Vote or...Regret Not Having Voted

Okay America, I'm not going to threaten you with death if you don't go to the polls for any of your states' primaries or for the general election in the fall. I will say, though, that it has never been clearer in the history of our "democracy" (really a republic) that your vote does count, and with so many elections in the past several years being won, or even stolen, by such small margins, it is crucial that everyone who is concerned with the state of our government or our future as a country gets out and votes.

I definitely understand that the system can be frustrating sometimes, and I know how hard working up the motivation to participate can be. Trust me; I was there. It's the age old reasoning of, "I'm just one person in a country of 300 million. How does my vote even count?" Well, I'm here to tell you, it friggin' counts. If everyone in the country had this philosophy, we'd have to revamp the entire system so that people in power get to decide who the torch gets passed to, if it gets passed at all. There are many examples throughout history of governments set up that way. How many of them have been successful? How many of the people living under those types of rule have been happy?

Okay, so it's unlikely that it would ever happen that no one in the country went to the polls during an election, but let's look at something more realistic. Do you know what kind of people consistently head to the polls without fail? It is people who are passionate about the issues. And while the breakdown of voters registered as either Republican, Democrat or Other is pretty even, people who lean far left or far right on the issues are more likely to be passionate about the issues than someone who is more toward the center.

Before I continue, let me just say that the above statement is merely an observation from my own experience. I do not have any hard research to back this up, but aside from anecdotal evidence, there is a dynamic in this country's politics that seems to support it. Look at how polarized politics have become. Of course, there have been some pretty important issues to get people on both sides of "the aisle" worked up, but it has only helped to solidify and exacerbate a system of opposition that has been building for decades. The rhetoric out of Washington almost forces us to choose a side all the way. There's almost no middle ground any more.

But if you want my opinion, our country by its very nature is not "far left" or "far right". When I talk to people casually on the issues, there is usually a gray area. People who say, for example, that they agree with the war but not how we went about it, or that they don't agree with it but that now that we're in, we just can't leave. Sure, there are those Bush-is-right-always-has-been-and-always-will-be people out there, just as there are those on the opposite side, but there aren't as many as the current state of politics and the media would have us believe. The problem is that the people on the outer extremes of the scale have the loudest, and often most obnoxious voices.

I say let the voices in the middle rise up and drown out the fanatics who want to turn our country into either a left wing Utopia or a right wing Paradise. Because either case would be neither Utopia nor Paradise. Be passionate about the issues without being extreme. Vote always to help make our government more effective instead of more factional. And you do have the right to bitch, even if you don't vote, but realize that if you didn't contribute, it's your own damn fault.

Obama'08: Change We Can Believe In.

Letters from the Lost Man, Part 13

"You have a concussion," the doctor answers. "It's not uncommon to have feelings of displacement or hallucinations. Your brain took quite a rap."

I nod. "Makes sense, I guess." I really wish I knew more about medicine. I have no way to verify what he's saying. All I know is, something weird is going on.

"The most important thing," the doctor adds, "is that you get some rest. Your body needs to heal after that accident."

Again, I nod.

A nurse walks in. "Mr. Menda? You have a visitor."

I look around. The doctor and I are the only two people in the room. I point to myself with a puzzled expression.

"You are Michael Menda, correct?" the nurse asks.

Something about that sounds familiar. With both the doctor and nurse staring at me concernedly, I nod.

"You have a visitor," the nurse informs me. She steps away from the door. A woman enters from the hallway. It's my wife, Linda.

She runs to my bedside. "Oh, Mike, are you okay?" she asks, relieved tears in her eyes.

"I think so," I tell her, "but I'm pretty beat up. Doctor says I need to rest."

She nods, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. "I was so worried. Thank God you're okay," she sighs as she pulls me into a tight embrace.

The hug is a little uncomfortable physically, but it's very comforting and familiar. I can feel the confusion starting to lift as bits of my life come back to me.

"Listen to me, Richard," Linda says gravely in another woman's voice.

Great... Just when things are starting to make sense again.

"Don't react," she says calmly. "Don't let on to the doctor that you can hear me. Just act like nothing is out of the ordinary."

Sure, and after that maybe I'll levitate off my bed and recite Pi to 1200 places. Nothing could be easier.

"I know it's tough, Richard," the strange voice coming from my wife says, while she straightens the bed sheets over me. Her eyes do not betray any hint of this conversation.

"Okay," I say, trying to look comfortable.

"Don't say anything," she whispers quickly. "I know it seems like I'm talking to you through someone, but that's only in your mind."

Only in my mind. Fantastic. I'm going crazy.

"Your not crazy, Richard," the woman's voice reassures me.

Okay, that's kind of freaky. Did she just read my thoughts?

"I can hear some of what you're thinking," she confirms. "But it's only the more simple thoughts right now. As we figure this out more, it should become easier for you."

What the hell is going on?

Just then, the doctor looks up from his notes. "If you're feeling fine right now, Mr. Menda, I will go ahead and take my leave. The nurse will be in to check on you periodically."

I blink at him for a few seconds, having completely forgotten he was even in the room. "Oh, yeah," I mumble.

"We'll probably keep you overnight for observation, but you should be able to go home tomorrow," he explains.

"Oh, okay," I say dumbly.

"Thank you so much, doctor," my wife says in her own voice.

I glance at her suspiciously. She returns my look with a loving smile.

"My pleasure," the doctor says, standing and hurrying out of the room.

Linda gazes down at me and runs her fingers through my hair gently. "Okay, now listen closely," she says in the other woman's voice.

"Do you really have to do that? It totally freaks me out," I snap.

Linda freezes and drops her hand back to her side. "I'm sorry, honey, I'm just trying to comfort you," she says in her own, hurt voice.

"Apologize to her," the other woman's voice says.

Jesus, this is confusing. "I'm sorry, babe. I don't know why I said that. Must've bumped my head pretty bad."

"It's okay," Linda nods, patting my hand.

"I'm sorry about how uncomfortable this is, Richard," the other woman says through my wife's freakishly moving lips. "It's the only way I can talk to you without raising suspicion. Well, that and I can't really figure out another way. If you just act naturally, I will try to explain."

I lay back and try to look comfortable...and comforted.

"My name is Loretta Vine," the woman's voice says. "I was once the assistant of a Doctor Hans Spector, a medical researcher employed by a U.S. government agency. You and I are currently undergoing experimental rehabilitation treatment. Nothing that you currently see around you is really happening. It is all a fabrication generated by a computer that is directly stimulating nerve cells in your brain.

"Richard," she sighs apologetically, "they've erased our memories and are trying to program us with new ones. They're trying to give us new lives against our wills."

I lay there in stunned silence. Slowly, I begin to realize that something doesn't quite make sense with her story. If her memory was erased as well, then how is she here explaining all this to me?

"I know you're confused," Loretta's voice says. "It's quiet in here, want to watch TV?"

"Huh?" I can't help but ask.

My wife repeats, "Want to watch TV? It's just so quiet."

"Oh," I nod. "Sure."

"You feeling alright, baby?" she asks.

"Yeah, just tired," I reply. Tired and utterly perplexed.

She picks up the remote. "TV will help. Maybe you'll fall asleep to it," she suggests.

"Maybe," I agree, managing a smile.

"I know your confused, Richard," Loretta's voice repeats as my wife turns on the television and begins to channel surf.

Damn straight...

"I'm trying to hack my way into other parts of the system so that we can make this a little easier or maybe even get out of here," Loretta tells me.

"The truth is," she continues, "I'm not really even sure how I've managed to get to where I am, but somebody must have really overlooked my readouts. It's too late now. I've set it up so that everything will look normal for a while. I'll need to go soon so I can shore it up a little better though."

How do I even know any of this is real?

"It's real, Richard," Loretta answers my unspoken question. "You know it's real, deep down inside. Just keep acting natural, no matter what happens. If something seems out of the ordinary, it is your brain trying to reject the programming and remember its true life. If you react too much to it, it will set off alarms in the monitoring program, which will increase the amount of medication flowing into you and cause the program to refocus its attention on the part of your brain that's rebelling. If it gets too bad, Dr. Spector and his team will go in manually to reset the project. I'm not sure how I'll get to you again if that happens."

Chills shoot up and down my spine. The hair on my arms and the back of my neck bristles. I really don't like the sound of that last part.

***

Letters from the Lost Man, Part 12

Simple efficiency is so easily screwed up. And the alarm clock isn't always so effective, especially when you forget to set it. This is how I find myself standing in line at the local bookstore coffee shop for a breakfast of espresso and a blueberry cream cheese muffin. There's something I resent about this, but I can't figure out exactly what it is. Maybe I'm mad because I know I'm going to crash hard about thirty minutes after wolfing this down. Or maybe it's just that the girl behind the counter doesn't seem to realize that people have to get to work at this hour of the morning.

Ten aggravating minutes later, I step out of the bookstore, artery-clogging, heart-hasting breakfast in-hand. Immediately, I am accosted by a man who has obviously seen better days. His tattered jeans and filthy winter jacket worn in the toasty mid-summer morning seem to do nothing to draw attention from his few splayed brown teeth or the way the dirt on his face transitions evenly into his patchy brown stubble. He's carrying what looks like a big black blanket under his arm.

"Hey, listen, man," he says to me, his slurred speech propelling his sour, alcohol-laden breath toward my unprepared nose. "Listen, I got my wife and kid in the car two miles up the road. We ran outta gas last night and I been tryin' to get some help. If you could just spare five bucks, it would really help me out."

I can't help but raise a skeptical eyebrow. "I'm sorry, man, I never carry cash," I lie.

He eyes the bag containing my muffin hungrily. "Well, if you could just spare some change, maybe. We're tryin' to get to the hospital. See, I broke my thumb and the veteran's hospital won't see me 'cause they lost my paperwork. Gave ten years of my life for this country and got an honorable discharge and now they won't even help."

I grit my teeth impatiently. "Hey, man, I really am sorry. I don't have any change. I wish you the best of luck," I tell him, turning to hurry back to the car.

"I'm awfully hungry, walking up and down all night," he calls after me. "Gotta get to the hospital and see Dr. Spector. He'll help."

I freeze. Looking back slowly, I ask, "What did you just say?"

"I said I gotta get to the hospital and get my thumb looked at," he says, holding up the grimy digit.

"What was the doctor's name?" I clarify insistently.

His thick eyebrows come together. "I don't know, man, I ain't been there yet."

For the first time, I'm really looking at him. Now that I'm taking the time to study his features, there's something eerily familiar about him. I narrow my eyes. "Who are you?" I ask.

"I'm, uh..." he says uncertainly.

"What's your name?" I demand loudly. Bookstore patrons coming through the parking lot look over curiously.

"I...I don't remember," he stammers.

"You're lying!" I shout. "Tell me your name!"

He flinches and recoils a bit, starting to step backwards. "Listen, man, I don't know who you are, but you're starting to freak me out."

"Is there a problem here?" a stern voice calls out from nearby.

I look at the source of the voice. A police officer is walking up, hand on the gun by his hip.

"Oh...no, officer, it's fine. I was just..." I look back to indicate the strange homeless guy, but he's gone. I look around in confusion.

"Are you feeling all right, sir?" the policeman asks me with a tone of suspicion.

I nod slowly, staring at the spot where that guy was just standing. "I'm fine, officer. Sorry for the disturbance." I look over at him and force a smile. "It's early," I explain weakly.

The cop nods back, still eyeing me with uncertainty.

"I'll just be...heading to work now," I tell him with a questioning tone.

"Maybe you had better do that," he suggests.

I take the hint, and my leave. As I weave my way through traffic and sip my coffee, the whole incident fades in my memory until it seems almost like a strange dream. Could I really have just randomly started yelling at a homeless guy? All he did was ask me for change. And he said something else...what was it? And where did he go when the cop came up?

It's too early for this. I just shake it off and continue sipping my coffee as I hurtle down the highway at 80 mph. My muffin is calling to me through the bag. I glance over at it, my mouth watering. Setting my cup in the holder, I reach for my breakfast.

The sudden blare of a horn snaps my attention back to the road. I've drifted dangerously close to a car in the next lane. I swerve to get back into my lane. For a sickening moment, I feel the tires lose traction. I spin the wheel in the opposite direction. Rubber catches asphalt and there's a screech as the back end of my car swings around in an arc. For an instant, I see the terrified face of the guy passing me as my car spins to face his. He accelerates and the last thing I see before the world flips upside down is his receding rear bumper.

Hot coffee splashes onto my right hand, but my scream is drowned out by the breaking of glass and the groaning din of metal hitting the asphalt at high velocity. Though I try to regain my bearings in the rotating crash, my limbs flop around limply, smashing into various surfaces and breaking or bruising more than I care to think about. The seatbelt suddenly strains against my hips as my roof smacks once more into the ground. I close my eyes and try to cover myself while glass, metal and plastic bombard me from all angles. Over the noise of my vehicle succumbing inevitably to the laws of physics, I can hear tires squealing and horns sounding from various directions.

After what seems like an hour, the car stops rolling and comes to a rocking halt in the middle of the road. It smells like burnt motor oil and coffee. Somehow, I lived through it. I can't help but wonder if the muffin was really worth all this. I open my eyes and look over. The bag with the muffin is sitting on the roof next to me. The odd placement of it and the building pressure in my head helps me realize that I'm upside down. Trying to place myself in a position that won't leave me falling on my head, I undo my seatbelt. I guess those things really do save lives.

I squirm out of my seat and start crawling toward the opening where there used to be a windshield. The distant sound of sirens drifts over the hum of a freshly made traffic jam. As broken glass crunches under me, I realize how much pain I'm in. I'm sure I have a few broken bones, not to mention several cuts, scrapes and bruises.

"Hey, you okay, buddy?" a voice calls out to me. There's a guy kneeling in front of my overturned car reaching for me. "Gimme your hand."

I reach over and he helps pull me out from under the wreckage. I nod to him gratefully and turn to survey the damage. It's pretty bad. The sound of sirens gets closer. An intense feeling of déjà vu washes over me. I'm pretty sure I've never been in an accident like this, but there's something about it that seems really familiar.

"Let's move away," the helpful guy tells me, nodding toward the smoke beginning to rise from the engine.

With his help, I limp away from the mess, eying it as though it were a ticking bomb. The volume of the sirens increases significantly. I can see the fire rescue speeding toward us on the shoulder. I look back toward the wreck. A prickly chill runs all through my body...there's a woman in my car.

Hanging upside down from the driver's seat is a blonde woman, her eyes closed, scratches and bruises all over her face. "Oh my god," I say, starting to walk back toward the vehicle.

"Whoa! Whoa, hey buddy. You should stay here," the guy who helped me says.

I look back at him incredulously. "But, we have to save that woman," I explain.

He looks over to the wreckage. "What woman?"

"That wom-" I start to point out to him, but when I turn back to the car, she's gone.

"It's okay, man," the guy reassures me. "Listen, the paramedics are here. Let's get them to take a look at you."

I nod slowly and let him guide me to the approaching help. Maybe I'm in shock. I can do little else besides stare blankly as the paramedics look me over. They decide I need a hospital visit and close me into the ambulance and take off. Through the back window, I can see the smoke from my wreck rising into the sky. What the hell is going on with this morning?

The ride to the hospital seems to go by in a flash, though that might be because I was spacing out the whole time. They bring me in on a stretcher. It feels good to lie down. I'm feeling pretty tired at this point, but one of the paramedics warns me about going to sleep. He says I might have a concussion. They wheel me into a hospital room and a nurse comes in and hands them some paperwork and starts checking me over.

"Richard, it's me...Loretta," she says.

I sit up quickly. "What?" I shout.

"Sir, please lie down and remain calm," the nurse urges. She looks slightly different than she did just a moment ago.

"B-but..." I stammer in confusion.

"Loretta, Richard. C'mon, remember," the nurse's mouth moves as she appears to go about her business.

"My name isn't Richard, it's..." I start to explain to her, but for some reason, I just can't remember my name.

The nurse looks concerned. "Okay, sir. I'm going to go get the doctor," she says to me, then to one of the paramedics, "Keep an eye on him."

I watch her go. My head starts to hurt. Everything's swimming. I hear the paramedic start to say something to me. His voice sounds muffled. He's shaking me. It's no use, buddy. I'm going down. The darkness creeps in from the edges of my vision. Ah, blissful unconsciousness.

***

Sticks and Stones...

Poor Gen. Dave Petraeus. It must be difficult to be a man in his position. On one side he has the perpetrators of the biggest conflict of this generation putting him in charge of said conflict and asking him to give America a warm fuzzy about its progress. On the other side he has a wiser American public, weary and wary of the misinformation, propaganda and all-out deception of a war-hungry administration, futilely grasping at any defense of its poor decisions.

MoveOn.org purchased an ad in the New York Times featuring a large photo of the general and a headline that pondered, "General Petraeus, or General Betray Us?" It accuses Petraeus of "cooking the books" on the progress in the Iraq conflict. No doubt, things are not going as swimmingly as the general's report seemed to suggest (not that I'm saying he thinks it's going swimmingly). Time after time we hear word from the administration that progress is being made, only to have that word contradicted and dashed by the media, who continue to report the unabated deaths of Iraqis and Americans alike in this increasingly thickening "quagmire".

At this point, it's difficult to take any positive reports on the situation in Iraq seriously, and as responsible citizens, it is our duty to question our leadership for nothing less than the truth. As such, it's not surprising to see public outcries like MoveOn.org's in the New York Times. The wording of the ad was, perhaps, a bit harsh, and those of us who speak out should be sure to phrase our dissent in a way that doesn't give the opposition more ammunition to help redirect the focus of the issues at hand.

Case in point, Senate voted on a bill to "strongly condemn personal attacks" on the general and the US military. This resolution, proposed by Republican John Cornyn (R-TX), and subsequent overwhelming majority approval just shows how desperate defenders of the war are to...well, defend the war. With so many important issues the senate could be resolving right now, they actually took the time to vote on a resolution that brushes dangerously with the first amendment, not a first for our demonstrably capable (read with sarcasm) congress.

And before anyone pipes up about libel and slander, I urge you to look up those concepts and do your homework before you say something that tells all of us that you have no idea what you're talking about. Libel has to be falsifiable for it to be considered as such, and try all you like, there's nothing you can say to convince the American public in general that Petraeus and the administration isn't heavily sugar-coating the information. The MoveOn.org ad doesn't qualify, but Senate's actions come frighteningly close to censorship, and you all know how I feel about that!

My point is, in these emotionally and politically charged times, lots of words are flung around by all sides. It's easy to get caught up in the game of language when quippy headlines, powerful speeches, and mudslinging advertising are given so much attention, but we must remember that words are not actions. If they were, the current administration would be able to turn Iraq around by merely continuing to say that everything's okey-dokey. Neither "side" should be bothered by the other wielding words as weapons because words are only as powerful as we allow them to be, and Senate made MoveOn.org's words powerful indeed.

Letters From the Lost Man, Part 11

It's Dark. But this isn't the usual darkness. There's light somewhere. Instead of the regular inky blackness, there's a reddish hue to everything. And it's not silent. Voices are murmuring all around me. I'm compelled to open my eyes.

Yes, that's what it was. My eyes were closed. I feel a little woozy. It's kind of nice, actually. I try to sit up. My body feels really heavy for some reason. I look down at my chest. A large brown leather strap has me buckled securely to the bed. My wrists and ankles are likewise bound. I feel like I should be panicked, but I can't seem to get up the energy.

"Dr. Spector, the patient's awake," I hear a voice say.

That visage, that awful gap-toothed smile, enters my vision. "Well, hello there," Dr. Spector says with a kind of creepy joy that makes me wonder what he's done to me while I was unconscious.

"I was afraid we lost you there, for a moment," he says as his beady eyes flick rapidly over me.

"What are you doing to me?" I demand, my speech sounding sluggish.

Dr. Spector feigns offense. "Why, we're helping you," he says in a creaky voice that is in no way reassuring. "It's better you don't think about it. The treatment works better that way."

"Treatment?" I repeat with disgust.

The doctor clucks and shakes his head. "My, what stories has that horrible Ms. Vine told you? That we're performing inhumane experiments on you?" he asks, his expression becoming sincerely grave and a bit angry.

"It is true," he continues, "your treatment is experimental, but it is for your own good. Trust me; it is better than the alternative. If we are successful, it will revolutionize the way people with your...condition...are treated."

Something about the conviction in his voice prompts me to ask, "What is my condition?"

Dr. Spector's serious tone vanishes and he shows the gap in his teeth prominently. "Never you mind. If we are successful, you will never even know anything was ever wrong."

"Yes I will," I reply defiantly.

The doctor's smile fades. "You won't," he says quietly, drawing close, "and don't expect Ms. Vine to come to your rescue any more."

From his tone, it's obvious he's insinuating something. "What have you done to her?" I ask.

"I haven't done anything," Dr. Spector says, straightening up. "What has been done to her she did herself. That little escapade you two went on nearly killed her. It still might, but never mind that for now."

I don't reply. An image of Loretta hooked up to a bunch of machines flashes through my mind. I barely register the prick of a hypodermic jabbed into my arm. Whatever the nurse is injecting, it works fast. I can already feel reality swirling.

"You see," Dr. Spector's voice echoes through the drugs rushing in my ears, "the next time you wake up, your life will be normal. And you won't even remember any of this. A pity...you would probably thank me if you knew what I'd given you."

I strain my eyes looking sideways to focus on him through the dancing imagery that's playing across my vision. "I'll...remember," I struggle to insist.

"Ri-chard...my name is..."

Welcome back to the blackness.

***

I jump suddenly to a sitting position. My breathing is heavy. I'm drenched in a cold sweat. I look to my right. Through the darkness I see the red symbols: 4:26 AM. Damn, woke up too early. I still have two hours to sleep. These nightmares are getting ridiculous. What was this one about?

Hmm, don't remember. Oh well, guess I'll go to the bathroom and try to get back to my precious sleep. I get out of bed slowly, careful not to wake Linda, walk across the hall and empty my bladder. My wife stirs slightly as I climb back into bed, but stays asleep. Pretty soon, I'm...drifting...off...

Why do cheap alarm clocks emit the most horrific electronic screeching imaginable? I guess it's 1) because they're cheap and 2) because it's effective. They should try using these things on people in comas. If I was half dead, I would still jump up and race to the snooze button. It takes incredible self control to not turn it off with a baseball bat.

Ok, so I guess I'm awake. I kiss Linda, who greets me with a sleepy smile.

"Mornin', dear," she offers consolingly.

Off to the shower. I scrub myself as clean as someone who is half conscious can, exit the shower and brush my teeth. After the deodorant, the clothes go on and I run a comb through my slightly damp hair. Then it's down to the kitchen for breakfast. I bolt down some cereal and gulp some coffee before kissing Linda farewell and hurrying out the door to make it to work.

It's a nice little routine, simple and efficient. It gets me clean, fed and out the door to get to work relatively on time. Not that I have much to look forward to at work. By day, I'm a mild-mannered database programmer for a large government agency. Trust me, it's not as glamorous as it sounds.

"Hey, Mike," a familiar voice greets me.

"Hey, Tom," I reply. Tom is my cubicle neighbor. Something funny strikes me about his greeting. "What did you call me?"

Tom blinks. "Mike," he answers, "that is your name, isn't it?"

I think for a second. "I'm sorry, Tom...I'm not quite awake," I explain.

"Yeah, tell me about it," he agrees. "Good thing our jobs are so interesting and keep us awake throughout the day."

"Oh, yeah!" I agree with exaggerated enthusiasm.

"Listen, just a head's up," Tom says, "Greer's going to be making his rounds early today, so..."

I roll my eyes. "Man, that guy's a dick. How do I get his job?"

"Easy. Go bang your head against a filing cabinet for a few hours. By the time you're done, your IQ should be low enough to qualify."

"Morning gentlemen." Ah, just the voice we didn't want to hear.

"Hi, Ted," I greet as Greer takes the last few steps to our cubicles.

He shoots me a nasty glare. He hates it when people call him by his first name. "Hard at work, I trust," he says through a plastic smile.

"Oh, you know us," Tom answers. "Busy as beavers."

"Good," Greer says, "because Mr. Weisman is getting a bit anxious about the NetBox project deadline. I'm sure I don't have to remind you how important this is to the agency."

"Well, the last two modules are going to be ready for test by the end of the month. You know that's weeks ahead of our deadline," I say, unable to stop myself from sounding a bit defensive.

Tom chimes in, "Yeah, besides, you know all the tables are already built and most of the interface is there. Hell, they could start using it now if they wanted to."

Greer looks back and forth between me and Tom. "Well, then... Don't let me keep you from your hard work." With that he walks off with his nose in the air.

"Man, what the hell is his problem?" Tom asks as Greer turns the corner.

I shake my head. "Someone shoved a larger than usual stick up his ass," I suggest.

Tom nods. "Well, I guess we should probably get to work."

I nod back in agreement. Well, time to turn toward my monitor and start hacking away at the keyboard. I look at the screen. A cursor blinks next to the SQL command prompt. I'm drawing a blank. After staring for 10 minutes, what I'm supposed to be doing becomes no clearer to me. Not knowing what else to do, I type 'help' at the command line.

A bunch of sql commands scroll up the screen followed by short descriptions. The only thing that stands out is the 'use' command. It seems to be the only one that actually manipulates anything. I type 'use' and a space. I think for a moment as the cursor blinks patiently at me. My fingers move absently over the keys and a database name appears on the screen.

sql> use med_proj3

I hit enter. The command line outputs 'Database changed'. The prompt flashes at me again. Without realizing what I'm doing I type, 'select * from exp_inp where lead_last=spector;' and hit enter.

Data begins scrolling rapidly down the screen. There's a lot of information here. If I want to look at it all, I'll have to print it. I'm not really sure how to do that. Actually, I'm not even really sure how I just did what I did. I'm supposed to be a database programmer, but none of what I just typed looks familiar to me. I've obviously retrieved some kind of data from a database, but I don't know why or even how to interpret it.

"Hey, buddy. Whatcha doin'?" Tom says suddenly. His voice sounds really close.

I look over. He's standing right next to me and leaning over to peer at the screen. "Oh, ah..." I respond nervously.

"That doesn't look like NetBox to me," he says seriously. "You're not poking in anything you shouldn't be, are you?"

I glance at my screen. "Honestly, I don't really know how I got this," I explain.

Tom nods. "Listen, Mike, why don't we go for a little break. We'll get some coffee...clear our heads."

"Ok," I say distantly, feeling a bit like I need a break. I stand up to go, and Tom switches off my monitor.

"You'll come back to it later," he assures me when I look at him questioningly.

Coffee is very refreshing. The caffeine gives me just the boost I need to refocus on my work. All thoughts of this morning's strangeness fade away as Tom and I collaborate on the next steps in the project. The day passes quickly and, before I realize it, five o'clock rolls around. I pack up for the day, wish Tom a good night and head home.

"How was work, hon?" Linda asks as I lean over to kiss her hello.

"It was good," I reply. "Actually, it was really good. We made some good headway on NetBox. Greer came by and harassed us early in the morning, but he's going to feel like an idiot when we wrap this up 3 weeks early."

"Aw, that's my brilliant programmer," she beams.

The evening passes like most others. We watch a little TV, eat dinner, watch some more TV, then go to bed and read for a while before going to sleep. It's a routine much like the morning one. Simple...efficient. As I close my eyes to sleep, I welcome the coming darkness. It embraces me. I let go of this world.

***

"Suck it, Censorship!"

Well, well, it seems Kathy Griffin has won an Emmy for pointing out to the world how unsuccessful she is. I wonder if next season her show will be called My Life on the C-List: Movin' On Up! But titular ramifications aside, something else happened when the D-Lister stepped up to accept the award, and it was made into an even bigger deal than the fact that Kathy Griffin...WON A FRIKKEN EMMY!

Apparently, Ms. Griffin doesn't put much stock in Jesus’ role in her personal achievements, as evidenced by her telling Jesus to "suck it" in her acceptance speech. This, of course, has raised many a religious hackle and has prompted E! to edit the telecast of her speech in a manner found acceptable by our fundamentalist overlords, may God bless them forever. Most of these are the same people, mind you, who probably chuckled at the emails forwarded to them by their friends with attachments showing the Muhammad cartoons that got certain European countries in trouble in recent years.

Now listen, I'm not saying that people shouldn't be considerate of other people's sensitivities, but you can't criticize people for being PC (that's political correctness) Nazi's out of one side of your mouth and express outrage at people for singling you out in their political incorrectness out of the other. That makes you a hypocrite. It's irrational and catches you up in logic that makes you have to either stop making fun of other people or deal with it when you’re made fun of.

Have you ever stopped to wonder why it's called political correctness? Because it's for politicians. Most of the country would never vote for a candidate who stood up and made very public derogatory comments about someone's religion, race or gender... Well, maybe not never, but still. It's damaging to a politician to even be connected with statements that could be considered prejudiced in any way. It is helpful to their campaigns if they can be as inoffensive as possible. This is a dynamic they created, so I say let them have it, but don't mistake their self-imposed restrictions as commandments for the rest of us.

Comedians make their livings being offensive in some way. Maybe not all of them do, but they do by at least pointing out the offensive things in life. It is difficult nowadays for a really successful comedian to go very long without offending somebody, and it's usually the people who have the least reason to be offended that are. Comedians tell jokes. Grow a sense of humor. I can laugh at myself when my friends are poking fun, and I do it right back to them, but we all know it's not for real.

Maybe it's not the most well-formed argument, but there is clearly something wrong in this country if we have to censor a comedian for being funny. You know the old question of whether a tree falling in the forest makes a sound when no one's around to hear it? Well, it makes one wonder, is free speech really free when no one's allowed to hear it? Censorship sucks, and that's straight from the liberal, left-wing nut job's mouth.

Letters From the Lost Man, Part 10

The silent black...what a welcome feeling. Here, where death is my friend, my confidant, nothing can hurt me. One would think the emptiness would drive you mad, but this is where I find no less than my self...my true self. Unless, of course, I'm already crazy. But how can I be crazy? That doctor bored open my skull and took out...

What? What's been taken from me?

I reach up and feel my head. It's wrapped in gauze. I feel a soft pressure over my entire back...the bed. I'm in a hospital bed. It's dark.

"Richard!" a voice whispers insistently.

I blink a few times...still dark. "Hmm?" I moan.

"Shh!" the voice urges.

"Who's there?" I whisper back.

There's a pause. "Richard, I don't know if you remember me, but I'm an assistant to the doctor who's...treating you. My name is Loretta Vine."

The way she hesitated before choosing the word "treating" resonates in my head. I sit up, feeling a little woozy doing so. "I sort of remember," I mutter quietly.

"Richard, there's something terrible going on. I...I don't have much time."

"What's wrong?" I ask dumbly.

Loretta sighs anxiously. "Everything is a lie," she hisses.

That seems to make sense, but at the same time, I'm a little confused. "Everything?" I prompt.

"Yes, everything you remember...everything they told me. This whole project is a lie," she answers.

I shake my head, a pointless motion in the darkness. "Wait, start from the beginning."

"Not now," she whispers hurriedly. "We need to try to get out of here before they find out I'm gone."

I swing my legs over the side of the bed. "Let's go," I say eagerly.

"There's a guard outside the door," Loretta explains. "I need to deal with him first."

A little light suddenly clicks on. At first it seems blinding, but as my eyes adjust, it becomes clear that it's just a pen light. Loretta holds it in her mouth while manipulating a syringe and vial.

"What's that for?" I ask a bit nervously.

"The guard," she says, clicking off the light. "Lay back down."

I'm not entirely sure of what's going on, but seeing as how it's a familiar feeling for me, I obey. I hear her walk across the room and open a door.

"Guard," she says with slight concern in her voice, "I need your assistance, please."

There's some shuffling as the guard enters the room. "Are the lights work- Ah!" exclaims suddenly. "What the hell was that?" I hear him ask.

"I'm sorry," Loretta says mechanically.

"What did you do?" the guard asks. His speech sounds slurred. There's a thud.

"Okay, Richard," she calls to me.

I sit up. From the light coming through the open door I can see the silhouette of the guard slumped on the floor. My heartbeat quickens as I feel what I can only describe as reality. Stepping out of the bed and onto the cold floor intensifies the sensation that I am finally in the real world. My legs shake a little as I stand on them for the first time in...well, who knows how long? They feel weird, kind of like I've been bicycling nonstop for days. I steady myself against the bed.

"Are you okay?" Loretta asks.

"Hang on," I answer, "let me get my bearings." I rock from side to side and try lifting my legs one after the other. I can sense Loretta's impatience, but she says nothing as I try to reacquaint myself with using my muscles this much. At least I can stand. I couldn't have been confined to a bed for too long.

I take a step away from the bed. Then another one. It seems to be working. I move toward the door. I'm a little stiff, and I imagine I won't be able to move too quickly just yet, but with the possibility of finding out what's really going on seeming finally within reach, I'm sure I can hold it together long enough to get out of here.

Loretta stands from searching the guard. "You don't, by any chance, happen to know how to use one of these?" she asks tentatively, holding out a familiar shape.

I take it in my hands. It feels as familiar as it looks. Somehow, even in the dim light offered by the corridor outside my room, I can tell it's a Smith & Wesson SW40 Sigma series semi automatic pistol. It's very comfortable in my hands. I can't help but worry that this feels a little surreal all of the sudden. Loretta snaps me back to reality.

"Let's go," she says, stepping into the hall and hurrying out of sight.

I follow as quickly as I can, sliding against the wall where I can. I meet her at the end of the corridor. I can't help but noticed that she's dressed like me. She doesn't look official at all, not like the last time I saw her. Maybe that should worry me, but it doesn't.

"Hide that somewhere," Loretta says with a nod to the gun. "If someone notices us on the camera it will be a lot better if they don't think we're armed."

I look at my clothes. While the airy light-blue pants and white short-sleeve shirt are better than a hospital gown, they are definitely not made for every day use, and certainly not for concealing weapons. I tuck the gun as best as I can into my waistband and try to cover it with the shirt. I'm not convinced, but it should be hidden to a security camera.

Loretta nods in apparent agreement. "The way down this hall is clear," she tells me. "We need to get on the elevator and go down to the ground floor. There's a rear entrance that's used for subject transport. We might be able to make it out that way, but we'll have to sneak past the night receptionist."

"Will that be a problem?" I ask, not really sure if I want to know.

"Not compared with what we'll have to get through to leave the compound," she says ominously. "Let's go quickly."

Together we run down the hall and to the elevator. When the door opens, we step in and Loretta presses "1". I look at the numbers over the door. We are on the 25th floor. It seems to take forever to make it all the way down, but we do without interruption. It's silent most of the way down.

"Loretta?" I ask as something occurs to me.

"Hmm?" she replies, watching the floor numbers tick down.

"Was my door the only one with a guard in front of it?"

For the first time tonight, she really seems to look at me. It's only for a second, though, as she turns away almost immediately. "Well, one of very few," she says softly.

The ensuing silence almost becomes uncomfortable, but fortunately the elevator doors slide open into an empty hallway. Loretta steps out and waves for me to follow. I can feel my heart beating in every part of my body as I watch the end of the hall. Please, no one come marching around the turn.

We make it to the end and Loretta peeks around the corner. "No one in the lobby. The receptionist is sitting at the desk. I can see her reflection on the door," she informs me.

I lean over her to get a glimpse at the scene. There's a plain lobby with drab carpeting and a few simple chairs. A set of glass double doors reveals little about the world outside in the dark of night, but the resultant reflection shows the receptionist is indeed seated behind a counter, staring at a computer screen.

"Okay," Loretta says, pushing me back in hiding. "You stay here. I'm going to go distract her. When she gets up, come quickly down the hallway and we'll both leave. Our time will probably be up after that. Security will be hot on our tails. Just stay with me and do everything I say."

"Yes, ma'am," I say as she heads toward the lobby.

Loretta walks up to the counter and smiles at the receptionist. "Hey, Rebecca, how are you?"

Rebecca blinks. "Oh, hey Loretta. I'm doing pretty good. I almost didn't recognize you in that getup. Were you in surgery with Dr. Spector today?"

"Oh yeah," Loretta says with a roll of her eyes. "It got a little messy. Can't wait to get home and out of these. Listen, I think Dr. Sandeep sent me a fax to the number back here. Can you check on that for me?"

The receptionist cocks her head quizzically. "Here?"

Loretta nods. "Yep. You know, it's on the transfer form. I gave him the office fax number, but he didn't write it down...or he lost it. You know doctors."

Rebecca snickers at that. "Okay. Let me go check," she says cheerfully as she gets up.

"Thanks," Loretta calls after her, but she's looking at me.

I bolt down the hall as quietly as I can. My legs feel even more odd while I'm running. My feet thud strangely on the carpet. The door gets closer and closer and my gut clenches as I reach for it. Loretta is right behind me. The phone behind the counter rings, and the sudden noise breaks my concentration. I leap for the door and push it open, but trip on myself before I can get all the way out.

"Nurse Vine?" Rebecca's voice calls curiously from behind the counter.

Loretta doesn't even glance at her. She hurriedly helps me back to my feet and rushes me out onto the bare concrete. Just before the door closes all the way, I can hear the receptionist’s voice one last time.

"I need building D security to ST entrance! We have a-"

"Quick," Loretta says, "this way."

I go in the direction she pushes me. I barely have time to register the scrapes on my elbows from my fall as alarms all over the compound begin to sound. We're running toward a parking area lined with what look like ambulances.

"This one," Loretta indicates one of the vehicles. She pulls open the driver's side door as I struggle to push myself into the passenger seat. All this activity is very taxing on my atrophied muscles.

I'm barely able to close the door before we back out of the spot very quickly. The tires squeal as Loretta throws it into drive and hits the accelerator. I can see the shadows of people running out of the building we just exited. A voice echoes over the compound through a loudspeaker system, though I can't tell whether it's shouting commands to security or to us. I'm thrown against the door as Loretta cuts a sharp left.

"Guess I'd better buckle up," I say dryly. She doesn't seem to notice.

We swerve through the parking lot and small roads that wind around the facility. Wherever this place is, it must be massive. The blare of sirens begin to rise over the sound of the security alarm as other vehicles take up the chase. Loretta peers grimly out through the windshield and handles the ambulance like a racecar. We speed toward a small security booth. Without even slowing down, she tears through the lowered security gate. The guard inside the booth doesn't look surprised, but he does huddle against the wall to avoid flying debris.

"We out?" I ask hopefully.

"No," is Loretta's only answer.

I look ahead. A little down the road in front of us is a high chain-link fence capped with a nice coil of barbed wire. Blue and red lights flash on the road beyond. Police cars pull up and blockade the fence.

"Shit!" Loretta hisses through clenched teeth. She veers off the road and onto the uneven grassy earth. The ambulance bounces wildly as she struggles to control the steering wheel.

We're thrown forward as we hit the fence and lose some serious momentum, but we make it through. Broken and warped chain-link screeches against the hood and roof of the vehicle. The back of the ambulance slides to the right, and for a moment we're facing the stunned police. Loretta whips the steering wheel around and I can feel us completely lose traction.

We spin left. As soon as we're perpendicular to the direction we're sliding, the ambulance lurches and the world outside the windshield begins to spin sickeningly. We're thrown from our seats as the ambulance roof hits the ground and we're propelled into another gut-wrenching roll. For what seems like an eternity, we crash into the earth from every side and personally meet every surface of the inside of the cab. Every deafening thud and creaking shatter brings another painful beating from plastic, metal and broken glass. Loretta yelps at each hit. Reality begins to ripple. The pain is taking me away.

"No," I mutter, vaguely aware of a rocking sensation. We've stopped rolling. I can hear the sirens getting closer. Now they're fading.

"No," I whisper one more time as the pervasive darkness creeps in. I think I can hear voices. I'm slipping from existence yet again. Please don't forget this. Richard...my name is Richard...

***

Letters from the Lost Man, Part 9

Yes, I'm alive...and yes, this is the latest in the Letters from the Lost Man saga!

***

For the first time, I welcome the darkness. Any reprieve from my "waking world" has become something to be anticipated. I'm remembering more and more every time, and I feel like I'll be able to figure this all out if I just concentrate. So, here I am...clearing my mind.

That almost sounds funny. Here in the darkness, I can only assume I am within the recesses of my own consciousness, and it's empty in here. Even when I speak to myself, it sounds hollow, devoid of any real life or thought. Here meditation is easy. I simply relax and let my mind expand into the nothingness. Maybe if it expands enough, I'll reach the edge of this darkness and find myself again...my real self.

***

"Richard!"

Who is that? The voice sounds familiar.

"Richard!"

She isn't calling me, is she? Is my name really...

"Richard?" the young woman prompts with a puzzled expression as she approaches, panting from her run up the grassy hill.

I blink at her a few times. "Jane, I'm sorry...I must have been daydreaming," I explain haltingly in a British accent.

"You must come quickly," she urges. "They've found Elizabeth."

My eyes widen and I take off down the hill while Jane stumbles to keep up. The possibilities of where and how Liz was found race through my mind, and most of them are quite unpleasant. Despite the fact that I can't exactly recall when she went missing and why it's important to me, my stomach twists anxiously, hoping against hope that she's okay.

I burst through the huge double doors at the front of her family's luxurious estate. No one is there to greet me, but I can hear voices in the study to the left. I dash toward that room just as Jane rushes in the front doors behind me. We both run into the study and push our way through a small crowd of family members and servants.

Stretched out on the sofa is the small, delicate form of Elizabeth, her dress torn in filthy tatters, her face smudged with dirt. A doctor kneels before her, examining her thoroughly. After several minutes, he stands and addresses the room.

"She is going to be fine," he reassures us. "She needs some rest and a good bath. She may have a few bruises, but she is otherwise unharmed."

Through the many sighs of relief, a small, shaky voice calls out, "...Richard."

I look past the doctor to see Elizabeth looking up at me weakly. I move past him to kneel at her side. "What is it, my dear?" I ask, taking her hand in mine.

Instead of a smile, she responds with a look of distrust mixed with fear. "How could you?" she asks, tears welling in her eyes.

I can only react with confusion. "I'm afraid I don't understand, love."

"How could you?" she shouts as tears stream down her cheeks in rivulets.

"What is the meaning of this?" her father demands, stepping out of the crowd.

I shake my head. "I assure you, sir, I don't know," I say bewildered.

"Constable, take this man away!" he shouts, his face flushing with anger.

A uniformed man advances from the back of the room and grabs me by the shoulders. "Come on, gov, lets go 'ave a chat," he says firmly.

Reeling in utter perplexion, I can only obey. Certainly there's been some sort of misunderstanding. Once I speak with the constable, this will be all cleared up. Surely Elizabeth is confused by her ordeal. After she's had a chance to rest, everything will be back to normal.

***

"Alrigh', you swine, I'm goin' to ask you once more!" the constable howls threateningly. "Where were you on the nigh' Miss Evansworth disappeared?"

Even with my face in my hands, the stark stone walls of the interrogation room loom around me forebodingly. The dank smell of the place makes me feel a little sick, not because of the odor itself but more that it reminds me of a dungeon...a place I'm sure I'll get to know very soon.

"I told you, I don't remember," I insist. "I wish I knew, but I don't. You have to believe me. I would never do anything to harm Elizabeth. I love her." While I'm not sure why I just said that, it feels like truth on my lips.

"Obsessed with 'er, more likely!" the constable accuses. "An' I suppose you also 'ave no recollection of the little room in you cellar where you kep' the poor girl? Or of the black cloak she described you as wearin' while she begged for you to le'er go? This is the same cloak, I remind you, as the one we found 'angin' in your wardrobe in your very own bedroom in your very own 'ouse!"

I rub my eyes, hoping to awaken from this nightmare. "Yes, constable," I say in a wearied tone. "I quite recall those details, and as I told you before, I have no explanation for them. Perhaps someone is trying to make it appear as though I am the guilty party, which I assure you, I am not."

"So you keep sayin'," the constable sighs. "But the thing is...I don' believe you."

***

"My name is Elizabeth Evansworth. My father is Charles Evansworth, a civil engineer. On 12 July I was reading a book alone on a hill by my father's estate. I heard a noise from behind me. It sounded like a footstep. When I turned to see who it was, I was struck on the head. I do not remember anything for some time after that."

The prosecutor steps toward Elizabeth with a sympathetic expression. "Miss Evansworth, did you see who had struck you?" he asks.

Elizabeth shakes her head. "No. At least, if I did, I don't recall it. I think I was struck before I turned fully."

The prosecutor nods. "Very well. Tell us, if you can, what you remember next," he directs her.

A sadness seems to come over her as she takes a breath to answer. "Well," she begins with a pause, "I awoke in a darkened room of rough stone, a cellar I think. I was tied to a chair. Pieces of my dress had been...torn."

"It's alright, Elizabeth," the prosecutor reassures her. "Go on."

"There was a figure," she continues in a small voice, "a man. He wore a long black cloak with a hood which obscured him from me. He then spoke to me, and it was then I realized who it was."

"Tell us," the prosecutor urges. "Who was it?"

"It was..." Elizabeth pauses for several moments, struggling with the hard truth she is about to reveal. "It was the prisoner. Richard...my own Richard. He spoke to me in a strange manner. He sounded almost foreign, but he could not disguise that voice from me. I know it too well."

The prosecutor faces the jury with a raised eyebrow. "Did he say why he had done this? Why he had taken you?"

She shakes her head resignedly. "No. He simply kept asking me who he was. I told him that I knew it was him, but he went on asking me to tell him about himself...about his life. It was as if he had gone mad."

***

Well, this is different. Somehow I ended up in the middle of this strange, messed-up situation. Who knows, maybe I am crazy. It would be a really convenient explanation for all of this. But, y'know, even though everything seems out of place and completely wrong, I find myself thinking only how this verdict and subsequent sentence is going to take me away from Elizabeth. I can't help but feel like I've made some sort of awful mistake that's taking me further and further away from recapturing my life.

Oh, the judge is talking. I should probably listen to this.

"...has been found guilty of taking by force and carrying away Elizabeth Evansworth with intent to hold her from her family. It is this court's determination that the prisoner was non compos mentis throughout the duration of the crime. As such, the sentence of seven years confinement shall take place within the Greater Wisconsin Mental Institute under the care of Drs. Hanz Spector and Friedrich Golz. Their record for rehabilitation of criminals with mental defect is exemplary."

May god have mercy upon my soul. It might as well be a death sentence...

***

"Don't you worry," a young Dr. Golz tries to reassure me with a slight German accent. "Dr. Spector is a brilliant doctor and scientist. He has made great strides in the study of the brain's role in violent and criminal behavior."

I'm not reassured. What I am is tied down to a table in some kind of laboratory/operating room. I couldn't be further from reassured. As enthusiastic as Dr. Golz is, none of what he's explained to me so far sounds like science or medicine. I'd like to protest, believe me, but my mouth has been taped shut.

"Now, let's just get rid of the rest of this," Dr. Golz mutters to himself as he picks up the sharp razor from the stand next to my bed. He holds the shining metal blade over me for a moment, inspecting its edge. I can only stare up in blank terror. He brings it down and slides it down my wet scalp, shaving off what little hair was left after my earlier trim.

"There!" he exclaims as he finishes. "Now, I will administer something to dull the pain. While it is taking effect, I will go get Dr. Spector and we can begin."

Again, the urge to protest comes on, but I can only watch as Dr. Golz fills a syringe and empties it into my veins. Almost immediately euphoria begins to wash over me. I try to fight it, but every cell in my body urges me to just relax. I barely register the doctor's exit to find his colleague.

The next thing I see is the blurry image of a man's face. The face is long and cracked by a thin-lipped mouth filled with widely-gapped teeth. In the center of the face is a hawkish nose on which sits a pair of round glasses that magnify a set of black, beady eyes. The whole thing is topped by a slick of jet black hair, parted on the left.

"Now, Friedrich," the face says with a distant voice. "We will begin by drilling a hole in the top of the skull."

I feel a cold sensation as something is spread on my bare scalp. Then comes a feeling like someone is rubbing a blunt stone against the top of my head. There is a slow grinding sound echoing everywhere. Red fills my vision. I scream, but the sound is muted by tape and drowned out by the constant drilling. I give in to the blackness.

***

Letters from the Lost Man, Part 8

I'm a ghost. There is no afterlife, but here I am. A lone spirit in the eternal black. How long have I been here? Does it really matter? There is no time when there is only you and nothing else. I am the universe, and the universe is empty...and surrounding me is nothing.

Are people naturally existential in the dark? I wish I could figure all this out. Every time I'm here I remember a little bit more of my crazy visions, but none of it brings me any closer to understanding who I am or why this is happening to me. Then again, maybe I don't even exist at all. Maybe I am simply the byproduct of random neurons firing in some sleeping organism's brain. Maybe even that is giving myself too much credit. I want to know that I'm real...

"Easy there, partner," a drawling voice cautions.

"Where am I?"

"Wisconsin," comes the obvious reply.

"Oh yeah..."

"You took quite a shot to the side. I managed to fish out the slug. It's the darnedest thing...missed all your organs."

I peek out through heavy eyelids. A short man with a neatly-trimmed, yellowish-gray beard and wrinkled eyes that look through a pair of round spectacles stoops over me. "I wouldn't say darnedest, doc...more like blessed."

The doctor chuckles.

"Didja catch the coward what done it?" I ask.

"Yep," he affirms. "One o' Pete's cronies. Hidin' up there on Madame Penny's establishment."

"Coward," I repeat bitterly.

"Well, he won't be bothering nobody no more," the doc says. "Got him up in a cedar box right next to his buddy in the center o' town."

I grimace. "Cedar's too good for 'em. Oughtta jes leave 'em in the desert to be picked clean by the vultures."

The doc just nods in reflection.

"How's Loretta takin' all this," I ask in a gentler voice.

Doc smiles. "Oh, Loretta's a smart girl. She knows she's better off now that Pete's gone. She's here y'know."

I look up at him expectantly. "Yeah?"

He chuckles again and nods. "Sure is. She's downstairs. Let me tell her you're awake."

The doc hobbles out of the room, his limp making his footsteps ring out with an uneven thud-thud, thud-thud. As I listen to it fade down the stairs outside my room, I take the opportunity to look around. This looks like a room over the saloon. It's pretty sparse. Just the bed, a desk and a chair. And then there's me...lying here like just another piece of furniture.

"Hey there, cowboy," a familiar voice beckons from the doorway.

"Loretta," I say, unsure of what to follow it up with. She looks beautiful leaning there at the threshold to my room, one hand on her hip.

She steps inside and glides over to the bed. Sitting next to me, she wipes my hair away from my forehead. "You look tired," she whispers.

I blink. "Yes, ma'am, maybe a little. Gettin' shot in the side has a way of taking the wind out of a man." Do I really sound that dumb?

Loretta doesn't seem to notice. She smiles at me and says, "Well, we'll just have to work hard on makin' you better, then. Is there anything I can do to make you more...comfortable?"

It's probably just me, but that pause before the work "comfortable" sounded awfully suggestive. My mind races with ways Loretta could make me feel better, but none of them involve relaxation, which I'm sure my body could use.

"I tell you what," she says as if reading my mind, "Why don't I let you rest a bit more for right now? I'll be back to tend to you later, okay?"

I nod dumbly, though other parts of me are screaming for a good tending to. To make matters worse, she leans down and plants a long, deep kiss on my lips. My guess is that she's not at all sorry that Tex...er Pete, is dead. I almost ask her to stay, but I'm suddenly feeling really tired.

"All right, Loretta," the doc calls from the doorway. "Let the man get some more sleep."

She smiles down at me again. "You get some rest, cowboy," she winks.

Again, I can only nod. My head feels really heavy.

"Okay, Dr. Spector...he's all yours."

I try to open my eyes wider, but my vision is so blurry. Did she just say Dr. Spector? That name sounds awfully familiar and in a bad way. Even though my brain is commanding my muscles to move me, I barely feel my body twitch. I can hear the thud-thud of the doc approaching. A dark figure hunches over me, but I can't make out any details.

"Don't worry, son," the doc's voice creeps eerily from the shadow. "We'll get you back to normal in no time."

I am not reassured. I go now back to death's waiting room.

***

Letters from the Lost Man, Part 7

"How long was I out?" I ask, the pain in my side giving a polite little reminder that it was still there.

"Twenty-four hours," the nurse answers as she bounces around the room looking busy.

I blink. "You're serious..."

She nods. "Uh-huh."

There's no way I was asleep that long. It just doesn't seem possible. I feel like I closed my eyes minutes ago.

"That's the thing about dreams," the nurse continues. "Especially drug-induced dreams...nothing is as it appears."

"Yeah, tell me about it," I snort. But it's strange that she should say that. It seems that nothing really is as it appears lately...dream or no.

"Are you hungry?" she asks cheerily.

Without even thinking about it, I nod. I'm famished actually. I can't remember the last time I ate. As if it knows we're talking about it, my stomach growls. Not to be outdone, my side aches defiantly.

"Maybe we'll give you something for the pain as dessert," the nurse offers.

"Maybe," I say doubtfully. "Though not the same thing as last time. I'd like to stay conscious for a while."

"Okay," she beams.

"Say, why does my side hurt so bad anyways?"

The nurse sighs. "You mean you forgot again? You were hit by a truck."

I shake my head. "No, that I remember. What I mean is, what's broken or bruised or whatever."

"Oh," she says, glancing at the chart on her clipboard. "Um, a few broken ribs, some bad bruising obviously..."

"That's it?" I ask incredulously. "No road rash or broken limbs?"

The nurse raises her eyebrows at me. "Would you prefer to have more injuries?"

"No..."

"You were very lucky. The truck hit you right before it stopped."

"I see..."

Did you ever have the feeling that somebody was just totally winging it? Just improvising lie after lie to make you believe some story that is fairly plausible anyways. No, you probably haven't. It's a really strange and unlikely situation to be in...very disconcerting. Some things are starting to come back to me now.

Loretta told me to just go with the images. She's the real one, not like this nurse here. And yet, I can't bring myself to go along with her instructions. I just don't remember what all this is about...and I don't think I'm supposed to. You have no idea what it's like not to know what in your life is real and what is a dream. Well, if this is a dream, I'm taking control.

A few minutes after my exceedingly happy "nurse" leaves the room, I find myself hatching a plan. I'm going to get off this trippy little amusement park ride. I sit up in bed... Ouch, that hurts! It's okay. Just ease yourself out of bed. That's right. Now, tiptoe over to the door and peek out.

The coast appears to be clear. Now, slowly step out of the room. Creep down the hallway. Excellent, so far so good. Oh crap, who's that?

"Hi, I need to transfer this patient to the psych wing," some guy in scrubs says to the lady behind the counter up ahead. He has a patient in a wheelchair next to him.

"Name?"

"Vine, Loretta," he replies.

"Okay," the lady says. "Here's the papers. You know the drill."

"Yeah," he answers with a snicker.

Loretta? It has to be a coincidence. It also has to be a coincidence that the woman in the wheelchair looks exactly like the Loretta I remember. Oh hell, they're coming this way.

"Do you need anything, sir?" the guy in scrubs asks.

I shake my head dumbly. Is that really Loretta? "I, uh..." I hear myself begin to speak. "I, uh, think I work with this woman. When did she come in?"

The guy looks at me suspiciously. "I doubt it, sir. She's being transferred in from another hospital. She's been there for years," he explains.

I take a good look at her. Her hair is stringy and greasy. The stare in her eyes is vacant. She's made no indication that she's even aware we've been talking right in front of her. But still...underneath her ragged exterior, I can still see the one person I can really recognize.

"Hmm..." I say. "I guess I'm mistaken."

The guy nods and continues pushing her down the corridor quickly.

Yeah, mistaken my foot. I'd like to follow them, but I'm sure it would arouse some attention, especially since this guy seems to think I'm as crazy as Loretta apparently is. This can't be right at all. I know I saw Loretta in a hospital room as my nurse no more than a week ago. And then again as the new girl at the office. What should I do? Should I forget about seeing her just now and keep making my way toward the exit, or should I stay and try to figure out what's going on?

I turn to look down the hallway at the exit sign. Someone is standing right below it...it's a figure in a dark black robe. Damn it...not this guy again. Well, I'm going to turn the other way. Last time I saw this guy, I got hit by a truck. I'm not playing this game again.

Pivoting on my foot, I step the other way with one last glance over my shoulder. The figure is gone. See? It's all in your imagination. But as I face forward to look where I'm going, I bump right into him...er, it.

"Oh, uh...I'm so...ah, excuse..." I mumble lamely.

The black figure leans back, then shoots forth his fist. The world explodes into little shooting stars. Everything goes dark. Here I am again...

...

Letters from the Lost Man, Part 6

Hit by a truck? That doesn't sound right. Wasn't that a dream? Maybe the other thing was a dream. What was that other thing again? Man, this is confusing. And that feels really good.

A warm numbness spreads over me. It doesn't really take the pain away; it just distracts me from it with more insistent sensations of happy-time goodness. I love opiates. The problem is they really don't help me sort all this out.

"How long have I been here?" I ask woozily.

"About three days. Well...four as of this morning," Nurse Bubbly answers.

Three days? I wonder if my wife knows. I do have a wife, don't I? Man, I'm feeling really tired.

"You should go to sleep, then," the nurse answers.

Holy crap! Did I say that out loud? I thought I was just thinking it. Wow, this stuff is really strong. I don't even feel the pain anymore. That's good. Now I have nothing distracting me from...

From what?

The darkness... It's calling to me. What before seemed such a scary and lonely place, now seemed peaceful and comforting. The sweet solitude is so welcoming after...all this.

No. This isn't the darkness. Where the hell am I?

...

"Oh, don't you just love a good book?"

"Mm..." I find myself compelled to say in response.

"Darling?"

I blink.

"Are you quite alright?"

"Oh yes, dear," I reply instinctively, but I'm not really sure I'm alright at all. Looking around, I take in the rolling green hills of the countryside. It's a lovely setting, if a bit overcast, though it doesn't really look as though it will rain. And even more beautiful is the young lady across from me. She grins and bats her eyelashes at me, clutching her book to her breast.

"If we leave now, we shall be back in time for tea," she says.

"Then let's hurry," I answer. I grin mischievously and jump up at a run.

The young lady chases after me, giggling the whole way.

I can't help but wonder what's going on. Though I don't feel like I've ever been here before, my feet carry me on a path they seem to know quite well. I can't really say I know who this girl is, but she seems quite familiar with me as she calls playfully to me in what I can only describe as "The Queen's English". Ah well, here I am. I suppose there's not much for me to do but watch what happens.

...

"Well, where have you two been?"

My companion wrinkles her nose at her elder sister. "We were out basking in the joy another day in each other's arms!" she shouts dramatically.

Her sister gasps and covers her mouth. "Elizabeth! Don't let mother hear you say such things. It isn't proper for a girl your age."

Liz scowls. "I'll be sixteen in but a few short weeks, Jane. I'm practically a woman."

Oh, jeez...she's underage. This is bad.

"That may be so," Jane concedes, "but until then, you have other obligations."

I clear my throat uncomfortably. "Perhaps I should be going."

"Nonsense!" Liz cries. "Stay for tea."

"Oh, indeed," Jane sighs. "You may as well."

"Really, Jane, jealousy doesn't suite you," the younger girl teases her sibling.

Jane looks appalled. "You...you horrid little beast!"

"No, really," I insist. "I do have to be going."

Jane smiles politely. "Yes, it might be for the best. Father is home, and he may not be in the mood to entertain company."

"Why wouldn't he be?" Elizabeth prods.

"Well," Jane begins matter-of-factly, "Reginald saw a man in a black robe in the garden last night. Father had to speak with the constable, and now he's all out of sorts. I shouldn't be surpri-"

"Wait," I interrupt. "Did you say a man in a black robe?"

"Yes, I did." Jane confirms. "Why do you ask?"

I shake my head. "I thought I saw the same..."

What did I see? When was that? This isn't right. I don't belong here.

Wake up!

...

"Good morning, sleepyhead."

Damn...Nurse Bubbly again. The other place was better. This has got to stop.

...

Letters from the Lost Man, Part 5.5

Now, where was I?

Oh, yeah...the darkness.

No, that isn't right at all. I was...in a hospital...a medical facility. There was a doct-, no wait, a nurse. That's right. Loretta. There was something about my memory...obviously. What was it?

But I'm in back in the darkness now. Or is it just dark in here? I have the distinct feeling I'm in some sort of "here". The question is, just where would that here be? It smells like gauze and alcohol swabs. I guess that answers that question.

What's that over there? A window... I don't remember there being a window there. Of course, that's why I'm here, isn't it? I can't remember. Loretta told me something...something I wasn't supposed to know. She was trying to help me, wasn't she?

Man, it's a bit chilly in here. This blanket isn't really doing much for me.

I look around as all my surroundings become more defined. The light is increasing slowly. I realize it's the sunrise through the window. It's a plain, white little room. There's another bed closer to the door, but it's empty. A TV hangs on the opposite wall. And what's this?

CALL NURSE

That's weird. For some reason, I don't think this call button is supposed to be here, just like the window. Let's push the button and see what happens.

...

"Good morning! Comfy?" a particularly bubbly nurse chirps as she pops into the room

Well, she's perky. "Not really. I'm cold," I explain, not really sure what else to say.

She frowns. "Aw, well, let's get you some more blankets, 'kay?"

Man, if she does that squeaky thing with her voice one more time, I'm going to get up out of this bed and knock her out.

"How are we feeling today, other than cold and cranky?" she asks as she closes the window.

I'm about to be a bit more than cranky, but to her I say, "Fine, I guess. Where's Loretta?"

Blank stare. "Loretta?" she parrots.

"Yes," I confirm testily, "The nurse who was here yesterday."

She shakes her head. "I don't know any Loretta that works here. I attended to you yesterday and the day before that."

I squint at her. Okay...I'm definitely getting weird vibes. And, man, does my side hurt! Just then, it occurs to me to ask, "Say, where am I, anyway?"

"West Wisconsin University Medical Center," she answers matter-of-factly.

Hmm...I think she just made that up. "Ah," I say, wincing through the pain that has now decided to start throbbing.

The nurse nods in feigned sympathy. "Looks like it's time for somebody's medicine," she coos.

"Why am I here?" seems the next logical question.

"Well, honey," she explains as she fills a hypodermic with what I hope is morphine, "You were hit by a truck."

...

Letters from the Lost Man, Part 5

The silence is so peaceful. The darkness, so idyllic. Here everything is simple. I was afraid of the dark before. Why? Ah yes, the unknown. But when there is the darkness, there is nothing else. No pressures, no expectations. Here in the vast nothing, with only my solitude beside me, I exist in a one-man utopia...

What the hell am I talking about?

I blink a few times and lift my head. The surface below me feels soft, like fabric. I notice a blanket draped over my body. And what's that shape over there? Is that a door? I look over my shoulder.

4:26 AM

Those glowing red symbols...that's the time. Man, I still have two hours. Wait...two hours for what? Well, for sleep, of course. I have to be at work at eight. How do I know that? Because this is my life, of course. Ugh, it's too early to get philosophical. Just try to get some more sleep.

"Are you okay, dear?"

I freeze. Who was that? Will you relax! It's only your wife. Oh yeah, of course...I, uh, forgot. "I'm fine...just really weird dreams tonight."

"Aw...well, try to go back to sleep, 'kay?"

"Yeah."

Yeah. Just try to go back to sleep. No problem. Just close my eyes and relax. Drift gently off to...pee. Damn it! I have to go to the bathroom. Do I really have to go that badly? Okay, if I don't go, I know I'm going to roll around half-asleep for the next two hours while I convince my body it can hold it 'till the alarm goes off. Yeah, this feels a lot more like reality.

Well, off to the bathroom with me. I stumble to the door and across the hall. The night light in the bathroom greets me as I empty my bladder. I really hope I don't dream for the rest of the night. I'm not sure I remember everything, but I know there was lots of strangeness while I was asleep. I gently tuck myself back in and drift off to...sleep.

...

"Honey, wake up...c'mon, babe, rise'n shine."

Oh jeez...did I sleep at all. Somebody turn off that damn alarm! Oh, wait...that's my job. Okay, up I get. I roll out of bed and walk around to the bedside table, eyes still closed, and swat the snooze button.

"All the way off," my wife reminds me. "It'll go off while you're in the shower and scare the hell out of me."

"Mmmnfrrn," I mumble, switching the alarm completely off.

Honestly, though, a shower sounds really nice about now. I give her a kiss and make my way to the bathroom. Man, my side is stiff. I'll have to stretch it out while I'm washing up.

Mornings are mundane. They have to be. We wake to semi-consciousness, and if things weren't absolutely normal and utterly routine, we'd be in a poor state to handle it. So, we walk zombified through our schedule. Hop in the shower. Dry off. Eat breakfast. Have coffee. Brush teeth. Get dressed. Hope you've regained enough self-awareness to drive yourself to work. Kiss wife. Leave house. If only once I got to work I could slip back into a half-comatose state and operate on this level of automation.

...

"Hey, man, how's it goin'?"

That's Tom. He sits in the cubicle next to mine. Nice guy. "I'm tired."

"Yeah, you look like crap."

"Gee, thanks."

"No prob. So, what happened? Linda keep you up all night? Rowr..."

I give him an unamused look. "No. Just had weird dreams... Actually, I think you might have been in one of them."

Tom laughs. "Hey, I like you, buddy, but keep that stuff to yourself."

I shake my head. "No, no. You were like a bartender or something."

"Yeah, I wish!" he snorts. "It'd be better than this place."

I nod enthusiastically in agreement.

"Hey, listen, that reminds me. Greer is probably going to come by looking for those edits later this morning. I overheard him bitching about them by the snack bar."

"Great..."

Greer is technically my boss in that he has the power to delegate assignments to me and complain to the higher ups when I don't do them to his liking. It's the higher ups, though, that I need to impress to get my ass out of this euphoria-inspiring cubicle siesta. Ah well, let's get to it.

"Hey, check it out," Tom grins, nodding towards, "the new girl."

Wow, she looks awfully familiar.

Tom pants, "Pretty hot, huh?"

I nod absently. Where have I seen that girl before? I watch her walk down the hall and into the copy room. I know I know her. I glance at my desk.

"I, uh...need to go make some copies," I mumble.

"Yeah, I bet you do," Tom chuckles. "Hey, make me some too, huh?"

I walk off, not even bothering to take some papers with me.

"Don't make me have to call Linda!" Tom warns my back.

Man, I look like an idiot. I should have grabbed something to take with me into the copy room. Now I'm standing here in the door, empty handed, just staring at this woman making copies. She's going to think I'm a stalker or something. No, no, it's okay. I'll just pretend to be getting some staples or something.

"Hi!" she says to me with a friendly smile.

"Staples!" I blurt out. Smooth... "I mean, hi. I'm, uh, looking for some staples."

She looks around briefly. "Hmm..." she says, "I'm kind of new around here. I'm not really sure where they keep them."

"Oh, there over here," I point to the supply cabinet. Brilliant. This is working just like it did in my head.

"Ah," she nods. "So, why did you ask me?"

I shake my head. "I'm sorry. It's been a bit of a rough morning." I step over to the cabinet. "Let me just get these and I'll be out of your way."

She giggles and puts out her hand. "Let me introduce myself. My name's-"

"Loretta."

Silence...when it's between two people, it has a way of making them feel uncomfortable. That or whatever was said before the silence is what makes it uncomfortable.

"How did you know my name?"

I take a deep breath. "Oh, well, I happened to overhear. By the snack bar this morning I overheard someone saying that new girl Loretta would be starting today. I just assumed it was you."

Nice...now that really was smooth.

"Oh," is all she can manage.

"I'm going to go ahead and get those staples now," I tell her.

"Okay," she says as she goes about her copying. "It was nice meeting you," she calls as I walk out the door.

I turn. "It was nice meeting you too."

Well, that was interesting. What's even more interesting is how I really did know her name. Now that I think about it, she may have been in one of my dreams last night, but...how could I possibly know? I must have seen her come in for an interview or something. Maybe I really did overhear it. There has to be a logical expla-

Who the hell is that? Some guy in a huge black robe is standing by my cubicle. Is this some kind of joke? He's dressed up like death, but it isn't my birthday. This is definitely near the top of my list of weird days.

"Hey, who are you?" I ask.

The robed figure turns. His hood is pulled to low for me to make out his face. Before I can say anything else, he turns and runs.

"Hey! Come back here!" I demand. When he doesn't, I chase after him.

Wait a minute...why am I doing this? I turn down the main corridor just in time to see the back of a black robe disappear around the next corner. Why would I chase this guy? I reach the end of the corridor as the door to the stairwell clicks shut. This doesn't make sense. I throw open the door and bound down steps several at a time, almost killing myself in the process. This is important for some reason. I bolt out into the ground floor lobby and see the figure dashing across the street outside. I have to find out who this guy is. I explode out the building entrance and run into the street. Where'd he go?

The sudden blast of a loud horn shatters the moment. I look just in time to see the semi trying to screech to a halt. Well, this sucks.

Pain!

Nothing.

...

Letters from the Lost Man, Part 4

"You're in a medical facility. There was...an accident, and well...the doctors are trying to help you," Loretta explains.

"You'll have to do a little better than that," I tell her skeptically with narrowed eyes.

She sighs. "Listen, I can't tell you too much information. The doctors are trying to rebuild your life for you. They're trying to give you...your memories back."

My brow furrows reflexively. Something about that doesn't quite make sense. "Why do it this way? Why not just tell me about my life and see if I remember?" I ask.

"Well...we've tried that," she answers.

"Really?" I say with continued disbelief. "I don't remember that."

"Precisely," Loretta rebuts gravely. "Dr. Spector's technique is revolutionary. It will change the way we treat...uh, people in your condition. The benefit to society and the individual is immeasurable."

"Dr. Spector, huh? Sounds like a spook to me. Not like anyone I want to have bouncing around in my head. And besides, his 'technique' seems to be flawed." I indicate my still aching side.

Loretta closes her eyes and nods. "Yes, it still has to be perfected, but once we figure out how to better control the images, you'll be as good as new...better even."

"Really?" I repeat with the same doubt. "Sounds an awful lot like I'm a guinea pig. Especially with that business you mentioned about the doctors erasing my memory if they found me awake. I don't know that I like that idea... No, actually, I'm certain I don't like that idea."

"Please, Mr..." she pauses again at the slip, "please relax. Like I said, I'm trying to help you."

"And what's with this 'Mr...' stuff?" I demand. "What is it you keep almost calling me?"

"I can't tell you that," she says firmly. "Listen, I've probably already tainted the experiment beyond repair, but so far nothing else has really worked. I don't like what they're doing to you either, but I do like what it will mean for the world if we succeed. So, I'm asking you, please cooperate. Help me and you help yourself."

Quite frankly, this is outrageous. Here I am, lying in a hospital bed, listening to this chick telling me that they're basically doing some kind of mind control experiments on me to supposedly help me regain my memory. How do I know they're not the reason it's gone in the first place? This really sucks, but at the moment, I'm not really sure that I have many other options but to trust her. That is, if any of this is even real in the first place.

"If I were so inclined to help you, what would I do?" I find myself compelled to ask.

Loretta smiles. It's a damn good thing for her that she's so attractive. Otherwise I don't think I'd be as friendly as I've been so far. "Well," she says, "the main thing is just to be receptive. If you keep an open mind and go with it when things seem, well, normal...you should be okay. After a while, it should start feeling familiar to you, and once all the memories are there, they'll let you out of here."

"I would be very surprised if things started to get normal," I put in dryly.

"They should soon," she assures me. "We're on the verge. For now I'll try to fudge the data so that the Dr. Spector doesn't think it's to the point where we need to start over again. As it stands, you could have easily written off any strange experiences as bad dreams. That's how I'll make it seem."

I can't help but snicker sarcastically. "Honey, this is all just one big bad dream."

Loretta eyes me seriously. "So, will you help?" she asks.

I stare back at her. "Well, just out of curiosity, what's to stop me from just waltzing out of here right now?"

"This is a heavily guarded location," she explains. "I assure you, if you tried, you wouldn't get far."

"And then they wipe my slate..." I finish.

"Pretty much."

It is chilling to me that a technology exists to simply erase who I am from even myself. Identity theft, fraud, even total deletion from society would be tolerable when compared with the idea of losing every memory that made you who you are today. I don't know who I am, and even what little I know of myself now could be completely taken away...and the scary part is I might never know. Well, damn it, I'm not going to let them take it anymore. I'm going to get through this...experiment, and when they let me out, I'm going to do everything in my power to find out what happened to me and who I really am, assuming I'm not who they make me think I am.

"Okay then," I say after that thoughtful pause. "I'll help you to help me. But if you're lying to me, you better hope they erase my memory...and you better hope it sticks." I don't feel I need to say anything else.

Loretta nods, though the look in her eyes seems hesitant. "I want to help you, and that's the truth."

Well, though all kinds of alarms are going off about the rest of it, I do believe her about that. Reluctantly, I nod. "Do what you must," I tell her.

With that she reaches over to a nearby stand and grabs a hypodermic and a vial. She draws out a measure of the colorless liquid in the vial and clears the needle of air bubbles. With a sympathetic look, she puts the needle into my arm and slowly pushes down the plunger.

"Good night..." she whispers.

Thoughts come swirling at me from all directions. Half-formed hallucinations of memories I'm not sure I've ever had pelt me without end. Sounds of music, voices, explosions ring through my ears. All my senses are overwhelmed by stimuli screaming all the experiences of life at me until I wake up, once again, in darkness. Curled up in the loneliness, I am content to just rest for a while. Where was I just a moment ago...?

...

Letters from the Lost Man, Part 3

"Go on, friend. Why don't you go on and git on outta here," the guy says to me as he wipes a grimy mug with an even grimier rag.

Hmm...this is looking like a rough scene. I'd better not argue. Just nodding, I step slowly toward the door. The second I step outside I hear the saloon piano start up and the sounds of the usual festivities happening inside. I hoist up my pants, which seem a little low on my hips. Glancing down I realize how disheveled I really look.

"Howdy there, partner."

Well hellooo. Just who is this fine lady? "Howdy, ma'am," is all I can manage. What's up with my accent? This is not how the voice in my head sounds.

"Man like you shouldn't walk around town without some respect," she says to me, smiling sweetly.

I'm merely confused. "Respect?" I drawl intelligently.

"Why, sure. I know just where you can get some too..."

I look her up and down again, raising an eyebrow. I wonder what she's talking about. Honestly, she looks like she could be a working girl. Whatever she means by "respect" can't be all bad.

"Well, I'd be mighty obliged, ma'am. I'm new around here, and a little...uh...respect might be just what I need. The thing is, well..."

With a flutter of her eyelashes she asks, "Well, what is it?"

"Well, see, I'm a bit short on cash. Ain't had time to find me some work yet."

"A man with respect doesn't need to find work," she tells me.

I'm not only intrigued, but a little perplexed. "Well, again, I'd be mighty obliged, ma'am. Say...just where am I?" I feel dumb for not having asked earlier.

She giggles. "Why, you’re in Wisconsin, cowboy."

"Wisconsin..." I repeat in disbelief. It's about 90 degrees out, dusty, bright, and dry. If this is Wisconsin, I'm Santa Claus.

"That's right," she confirms, "now, follow me."

As I trail behind this lady, I can't help but think this is nothing more than a dream. Not that I'm complaining. Whatever it is, it's a whole lot better than where I was just a few moments ago...in nothingness.
So, if this is a dream, and I'm aware of it, I should be able to do whatever I want, right? I always loved flying dreams. Maybe I should try that.

"Why, sugar, what are you doin'?" the pretty woman asks as she helps me up off the ground.

"Sorry. I'm not really sure what happened myself. Must'a tripped."

Well, that was embarrassing. I probably won't try that again. I haven't necessarily ruled out the dream possibility, though. This is just too strange to be reality. Well...what have we here? This is a cathouse if I ever saw one.

"Step inside cowboy," she says, opening the door with a grin.

"Thank you, ma'am."

Oh yeah...this has got to be a dream. All these fine ladies sitting here smiling and waving at me. And I get the feeling that whatever I get here, I'm not going to have to pay for it. Score...

"Right this way, cowboy," she directs.

I follow her up the stairs and down the hall into a rather nondescript bedroom. So far this is going just the way I had hoped. I watch her step over to the armoire and pull something out of it. She turns toward me, hiding whatever it is behind her back. She steps over to me and gets close...very close.

"You want some respect?" she asks softly.

All I can do is nod. With a sly half-smile, she produces the hidden item. Ok, this is just...odd.

"A gun..."

She nods. "Well, of course it's a gun. What did you think it would be?"

I shrug, lost for words. I take it from her with uncertainty. It's in a nice leather holster with a bullet-lined belt. At least my pants will stop creeping down on my hips. I put it on and draw the weapon. It's a Smith & Wesson SW40 Sigma series semi automatic. Not only is it horrendously out of place in this setting, but it seems totally strange to me that I recognize it.

"Feels good in your hand, doesn't it?" she asks, excitement in her voice.

I look up with a start, but then sort of smile. "Yeah, she's a beaut. Say, what's your name anyway?"

She leans in closer and puts her hand on my chest with that sexy little half grin. What a magnificent time for all hell to break loose...

The door busts in with a bang and the massive guy standing on the other side answers my question with, "Loretta!"

He pounds over to her and pushes her out of the way. Baring his teeth at me, he grabs me by my shirt and lifts me straight into the air. His breath smells like he uses manure for toothpaste and whiskey for mouthwash.

"What're you doin' with my girl, boy?" he asks, each word punctuated by a blast of fetid odor.

Despite the obvious seriousness of the situation, my first instinct is to be a comedian. "Well, nothin' yet, Tex...you interrupted me before I got the chance."

As expected, this is the wrong response. He heaves me backward and ho's me through the window. The world is a spinning blur as I hurtle away surrounded by exploded glass. More seconds than I will prefer to recall later, I hit the ground hard. Some of the glass is driven into my skin. At this moment, this is about the most painful dream I've ever experienced. I roll around for a few minutes then stumble to my feet. Yeah, I hurt, but I don't think anything's broken...yet. That'll probably change soon. Loretta's boyfriend is blundering out the cathouse door headed my way. This can only get worse. I draw out my gun.

"Now...now..." I manage to sputter out. "Now, you hold it right there, Tex."

"If you wanna live, boy, you'll quit callin' me Tex," he replies, eyeing my gun with interest.

Pulling back the slide on the weapon, I grin through the pain. "I think I'm in a position to call you whatever I like."

Tex throws his head back and laughs...man, is he a big guy. His neck looks like a tree trunk when he does that. I'm not really sure how much better I feel with the gun in my hand. It does fire a .40 caliber round, but I honestly think this guy might be able to take a couple if my aim isn't just right. He might live just long enough to get to me and break me in half.

"You wanna settle this like a man, boy?" he asks me.

I shrug.

He whistles back to one of his cronies who tosses him a revolver. "Twenty paces!" he yells out to the whole town, which by now is intent on the exchange.

So, we make our way to the center of Main Street and stand back to back. As I step forward, counting out my twenty paces, it occurs to me that this might be a bit dangerous. I have no idea what's really going on. After that fall out the window, I can't really be all that sure I'm not awake. While everything seems to be completely weird, I don't really remember everything to begin with, so I can't know if it really is weird or if its my amnesia. One thing's for sure. I had better be quick on the draw, and my aim better be true. I don't want to find out what happens if Tex wins this duel.

"Nineteen...Twenty!"

Oh, crap! I just realized I have no idea what I'm doing. Do I turn and fire, or do we turn and stare each other down while our fingers twitch? Only one thing to do...
Silence follows the boom of my pistol and the supersonic crack of my bullet as it tears down Main Street and embeds itself into Tex's face. He drops his half-drawn weapon and topples backward. Good thing for me.

Or maybe not...did somebody just shoot me in the side? Warm wetness spreads over my ribs and the pain really starts to register. Now who would do a thing like that?
I fall over onto my back and look up. Over on the roof on the building to my left is the silhouette of a hooded figure holding a rifle. It rises from the roof and hangs in midair for a moment before drifting down slowly to the ground to stand over me.

"Who are you?" I manage to moan at the figure. It says nothing to me. It just stands there in its black robe, its hood pulled too low for me to make out a face. Blackness is creeping into the edges of my vision. No, please, no more blackness. I don't want to die now...

Light... Light streams in from everywhere. I feel like I'm waking up. It takes several minutes for my eyes to adjust.

"Are you ok?" the girl in white asks tenderly.

"Loretta?"

She blinks back at me in surprise. "How do you know my name?"

I look around. Everything's white and sterile. I try to sit up, but a tearing pain in my side forces me back down.

"Please, Mr., uh...sir. Lay back. You need to take it easy," she urges.

"What happened?" I ask. "Was I in an accident?"

Loretta, who is obviously a nurse, bites her lip. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"Well..." I begin, rubbing my head. "I think I was shot in the side, but that might have been a dream."

She nods. "The images can be very real. You have to be careful. You could very well die from injuries you sustain while you're under."

"What? Under where? What the hell's going on here?"

"Please, Mr...um...please be calm," she pleads, looking over her shoulder. "If the doctors hear you, they'll come in and put you back under before I can help you. Then they'll erase your memory and start all over again. Please trust me.

All I can do is stare at her. What would you say? I must still be dreaming. I still feel a bit weird, and who knows if I'm really in pain. My memory of pain might only be a fabrication of the dream. Oh, just wake up already...please wake up.

"Now, tell me, how did you know my name?" Loretta asks.

I blink at her. "Oh, no...First of all, I think you owe me some answers long before I give any to you. Second of all, you can't-"

"Sshhh!" she interrupts. "Please. Okay, I'll tell you what I can, but please listen closely because I'll have to put you back under before the doctors get here. Trust me, if you don't argue with me, we can get through this much faster and you can leave this place."

I stare at her with uncertainty for a little while. Well, what choice do I have? "Ok...I'm listening."

...