Earl Yorke

I know… I’m a day late, and I am sorry. I have been having issues with my laptop, and lost the edited copy of the excerpt (damn it!). Because this time of year is so stressful, and I have to go back to work tomorrow, I will post the unedited version… hope that you all like it…

A New Kind of Low Excerpt One:

Parting is such Sweet Sorrow

The pills had been eating him alive from the inside for nearly three straight days. His body’s demand for their consumption every three to four hours (so as to preserve his heightened state of perception) was simply too much to bear. Besides, he lacked the willpower to wage a worthy opposition even against his own self. He allowed the seemingly constant administrations of the adderall pills to be conducted, keeping himself obsessively busy with various hobbies and mindless forms of entertainment in between each non-prescribed dosage. It wasn’t as though he couldn’t see that everyday life was simply too… unsatisfying… boring… even arduous without his precious Adderall. Even when he found himself going on hour thirty without sleep on numerous occasions, with temporary depression resulting from the very idea of going to sleep and missing time under the drug’s sweet influence, he still could not imagine life without it. That would likely result in a state of lethargy that would consume him for the rest of his days, which would be numbered as is when considering the suicidal thoughts that would likely drive him to drink a whole bottle of Drano. The world would end. Ardan Bristol was a slave… to himself, and most importantly to each 20 mg tab of Adderall, his God of sorts; each tiny orange pill held every ounce of his faith and devotion, love and compassion… body and soul.

Ardan slowly began to wrap up his abnormally lengthy writing session and stood up. He had been sitting there on the couch for nearly 18 hours working excitedly upon his latest hand-written manuscript without one single snack, drink, or bathroom break. His only deviation from the enticing composition of this “book” took the form of brief pill-popping sessions during which he would wash down 20 milligrams of Adderall with his own sparse saliva which did nothing to take away from the terrible taste of each orange pill as it passed over his parched tongue en–route to his stomach. There it would create all forms of uncomfortable churning before dissolving into his blood-stream and encouraging his obsession with blissful overwhelming intensity. It was this feeling that kept him awake for extreme periods of time sometimes lasting up to 96 hours in length, and never falling short of 48 hours. He slept only when the influences of the drug could no longer combat his body’s need to virtually shut down, leaving him to the torment of his harassing nightmares for frighteningly unpredictable lengths of time. His subconscious was constantly in an effort to make him aware of its unbearable torture during the seemingly unending waking periods invoked by his abuse of that dangerous drug when it was forced into hibernation.

The mental fatigue that encouraged his inner madness was not the only toll that his addiction took upon him. No, there were other pains that were equally as prominent, such as the physical effects of adderall on him. He would go for days without eating or drinking more than a vanilla Coke here and there, and had it not been for his gluttonous gorging sessions and random incessant grazing during the one or two weeks out of the month when his prescription was out, he would have appeared impoverished and emaciated instead of abnormally skinny. A bit more repulsing were the large whiteheads that seemed to pop up all over his body like wild flowers in the springtime, and had he been so inclined as to consider the possibility of a connection between this and the pills, Ardan would have adhered to the question of how the white, tender mounds could thrive so well in his dry, peeling flesh (another aspect of the Adderall’s secret gifts of disease upon him; a moderate state of dehydration that was never even acknowledged by him, let alone treated by a doctor). Even the aches and pains that burned in his legs and back from 18 hours without even changing positions on the couch could indirectly be blamed upon his abuse of the drug. Ardan was virtually ignorant to everything and would never stop taking his precious pills… not even as his health began to fade more and more dramatically with each newly filled prescription. The drug truly did dominate his life, and as with most dictators of this fashion, history has taught us that their tragic deaths and violent banishments from office can create disaster, and even chaos in some cases. The bitter truth, however, was that regardless of how much their people loved or hated them, and regardless of how they fought to cling still to their power, none of them lasted forever… nothing lasts forever… especially little-known drugs like adderall that could only last for so long before falling under reconsideration by the FDA

How ironic that peril often overlooks the evil souls of the world, and settles instead upon the weaklings who require drugs just like Adderall to make it through their everyday lives. What horrific alterations does the mind make upon itself and its body when forced blind to seek out a new sanctuary when convinced that none others truly do exist?

Cabin Fever

Ardan clenched his eyes tightly shut, temporarily relieving the itchy irritation that resulted from the previous six or seven hours he had spent playing The Sims video game on his computer. The dull glow of the screen seemed to quicken the eye strain that came with staying up for several days, and after the first few hours he began to stare blankly at the monitor, mindlessly compelled to continue gaming even though he now was losing focus on it as if he was playing the game in a dream. Although he was losing interest in this activity he still continued to play… unable to stop.

Opening his eyes, Ardan slowly reached into his left pocket and produced his bottle of Adderall. Popping off the cap he shook a couple pills into his right hand and anxiously devoured them, leaning back with a certain relief after replacing the bottle in his pocket. He gazed back toward the screen, watching as two of his SIMS fought over use of the toilet in the game. Did people really fight over such trivial things in life? Though it was only a video game, Ardan found himself often questioning the motives and actions of his SIMS with a caring compassion for the animated people. His lack of social contact with people in the real world often forced him to resort to this unrealistic portrayal of human life rather than attempting to get out of the apartment and interact with the real thing. It was easier this way, and more importantly he was in control of everything in The Sims… reality wasn’t even close to being as predictable.

Ardan grinned happily as his stomach began to churn and roar in attempt to digest the pills. This was a slightly uncomfortable feeling that he knew all to well as the first of three emotional changes that Adderall gifted him, and it was a calming feeling nonetheless. The second change was the climactic rush that enabled him to focus unfalteringly upon whatever he was doing, virtually loving his every pastime, hobby, and even chore. Third came the slow descent of his rush, leaving him at the mercy of his cigarette cravings, which seemed to rise above their norm to the extent where he would smoke one Marlboro Menthol after another. After three days with no sleep in his euphoric drugged-up world, he would end up smoking close to five packs of cigarettes and would develop multiple canker sores on the tip of his tongue in addition to a dry, itchy throat. Amongst his various nervous habits that he fell prey to while under the influence, the endless, painful scratching of his tongue against his front teeth was the worst, and would not even have been a problem at all had he not sprouted so many sores there. This worsened his pain, making eating a difficult endeavor (not that it mattered considering his loss of appetite).

He winced as a jolt of pain from an accidental flick of his tongue against his molars shot through him. Closing his eyes, he sighed as the pain diminished and he could finally release his clenched fists. A song that had been in his head for the past 24 hours or so began to play once again much to his dismay and annoyance in regard to its endless repetition. One would have imagined that it was in Ardan’s power to stop the song from playing, but it was like a broken record repeating the same chorus through his head without stopping.

Just need some time to myself again, I need to bring back the old days when I was in control of my life… again and again, came the Taproot song, Again over and over. Perhaps he simply needed to sleep–

“No, we’ve still much to do,” Ardan revealed to the empty apartment, deciding against resting. The truth was that he truly didn’t have much to do, at least nothing important anyway. What he was referring to was his video gaming, and perhaps work with his manuscript. Necessity seemed to be an overly misused commodity in his life, though like many other issues he had, Ardan failed to pick up on it.

“Prrrrrrr–owwwww,” came the excitedly urgent greeting of his cat, Calypso, named after the sea-nymph in The Odyssey who kept Odysseus as her lover against his will for some five or six years. The name was definitely befitting of this black and white tabby as she was both infinitely affectionate, and incessantly demanding when she desired food or attention. She strutted slowly across the room to where Ardan was seated and insistently began to rub her face against his bare legs, pausing briefly to lick her left hind-leg before continuing. She didn’t allow him to ignore her for more than a minute before jumping up on his lap and intensifying her demands for attention by kneading his bare chest passionately.

“Ow, Fuck!” Ardan screeched as Calypso’s claws pierced his flesh through her kneading. “Damn you!” He screamed, violently throwing the cat off of his chest and rubbing the multiple places where her claws had dug into him. Tiny red dots appeared on his chest, but the wounds were not big and did not bleed much. Looking over to where the cat had landed, he frowned in dismay to find her staring at him almost ruefully. He loved that cat dearly… she was his only friend and he had chucked her across the room with enough ferocity to have killed her if she hit the wall.

“Oh, Calypso,” he sighed, tearing himself away from his video games and standing up, “I’m so sorry, sweetie.” He immediately began to walk toward her, upset to discover her recoiling in fear. Her back arched as if she was preparing to defend herself and she hissed venomously at him.

Ardan’s bottom lip began to quiver subtlety as his uncontrollably intense emotions began to overwhelm him with grief. He watched as the cat backed into the kitchen. He slowly pursued, intent on patching things up with the offended feline by opening a can of tuna for her. As always, this proved quite effective in patching things up with Calypso.

After spending a good fifteen minutes stroking the purring cat as she ate, Ardan moved back into the living room and sat down in front of his computer once again. He struggled to keep his eyes open as he stared blankly at the screen with thoughts of self degradation running through his head. He didn’t know what to do with himself… his temper was becoming progressively worse with every passing day, and he feared that it would ultimately reach the point of violence. For once he finally considered the idea that his Adderall was causing some form of debilitation in him, and this was a difficult idea for him to grasp. There was no way he could get off of the medication… no way in hell. He was left to slowly watch his condition worsen while still convincing himself in the weeks to come that the Adderall had nothing to do with it.

Focusing on the tiny SIMS on the computer screen once again, Ardan grasped the mouse and began to dictate their lives in the manner that he had been prior to the incident with Calypso. Control, like the power he had over the video game, was very important to him. It was also something he lacked in many areas of his life… something of the past, having been fleeting away for quite some time and reaching the point of no return. With the small amount that he still possessed he was able to occasionally get himself out of the house for walks to the beach, but these rare occasions were his only escapes from the apartment aside from doctor visits as he had quit his job two weeks earlier. He found himself able to slowly detach from the computer that evening for a short walk that would be his last escape from cabin fever until poverty forced him out into the work force again. It was an outing that he would regret taking for the rest of his days.

Just need some time to myself again, I need to bring back the old days when I was in control of my life…

The Critic

William Dewoh had been watching Ardan Bristol for several weeks. His interests in Ardan were similar to a predators interest in it’s prey, random and hateful. Dewoh knew that he had been drawn to Ardan for malicious reasons, but was still a bit unclear as to exactly what his intentions were. Despite this confusion, he was certain that the time had come to introduce himself to Ardan and knew that the perfect opportunity had arisen as he watched the scrawny young man exiting his apartment building for the first time in nearly a week. With great interest, he pursued Ardan down the street toward Wells Beach (a lengthy 2 mile trek involving the hazardous crossing of route one) where the dark clouds seemed to stretch all the way to the horizon.

The dismal weather seemed to compliment Dewoh’s venomous personality quite well, almost enhancing the malice that consumed him as he stalked Ardan. He was similar to this drug-compelled man in the sense that he also felt driven by feelings dependence upon something though he suffered under a different burden than Ardan. His limited pre-cognitive line of sight was like a compass leading him out of a forest, and Ardan was like magnetic north. When Dewoh found his perception dominated by this apparent foresight he would involuntarily collapse into a fetal position and awaken some thirty or forty minutes later with his own blood dripping out of his mouth and nose. Sometimes his eyes would bleed a bit as well, but this only came with his most powerful visions such as the most recent one…

The snake… it is perhaps an Adder… curled around Ardan Bristol, dominating him with its body’s tight grip around him… it is not a hateful embrace, yet it is threatening to Dewoh… standing in his way of accomplishing his goal… the snake must be eliminated – no, replaced, but with what?

Jude…

Who or what is Jude… it is difficult to see as much of the future is still clouded like a thick fog… slowly more and more is revealed, but nothing more will come right now… it is time to return to the present and find the Adder… the rest will come later… just need some time to myself again, need to bring back the old days when control was more than just a fairy tale…

Dewoh sighed, quite confused by the meaning behind the Adder as he recalled what had been revealed in his last vision. A small trickle of blood ran out of his left nostril as a result of the sheer power that came from simply remembering the details of the vision. He wiped the blood with his hand and thought nothing more of it.

Looking back to Ardan, Dewoh realized that he had fallen a bit behind and quickly hastened his pace. Ardan had already made it across route one and now walked down the beach access road, which ran alongside the salt marshes of Wells beach. He watched as a cloud of white smoke rose up from where Ardan walked and realized that the fucker had been chain-smoking during the entire thirty minute walk to the beach. He must have smoked at least six or seven cancer sticks already, and seemed intent on taking down the entire pack before he finished! It was quite apparent that Ardan had a very addictive personality… an easily exploitable trait in more ways than one. This definitely provided Dewoh with an edge, and gave him a major
jump in confidence. He quickened his pace even more.

By the time Dewoh had finally caught up with him, Ardan had made it all the way down to the beach, walking along at a slower pace and looking like a tourist as he distractedly strolled along. It wasn’t until this moment that Dewoh noticed the small, wire-bound notebook that he carried in his right hand, and he wondered exactly what the man was filling its pages with. This enticed him greatly though he was unsure why. Did Ardan Bristol keep a journal, or was it perhaps something more… complicated than that? This was yet another thing about him that fueled Dewoh’s need for more information.

As Ardan seated himself upon a bench along the boardwalk, Dewoh saw his chance and seated himself beside him. “What are you writing?” Dewoh asked, taking note of Ardan’s immediate scrawling of chicken scratch print into the notebook as soon as he sat down. He saw nothing wrong with his question though it was quite obviously a shock to Ardan.

Ardan looked up from his writing immediately and gazed over at Dewoh with a look of dismay upon his face. This encounter seemed quite uncomfortable for him, as if he was a young child being addressed by a stranger. His facial expressions quickly changed from pitiful shock to nervous frustration as he struggled to decide whether to respond or not. In the event that he did respond, the next problem to handle was what to say… his lack of a social life was quite obvious.

“Did I disturb you?”

Ardan said nothing, continuing to gaze at Dewoh in confusion. It was almost as if he had not acknowledged the stranger’s second question, as he finally spat out a response to the first one in a broken, watery voice.

“S… stories,” Ardan responded, turning back to the hand-written manuscript and focusing on it for quite some time. He seemed to hope that with the answer of his question the man would leave him alone, but this would not be the case much to his dismay.

“Stories, huh? Very interesting… what are they about?” Dewoh asked, feigning interest in Ardan’s hobby. He still made no effort to introduce himself, taking a subtle amount of satisfaction out of Ardan’s obvious discomfort with him. Watching as the scrawny writer produced and lit another cigarette, Dewoh was caught off-guard by his response.

“W… what d’you care about my work?” Ardan asked, revealing his offense taken by the stranger’s queries. His face twisted and contorted to reveal his dismay, mirroring the look of a discontented child and adding certain ridicule to his appearance. This did little to demand – or even so much as request – respectful treatment.

“I was just trying to make friendly conversation,” Dewoh replied, offering an expression of false sympathy in his facial expressions. He sighed, gazing out toward the waves as they broke onto the beach clamorously. Looking back to Ardan, he added, “I’m sorry to have offended you.”

Ardan did not respond, choosing to remain silent due to his inability to formulate a response that pleased him. He felt bad for snapping at the stranger; it had been very impolite of him although he had been unsure of the man’s reasons for taking such an interest in him. Perhaps he was a tourist… likely not a local, given that he appeared to be the same age as him, and he did not remember the man from high-school. He took a long drag off of his cigarette and sighed, breathing a thick cloud of white smoke that was compelled by the wind into Dewoh’s face.

Dewoh coughed lightly, disgusted by the foul scent of the burning tobacco. He was almost vexed by Ardan’s inconsiderate attitude, but forgot about the smoke entirely as the scrawny writer popped open a prescription bottle and popped an orange pill, which he swallowed with a very obvious amount of satisfaction before replacing the bottle in his pocket. He seemed not to care that Dewoh had been seated beside him, watching the entire thing. Of all his observations and discoveries pertaining to Ardan Bristol, this one was by far the most vital… he knew this even without knowledge of what the pills did for him, for they were most certainly a necessity.

“Forgive me for not introducing myself,” Dewoh said, deciding to take a different approach at gaining Ardan’s trust, “the name is Will Dewoh, and you are?” He raised his eyebrows, searching for a reply from him.

Ardan continued to puff on his cigarette without any response to Dewoh’s introduction. Perhaps, he thought, if he simply ignored the guy he would just go away and stop pestering him. His ill-mannered silence just seemed to entice Dewoh even more however.

“I used to write… found it to be quite soothing, but got bored with it after a while. I get bored quite easily, which is probably the reason why none of my hobbies seem to last… either that or I just get burnt out on ‘em,” Dewoh said, looking toward the shoreline the entire time as if he were speaking to the water instead of the prick next to him.

No response.

“Now that I think about it, the reason why I didn’t finish high-school was probably a result of my being bored with classes… either that or the pot… perhaps both. Anyway, I was s’posed to be class of 1995 but ended up being GED class of 2000. You seem like you might have been a Good Enough Diploma graduate too… I can’t conceive of anyone with your social skills ever making it through school. Did they pick on you or something at your school?”

Throwing his cigarette onto the ground with mild wrath, Ardan stood up and lit another. He quickly began to walk away, finding Dewoh’s voice sticking with him as he strode along. What had he done to deserve such harassment? Surely William Dewoh had something against him, but this only added to his confusion when considering the fact that he rarely even left his apartment, and never bothered a soul on the rare occasions that he ventured out. A sarcastic voice in the back of his head suggested that perhaps God was pissed off at him for some reason, or simply punishing him at random in order to purge His divine frustrations with how man in general has raped Him. The voice chuckled in amusement.

As they reached route one Dewoh had to raise his voice to the point of yelling in order to compete with the loud rumblings of the cars rushing down the road. Ardan had relentlessly ignored him up until this point, but found his patience wearing thin and his level of annoyance reaching its peak. He couldn’t stand this man, and shuddered at the idea of being followed home by him… he didn’t want Dewoh to know his address. It was time to rid himself of this pest.

Dredging up every bit of determination that the medication would allow, Ardan spun himself around, attempting to force an intimidating expression of anger across his face, but losing a bit of faith in himself when he discovered how difficult this task truly was. He dropped his notebook onto the hot pavement and lifted the tightly clenched fist that his hand had become in a threatening gesture. His arm was so violently spasmodic that he found the cuff of his flannel shirt falling down around his elbow and his hair coming out of its neat part. One lock of red hair fell down in his face, revealing his lack of self-control and dominance over his anger. All that he could do was stare, cross-eyed at it; his vindictiveness blooming like a red rose as he pulled his fist to his side and prepared to strike at Dewoh.

“ – and so that was how that cocksucker found himself digesting his own teeth… washed down with the blood from his gums when I broke the fucker’s jaw,” Dewoh stopped abruptly, not speaking another word as he gleefully read the weak rage that almost pulsated behind Ardan’s glaring eyes. If it had been the man’s attention that he desired, it surely was his now… but he wasn’t entirely sure that this was how he wanted it, not that he was one to back down from a fight, it just caught him by surprise a bit to see the weakling he had observed for the last few months suddenly in attempts to grow some balls.

“Wh… what do you w… want?” Ardan stuttered, doing his best to keep his voice from cracking (as he was accustomed to during such periods of flustered frenzy in himself), but failing miserably. “Just g… go away, you j… j…”

“Jackass?” Dewoh asked, feeling quite clever to have finished Ardan’s sentence… judging by the expression that came over the man’s face, he had successfully frightened the man by doing this… or perhaps not.

“Jerk,” Ardan corrected him weakly, shying away from Dewoh’s vulgarities with a snobbish look that suggested that he was both intimidated and disgusted by the man’s language. Ass… JackASS… what a frightening word indeed when you’re a stimulant engorging shut-in. He sighed, turning slowly away from Dewoh, his nerve leaving him like the soul of a dead man evacuating its body. There was no way in hell that he could do this; his only hope was that perhaps Dewoh might just decide to leave him alone now that whatever friendliness that he may have shown to the man (which he imagined to be none at all, yet the man still had trailed him across the salt marsh) had been quite obviously smacked down with each weak shake of his fist in the air. It was rather difficult for Ardan to believe himself capable of killing anything, even if it was a casualty of sentimental extremities… emotion was still powerful enough to KO Mr. Ardan Bristol, as it did each day of his life. Christ, he couldn’t even retain discipline over himself anymore; he was, in fact, beating himself down.

Dewoh found himself equally as uncomfortable as Ardan in his current situation. The little prick had discovered the sinister man’s very own weakness without so much as a twinge of effort, and had he been able to pull away from his discontented loss of determination, Ardan would have actually retained what he had learned. This was somewhat soothing to Dewoh, though it did little to improve his own self-deluded recoil from the scrawny adversary.

Jerk…who the fuck called a man that threatens his ego a fuckin’ Jerk? This was a word so saturated in weakness that Dewoh wondered if Ardan truly had any self confidence at all… he mocked a small boy, furious at his father for not purchasing him that over-priced Mega-Blasto figurine and revealing his bitter hatred toward the man by calling him a bad name. Like all children who fear the consequences of such obvious acts of disrespect, Ardan had dressed his “potty word” up and coated it with a little sugar so as to ensure that this act of treason (though necessity as it may be) was a bit easier to swallow.

He would have been better off to have called me a dick smoking, pillow-biter… I would have taken that with less offense. It’s time for daddy to show sonny boy the back side of his hand… and likely his aluminum bat as well.

But for all of Dewoh’s reflected hatred, its purpose would turn out to be nothing more than a means of calming himself down, for even in his well-concealed rage he knew that it was not yet the correct time to split Ardan’s skull over his knee. Much like Ardan was hardly able to hold himself back when staring down a bottle filled with orange pills, William Dewoh found the task of purging his own inner demons… his unrequitted war on Ardan Bristol was also a war on his own pesky self-control. He knew that unless a viable reason to kill the man arose, he would chastely be held back against his own will by… his discipline… by his own will.

Dashing across the officious highway, he began to sprint like a Cheetah in pursuit of its dinner as he vehemently struggled to catch up with Ardan, who had stealthily stolen away while Dewoh had been isolated in the feral embrace of his bitter hatred for the evanesced Bristol. It was essential that he reach Ardan… the opportunity was perfect, and though there would almost certainly be another point in time when the Druggie was equally as vulnerable, the postponement would be more than Dewoh was capable of enduring. It had to be now.

His determination intensified, Dewoh was off like a prom dress.

My Fair Lady…

It was, indeed, a trying thought… she had once studied every tedious line of those “So You’re Gonna Be a Journalist” texts in college in hope that if she memorized them all it would make her an asset to her field. But irony never seemed far behind her, nipping at her heels like some OCD Chihuahua whose patience marveled that of a three time loser incarcerated in the state penitentiary… she might as well have been incarcerated for life in prison too, her lack of optimism as to where she was going in life would help her fit in very quickly among the other inmates. Wasn’t it just like – Him – to spoil an ignorant young woman with the prospect of a career doing something she enjoyed… something she would be renowned for… something she excelled at. The folly of youth was a tragic faze that almost certainly ruins us all in some way or another; the blissful, unversed idea of becoming burnt out on your very life’s work seemed (like many other things) as improbable as the idea of God descending from his outworld alter in search of the one true religion.

A grin materialized upon her face and a slight chuckle of self-amusement escaped through her milky-white teeth. He would probably end up narrowing it down to Buddhism and Taoism, declaring a tie between the two. Abandoning his Mana, God would then likely set off after some wild mushrooms and end up consuming them with great satisfaction…

“This is getting dumb,” she murmured to herself, though her voice was directed toward the bathroom door, which stood slightly ajar and allowed for lazy wisps of steam to escape into the large hotel room. “I can’t dictate irony…” a tear rolled down her left cheek, going unnoticed as it descended.

She was numb… relieved of the emotions of joy and love, and all because of that untalented group of bipedal egos. Never once had she envisioned that her wasted life (which had not drawn a single tear from her in nearly six years) would be recalled to her like the whore it was by a bunch of morons immersed in a dick-measuring contest that was somehow supposed to impress her. As wrong as she was for thinking it, in her mind all Brits were like some side-show at the carnival… each had their own variety and degree of mental retardation, and she had never met even one that she could so much as tolerate. It wasn’t a bias point of view though… she hated the tea-guzzling, pointy-nosed, toothy, and mouthy bitches that made up the female population just as much as she despised the smug, self-contented fuckers that made up the majority of the male population. The issue that inevitably lit the fuse on her emotional time-bomb earlier that week was that she had been thrown back into the eternally dismal and overcast country of Great Britain with the task of interviewing yet another untalented band spawned from its insatiable hunger for the world’s – well, more like the United States’ – attention. She hated doing musician interviews, especially when they were British musicians. So when she found herself sitting on the tour bus of the well-known band, Mirage, outside of London’s Earls Court in England, her spirits had already been (for the most part) driven into the ground.

Mirage’s lead singer, Donovan Grangal had co-founded the band with his brother Clive, and had thus initiated a sibling rivalry that was somewhat obvious to the various alternative fans who supported their work. Clive wrote the music and played lead guitar, while Donovan contributed the lyrics and poorly belted them out with his overly scratchy, and irksomely whiny singing voice. For some reason their first album (cleverly titled You Must Love Us) went double platinum, and took to American consumers like the wheel took to cavemen. Their music was highly influenced by the work of The Beatles, matching strange, drug-inspired lyrics with clever, well-played guitar riffs. They did not, however, impress her, and as she slowly walked across up to the security gate that gave access to the lot that their bus was in, a feeling of incredible sorrow overwhelmed her.

You’ve wasted your life on bands like this. Some journalist you’ve turned out to be… what ever happened to your goals to write for the New York Times… Christ, Judith, composing cheap articles for some Teenie Bopper magazine is pathetic!

“It pays the rent,” she said aloud in an uncaring voice. Her antagonistic inner voice was quick to retort.

Yes… at the cost of your dignity.

“Dignity doesn’t get the rent paid.”

The voice was silent, much to Judith’s delight. She continued along toward the security gate, pausing briefly to straighten the knee-length, black skirt that she wore and to smooth down her white blouse. Adjusting the strap of her vinyl briefcase (which was slung over her right shoulder), she produced her security clearance badge and handed it to one of the three guards that stood at the gate, mindlessly cocking his head toward the dismal sky above while picking his teeth with a ketchup wrapper.

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