To Whom It May Concern:, M.J. Garrett [phonics readers .TXT] 📗

place. The old man’s eyes followed her around the small shop as the wind of her presence began to blow the edges of his paper. She stopped, turned to look at the old man. Walking to the counter with confidence, she pulls the paper out of his hands and demands a conversation.

“What do you say we make a deal?” the Irish voice says to her. His eyes squinted as he smiled.

“You have something I need. What kind of deal are you talking about?” she asked him sternly.

“You must want your sword, I assume, but that will cost you.” Pulling the newspaper back up to read, he asked her, “I take it you saw the news? Where is the little girl?”

“There was no little girl. You know it and I know it.” she fires back with confidence.

“Oh, I beg to differ.” A little girl’s voice echoes from behind the newspaper. The girl reaches under the glass cabinet and pulls out a large pistol. “You’ve earned this.” she says, “Just don’t make me regret giving it to you.” The little girl giggles as she slides the pistol across the glass counter top and she squeezes the hand of the doll hanging by her side.

“I’m sure regret is the one thing I have to give.” Carla said to the child. The clock begins to tick with every second as the world comes to life. The cars honk their horns and the vendor gets his money. The people talking on their cell phones keep pace with the busy street. The coins hit the ground beside the homeless people. The neon sign…gone.

*

Tom stood there watching the news. Leaning against the counter, he shoves chips into his fat, ugly, bloated face forgetting to blink. Crumbs fall on his disgusting dirty shirt, he reaches down and wipes his crumb plastered fingers on the side of his pants. The man on TV is holding a finger to his ear. People are running in hysteria with no idea or direction. The man on TV, yelling in the microphone running backwards, is trying to stay in the view of the camera. The camera is bouncing and shaking on the shoulder of the camera man, who is trying to keep up with the man yelling in the microphone. “Seven people just randomly dropped dead today. As the police and rescue workers are trying to figure out what’s going on, four more people just fell to the ground without reason! People are running! This is pure chaos…pandemonium!! People are trying to get as far away as possible in fear that this may be the work of Terrorists! No one knows anything! Possibly some infectious disease may be plaguing the city streets!”

Joseph Banks and all his secrets, running and looking back at the camera with his finger covering his ear, he’s trying to get closer. His big break. His moment. His salvation.

“What is the police saying to you? Is there any word on what could be the cause?” Mr. Franklin asked the TV monitor.

“The police aren’t saying anything! All they know is that the people that died are being quarantined. The streets are being blocked as the rescue workers are trying to come to grips with the impending disaster. Oh my God! Five more people just dropped dead!! No one knows what’s going one!! Not since 9/11 have we seen this type of fear!! People are fighting each other and throwing each other to the ground trying to not be the next victim!!”

As he’s running the camera falls to the ground. The monitor shows the feet of people running in every direction. The camera, lying there on the ground, just flickers. The camera again moving as the voice puts his face close to the camera. Joseph Banks, the Savior, is now running with the camera. His hand, no longer touching his ear, is holding the camera in front of him. His face bouncing on the monitor and he’s yelling, “Eight people just fell dead! Mark, my camera man, is one of those that just fell! I’m working my way to center of this mess now!” Joseph Banks, the man of the hour. His moment. His salvation. His lack of regard for anyone or anything…just his big moment.

*

Tom, standing there with his mouth full of chips, is paused. Motionless, fat, and paused. Tom looks at the monitor above the checkout desk. One by one, people dropping by the second. Starting from the book store three blocks away, to the coffee shop two blocks away, and then to the outdoor Italian bistro on the other side of the block…every one dead. Tom turns to look at the door, as a flash of light blinds him for a moment. Tom…dead.

His fat motionless body laid there on top of his bag of chips. His shirt tucked in the front but never tucked in the back. His chest covered in crumbs and his fingers painted orange from the nacho flavored chips. His eyes, still wide open, recording memories of black stiletto boots and leather covered legs that no one will ever see or remember. Everyone has secrets. No one has secrets.

One quick flash later, Carla sits on her couch with the smell gunpowder and smoke streaming out of the tip of her new sword, her new black and chrome pistol. Just like Nate. Her mentor, her friend, her neighbor, her secret crush.

Laying down on her couch, she reaches up to the top of the couch and grabs the remote.

To Whom It May Concern:
Gluttony has to be a sin, right?


CHAPTER 21

Pulling the box of cigarettes out of the mailbox, I pull one out and put it between my lips. Shaking the box, another cigarette pops out revealing just the white filter.

“Your girlfriend is breaking the rules, Nate.” The old man said in his rugged Irish accent. He reached for the cigarette I offered him. My face lighting up behind the flame, I guard the flame with my hand and light his as well.

“Rules?” I asked him as the smoke slowly exits my mouth and nose. “I didn’t know there were rules.”

“Of course. There has to be rules or its just chaos. You know that.” The old man grinned and blew the smoke out of his mouth. Setting there for a couple of silent seconds, he leans over and softly asked to me, “Did you catch the news, today?” He smirks and lets out a small chuckle. “I have to hand it to her; she has taken this bull by the horns.”

My Carla, my Savior, my new obsession is growing into her new role faster than I ever did. I have misunderstood for so long. “No one ever explains the rules, you know? Could it be that she is making her own?” I asked him as I tapped the ash of my cigarette over the rail of my porch.

“I understand that you have been praying a lot more. Anything I need to be worried about?” He asked me with his eyes catching mine in his display of cynicism.

“When I pray to you, you will know.” I told him softly.
“That’s the problem. You haven’t been praying to me.”

“Trust me, old man, you’re just the messenger, remember? The day I pray to you will be the day I beg for mercy. That will be the day that it will all be too late.” I looked at him and smiled. Our eyes making contact in a nonverbal agreement and understanding, we looked at each other and paused. Both of us take a final drag off our cigarettes and flick them into my yard.

I watched him walk away with the full intention of begging for his mercy. Call it pride or stupidity, but for once I felt purpose. All of the past tattoos represented something that I didn’t understand. For good, for bad…I guess it didn’t matter. Compelled by the need to finish something combined with the lack of understanding, I earned my tattoos. Unreadable reminders that maybe this gift, this curse, this life was just too much to comprehend in my simplistic head. Saviors, Demons, gods, or angels of death…my curse is now my purpose. I’m cursed to finish the unthinkable. I have to make sure that his prize fighter at least makes it past the fifth round or goes down before the fifth round even starts.

Carla, my savior, my new obsession may be making it easier for God. She seems to be working wonders on the betting odds. God, sitting there laughing as she rages through the scared city. Flashing and vanishing through time, leaving her wake of rage and anger. People pray; scared of the plague, terrorist attack, or apocalypse. They just pray. She flashes and vanishes as people start to pray harder and louder. God’s still laughing. God’s still winning.


To Whom It May Concern:
Hey, didn’t Jesus get full of rage and anger when he went on his temple fit?

His prize fighter is making sure that everyone knows that only God can save them. Only God can bring an end to the fear. Only God can answer their prayers. Only God can make her stop.

God, sitting behind the felt covered table with his green visor and cigar, pushing his gambling chips to the center of the table. “All in.” While his prize fighter, his angel of death, races through the city gripping each and every heart with conviction and fear. Prayers from every person, young and old, fat and skinny, tall and short, prayers from different countries start to fill the air as they witness this new plague. Unexplained deaths. Perfectly healthy people, dropping like flies for no reason.

Her rage, her anger, her obsession, her new purpose.

No apparent rhyme or reason. No patterns to follow. No clues on where she will go next. Her sexy leather suit and stilettos, her raging black eyes and pigtails, her sword; she’s converting the unconvertible. The world watches and prays as satellite links and pictures display her rage on televisions around the world. Children in Africa gather around the only TV for miles and watch as this man, Joseph Banks, runs with this camera in his hand, yelling into the microphone. His voice dubbed over by translators. It’s going worldwide now.