Working Title

(Part One)
"Fuck you!!" screamed the man in white as he ran up the stairs five or six steps at a time. The ripping sound of the canvas made the men behind him shriek. He was close to total darkness by knocking down the flames off the wall. You could hear the wind flowing in through the open door atop the stairs. He was gone.

The men chasing him let loose a sigh. He had escaped, once again. They head back to the main office thinking about what they did wrong. They stare at the wreckage as they stammer down the stairs. They approach the office and walk through the door after they are identified by there advanced technology not yet capable for the common world. The file cabinet blends perfectly in the wall as if there are drawers that come straight out of the wall. They pull out a olive green folder containing key amounts of information.

Garret Anders -
Alias - The Untouchable.
28 year old male.
Born in Beirut, Lebanon.
Level threat: Red

People don't ask questions when you don't look "normal" enough. Anything is free if you give them the "look" at the right time. I walk into the nearest department store to find clothes that fit today's society. I need to get out of this bloody apron... I find a white shirt and skin tight pants in case I need to run. I buy a tiny Jansport backpack and things for a first aid kit. Might as well get some condoms while I'm here. Just in case there is a situation on the run. I get the essentials. I need an income. I can't keep robbing places, that would bring attention to myself that I don't need.

(Part Two)
The phone rings four times. No answer. The automated voice message system explains that the person I am trying to reach is currently unavailable. Then the stupid cunt starts speaking in spanish. I hate not understanding people. It makes me think that they are talking about me. Laughing at my flaws. Scolding my every mistake. I am their jester. i put two more quarters into the pay phone. I dial the same number. Two rings later and someone is grunting in the phone about how I woke them up. I apologize quickly and then explain what is going on.
"I need help, Bran. Remember that money we put into a bank account that only we knew the pin to? Well, I need some of that money. The only problem is I can't go to a bank, so I need you to make a hefty withdrawal."
Bran decided all the little details because he knew when Garret asked for help, he really needed help. It wasn't an everyday thing for him. He knew this was serious. He came up with names that only they would understand. Bran was now Raven and Garret became Christoph. Since Bran lived in Colorado, he would need to fly to New York to meet Christoph atop the easternmost stairs in Grand Central Station. He had exactly three days to get everything together.

(Part Three)
Why won't Bran answer the damn phone. He always does this to me. Ever since grade school, he would get high off his ass and forget I existed. It didn't bother me then, because I didn't notice. I was so used to it, that I just blew it off. Now, when I really need him, he is either avoiding me or he forgot about me. I need to know where we're meeting mostly, but the other details would be amazing right now. I need it more than he needs his fix. I can't take living on these streets like this. It smells worse than the sewage line at half-time during the Super-Bowl. I try one more time in the pay phone I sleep next to in case he calls. I slip the last two quarters into the coin slot. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.
"Garret? I got everything together. Find a way to get to Grand Central Station by six in the afternoon. You will meet me at the easternmost stairs. You most likely won't recognize me because I changed my appearance for the occasion."
The line cuts out. I worry and hang up the phone. I jump at the ring of the phone.
"Christoph is your name. I had to hang up because I may have a trace on me. They know that we were close. I will have a rolling briefcase with all of your necessities. I will be in a black suit with blue hair to my shoulders. I will be alone. If you are not there at six even, I will leave you for your own."
The line cuts again, so I quickly hang up the phone expecting him to call back. For ten minutes I wait and there is nothing to break the silence of the night. I suppose I could attempt to sleep. I wander around in search of a safe place near 42nd and Park Avenue. Luckily, I find a gentleman leaving the terminal. He notices me notice him. He knows my pain. He understood the grin I gave him was me asking if I could stay where he was staying. He approaches me and asks if I'm hungry. All I can do is act helpless and nod. The nearest burger bar is McDonald's and hands me a twenty dollar bill. He sits and waits for me to get my food. I don't order much so I can make the money last.

(Part Four)
He repeats the same question. I still don't answer. I try and play it mysterious. He offers me more money, but I cannot accept it. I know he is trying to bribe me to talk. He introduces himself as Mr. Wick. I doubt that's really his last name, but at this point, I'm glad to have this food. It may just be a few items of the Dollar Menu, but it taste like a full course meal from a five-star restaurant. The man, Mr. Wick, keeps probing to find out more about me. He can tell I am nervous about my personal life, but he wants to know who I am. I tell him my alias name given to me by Bran. "I am Christoph," I manage to put into words through the multiple bites of the burger. I want to know why he offered me food. More and more people file into the McDonald's with there black and blue business suits. I notice Mr. Wick check his watch. I ask him for the time and he says, "A quarter after nine." Less than nine hours I think to myself.I ask him where the nearest hotel is but then remember I don't have much money. He starts to answer and then is rudely interrupted by the squeal of tires and the scream of sirens. There is a blur of red and blue lights outside the window. Everyone here looks. Where are they headed. But why do I care? Are they looking for me? Couldn't be... While Mr. Wick is distracted, I run. Fast Out the doors opposite the window. He made a foolish mistake by placing his wallet on the table. My fast hands naturally grabbed it. My feet hitting the pavement, my eyes trying to find a dark alley to dive into, my head hurting worse than when I was in the dark room. Then everything goes black. I dive into an alley. Everything around me closing in tightly. I feel like I'm in a trash compactor. Then I open my eyes. I see the darkness of the room and feel the pulling of the restraints I thought I had gotten away from. I can't help but hear the murmurs of the people surrounding me. I would have to say about six or seven different voices. They must have night vision goggles or something because I can't see my nose when I look cross-eyed. My head is throbbing. I wake up in the alley clenching onto the stolen wallet. I look down and see everything is normal. Just a street. I can see again. There is light. It's very dim, but so blinding. I use the overcast of a light and flip through the man's wallet. His license does not show the last name of Wick. It's Anders.

(Part Five)
I wander the streets. I don't know how long I was out for, but it has gotten much darker in the sky. More and more people have flooded the streets to go to the bars. I stop one of the pedestrians, one that seems like a civil citizen, and ask for the time. It's exactly two. I don't remember where I am at, but I know I need to get to Grand Central in four hours. I know that if I go back to sleep, there will be no way to get there without being late. I travel down into the subway. Here, there are at least lights I can read next to. I pull my tiny Jansport backpack off of my shoulder and try and remember what's in it. I rummage through it and find things I forgot about. At the bottom of the bag, just above the first aid kit, I find a little black leather wallet. I don't know where it came from. I open it up and search it. Every pocket. In the back, I find receipts with scribbled signatures at the bottom. A name written so quickly, it's almost impossible to read. There is cash behind the receipts. Lots of cash. There are twenty dollar bills, fifty dollar bills, tens, fives, ones. I feel like I just started a game of Monopoly. I find credit cards, a Blockbuster card, gift cards to corner stores, and then I see an ID. I recognize the man, just barely. I don't bother looking at his name or anything. I grab a twenty, stick it in my pocket, throw the wallet back into the bag. I walk to a fast food place. I need change for the pay phone. Food would be pretty good right about now too. I can't remember the last time I ate to my heart's content. I crave Burger King Chicken Fries right now. I think that will give me enough change for the pay phone, if not I'll just ask. I walk into the nearest Burger King and order some Chicken Fries. When I reach into my pocket for the twenty dollar bill, I find change. I think about how great it is that I don't have to ask for change. Instead, I ask for the time. I look around as he looks to his left wrist for the time. It's empty aside from the three other people here. The man says something, but I don't catch it. I ask him to repeat it. He says it's 3:36. "Almost time to meet Raven," I mutter. The cashier gives me a weird look and the Chicken Fries.I sit down at a table and enjoy my food. It's so hot on my throat. My mind slips into a day dream stage and I see men chasing a man in a white apron type gown. "Fuck you!!" the man screams. I stir at the sound of a table falling.

(Part Six)
"Where the hell is he?" thought Raven. It's almost six. He should be here by now. He's usually early to things for himself. Selfish. Self-centered. Those words don't scrape the surface of how to describe Garret. Nothing but cockiness comes off of him all day. Off in the distance, there is the silhouette of a person. The shape is not defined as a male or female just yet. About ten steps later, a deep voice questions, "Raven?"
The response is me getting a running tackle of a hug. I flip open the suitcase to find lots of money to add to the wallet in my backpack, several fake identification cards with irrelevant names of different ethnicities, coupons for fast food places, and most importantly a new cell phone with no ties to it. No one will know I'm using it. Brand new, random ass number. The only number programmed into the phone is Raven's new cell phone, untapped by the cops. I hear Raven tell me, "If you need anything else, don't bother not calling, slut." I punch him in the shoulder and we leave out different exits.

I need to get a good nights sleep. Even if it is so early in the morning, I check into the nearest motel for one night only. I place the suitcase under in the closet and add my backpack to it and emptying the contents of the wallet into it. I grab two hundred dollars cash. Five twenties, five tens, and ten fives. After I make sure the closet door is closed securely, and the suitcase was well hidden in there, I grab the do not disturb sign and put it around the handle securely. I have a whole day ahead of me with nothing to look forward to or hide from. I leave the hotel and the first corner I turn, I see a java shop. Nothing out of the ordinary, just a coffee shop. Caffeine will keep me up for a little while longer. I get an iced coffee and walk to the convenient store just a few buildings down. I snag a monster and pour it into my french vanilla iced coffee, not for taste, but for niacin. I then add a five hour energy shot to it, also for niacin. That has to keep me up for a while longer, if I don't overdose on niacin. I walk into the bookstore and find a couple books for recreational reading. I pick up a nifty looking book called Panic, and another book titled Survivor. I don't bother reading the jackets because at this point, I will read anything. After paying for the books, I think about what else I can do. I mean, I have only wasted an hour or so of the day. I refuse to let myself sleep before nine tonight. I sit in one of the overly comfortable chairs in the bookstore and my head throbs. I curl into a ball in the fuzzy chair and my mind slips.

(Part Seven)
If you aren't doing anything wrong nobody should bother you. But where is the line between right and wrong? Pooping in public; obviously wrong. Walking across the crosswalk; seems alright. Having a seizure on the floor of a book store. What is that? It might be considered a public disturbance, but it's not like I raped a woman in the bathrooms of a local high school or anything.
I regain my composure from the sting of the stun gun. I always thought cops were assholes. They say the attacked me with the stun gun because I was threatening to "whip out my gun, and cap everyone in the store." I know it's total bullshit, but let's just play along. The tall one grabs me by the neck, picks me up, and then throws me against a wall near a water fountain. "May I?" I ask. He nods is head and I sip from the fountain. I feel like a zebra finding a watering hole after weeks of searching for hydration. He then prods me to walk back to the shorter of the two cops and tells me to sit on the floor cross legged, just like in elementary school. I feel all the eyes upon me. Looking down from each and every level of the store. I am the highlight of there day to talk about tonight on MySpace. All I can think is fuck.
I get a break. They make quite possibly the worst mistake imaginable. They turn around so fast at the sounds of a shelf falling. They didn't even bother putting handcuffs on me. Stupid pigs. I scan for where my seat was, and notice my books are still there. I have to grab them. I can't waste perfectly good reading material. They motion towards the fallen book shelf without looking back at me. This couldn't be any easier. I dart to the books and thankfully, on the first floor there is a fire escape not more than ten feet away from my chair. This has to be the scariest thing I have done in my life. The cops hear the sound of the fire alarm going off. I turn to see if they give chase and in a glimpse, I see a blue headed person running out the opposite fire door. Could it be?
Running from the cops after police brutality has occurred. That can't be illegal in any way possible. I zig zag back to the motel. I can't smell any bacon so I must be safe. I need a change in appearance. I walk into the bathroom at the lobby and find a vending machine type dispenser. For only five dollars, I can get shaving cream, a disposable razor, nail clippers, and scissors. It's loud coming out of the machine, this one night-male decor kit. I trim my hair and what you could call a beard, cut my finger nails, and then place the remainder of the mini kit into the suitcase. It's not even three yet. I need sleep, but I can't burn an entire day like this. I collapse on the half-ass motel bed and have a reoccurring thought that burns the back of my mind. Then it starts twisting it. Tenderizing it. I can't take the pain. I fall off the bed and roll to the beat of the pulse in my mind. Then it all goes a little fuzzy. Then black.

(Part Eight)
"Why am I here?" I question to where the sound of an opening and closing door came from. The only response is the worst silence. The kind of silence that makes both ears ring like the infinite echoing school bells. The ringing is so loud that I contemplate if it's my ears, or a computer generated sound sent out to murder my ear drums. The only response I know is to scream in agony. The darkness makes it seem that I am just a weak blind man. I stand against what feels like a cool, metal wall. My arms far away from my torso and my legs are spread apart. Like a five-pointed star. I know the feeling of nylon ropes. That's what holds me to this wall. Luckily, the room is well air-conditioned. My hair flows from the vent about a yard or so above. It's been a constant wind. Every time I concentrate on the air, it leads my thoughts to Chinese Water Torture but with a constant wind versus a controlled water source. Drip. Drop. Drip. The ringing quiets itself just as quickly as it started momentarily triggering my brain into realization that it was played over loud speakers.
I hear a steady walk towards me. It's a very smooth and legato stride. A click from the hard heel and then a smooth roll of the sole. Step after step. Slow like a ballad. I lose count at thirty-seven strides. The sound echoes on the cold walls. He's pacing gradually towards me like a team of football players running the snake drill. Every five yard line marker go up, then across the width of the field, up until you reach the field goal post. I am the field goal post. I repeat my question. A firm answer of the back hand with a decent sized wedding band flies across my face. Left to right. He's a married lefty. It was a down stroke so he must be taller than me. You learn to be observant when you do what I do. Pick up the little things and etch them in your mind. The way his eyes glow in the dark, the sounds his knuckles make when he pops them, the high amount of cologne on his body, the awful garlic smell on his breath, and the beat of his heart. He's nervous, otherwise it wouldn't beat that loudly. You learn to be observant or you get killed.
I wake up rolling around in a puddle of sweat on the motel floor. I look for the clock on the dresser. As my eyes glaze over the window I notice the sun setting but not quite near the horizon. The clock tells me it's a little after five. I leave the room for a minute to pick up a newspaper from the lobby. Front page story headlines that there has been a murder.
"17 Year Old Girl Found Raped and Murdered in Local High School"

(Part Nine)
Deep breaths, just like in my psychiatrist use to guide me. Breathe in, hold, one-two-three, release. I need fresh air. I glance at the newspaper on the side dresser bolted to the floor. I feel my wallet in my back pocket and leave the room again leaving the sign on the handle. The sun is finally going down and you could tell without looking. The air has a crisp taste to it and the temperature is gradually decreasing. Tea sounds tasty. I check the contents of my wallet to make sure that I have enough money. I open the black leather wallet and find a folded piece of paper. It feels like a receipt, but it has writing on it, not the normal typed letters. I can't read the chicken scratch and it looks nothing like my writing. I think nothing of it and put it behind the money in my wallet.
I walk into this little tea shop a few buildings away from an intersection. They have flavors people have never dreamt about. I can't decide from the choices so I look at the cashier and hand her a ten dollar bill. "Choose any type of tea I might like, get it in the largest size you sell. If and only if I like it, you may keep the change." After saying this, she tells me that it would be about six or seven dollars change. I look at her and shrug. Moments later I am called up to taste the tea. One sip after adding a small amount of sugar and stirring it with a honey stick, I feel the heat thrust itself down the back of my throat. Flowing evenly over my taste buds. I swallow and place the cup on the counter. I give her a grin and walk out with my tea. I see her out of the corner of my eye bow graciously.
The tea feels like mittens on my hand. The warmth spreading all the way up my wrists. I can't think of anything I need to accomplish, so I just walk and people watch. No one interesting is on the street tonight so I sit on a random bench. I let my guard down this time, for whatever reason, I do not know. A black car strolls down the street casually. After it circles the block a couple times, I try and see if I recognize the driver. I have never seen such tinted windows on a street legal car. Shaggy dark hair about to his shoulders. It's a profiled figure with a perfect nose. The next time he circles around the block, I notice he looks in my direction and stops. I have a strange idea that this could get bad quickly. I throw the half-cup of tea at his car and his tires bring up white smoke. The worst move I could make in my situation. A homeless fugitive doesn't need any enemies. Instinct makes me run.

(Part Ten)
I always wanted to be a philosophy major. In my childhood, I would trade going outside after school with my friends to read up on Plato. On Socrates. On Aristotle. They inspired me to look at life with a new perspective every day. I was solving problems from several points of views. In high school, something happened. A very bad accident. The family I had once lived with for years, was gone. Just like that. Life taken from them just as quickly as it was given to them at birth. I was a freshman at the high school just down the street, so I walked every day. I used the school pay phone to call my parents to let them know that I would not be home at my usual time, but be back tomorrow. I would be studying with a friend. To my surprise there was no answer. I tried again and still, no answer. I told my friend that I was studying with that I wouldn't be able to go with him and something could be terribly wrong at home. Instead of the usual pace I walked at every other day, I ran. My feet hit the ground a million times in a second.
I'm in auto pilot. My feet slapping the pavement, with my mind going back to the past. A car honks at me because I cut him off. I look to see if the black car is still behind me. No sign of him. I head back to the hotel. I need some rest, it's been a long day.
The sign on the door is gone. I slide my card in the slot and wait for the green light. As soon as I see the green light, I open the door and see if anything is missing from the closet. Thankfully, nothing is moved. For some reason, there is something not right about this room. Something else is in the presence. I don't know what it is, but it's here. I look on the side table and see the phone off the hook. No crazy beeping like when you usually leave the phone off the hook, but a steady breathing.

(Part Eleven)
"Hello? Is any one there?" I question the other end of the phone. "I can hear you breathing, I know you're there." I take a few steps away from the phone after slamming it onto the receiver. I need sleep, but I can't sleep here. Whoever is looking for me, knows I'm here. I grab my things from the closet and walk to the lobby. I need sleep, but I can't stay here. I can't afford to check myself out. I ask to change rooms and the attendant at the desk gives me a blank stare like I'm speaking in some other language. I have a puzzle being solved in my head. Then it clicks. I look into his eyes and see them motioning to his right side behind the counter. He is careful not to move his head to make his hint obvious. After the accident I learned that I need to take care for my self before others if I want to make it in this world. I couldn't let anyone stand in my way. I didn't need to save people, but that's just how I was. Thinking quickly I ask, "Can I borrow a pen?" and he motions me to the desk to use it. I look quickly to see what the attendant was motioning at and I see the barrel of a gun poking out of the shadow under the desk. This kid is a light weight. He can't way more than one-fifteen. I grab the back of a brochure and write "JUMP @ ME". I count down with my fingers. First three, two, one. Then the boy is flying at me. I look to see if the figure holding the gun had moved, but it hadn't. This person was smart to not give there cover away. The attendant showed me a back door on the other side of the lobby and office after we casually walked out the front. I stormed into the lobby through the back door alone to find emptiness. The emptiness that hurt. The emptiness that made me think of the torture.

(Part Twelve)
Black. That was all I ever saw when I couldn't hear people. The air, to my surprise was always on. I got used to sleeping in a standing five-pointed star.