base.

Since the play was a force out, the runs that had crossed the plate did not count. Avery Miller escaped the game with a save, and the Gazelles were playoff bound.

We present a special Wednesday edition of Fiction Friday.

“Remember – twelve and half.”

Buck Schroeder nodded his head and left the diner. He slipped the envelope into the pocket of his jeans as he walked to the parking lot. Half now, half after the game – the same as last year. The money was begging to be spent, so he jumped in his jeep and drove to the electronics store, where he dropped a couple of c-notes on some DVD box sets he’d been wanting to buy.

He took his girlfriend Dana out for supper at one of the better steak houses in town. Buck loved the start of football season. Not only did it allow him to be the big man on campus, but the money from the payoffs helped him live a better lifestyle than he could afford in the off season.

Buck fell asleep that night reading his playbook. This was a critical early season test for the Jackals. The Cougars were much improved from last year. It was even possible that Buck wouldn’t have to shave any points to keep the margin of victory below the Vegas line of 12 ½ points.

The next morning, Schroeder headed to the dorm’s soundproof music room and hammered out a few tunes on the piano. It was a tradition that dated back to junior high, and it had served him well. There was nothing like a bit of Beethoven to get his competitive juices flowing.

Buck joined his team for pregame breakfast and indulged another ritual, scarfing down four eggs, three slices of toasts, two large glasses of orange juice, and seventeen slices of bacon. Although the medical community was skeptical about the energizing power of bacon, Schroeder was a true believer.

Before long, the Jackals were taking the field in front of a raucous crowd at Morgan Memorial Stadium. Down on the field, Buck could feel the vibrations emanating from the fans inside the great bowl of the stadium. The fans sensed the importance of the game.

The Jackals received the opening kickoff. Buck dissected the Cougar defense, completing all seven passes on the drive, eventually hitting Nate Gustafson on a fade route in the corner of the end zone for the first score of the game. The scored remained 7-0 until the first drive of the second quarter, when Jackals scatback Troy Maddux found the end zone from twelve yards away to put the Jackals up by two touchdowns.

The Cougars drove deep into Jackals territory on the next drive, before faltering toward the end and settling for a short field goal. The Cougars once again drove into Jackals territory late in the second quarter. The clock became their enemy, and they eventually had to call a timeout and bring on their field goal kicker for a an impossibly long 59 yard field goal – which he promptly drilled right between uprights to draw the Cougars to within 14-6 as the first half clock elapsed.

Schroeder hooked up with speedy wideout Sean Warren on a fifty yard strike early in the third quarter to put the Jackals ahead 21-6. At this point, Schroeder began to lose a bit of touch on his passes, ostensibly because of a hit he absorbed from one of the Cougar defenders. In truth, however, he needed to have the Cougars pull back to within 12 ½ points.

Two Cougars field goals made the score 21-12 as the clock began ticking down in the fourth quarter. Buck needed only to manage the game a bit in order to win the game while also keeping the winning margin below the point spread. On a third and ten from the fifty yard line, he threw an inaccurate pass in the general vicinity of Nate Gustafson. A stunned Schroeder watched as Gustafson adjusted his route as the ball was thrown, apparently sensing that the ball would be thrown too far toward the far sideline. Gustafson grabbed the ball off his shoe tops, dodged a defender, switched directions, and accelerated into high gear, leaving an army of Cougars defender in his wake.

Schroeder had difficulty watching, as the Cougars fought to get back into the game. A field goal would not do them much good at this point in the game – nor would it do much good for Schroeder, who needed to see the sixteen point lead erode by more than the value of a sole field goal.

The Cougars quarterback dinked and dunked down the field. The Cougars were inside the five yard line as precious time was eaten up. The Jackals defense held strong three times, before finally yielding on a fourth and goal from within the one yard line. The Cougars then proceeded to pound the ball back into the end zone on the two point conversion attempt.

Thirty seconds remained in the game. With the Cougars within eight points, every fan in the stadium expected an onside kick. The Jackals sent the “hands team” onto the field, and Buck breathed a sigh of relief. The Jackals simply had to recover the onside kick and then have Schroeder take a few snaps to run out the remaining clock and preserve an eight point win.

The ball popped into the air and was grabbed by reserve receiver Jeff Casey. Instead of falling to the ground to down the ball, the lead footed Casey took off down the sideline. The rest of the Jackals raced downfield to block for Casey and the senior walk-on waddled into the end zone for the first touchdown of his career.

Buck Schroeder winced as the scoreboard flashed the score of 34-20. The PAT was added to make it a fifteen point difference.

The Cougars attempted a hook-and-ladder on the ensuing kickoff, making it as far as the Jackals forty yard line before the ball carrier was tackled, ending the game, and putting Buck Schroeder’s part time job in jeopardy.

Barry was blinded by the lights of the oncoming car. His hair stood on end when he noticed that the fool was in the wrong lane – headed toward him at 70 miles per hour. Barry tried to take evasive action, but his reflexes were slow and he couldn’t avoid the other car. He felt the impact of the high speed collision and heard the rending of metal before he blacked out.

When Barry regained consciousness, he was aware of bright lights flashing and lots of voices. After a few seconds, he noticed a police offer banging on his door.

“Sir,” shouted the officer. “Please step out of the car.”

Barry took a second to regain his bearings. He opened the car door and stepped out onto the highway.

“Have you been drinking?”

“Just a couple of drinks, officer.”

The office wrinkled his nose as if he was smelling an unpleasant odor.

“I’m going to have to ask you to take a field sobriety test.”

Barry wasn’t quite sure why the cop felt the need to do this, but it was probably just a formality. He wanted to help the officer, so he complied. He tried to walk in a straight line, but the highway was slippery from some earlier precipitation and he kept falling. He mentioned this explanation to the cop, who just nodded in agreement. The cop also administered a Breathalyzer test – probably a formality as well.

“OK, sir, we’re going to take you into the station to have a blood alcohol test performed. If you have only had a few drinks, then you have nothing to worry about.”

Barry nodded in agreement. Certainly the blood alcohol test would prove that he had only drunk a couple glasses of wine and perhaps a shot or two of whiskey. As the officer led Barry to the police car, he noticed an ambulance moving away from the scene. The ambulance did not seem to be in any particular hurry.

The rest of the evening was a bit of a haze. Barry woke up to find himself in a jail cell. A man in a suit stood at the door of the cell.

“Barry Larson? I’m Evan Andrews with the public defender’s office. We need to talk.”

The jailer led Barry and Evan to a private room where they could speak confidentially. Evan began to drop bombshells on Barry. Barry had blown a .26 blood alcohol level at the scene of the crash, and a later blood test had confirmed the result.

“OK, so I was drunk, but the other car was in my lane. I’m the victim here!”

“Well, Barry,” replied his lawyer, “that might be your recollection of the facts, but it doesn’t reflect the reality of the situation. The skid marks at the scene clearly indicate that you were in the wrong lane.”

Barry was stunned, but recovered quickly. “OK, so I pay a fine for the drunk driving and pay for the damage to the other guy’s car. When can I have someone bail me out?”

“It’s really not that simple,” explained Evan. “Two people in the other car were killed in the crash. You’re looking at a charge of vehicular manslaughter.”

Barry stopped breathing for a moment. How could this be true? He only remembered a few drinks the previous night. How could he have gotten so wasted that he was driving on the wrong side of the road and killed two people. He shook his head to clear some of the cobwebs. Pieces of the puzzle were starting to click into place. The problems he had walking the straight line were probably not due to precipitation – and the ambulance he had seen leaving the scene wasn’t speeding away because the people inside the car were dead at the scene.

“Can we reach some sort of plea deal? A hefty fine, a few years of probation, and a lot of community service?” he asked, desperation in his voice.

“One of the victims was a seven year old girl, Barry. This is an election year, and there is no way that the district attorney is going to let you walk without significant jail time. You could face up to twenty five years in prison. The DA is offering a deal that would give you eighteen years.”

Barry was stunned at the prospect of losing eighteen years of his life.

“What’s your advice?” he asked.

“Honestly, Barry, I would seriously consider taking the offer. You don’t want this case to go in front of a jury – especially not with that little girl as one of the victims. The state has a very strong case, and I think they could convince the jury to throw the book at you, and you’d end up with the maximum. Think about it for a few days, and let me know whether or not you want to go to trial.”

Barry nodded. The lawyer shook his hand and left, and the jailer walked Barry back to his cell. The possibility of the lengthy prison sentence was not at the forefront of his mind, however. The heaviest burden on his mind was the thought that he had killed a seven year old girl, cutting her down before she had the chance to truly experience life. The prison sentence would eventually end, but the guilt would always be present.