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The Truth about Arrogant Christians – I May Be the Worst

Posted by Rock Kitaro on May 8, 2023
Posted in: About the Author, Christianity, religion. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . 4 Comments

On April 4th 2023, I went to a Jehovah’s Witness Memorial Service for Jesus Christ and something unexpected happened. I suffered some kind of emotional or mental breakdown and had to leave before it ended. I felt wretched and rotten, guilty and unworthy. And ironically, I believe it all stemmed from this lifelong criticism of being called “Arrogant.”

Modesty is not one of my strong points. I get it. It’s kinda like how I’ve been told I’m too “Judgmental”. However, with that, I am truly judgmental. I embrace it. I can accept and defend it.  

But Arrogance…How can I justify that? The Bible’s constantly talking about the virtues of being meek and humble. It warns about pride and haughtiness. Jesus himself said that “the greatest among you shall be your servant.” And that whoever humbles himself like a child shall be the greatest in the Kingdom of Heaven. 

So, if they are correct in their assessment…what do I do? How do I change? Do I even want to change? 

Here’s what I’m going to do. First, I’m going to explain what happened that night during the Memorial Service. Then, I’m gonna dive deep into why I’m clearly so insufferably arrogant. 

Continue Reading

Honest Thoughts from a Single Christian Man in America

Posted by Rock Kitaro on June 28, 2022
Posted in: About the Author, Christianity, religion. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . 5 Comments

For those who don’t know, I’m Rock Kitaro (Tennie) an author, essayist and a good-natured provoker of thoughts. I’m the unpopular opinion, currently publishing essays at StageInTheSky.com.

This was from my first live stream. It started out as me just testing the studio equipment…but rolled into a beautiful sermon of sorts. I honestly felt the Holy Spirit wash over me with this one. None of it was planned. None of it was written out. I usually mess up my words, which is why I edit them in videos of my essays, but for this Live Stream…it was incredible. I had to be careful because it’s the first time I spoke my honest thoughts about subjects that could get me in trouble while showing my actual face speaking the words. But that just goes to speak of how wicked this world has become…when saying the right thing, doing the right thing, and doing what’s good in God’s eyes can get you fired.

Topics Discussed:

  • Going all-in in Christianity
  • Do Christians Today Know what Christ Taught?
  • How I went from Rejecting Religion to Reading the Entire Bible
  • How the World’s Ideologies (Feminism, Leftism) Conflicts with Bible Principles
  • Strong and Independent, Trying to Find a Wife
  • Attacking Popular Movements (BelieveAllWomen, Submission)
  • I’d Rather Get Something Done than Hang Out with Friends

The Slave Quarters: Chapter 20 – I’ve Seen Some Things (Suspense Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on December 16, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Cloud Beaudry. Tagged: , , , , . Leave a comment

Det. Griffin has gone mad. He’s just been through a traumatizing ordeal. Cloud explains why he was punished and in the midst of his self-righteous condemnation, Cloud discovers sins of his own.

Chapter 20 - I've Seen Some Things

The Slave Quarters
Chapter 20 – I’ve Seen Some Things
By Rock Kitaro

The next morning, Jessica, Leanne, and I arrive at the precinct promptly at nine. There was a vast difference on Moor Street between today and yesterday. No crowds. No screaming faces. Just littered trash.

The ladies pick up the pace as we step off the elevators. I end up falling behind with my hands in my pockets. There’s a square patch beneath my left eye to reduce the swelling. I’m pristine in my black suit and tie. One could safely assume I just came back from serving as a pallbearer. It wouldn’t be too far off from the truth.

It’s touching to see them all so concerned about Griffin’s well being. I understand why and I don’t blame them…but still…if only they knew what I knew I wonder if they’d be so quick to lend a helping hand. Yeah, probably. Perhaps that’s why the guilt’s beginning to gnaw at my conscience. In any case, it’s too late now. The damage is done.

On the 3rd floor, deputies and detectives are huddle around the desk closest to Griffin’s office. Agent Dixon sees Jessica and Leanne coming. He receives them with open arms. Leanne fires off question after question by which Dixon simply proceeds to nod. Jessica covers her mouth in shock. Everyone hears the click of a door handle and a round of shushing quells the conversations.

It’s Samantha Griffin…the wife. She leaves her husband’s office as two suits from Internal Affairs enter in her stead, closing the door behind them. I recognize Samantha from the photo on Griffin’s desk. That sandy blonde hair and the soft freckles bridging her nose, its Sam alright. She has the toned body of an avid tennis player, active and fit. She’s about my age, a couple of years younger than Griffin, but her tan complexion is now pale with grief.

Jessica and Leanne exchange awkward glances before approaching to introduce themselves. As soon as they reveal their involvement with the case, a despondent Sam breaks down in a gripping scene of tears, collapsing into Leanne’s arms. It’s as if she just learned her son was killed in combat. Leanne doesn’t know how to react. She keeps gawking up at Jessica but even Jessica’s at a loss of words.

Instinctively, Leanne lowers Samantha to the carpet and settles her against the side of a desk. There, she and Jessica console the wife with false promises about Griffin’s recovery. It’s all so melodramatic. I should be more sympathetic but I’m not.

“I saw the tape,” a country voice crawls over my shoulders.

Agent Dixon continues with, “It doesn’t make the darnest bit of sense. The boy just stands there while the sum’ a bitch walks up and splits his head open like a jack-o-lantern. Never seen anything like it. Beginning to think this place really is haunted. That’s what the papers is callin it after the last suicide. But what’s stickin in my craw is that the suspect seemed to have no concept of pain whatsoever. Just kept pounding away. Not even when his eyes popped out and his lips smashed in like a banana.”

As discreet as I assume he’s trying to be, Jessica and Leanne overhear. Jessica in particular looks up with a fiery glare. It’s no longer that she doesn’t believe it, but more so she smells foul play. Two suicides in the span of five days is a coincidence Jessica’s not willing ignore. She abruptly stands and straightens out her pantsuit, holding back her ire with a clenched jaw and slow steady breaths.

“I’m gonna need to see that video,” she politely demands.

“Yes, ditto.” Leanne says in a whispery exhale.

Dixon extended his hand to direct them toward the conference room in the corner of the bullpen. He informs them, “It should still be queued up. The D.A.’s in there right now so tread lightly.”

“It’s gonna be okay,” Leanne assures Sam.

Jessica doesn’t wait for Leanne to get up. She promptly marches into the conference room and takes over. No one rebukes her when she takes command of a laptop and starts the video from the beginning. Leanne enters the room choking on her own tears. Dixon helps Sam off the floor and escorts her to get her some coffee.

All the while, I say absolutely nothing with my hands in my pockets. I only observe as if I’m sitting inside the theater of my own head with eyes as my own personal big screens to the real world. And of course, as per usual, I’m conflicted by what I see. It’s all so morbid, so morose, the complete opposite of last night’s triumph. There’s so much pain and suffering in plain view. All of it’s my fault and the only one I want to apologize to is the wife. But I can’t. I won’t.

Be cold. Be cold, Cloud. Don’t let the tears soften your heart as it has time and time again. Don’t forget what happened. Don’t forget what led you down this path. Be cold. Harden your heart. This is the path you’ve chosen. Now see it through, dammit. Walk.

The Slave Quarters: Chapter 17 – Don’t Fear Me (Paranormal Mystery)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on November 27, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Cloud Beaudry, Slave Quarters. Tagged: , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

It’s a showdown in the cotton fields. Cloud confronts the Slave Quarter Killer and sets the perfect trap…but as per usual, other people keep getting in the way.

Chapter 17 - Don't Fear Me

The Slave Quarters
Chapter 17 – Don’t Fear Me
By Rock Kitaro

Calvin and Jason arrive under the auspices of a full moon. They can see their own breath in the frosty cold air. All is quiet on the cotton fields. The crickets aren’t chirping. There isn’t any gospel music. No wind. No humming. No croaks from the big house. Just the packing of soil beneath their feet and the occasional chirp from the radios strapped to their shoulders.

An unsettled agitation creeps to their core. They know they’ve been had. They came responding to an emergency but the plantation seems devoid of all life. Even so, they feel as though they’re being watched. They are. Jason is scared out his mind. I can see it.

“Hey, son! I’m saying though. Ain’t nobody here,” he says.

“HELLO! IS ANYONE OUT THERE?” Calvin calls.

“Yo! Let’s go!” Jason begs.

The paramedics are snug in their dark blue coveralls. The ambulance is parked on the side of the road with the engine still running. With his red medicinal bag in one hand and a flashlight in the other, Calvin embarks in the direction of the slave quarters. Jason is right behind him but he keeps throwing wild-eyed glances to the big house. Calvin remains fixated on the slave quarters as if he expected a Doberman to come running out.

They’re waist deep in the middle of the cotton shrubs when Jason flinches and shines his light on the big house.

“Yo! You see that?” Jason whispers.

“There’s nobody in there.” Calvin says.

“I’m telling you. I saw something up on the second floor. Let’s get the fuck out of here, man!” Jason shrieks.

Calvin sweeps the field with his flashlight once more before heaving a heavy sigh and starting for the ambulance.

…

“Quick question.”

My voice cuts through the silence, clean, crisp, and clear.

They’re dropping f-bombs as they fumble with their flashlights. They cast their lights on the slave quarters and there, they see a new and improved version of Cloud Beaudry, one exuding with the swagger of a champion. My blazer is in the rental, parked further down the road. I’m wearing a bulletproof vest and there’s a .380 on my hip.

The sleeves of my white collared shirt are rolled up and if you think I’m freezing, think again. I’ve been practicing Wing Chun drills for the past two minutes. My chain punches, front kicks, and Ton Saus are on point.

The paramedics emerge from the cotton fields to enter the soft patch of soil in front of these here slave quarters. They look pissed. Reasonably so.

“You would be the one to call us out here in the middle of the goddamn night!” Jason snarls.

“Let me ask you something.” I begin, pausing for a moment to stretch out my neck. “1896 Drew Street. Ring any bells?”

They ponder for a moment. Then a bewilder expression befalls Jason.

“That’s my girl’s house, homie. How the fuck you know Kyrah?” he snaps.

I’m snickering out loud. I never snicker. After unclasping my watch and sliding it into my pocket, I lock eyes with the Slave Quarter Killer. He has no fucking clue.

“Sup, Calvin. You want to tell him. Or should I?”

“Man, whatchu talkin about?” Calvin says, as if I’m wasting his time.

“Not bad. Yes, your performance was very convincing. When we first met, I never thought for a second you’d be capable of stalking six teenage girls. Abducting them. Raping and molesting them until you’ve reached the pinnacle of pleasure. And then…Well you couldn’t let them go, could you? So you killed them. And you didn’t just kill them softly. They all died brutally. You could have just shot them. You could’ve slit their throats. Hell, for someone in the medical field, it would have been easy. But no! You bludgeoned them. You choked them. You drowned them, you unimaginable piece of shit. And perhaps the worst came when a girl felt so hopeless, so utterly defeated that she’d rather bash her own brains out than see your face again.”

Jason turns to his partner. He doesn’t believe me at first, but Calvin…He just stares at me with an empty gaze of morbid denial. I’ve seen that look before. It’s one of the worst feelings in the world. The realization that everything is caving in and there’s nothing he can do about it, like a submarine filling up with water.

“Hey, fuck you!” Jason shouts. “There you go again, pointing fingers. I heard ya’ll already caught the motherfuckuh who did this so why you messin with us?”

Calvin drops his red medical bag. It hits the dirt and I hear something break, prompting me to whip out my Glock and aim it at the bridge of his nose, both hands holding it steady.

“Don’t move a muscle!” I warn.

“Whoa! What the hell are you doing? I don’t believe this!” Jason shouts.

“Calvin Chalmers. You’re under arrest for the rape and murder of Tiquasia Payne. Denedra Harrell. Samantha Fox. Ashley Hunt. And Alisha Collier.”

“WHAT? WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!” Jason screams.

“Tell him, Calvin! Tell him what you been up to every time you drop him off at his girl’s house. Go ahead. Ask him, Jason. I’ll wait.”

“Nigga…What is he talkin about?” Jason asks.

“He’s got nothing.” Calvin snarls. “Probably hit his head one too many times. Should have someone look at that, bruh.”

I’m smirking as I lower my weapon and take the finger off the trigger. “Just tell me one thing. What exactly did you say to KeNedra? If I’m not mistaken, once you boys picked her up, it was Jason doing the driving while you had her alone in the back cabin. She recognized you didn’t she. You must have told her something. So let’s hear it. I want to hear what the devil said to the angel. To get her to kill herself like that. SPEAK!”

Calvin shakes his head with a cocky grin. “Don’t know what you talking about. And to be honest, you starting to work my last nerve. Got us out here in the middle of the…”

“Look around! There’s no one out here but us. You don’t hear any sirens. No helicopters. No cops. Other than the three of us, not a single soul knows you’re an ass-raping murderer. I don’t give a damn about the justice system. We all know there’s no right or wrong, only public opinion. All I care about is closure for KeNedra’s family. If a coward like you met them, you’d break down on the spot. I can tell just by looking. You don’t have the balls. All reserved and hiding behind your silence. To be honest, I respected you more when you throwing hands in the big house. That was a warrior. That was a beast. Frankly, I don’t know who this scared little shit is.”

My words…they sting. I know they do. He’s grinding his teeth. He doesn’t know what I know or if he should even believe me, but there’s one thing he took away from my little speech. Other than the three of us, not a single soul knows he’s the Slave Quarter Killer.

The Knights with No Lords: Chapter 16 – Another Vision (Fantasy Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on November 22, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Knights With No Lords. Tagged: , , , , , , . Leave a comment

A single scream wakes the entire castle. Morgan le Fay has another vision. Again, it’s about Gawain but this time he’s not alone. This is the climax that turns teen angst into a mad obsession. The concepts of guilt and innocence don’t matter. Not when you know what you saw and the only one who believes you is absolutely no one at all.

Chapter 16 - Another Vision

The Knights with No Lords
Chapter 16 – Another Vision
By Rock Kitaro

Exasperated breaths passed through her lips like bursts of steam. She was shivering but she wasn’t cold. She was sweltering but not hot. Morgan’s entire body was soaked from head to toe, her gown drenched, her hair wet and melded to her flesh. She tossed and turned, gripping at the bear fur spread over her bed. She drained with each exhale, getting weaker and faint. As if her very soul was evaporating from her body and her heart could barely take it.

“God no.”

“Please…”

“Please. Not another vision.”

“My heart…”

“I can’t take it!”

“It hurts!”

Her whimpers were soft and barely perceptible. The orange glow from a single lit candle revealed beads of sweat trickling from her forehead. Her chest fluctuated as she struggled to breathe. Her thighs tightened as her knees came together and curled in a fetal position. Her grimace displayed unimaginable torment as her eyes clamped shut with harsh guttural groans.

Morgan was indeed having another vision. Again, it was of Gawain. He was sleeping. Not the Gawain of now, but a slightly younger version of him with shorter brown locks and less muscle tone. He was sleeping bare-chested on a bed of hay in the horses stable, his sheathed katana, propped up against the waist-high door of the stall. And lingering by this stall was Isolde in the middle of the night, staring at him like a thirsty survivor coming upon an oasis in the desert.

“No! Please don’t! Don’t!” Morgan anguished in her sleep.

Isolde removed her pearl white night gown one shoulder strap at a time until the garment slid from her slender body like a sleeve of silk. A creak emanated from the rusty hinges as Isolde open the stall and caught the katana before it could fall. Resting the katana softly in the hay, Isolde lowered to her knees and crawled over Gawain until her knees were on both sides of his hips. Straddling him like a horse, an anticipating Isolde placed her hands over Gawain’s stomach and chest as one would a finely polished shield. Then, just as Gawain opened his weary eyes, Isolde brought the heat of her bosom down upon his.

Gawain gasped. Isolde’s lips caught the end of that suction. Gawain grabbed her by the shoulders but Isolde hooked his arms. She was older than him by three years. Their naked bodies rolled and grappled as Gawain struggled to break free, but Isolde was an anaconda and her hold was airtight.

When he rolled on top of her, Isolde clasped her wrists behind his back and wrapped her legs around his hips. She thrust her tongue onto his and sucked in as their shoulders fastened and became one. The sensation, the heat of stimulation, and the explosion of hormones corroded Gawain’s resistance. Once his toes curled, he was lost. He submitted. The pleasure pulled him in. Gawain thrust himself, grinding into her, slowly at first before a hard ride developed.

Morgan flung the sheets off of her bed. She rolled onto her back and raised her knees. With bated breath, her hands slowly slithered their way from her belly to the smooth groove between her legs.

“No. Stop…” she gasped with agony.

Isolde wrestled to mount Gawain. Her head cocked back. Her legs and the muscles in her core did all of the work. From there, all Morgan could see were flashes of fornication. Morgan cringed as her hips moved up and down the same way she saw in the vision. Her chest fluttered with an intense anxiety until tears trickled down her cheek.

“No!” Morgan cried. “Please stop!”

As badly as she wanted to wake up, she couldn’t. She was spellbound in this sadistic trance, watching as Isolde’s long golden hair whipped to and fro, as her mouth gaped open in ecstatic pleasure. Each time Isolde exhaled bursting with delight, Morgan exhaled bursting in pain like a woman in childbirth. When Isolde’s nose furled with electricity tingling through her thighs, Morgan’s teeth clenched as if she was just prodded by a burning hot poker.

This horrific experience continued for what seemed like an hour until finally, Isolde threw her head back and released an elated exclamation of glee. All the muscles in her golden body relaxed and melted onto Gawain. Resting her chin on Gawain’s sweaty shoulders, Isolde’s blue eyes looked forward as if she was staring directly at Morgan.

Then…Isolde smiled, the same devious smile from the dance hall.

Morgan’s traumatized eyes shot open as the candlelight blew out. She was paralyzed, frozen in sheer terror. And as soon as she regained her senses…

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!

The siren of Morgan’s scream blared and permeated through the entire palace louder than the roar from a canon. Every soul in Tintagel heard the piercing scream as if Morgan was right there in bed next to them. It was a frightening display of her raw untapped power. No one knew what was going on and Sir Ekner, one of the oldest knights in the kingdom, nearly suffered from a stroke. There was great panic and confusion. She kept screaming. It didn’t stop. Over and over again like an alarm of extreme urgency.

Gawain was one of the first to wake up in full alert. Agravain was in the bed next to his. Gaheris was missing but it wasn’t difficult to guess where he was sleeping. In unison, Gawain and Agravain jumped out of bed, grabbed their weapons, and darted into the hallway. As doors banged open with disoriented residents demanding to know the commotion, the brothers were sprinting barefoot and bare-chested down the cold stony corridors.

The Slave Quarters: Chapter 15 – The Wrong Man (Detective Mystery)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on November 12, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Cloud Beaudry, Slave Quarters. Tagged: , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Cloud is alone, alienated, and outnumbered. Jessica and Leanne are convinced they have their Slave Quarter Killer in custody but Cloud isn’t convinced and he’s called back to Atlanta. The ladies lay it on thick, scolding Cloud for striking out on his own and not being a team player. Considering the facts, he has no choice but to submit to their logic and starts to second-guess himself…that is until he runs into KeNedra’s ghost.

Chapter 15 - The Wrong Man

The Slave Quarters
Chapter 15 – The Wrong Man
By Rock Kitaro

Since 1:30, I’ve been sleeping in a hospital bed on the 3rd floor of Augusta Medical Center. I have the whole room to myself. The alarm on my phone is set for seven. A strip of light floods the floor from the base of the door, getting brighter in the darkness. It wakes me up fifteen minutes earlier than expected.

It’s cold. My blazer is resting on the back of a chair but I’m still too tired to get up and get it. Thus, goosebumps prick up and proliferate my arms, causing me to slip my frigid hands into my pockets.

I’m staring at the ceiling with brooding eyes, dissatisfied, annoyed, disheartened. Nothing seems to be going my way. Now here I am, laid up in a hospital bed with the bumps and bruises stiffening my joints.

Meanwhile, Griffin’s the celebrated hero. Thanks to his “hunch,” he located the bodies of five missing girls. He’s rallied behind the judgment of my colleagues to settle on the idea that Jacory Godchaux is the Slave Quarter Killer and thanks to his provocations, he backed the poor fool in between a rock and a hard place.

Jacory’s shootout caused a stampede of protestors that resulted in five more injured civilians. He then led the police in, I would say a “high speed pursuit” but in downtown Augusta with its old narrow roads and stop signs galore, it was more like a game of cat and mouse. Either way, a victorious Griffin and his sidekick Jessica captured him without a single civilian casualty. They have every right to believe Jacory is the Slave Quarter Killer after everything he’s done.

I shouldn’t blame them…but I do. Especially Griffin.

After Jacory smashed his father’s SUV, he was brought to this very same hospital for emergency surgery. His right leg had to amputated and due to heavy blood loss, he hasn’t been conscience since. Right now, there were two officers stationed outside his hospital room down the hall from me. He was cuffed to the bedpost…as if they figured he’d try and hobble away on one leg.

Jamar and O’Shea Thompson received a police escort back to Coventry where their mother Amarah laid into them real good. The Thompsons, something about that family pulls at my heartstrings. They’re a good family. If KeNedra was still alive, I imagine she would’ve fared well with the lot of them backing her. I wish I had a family like that…little brothers, a sister, a mother who preached forgiveness but had the resolve to use the rod when the situation calls.

“Your mom is dead right?”

Jamar’s question comes out of thin air as clear as when he first said it.

“Are you glad?”

It wasn’t out of malice, I’m sure. Jamar was just curious. But still, why on Earth would he ask me that? My brows furrow at the thought. It’s in times like this that I could usually count on Maggie turning up to get a rise out of me, but at present, she does not reveal herself. She’s letting me rest, letting me think.

…

…

Focus on Griffin. He’s my guy. My next move is to lure him into a trap. Make that oaf give himself away. He’s out in front of everything, which means all eyes are on him. So what are you worried about? This should be easy for you, Cloud. So think…How do you get him?

Someone’s calling my phone. It lights up the room. A fiery sting spreads across my neck as I reach over to pick it off the nightstand. It’s Miranda. She’s been blowing up my phone for the better part of the afternoon, eight calls and twelve text messages.

“Hey, missy.” I groan.

“Cloud, what happened? Why aren’t you answering your phone?!” Miranda stresses with touching concern.

“Dude, you’re not gonna believe…” I’m just about to get started when suddenly I’m blinding by the overheads. Leanne whipped open the door and flipped on the lights as if she’s trying to wake a suspect for questioning. Jessica is right behind her, carrying a bag of fast food and sodas in foam coasters. My eyes are squinting with a confused grimace. Comical, I’m sure.

“Mm-hmm! Who ya talking to? One of your lady friends?” Leanne asks.

“Could be a guy,” Jessica smirks.

“Nope. All of Cloud’s friends are women. Trust me, I know.” Leanne points out as they drag over screeching chairs to sit in front of me.

I wince to sit up with the phone still pressed to my cheek. “I’m gonna have to call you back. I’m fine, Miranda. I promise.”

“See. Girl!” Leanne brags.

I’m a little embarrassed for the ladies to see me so disheveled. My hair looks like a blond fire that’s been hit by a freeze ray. My wrinkled white shirt is unbuttoned halfway down my chest and I have pillow lines engraving my red cheeks. I’m sure I smell or at least my feet do. My shoes are off and I have to move like an old man to keep my feet from touching the women. Jessica’s laying out burgers but from the way she keeps her chin tucked, I can tell she wants to laugh.

“Just got off the phone with Chomsky. He wants us back in the office by tomorrow afternoon,” Leanne says.

“Afternoon? We haven’t closed the case yet.”

Leanne and Jessica shoot me the same scathing stare.

Leanne continues with, “The local authorities can take it from here, Cloud. Chomsky’s been briefed. It’s a done deal. You should be glad. And you should know that while it was tempting to tell him about your gallivanting off by yourself and getting beat to a pulp, I refrained. We’re partners, you see. I wouldn’t throw you under the bus. Contrary to popular belief.”

“Thank you, Leanne.”

I say that bluntly. Now I have a time limit to catch the real killer. The ladies just swept the rug out from underneath me and I’m struggling real hard to hide my frustration.

Leanne senses it. She bats her lashes and leans back to cross her legs. Once settled, she gives me a long hard stare as if I stole her money and she’s still waiting for me to fess up. I don’t react. I’m starving. After putting on my shoes and buttoning up my shirt, I dig into a platter of burger and fries.

“Cloud, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. Why exactly did you ask to join this case?” Leanne starts in.

I’m sipping on lime soda through a noisy straw.

She continues with, “Ever since we got here we’ve been carrying you on our backs. I mean, seriously. What exactly have you done? We told you to come with us to the other plantations. You didn’t want to do that. We asked you for a hand in profiling Jacory. You didn’t want to do that. It shouldn’t have been Griffin in their questioning Jacory. It should have been you. But no! You had to go off and get yourself damn near killed. Yet, I’m the one who needs the partner! See! This is why I can’t stand this, condescending, patriarchal society. Meritocracy, my ass! It’s sexism at its finest!”

I sigh as I stay chewing on my burger. Leanne…Don’t worry. For all your talk of misogyny, I certainly see you pair on you. That’s what I’d like to say. What I do say is:

“Leanne…I hate to keep coming back to this. Fuck it. I need to know what time Griffin left your hotel room last night.”

“Cloud!” Jessica snaps.

“Un-freaking-believable!” Leanne shouts at the same time.

“That’s none of your business, Cloud. It’s extremely rude!” Jessica says.

“Thank you! Geez!” Leanne adds.

The purpose of my question isn’t to shut her up and get her off my back. I really need to know. My stubborn brown eyes are locked on Leanne. She’s munching on a fry but she knows I’m waiting.

“It’s none of your business when he left my hotel room, Cloud. That’s just none of your business.”

“What if I told you it’s pertinent to solving this case?”

“Alright, you need stop right there!” Jessica objects as her hands coil into a clenched fist.

I’m suddenly gripped with suspense as Jessica removes the box of fries from her lap, gets up and paces around while massaging the back of her neck. I’ve never seen her like this. In my own fantasies, I always imagined her anger as a source of arousal…not terror.

“Don’t tell me you think Griffin did this. And before you answer, consider this. Your line of questioning is extremely disrespectful and unbecoming. You’re insulting our intelligence and demeaning all our efforts, the integrity of our investigation. Believe it or not, you can’t always be the smartest person in the room. Jacory confessed!”

“To statutory rape, Jessica. Not murder.”

“Yeah and it adds up! You’re not a certified behavioral specialist. I am. The first victim, Alisha Collier, the arrangement of her body was positioned in a congenial state. That’s postmortem. She’s on her back with one hand resting over the other, on top of the navel. That tells us the killer was either racked with guilt, remorse, grief, or regret. All emotions displayed by our suspect during interrogation. Maybe if you had enough sleep you would’ve seen it for yourself instead of sitting there all high and mighty as if wisdom speaks only to you. Seriously, it pisses me off more than I fucking can stand!”

Jesus…I can almost see the steam fuming from her shoulders, her cheeks quivering with rage. From the way she stood in the center of the room with that arch in her back and those glowering eyes, feels like I just poked and prodded a caged jaguar whose on the verge of snapping. Even Leanne was surprised. To her, Jessica was still a newbie to the GBI.

I contemplate telling them what I know about Griffin, the racism and how it makes more sense that the Slave Quarter Killer could be a cop. But even if I did, all they’d see is the color of jealousy. Because honestly, I am a little jealous. It’s pointless to deny it. Jessica thinks she has the right man and after her little tirade, I’m starting to believe she might be right.

“I think you owe us an apology, Cloud.”

The Knights with No Lords: Chapter 14: The Juggling Act (Fantasy Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on November 9, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Knights With No Lords. Tagged: , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Everyone’s on pins and needles as the enemy Hibernians finally arrive to take back Princess Isolde.

Here we’re introduced to infamous figures such as Morholt the Destroyer and the warlock Algayre. Then there’s Queen Iseult, the Emerald Queen who’s dominated all of Hibernia for nearly half a century. But King Mark isn’t about to just hand the princess over, no questions asked. A pact needs to be made. A proposal is made.

Chapter 13 - The Juggling Act

Chapter 14: The Juggling Act
By Rock Kitaro

The Port of Talons was an inlet harbor shaped like a horseshoe. Ancient walls of limestone stretched up over a hundred feet to conceal its presence from most of the coast. Saltwater entered and passed through its only accessway beneath high arching bridges that connected two collossol cliffs. This strategic seaport was closed to the public, reserved for the purpose of the palace, for receiving and leaving.

Over five-hundred ironclad soldiers had assembled, dotted on the rocky hills that sloped down like an ampitheather. There was a glazing mist. It moved, making the air grainy and tangible to touch. The fog was so dense that no one could see beyond the gap of the two cliffs. It was as if the world simply ended after the gate.

No one made a sound. Save for the seagulls and gushing waves, no one so much as cleared their throats. Everyone had the same grim expression as if they were standing on the front lines of battle. The only one smiling was an eager Princess Isolde, glowing in her white dress and braided blonde hair. As she stood by King Mark’s side, her heart racing with anticipation. She’d been fantasizing about this moment for quite some time.

The Lord Chamberlain, Sir Cador, made it clear that everyone was to be on their best behavior. Anyone accused of shouting or so much as coughing risked getting their teeth knocked out by a fist full of chains. On this, Sir Cador promised to show no mercy.

The Cornish rallied behind King Mark, Sir Ekner, and Tristan, all daunting in black and gold with their banners flapping high in the wind.

The Lothians stood behind King Lot and Queen Morgaus, all coordinated in silver and green, save for Morgaus who insisted on her favorite color of purple.

Gawain was with the Lothians higher up on the hill. Agravain and Gaheris stood his side. The brothers watched in awe as a gigantic ship with seven green sails of dragon wings suddenly took form and emerged from the fog. The dread was sudden and immense. Gawain knew it was the queen’s ship. He’s seen it a dozen times, but never in action. He never thought such a massive ship was capable of moving, let alone float. It was larger than most of the banquet halls, yet it seemed to slide across the water so smoothly that the crests of its wake rolled like silk.

On the other side of the inlet, Morgan sat on her horse from a high precipice. She overlooked the scene dressed like the grim reaper the way her hooded black cloak shredded in the wind. She wasn’t impressed with the ship. She expected nothing less. It was the throbbing in Gawain’s heart that made her purple eyes glower with growing intensity. From two hundred yards out, she could sense the sweltering heat from his tight fisted trepidation.

The ship came to a gentle wood-creeking halt as workers tied the mooring lines ashore. An unloading platform extended from the ship to the dock. Once it was fastened in place, loud horns blared from the trumpeteers. It was a jaunty tune, certainly bringing life to the macabre faces on the hills. And when Princess Isolde spotted Sir Ewangish, she nearly jumped with glee. Sir Ewangish was the same weathered knight who accompanied her to the Picts. He was relieved.

Sir Ewangish was the first to disembark, followed by twenty of the queen’s guards. The Hibernians wore dark intimidating green and black armor and carried long pikes that were sharp enough to pierce chainmail. They marched in a double-file formation, stomping in perfect unison, clanking to create a synchronized cadence of rattling steel. The two lines stopped in front of King Mark.

Ewangish signaled to the ship. The horns stopped blaring.

In its place were soft angelic voices that blended and lifted up to the heavens. Their Latin song was so pleasant, so clean and pure. It alleviated the tension and imbued a subtle breath of optimism. Three girls approached the rails high up on the ship. They held hands and kept singing as they looked down on gawking eyes. They carried and extended their falsettos in ways no one had ever heard. The spellbinding emotion invoked by their voices was truly indescribable. They were the queen’s beloved songbirds. Her treasure.

Then, like an elegant swan spreading her wings, the queen herself approached the platform. She was known far and wide as the “Emerald Queen” and it was for good measure. Even as she neared sixty in age, there wasn’t a single crack in her exquisite visage. Her long flowing hair was so devoid of any pigmentation that it appeared pale green, the same shade as her peridot eyes and the waters that flowed through the inlet. Her long velvety gown was forest green and there was the soft fur of a beaver draping her shoulders.

The Slave Quarters: Chapter 14 – Interrogations (Mystery Suspense)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on November 6, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Cloud Beaudry, Slave Quarters. Tagged: , , , , , , . Leave a comment

With their main suspect in custody, the entire department’s on pins and needles as Jessica and Det. Griffin grill him about the Slave Quarter Murders. Cloud, in particular, has his stomach in knots as he still thinks they have the wrong man. And as per his rotten luck, bad turns to worse when the suspect shoots his way out of the precinct. This is how the innocent dig their own graves. Because they’re idiots.

Chapter 14 - Interrogations

Chapter 14 – Interrogations
By Rock Kitaro

I’m really beginning to hate Augusta, Georgia.

Knowing that Jamar and O’Shea are locked up in a holding cell does very little to assuage my angst. And oh look! Here comes Jessica and Leanne. It’s five past nine so I guess I should’ve expected them. But still, I could’ve used another five minutes to come up with more plausible lies.

Again, I’m sitting at the vacant desk, this time with an ice pack to my face. My blazer is sprinkled with spots from being laid out in the middle of the road. O’Shea’s punch was strong, but he lacked power. He more so pushed me down, than hit me. If not for my previous injuries I could’ve taken it like a boss instead of getting carried off like a…

“Cloud! Oh my god! What were you thinking?” Leanne gawks.

The ladies lean in to examine the swelling. They’re upset, understandably so. I don’t know what they heard, so I’m not sure what exactly to apologize for. Jessica appears well rested while Leanne looks a couple years younger, more vibrant with color in her cheeks.

“Did you really go to the slave quarters by yourself? In the middle of the night?” Jessica asks.

I nod and for some reason smirk at the same time.

“You’re an idiot! You know that? I read the report. Someone threw you out of freaking window? You could have been killed!” Leanne snaps.

I’m still smiling.

“This is serious, Cloud,” Jessica tells me.

I’m just about to speak up but I see Griffin and Agent Dixon approaching.

“Don’t give him too much grief.” Griffin says in good cheer. “At least that gives us two alibis Jacory, aka J-Pooy now has to account for.”

“Yeah, Assuming he’s our guy.” I let slip.

“What?” Griffin asks.

“Nothin. But, hey! Thanks again for saving my ass back there. I appreciate it.”

“You got it, Cloud! You and I are like Shaq and Kobe. We got each others back!”

“Yeah, well Chomsky’s gonna throw a natural fit when he finds out about this. Honestly, what were you thinking? No back up!? No service weapon!? Freaking idiot!” Leanne says as she continues to lay in.

Agent Dixon gives me a suspicious look as if he could tell I’m holding something back. I resolve to say nothing in my defense. Whatever they’re thinking, it’s best to just let them run with it. I rather do that than mention something that could come back to bite me in the ass.

“It’s insane out there.” Jessica frets. “I think it’s going to get worse. Jacory just came in with his father and their attorney. They’re meeting with one of the captains.”

“Good! Just put me in a room with him and I’ll wrap this up,” says a determined Griffin before he strolls off toward the elevator lobby.

Dixon goes with him. I try to follow but Jessica yanks on my arm, sending a scorching pain down the left side of my body. She looks me square in the eye, casting a spell by which I’m left speechless under her control.

“Talk to me. What’s going on?” she whispers.

God…how can I deny those brown eyes? I look at Leanne. She too, is waiting.

“Leanne, was Griffin with you all night?” I ask as politely as I could.

Just like that, Leanne gushes with a haughty smile. It’s like she can’t wait to spill the beans, but of course, she wants me to work for it. “Cloud! That’s none of your business. Geez!”

“Talk to us! What’s going on?” Jessica urges.

“You guys…” I begin with a heavy sigh. “I don’t think Jacory is the man we’re looking for.”

Leanne claps. “I fucking knew it! I knew you were going to say that. Why? ‘Cause you didn’t figure it out first?”

My lips tighten. Why did I even bother?

Jessica adds, “Cloud, we got this guy on camera a few miles from where KeNedra was picked up by paramedics. He can’t account for the time of the abduction and he has a history of sexual abuse. Also, forensics found blood and dirt in his truck. They haven’t connected it to the victims yet but it’s only a matter of time. We’re just waiting on DNA results. So tell us, why don’t you think he’s our guy?”

Jessica…she’s not raising her voice or frowning, but I can tell she’s just as insulted as Leanne. Just then, the doors to the bullpen open up with a loud wooden creak. The clamor of conversations blare in. A stern Dixon and Griffin are leading an entourage of grim faces, all of them ready to stand trial.

The short, bald, and stocky Jacory “J-Poopy” Godchaux isn’t wearing handcuffs. He’s dressed in a respectable neutral tone suit behind his flashier father. The popular emcee preacher, Tavvy Godchaux is dressed in a loud purple three-piece suit with matching gator skin boots. Next to him is their estimable defense attorney/civil rights activist, Malachi Sanders Esq. Malachi is dark, lean, and deceptively young with a clean shave and thick-framed glasses. His tall frame and long dreadlocks make him standout, even amongst the grape looking Tavvy.

I’m sizing Jacory up. He lacks confidence, as if he’s already been sentenced to death.

“You want to know why I think he’s not our guy?” I tell the ladies. “Because there’s no way he could’ve taken me in a fight.”

The Knights with No Lord: Chapter 13 – Lions and Wolves (Fantasy Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on November 2, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Knights With No Lords. Tagged: , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Tristan and Pellinore finally throw down to settle an old score. Meanwhile, Gawain comes to terms with his own inner demons and the threat that’s looming beyond the horizon.

You see, on the surface, Prince Gawain is the so-called paragon of virtue, always doing the right thing, embracing responsibility and fending off indulgences. But deep down, Gawain has a gift for manslaughter. He showed a glimpse of it last night. Morgan thinks he’s wearing a mask. So badly, she just wants him to take it all off.

Chapter 13 - Lions and Wolves

Chapter 13 – Lions and Wolves
By Rock Kitaro

“Sorry for calling you all the way out here. The lads will get mad if they find out about this,” said Pellinore, squatting with the naked blade of his claymore propped up against his shoulder.

“No matter. It’s my duty as the Champion of Cornwall to accept any challenge, anytime,” Tristan grinned with crossed arms resting on his puffed out chest.

“That’s good. That’s good. This pleases me.”

“Just one thing, Pellinore. After I finish beating you to a pulp, you better not blame it on last night’s libation.”

“You bastard. That’s my line.”

Both men were without armor. The golden lion wore a gray shirt with brown slacks. The dark wolf was without his red scarf, wearing a black sleeveless shirt and black pants.

It was a brisk clean day with clear blue skies. The morning sun gleamed like a pearl, not too bright, not too dull. A refreshing wind rustled through their light fabrics. The duelists had convened on an isolated ridge near the coastal cliffs of Treknow with their horses grazing nearby. The grass beneath their boots was soft and slick. Waves crashed against the rocks, erupting with a spray that cooled their heated bodies.

Pellinore’s claymore was four and a half feet long. It was double-edged with one side serrated like a steak knife. He’s had it ever since he was sixteen and not once has it cracked or slipped from his grasp. Tristan’s long sword was a foot shorter but had a longer handle, long enough for four hands to clamp it at once. Tristan didn’t have any special bond with this sword. It was just one that he picked up from the armory as he was riding out for the morning.

The alpha predators circled each other with razor sharp focus. Pellinore made the first move. He sprung forth in a spectacular leap, clutching his sword with both hands for a vertical strike. Tristan sidestepped and countered with a rising sweep. It was blocked and sparks flew. The two crossed blades in a test of strength but it was Pellinore’s heels that scraped back as Tristan pushed forward.

In a snarling chuckle, Pellinore taunted, “I’m not the same whelp from before! Everyday I’ve trained with the thought of beating you.”

Tristan responded with three swooping strikes. Each time Pellinore deflected it, sparks flew. The third strike hit Pellinore so hard that he was sent stumbling back. A laughing Pellinore jumped to his feet and extended in a straightforward lunge. Tristan spun out of the way but it was just a ruse. Halfway through the lunge, Pellinore twirled his blade and swiped at Tristan’s thighs. He drew first blood.

Ignoring the pain, Tristan unleashed another procession of whistle-singing swings. Pellinore blocked each one and when Tristan got too close, Pellinore whacked him with his pommel. Tristan staggered back but kept his guard up as his opponent maintained pressure.

Pellinore was clearly the superior swordsman in terms of skill and technique. He displayed a dazzling array of difficult moves with effortless precision. He punctured and landed cuts all over Tristan’s upper body, shredding his shirt and stinging him like spikes of searing hot metal. Even when it came to defense, Pellinore was better trained. He could telepath Tristan’s trajectory and was quicker on his feet.

The problem was Tristan’s ungodly strength. Each time Pellinore blocked an attack, his arms would rattle and send teeth-clenching vibrations to tense up his back. It was an extreme exertion of energy just to push away and Tristan seemed to have the stamina of a racehorse, pounding, hacking, and grunting with monstrous aggression.

Every time the two crossed blades, Tristan would use brute force to shove Pellinore away like kicking a door off its hinges. Pellinore would fall with the wind knocked out of him but he’d keep coming back. Again and again, he rose and unleashed a relentless barrage until suddenly, Tristan started smiling. It wasn’t to taunt Pellinore, but rather it had been a while since Tristan was able to spar with an opponent of his own standing. He acknowledged that Pellinore had indeed improved and was genuinely impressed.

“You bastard. DON’T THINK YOU’VE WON!” Pellinore screamed.

…

Five minutes later, three galloping horses approached the highlands of Treknow. It was Princesss Isolde riding with two Cornish knights, her armed escorts. Isolde was kept warm by a gray wool cloak that covered her borrowed blue dress. A bare-chested Tristan was using the rags of his shredded shirt to wrap his shallow wounds. He turned and saw Isolde staring with her blonde hair blowing in the wind.

“What are you doing here?” said Tristan.

“Your king was gracious enough to allow me a ride under escort,” Isolde said as she leaned over and scratched the neck of her mare.

Tristan furrowed his brows with disapproval.

“And you, brave Pellinore? Do you require a physician?” Isolde teased.

An exhausted Pellinore was sprawled on his back with a half-sedated gaze fixated on the blue sky. Oddly enough, there wasn’t a single laceration on his body. But after being tossed about like a rag doll for well over three minutes, his bones were brittle and his organs were on the verge of rupture. He might as well have been thrown from a speeding carriage.

There was, however, a stream of blood gushing from his broken nose. That’s because Tristan knocked him out with a vicious overhand right. Poor Pellinore had only just regained consciousness as the horses arrived.

“Tristan. Listen up,” Pellinore wheezed. “I’mma let you off the hook for today. Okay? You’re free to go.”

Tristan beamed with a bright, unexpected smile. It was probably the funniest thing he’d ever heard and he couldn’t stop snickering. Isolde shook her head with bewildered amusement as she wondered why Tristan found it so funny.

“Did you hear what he said?” Tristan said.

“Yes. We all did. Didn’t we?” Isolde smirked.

Tristan roared in a laugh so hearty that he collapsed to his knees and clutched a handful of soil. Pellinore started to laugh with him, but the pain in his midsection caused him to coil up tight.

…

Just two miles north, another young man had risen early. Gawain was sitting on a smooth rock slab within a cove on Trebarwith Strand. It was a scenic beach of crashing waves and cawing gulls. Monolithic towers of earthen formations were scattered along the shoreline as turbulent breakers exploded against them. The majestic cliffs surrounded the Y-shaped cove casting cold shadows over Gawain who was stationed in the middle.

The Slave Quarters: Chapter 13 – The World Media (Mystery Suspense)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on October 30, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Cloud Beaudry, Slave Quarters. Tagged: , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Cloud’s worst fear comes to fruition as the media flocks upon Augusta, Georgia, foaming at the mouth with cries of racism and police corruption. Families of the Slave Quarter Killer’s victims demand justice. They say, if the victims were white girls, the police would’ve had a greater response. Cloud confronts the whistle-blower for fanning the flames and, in the end, gets checked for all the world to see.

Chapter 13 - The Worldly Media

Chapter 13 – The Worldly Media
By Rock Kitaro

Whelp…After I got beat the fuck up, I had no choice but to file a report. The sergeant working the graveyard shift wasn’t too pleased about my going out without a service weapon. Thankfully, he was polite about it, keeping his skepticism and scolding to a minimum. Other than a description of my assailant, he couldn’t care less why I was there or what I was looking for. He suggested I visit a hospital but wasn’t persistent about it. I ignored the suggestion and opted to return to my motel room.

As the shower rinsed the sweat and dirt off of my battered body, I saw the messy blotches of black and blue swelling all over my chest and back. The area between my neck and shoulder was worse from the barstool. Never before had I been so thoroughly thrashed. I winced with every turn. The simple act of reaching sent a wave of inflammation through my shoulders like popping battery acid in my bones.

My face remained unblemished, thank God. However, a migraine persisted and no matter how many painkillers I took, this migraine would stay with me for next three days.

On top of all that, there was blood in my urine. I couldn’t remember if pissing blood was a good or bad thing in terms of the healing process. All I knew was that I definitely didn’t want to go to the hospital and get a catheter stuck up my urethra. Too much information? Good! Street fights aren’t cool, kids. They suck. And as an investigator who depends on his sharp senses and clever wit to outsmart criminals, a throbbing headache is the last thing I need.

I should have sprawled out on that inviting floral pattern comforter covering my queen size bed. I should have nestled my head in between those crisp and cool pillows and let my burning eyes recuperate from the strain of staring so much. Like an imbecile, I don’t do any of that. I don’t know what’s driving me. It doesn’t make sense. It’s stupid. I know.

With a disgruntled mug, I wrangled on a white collared shirt. I shoved my legs through black slacks and yanked my blazer off its hanger. My head dangled forward in a dazed stupor as I glared at myself in the mirror and fiddled with frustrated fingers to tie this stupid tie. I’m whispering f-bombs. Should’ve brought a friggin clip-on.

I had to stop, calm down, and breathe.

This time, before I left my motel room I made sure to bring my service weapon. It’d be a shame to have to shoot the suspect, but I’d rather put one in his back than watch him scurry off in the woods again.

As I made my way to the motel’s front office, my face gradually descends into the droop into a disheartening grimace. I passed by Leanne’s room and as much as I didn’t want to think about what was going on inside, her nasally laughter couldn’t be ignored. She was still up but I don’t hear anyone else. I didn’t expect to. Because I know Griffin excused himself not too long ago to try and kill me.

I thought about kicking in Leanne’s door like riot police and interrogating his departure time out of her. I thought about it, but didn’t have the nerve. So I simply proceeded to the front office and dropped off the rental keys to the car. Leanne would pick them up in the morning and that would be that.

It was closing in on three in the morning when I hit the streets. Downtown Augusta is an eerie sight, not for the timid or fainthearted. The roads are barren and silent. Tungsten streetlamps cast a burnt orange tint over the sidewalks, but beyond the cracked cement and chained linked fences is a vast sea of darkness. I saw outlines of historic buildings with no electricity. Every once in a while I’d hear a random cough in the distance. I wondered how many squatters took up residence in those vacant buildings. I wondered how many were watching me.

Police HQ was only few blocks away, a thirty-minute hike. I take out Miranda’s pack of cigarettes and just as my lips snag one out, a strong pressure squeezes in my head so hard that my jaw clenches. That was my body’s way of telling me, “Nope!” and I listened. The pack is discarded in the next trashcan I pass.

Flipping up my collar, I replayed the last few hours in my head wondering if there’s anything I missed, anything I might have overlooked. Mr. Wayne said the killer drove in a vehicle with flashing lights. It has to be law enforcement! The desk sergeant knew where I was going. Anyone could’ve found out where I was from entry logs but I can’t just approach the sergeant and make inquiries. It would let the killer know I’m onto his trail. And when you’re trying to set a trap for someone the last thing you want is to let them know you’re baiting the hook. Not to mention, a hawk scooping up a venomous snake still runs the risk of getting bit in return.

So what should I do? Was it really Det. Griffin? For all I knew, Griffin could’ve still been in Leanne’s motel room when I heard her laughing. I don’t know for sure. And if Leanne was with Det. Griffin all night then his alibi is airtight. However, if he slipped out sometime around midnight, then yeah…he’s my guy.

After thirty minutes, the cold finally penetrated my defenses. It numbs the pain but my front teeth’s doing Morse code as I stopped under a lamppost on the corner of Moor and Hightower. Police headquarters was a stone’s throw away. I just stood there staring at the ghastly four-story building of Beaux-Arts architecture like a vindictive criminal coming for payback on the pigs who locked me up. My brooding eyes were fixated on the main entrance and the line of squad cars parked out front.

Migraines…they not only dull your senses, they reduce your common sense. I’m strutting down the middle of Moor Street like it’s nobody’s business. There wasn’t any traffic but even if there was, I doubt I’d get out of the way. I was in a mood unbecoming of an officer of the law, unbecoming of the authority vested in me.

Even as I passed City Hall on my left, I was squinting at it with disgust as if the entire building was sprinkled in bird shit. I never understood why people liked to put City Hall and police HQ within spitting distances of each other. It’s like having quarreling siblings grow up and deciding live next door to each other when there’s a whole world of space out there. So stupid. Like I said, I was in mood.

When I entered police HQ, I ignored the desk sergeant’s judgmental gaze and didn’t react when she called me a dumbass from afar. I simply found refuge in the mostly vacant 2rd floor bullpen. It was sad. The Chief just finished giving a press conference talking about how urgent this case was, but I only saw two detectives burning both ends of the candle. These two good detectives were following up Jessica’s suggestion to search J-Poopy’s sanitation truck. I could’ve walked over for an update but it was so quiet, so tranquil. I’ll ask them later.

Taking up a post at an empty desk, I spread out the case files, the pictures, the documented statements. I was ignoring the obvious in search for trivial details, any kind of discrepancy I could use to prove J-Poopy’s innocence. I was walking on eggshells because I knew my agenda undermined that of Jessica and Leanne’s. They’re not gonna want to hear that I think their primary suspect is innocent, so I’m determined to keep my suspicions to myself until I have concrete evidence.

My eyes jumped from page to page, timecode to timecode, dates to dates, addresses and their correlation to the points of interests. It’s…it’s all so very taxing. It’s never a good sign when you start seeing things in three, when your vision blurs the lines and causes the letters to come floating off paper like leaves on the surface of a rippling pond. My body finally seizes control. Fatigue grabbed me by the back of my neck and gently lowered my head to rest on the surface of the wooden desk, right next to Tiquasia Payne’s autopsy report.