《Havenbrook Star》 Menu A knife drawn behind the window. The ghosts stalking the apartments. The lunatic under the bridge. The burnings in the mountain, the yellow in the water, the howls in the churches. Don''t call this fiction, because these are true stories in Havenbrook County, California. And I am their teller; journalist Andre F. Mortiarti, resident in down town and creator of the Havenbrook Star. Your leading news network to the daily dealings in the big H.B. Here...! Now...! To tell you everything the Democrats and Republican''s don''t want you to know. Here to tell you what mainstream media refuses to show. Completely brazen, completely uncensored, completely unhinged. Welcome to Havenbrook, 704.54 sq mi of an unadulterated warz ones. Which wars? All the wars. The war on drugs. The war on terror. The war on democracy. The war on crime. Wars against demons, wars against government fiends. ALL ON YOUR TAX DOLLARS.The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. Come see what The Morning Star refuses to show. I''ll be with you, every step of the way. Legal Mumbo Jumbo to the lawyer''s at The Morning Sun, specifically the CUCK Hoffman H. Ganibald; As a member of the free press and as a sovereign citizen of the United States of America. I have the right - nay duty - to inform the public on every piece of shit politician in Havenbrook. Every liar, every schemer. Let it be known then that I have received five lawsuits since the creation of this website. All from you. So tell your paralegal or whatever dimwit you pay crumbs to to fuck off because as red-blooded American citizen I will do anything. And I mean anything to speak the truth and nothing but it. Good day. Fuck the judges and fuck the courts. Cases 1-50 With a rate of 13 murders to every 100,000 people or just about a 133% increase from Los Angeles'' rate of murder, there''s a lot to cover here. More so than the murder is the number of missing people in Havenbrook which outpaces the national average by at least three times as much. That''s a lot of people going somewhere no one knows. Murder, strange happenings, Suicides, anything involving the strange circumstances of death in Havenbrook you''ll find here in this catalog. Organized by year. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. 1-10
Locations The world is just what we observe and what we observe is the world. If it''s beyond our scope, what''s the point? Is what I always say. So let''s observe all the wonderful history of Havenbrook. The people and the places. I''ve decided to split this section between locations (location, location, location) and historical events at specific time periods.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. Locations #001 - Dalmation Man Case No. 001... Dalmation Man Filed Under... Missing Person(s) Mortiarti''s Notes... I received this email a few weeks back and thought nothing of it. Until I came across an interesting child abduction statistic, specifically the numbers on the City of the Plains, Morin Park in South West Havenbrook. A staggering three times the abduction rate compared to other territories in Havenbrook County. The number made me dig up this uh, "Dalmation Man". Research was done conductive to answering the matter of the ¡°Dalmation Man¡±. Evidence isn¡¯t conclusive quite yet, on who or¡­what the man is. But this frightening account was taken from a... Mr. Joaquin Ramirez who had encountered a ¡°spotted man¡± in his youth. His chilling account was taken from a 60-minute interview by Channel24 news. Flourishes have been added for readabilities¡¯ sake.
Subject: ever hear about the dalmatian man? <[email protected]>
it''s something the kids keep spreading. I hear them. i hear them. like in the chatrooms. in the schools. the spotted dalmatian man, that''s all they talk about!...they say he lifts them wherever he can. he comes in a car. he comes from the sewers. he leaves their mothers in wake¡­leaves a piece. something to know he was there and now they gone... 14 lost kids in too mnths. LOOK IT UP...breaker figueroa monte de sol LOOK IT UP¡­! when you see the spotted man you do not turn away kevin lindsey lauryn tobi maple chris. chris. Chris looked away and look at where that got him... six pieces six spots...CHRSTIAN RAYNOSA...look it up¡­ they''ll never catch him believe you me...cops to busy writing tickets and looking tough...chasing cement guy...trust me...dalmatian man is out there. ask any high schooler, they laughed until Sammy got his arms cut off. left on front lown, del Sol high school...LOOK IT UP¡­ kids are smarter. pray for them. Dalmatian man is OUT there NOW...
He did not seem like an evil man when we saw him. It was the three of us turned to him, the Dalmation man by the side of the van. That¡¯s what we called him at least. Granted the black spot on his eye. Not like a black eye, not like something given by anything else but defect. A spot God missed his touch. Paint cans opened in the back, the man dipping his roller inside and working several coats along the side of the laundromat. The three of us - Jimmy (myself), Buddy and Ian - watched him from the corner of the store. Our finger tips showing on the cinder blocks. Somewhere inside the machine of my laundry rocked the walls, not that we could hear it. We watched the man who paid us no mind. We saw him with half-gaped mouths. ¡°How do you think he got that?¡± Ian asked. ¡°Born with it.¡± I said. ¡°How does someone get born with that?¡± ¡°Same way you got born with your eyes, stupid.¡± ¡°But his is black.¡± I turned to him. The youngest of us, dumbest of us, tallest of us. Buddy hated that Ian was taller, I hated it too. That he was taller than me, I mean. ¡°Is this the guy you keep talking about?¡± Buddy turned to me. Fitted cap slid to the side, blocking a sun high in the sky. The floor over the bend warped. And in that mirage, the Dalmation man working the wall. Not so much as wiping the sweat off him. As if the heat wasn¡¯t getting to him, as if the steam from the asphalt meant nothing. ¡°Yup.¡± ¡°He doesn¡¯t look normal.¡± ¡°No he does not.¡± ¡°Is that his lunch?¡± Buddy pointed to the open door. ¡°It¡¯s in that bag, ain¡¯t it? What¡¯ya think he eats?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know. Sandwiches and shit. I guess?¡± ¡°I want a sandwich.¡± Ian rubbed his stomach. ¡°Bet you can¡¯t steal it.¡± ¡°Of course I could steal it.¡± I said. ¡°Bet you won¡¯t.¡± ¡°Why would I take this bet?¡± ¡°See. You¡¯re chicken.¡± Buddy turned to Ian. ¡°See? He¡¯s chicken.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not going to steal something for nothing. But I could if I needed to.¡± ¡°Always bragging about how tough you are. And you can¡¯t steal a sandwich?¡± ¡°Why aren¡¯t you stealing it then?¡± ¡°I¡¯m not the one who says he¡¯s tough all the time.¡± I looked to Buddy then back to the painter. No cars drove beside us, on the quiet street. Liana¡¯s Laundromat hovered above us, the logo in pastel paints. One of an old gentile holding onto a little basket of clothes, the pretty pinks and blue pants and dresses hanging by the edge. All eroded to time and as such cracked and dilapidated. Pipes ran out the side of the cinder blocked building. Steam rose up in the air behind us carrying the musk of detergent. Harsh to the nose, when we played out behind we always had to pinch our noses. Games of soccer in the narrow alley-ways. Those types of games. Things close to the apartment complex. Where we could run away from the police if they accused them of ditching or squatting again. ¡°Why don¡¯t you ask Ian to do it?¡± I asked. ¡°Hey!¡± ¡°He¡¯s a baby.¡± Buddy said. ¡°Besides tough guy, don¡¯t you want the twenty? You never got any money. I just though¡­¡± ¡°I get money.¡± I said. ¡°Sometimes.¡± He smiled. I turned away and looked to the Dalmation Man. He turned around and stuck his paint roller inside the can. And in doing so looked their way. All three of us retracted and turned our backs against the walls and kept still. I felt twitchy, my legs shook. I kept licking my lips because they were dry and cracked. I started walking away, towards the back door of the Laundromat. Buddy and Ian followed, we went inside and gave the man side long stares through the windows. ¡°Enough messing around. My clothes are almost done.¡± I said. ¡°We can take them for you.¡± Buddy ran to the shaking machine. He took out bundles and put it in my basket. Him and Ian both taking onside and lifting it up. ¡°Why you are you so obsessed with this?¡± ¡°It¡¯d be funny.¡± Buddy said. ¡°He¡¯s just a guy.¡± ¡°He¡¯s a weirdo.¡± Buddy said. ¡°Don¡¯t you want to know how he looks like when he¡¯s pissed? I mean, he looks funny already.¡± I breathed hard. An old woman was deep in sleep by a bench. An arcade cabinet, Street Fighter II, glowed with quick moving animations. I streaked my shoes against the linoleum. A quarter of the machines ran. Women looked at their magazines from little plastic seats. ¡°Alright. Twenty five.¡± I said. ¡°And you buy food.¡± ¡°And I buy food.¡± Buddy smiled. We went out the back again and returned to the corner. Ian struggled with the weight of the clothes. ¡°Take that home.¡± I said. A soldier giving his final orders facing certain doom. Whatever those in Normandy or in the Thermopylea pass felt. He waddled off, crossing the quiet street towards suburbs and apartment complexes. I breathed heavy and eyed the man rolling paint, counting steady at the repetitions and licks he did against the wall. Waiting. My heart in my throat, the pulse in my fingertips heavy. I squatted a bit. Waited. The man dipped. He shook his roller. Went up the ladder. I bolted. Pouncing off my hinds. Feeling light. I ran up behind the truck, crawled on the asphalt, opened the door from the driver¡¯s side, reached over for the bag of what I assumed to be lunch. I gripped it. Held it. He grabbed my arm. The blood curdled in me to complete stop. Coming up slow, I found his gaze upon mine. Eye white in that black spot across his face. Yellow almost, glossy, blood shot and undressing me with a sudden contempt. I was stiff and holding onto the bag. Not even struggling for the moment. It felt like having my nape in the maw. I pulled. And the man smiled. He let go. Stood tall, I couldn¡¯t see his face, the hood covered his upper body. But it was a smile. The phantom image in my head still. I ran out with the bag and came around the corner. Buddy had a sprint start down the block. I chased after him with the bag in my hand. We went around the corner and ran until my legs were lead and my torso heavy enough to imbalance my stride. I caught myself from tripping several times. We must have been blocks off from the heist. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.??¡°Where¡¯s Ian?¡± I leaned over, breathing, dropping the bag. ¡°You told me he to go to your house, didn¡¯t you?¡± ¡°Right.¡± My hand shook. ¡°You look sick.¡± ¡°I feel sick.¡± ¡°Well, what are you waiting for?¡± ¡°Huh.¡± ¡°Open the bag. What do you think he eats?¡± I grabbed it from the floor, it was slouched and uneven, the little grocery bag from the grocery store. I started undoing the knot, it was too hard. ¡°Maybe he likes dog food. He kind of looked like a dog, huh. Like a big bull dog.¡± Buddy said. We still breathed heavy, though he was regulating much better than me. I stopped trying with the knot and bit into it and ripped it. I tore the hole bigger and reached inside. We looked into the hole and pulled out something. Trousers. A cap. Overalls. A small skirt. ¡°His laundry?¡± Buddy asked. Small panties. Crusted, spent into. Though I didn¡¯t know that at the time. Buddy made an ugly face. He raised his hoodie up. ¡°Gross.¡± But it was more than that that I felt. An emotion you can only study in retrospect. Fear beyond fear to a boy. Something entrenched in the id deep enough that there was no word for this newer leveled descent. A floor on a skyscraper without the number. A feeling without the word. Something you archive for later study, later intuition. It was nameless dread. We spent the night at Buddy and Ian¡¯s place. They always had the best of everything. Unstained carpeted floor, a playstation on the glass counter top, posters and stacks of DVD¡¯s their father collected. I sat at the study table, they were both on the floor with folded legs, hands on the controllers playing something. I couldn¡¯t quite keep my eye on the tube screen, I just flipped through comic strips pretending I was there. Which I wasn¡¯t, of course. ¡°Do you want a turn?¡± Ian asked. ¡°Later.¡± The pizza still hot next to us. Half eaten slices on paper plates scattered about. Out the window in front of my the landscape behind the apartment block expanded, nothing strange or out of place. The neighbors were coming in from work. The dogs and cats were being called in. The older high school kids were biking in. Things as they should be. But normalcy felt strange. Sat there watching scanning lines on the television, turning over random memorabilia. Keeping my hands on something as to not fidget. ¡°I need to go to the restroom.¡± I said. They didn¡¯t look at me. They leaned to one side and tapped fast on their controller. Fatality - the words bloody and dripping on the screen as a character got their spine removed and their body charred. I breathed heavy. Red bead curtains between the kitchen and the living room and really every other entrance. I stepped through them to get some soda and watched the darkness of the apartment through them. The dim lights of the kitchen coming only from the stove top and refrigerator. Pepsi. I sipped, looked out into the dark. They¡¯d been panties. Kids panties. I shook my head and traced the outline of the apartment. The walls dense, you couldn¡¯t hear your neighbors. A saving grace. Especially at the top floor of the apartment. We were on the fifth, my own room was on the second. Not that I wanted to be there. My mom was still working late into the night. All of our parents were, the trend of Sunset Villa family. Housing at a discount, that¡¯s what the front said. I drank three cups. Didn¡¯t realize it. I was too busy staring at the beads dividing the dark. I went to the front door and locked it. Put my knees on the sofa and made a small slit in the metal pleaded curtains and peered through. A girl outside, smoking with her arms on the guard rail. A dull expression on her face as she finished her cigarette and rubbed it down on the rail. She walked back. I studied her, never blinking once. The door closed and the lights on the halls died to some dull orange. No one else was outside. I sighed. Went back into the room. Knocked over some Ninja Turtle figurines, rubbed my eyes and slid back into my chair. I ate. Burped. They were playing a new game now. Buddy was at least. Ian watched, mouth agape. Metal Gear Solid now, was it? ¡°The door is locked, you know.¡± Buddy said. ¡°What?¡± ¡°The front door.¡± ¡°I know.¡± ¡°My parents said you can stay over if you want.¡± ¡°Alright.¡± I chewed but didn¡¯t eat much. Just kept at mawing at the same piece of pizza and looking out the window. The streets were empty ¡®cept for the faint glow of the light posts. Was it a darker night than usual? I couldn¡¯t tell you. Felt darker. It felt like something was crawling up me, a centipede or some other kind of bug quickening itself up my neck. I turned and looked away from the window and rushed back to it thinking something was going to sneak up on us. Nothing differed. Maybe a dog? A dog turning itself to piss and to trot away. ¡°I¡¯m getting tired.¡± Ian said. ¡°You¡¯re always getting tired first.¡± Buddy shook his head. We prepared ourselves to sleep and I took the bed closest to the window of course. All of us laid down and we started talking, not that I could offer much in conversation. We just kept chatting away about school and movies and new arcade games at the mall. A crystal colored pepsi, I remember that one lasted for hours. What a strange feeling to talk but not be there, the ghost of my consciousness up and above and away from the moment there with my friends. In all that talk I couldn¡¯t help but daydream. Well, night dream I guess. I thought about ways I might have died, having my belly sliced open and my guts ripped out. Being pushed off the building and snapping my neck on the cornices below. Taken by the Dalmation man and put under his tires. Imaginations that kept me up, at first, until they started getting ridiculous. When I started thinking about being pushed out of planes, or thrown into volcanoes. Strange silly things like in the cartoons that lulled me into that falsestate of safety we often find ourselves in bed with. I passed out last. Near midnight I woke up again, rubbing my eyes. Something startled me, not that I remember the noise much. It kind of sounded like a dumpster diver, far below us. I yawned and looked out the window and slicked my nose with my forearm. My eyes widening as the picture outside focused sharper. ¡°Wake up, Buddy.¡± I jumped out the bed. I shook both of them. ¡°Wake up please.¡± ¡°What?¡± Buddy turned over. He rolled out and stood and looked around. Ian was slow to come back into reality. He was still talking in his dreams. ¡°What. What?¡± Buddy asked. I dragged him by the collar and pulled him to the window and pointed out. He looked out, then to me. ¡°The van, dude. The fucking van.¡± I pointed. He stared for a while. His breathing sped up. He looked around and scratched his head. ¡°The door is locked. Right?¡± I asked. He didn¡¯t say much, just nodded yes. We walked outside. We looked out towards the living room. The halls looked larger, felt it too, as we tiptoed through the house. Ian slumbering quiet behind us. I went to the door and checked it. It was locked, alright. But there were scratchings on the keyhole? Or maybe they were always there? Oh, what you don¡¯t notice that becomes a curiosity in panic. The normal life slightly changed, and that small difference finally given meaning. My hands shook. Buddy tiptoed on the counter and picked up the phone. ¡°It won¡¯t ring, dude.¡± Buddy said. I looked around the room. Buddy tried pushing down the numbers. He set the phone down. Picked it up. Dialed more and more. I surveyed and found nothing strange - until I looked at the kitchen again. In the corner. In that darkest dark. Something moving ever so slightly. A single hand coming out and behind Buddy. ¡°Run.¡± I said. I blitzed it to the door. Buddy looked confused, he scrambled too. I waited by the door - I swear I waited. But he just wasn¡¯t fast enough or maybe they¡¯d gotten him? I can¡¯t tell. I made it to the room, Ian was just coming up from his sleep. He sat on his knees. I closed the door, I left it unlocked. I swear I tried! But I didn¡¯t hear him for a while, I couldn¡¯t hear him. There was just a shuffled, chairs getting knocked down. I was screaming, Ian was crying. It was noise. And I locked the door. I locked it. Buddy came up, minutes after. He took so long! He sounded so tired, so beaten. He knocked and asked me to let him in. But I could see the two of them below the door frame. I could hear him being dragged. He clung to that door knob. The metal turned and almost broke and I was praying, honest, that he didn¡¯t take it with him. That he just - I¡¯m so sorry - I just wanted Buddy to go out quietly, to not take us with him. The knob stopped turning after a while. All the noise went away. The screams too. And in the silence Ian could finally cry, not that he understood much. He looked around and I had nothing to answer for him. Not a thing. Thirty minutes later the police arrived. The neighbors called in. They haven¡¯t found him since. I doubt they ever will. All that they have going for them is the vague description of the Dalmation man, from a young kid in the dark. I can¡¯t say that ten years later that it¡¯s gotten any better. The memory fades, or changes, but none of it will ever get me closer to the truth. If you¡¯re out there, Buddy, then I¡¯m sorry. #002 - The Split Woman Case No. 002...The Split Woman Filed Under...Homicide(?) Relevant Date(s)...1988 The couch rocked back and forth as he grabbed her hips and pushed them down on his member. His eyes dead set on the curtains in the dark past them. Neon lights underneath the slit, the perfume of other dancers wafting past him as he continued careening her body closer and closer to him. Already down two hundred. Soon to be down fifty more. She turned to him, her hoop earrings dragging across his face. ¡°How about it? A hundred fifty and I¡¯m yours for twenty minutes.¡± She said. His eyes looked down. He was glad he took out only four hundred. He was glad it was cash. He looked back up with the lone trail of sweat down the side of his face. ¡°I don¡¯t have anything for you. Sorry.¡± He said. It was twelve at night when he left. Out in the parking lot, his back leaned against the car to steady himself. He put his hand to his chest and took out his phone and breathed heavy. Three missed texts from his wife. And him with the same excuse; ¡®drinks with co-workers¡¯. As if anyone at work would have a drink with him. No one liked supervisors. Or perhaps no one liked Boen himself. He set the phone down. He leaned back, his hands on the dashboard of the car and he breathed. He looked for the pills inside his car, shuffling through pictures and through paperwork and all manners of excel sheet. Shuffling for the pill bottle. His hands shook as he took a few. Something for the palpitation. For the stress. A heart attack at forty five, Boen, it¡¯s in your future if you don¡¯t take care of it! The doctor had said. The pills in his mouth, he swallowed dry but felt no choke. He looked out the frost tinted windows and watched the trail of smoke his breath made. It was not cold when he had arrived, but three hours later could change a lot. The heater started and the engine started and the car squealed with the smallest of movements and vibrations. Above the flashing strip join casted purple on him - Di inity best girls in town. No V. That one was broken. He started out with the car and in the headlights across the street spotted a pale face. Beautiful. He shook his head and turned the corner. She disappeared. Just another night in Havenbrook. His little house did not feel hospitable in the silence. He was careful turning the knob and stepped quiet onto the rug, careful with his keys as he set them in the cat shaped bowl next to the front door. The dead-muteness of the foyer and house raised the blood pressure in him. Walking. Bumping into the table. He looked up, expecting someone to rush around the corner. No one ever came. He passed his sons room and opened the door. The boy was sleep gentle, turned away from the door. Tawny hair parceled in the slit of light. Boen took off his shoes and inched towards his bedroom. His wife too, back turned against the door. He did not shower. He went towards the counter and sprayed himself with a double dose of his every-day cologne, for this every-day occurrence (at least for the last month or so). Then he laid in bed and waited for dawn. He did not shower before he left for the warehouse. He arrived in a sweat, looking at the steel shutters come up as Jose pulled at the metal chain. Five in the morning. He counted, what was that, four hours of sleep? Three? He rubbed his hands together stepping onto the concrete floors, his breath trailed him. ¡°What are our numbers?¡± He asked to no one in particular. He checked the sheets, he checked the orders and he started. In minutes the floor was lively. As more arrived, the noise increased and the yelling began between workers. A paper company, moving and boxing different layers of papers for different people. Some for print, and some for notepads and some for news paper companies. Rolls and rolls, machines worked by pygmy''s and bored flunkies in the back of the warehouse where paper shoots were squeezed together and spat out sheets and sheets of paper onto a cardboard rod. And him, laboring with the rest just to move it out of the warehouse. Palets set up on the driveway, for they had no room in the docking station. Big sixteen wheelers rolled up with their contents empty, the drivers usually tired and smoking out the rear window. Exposed copper piping and electrical panels were kept with loose screws onto the walls. Walls of rusted metal, a mezzanine corrugated and uneven with patchworks of sheet metal and quartz. People ran. The machines malfunctioned off and out of some divine will (and a few smacks in the control panel) turned on again. ¡°Hurry the fuck up, get that palet on there!¡± Boen said. It was about midday. His voice hoarse. Dry. And the workers would look back, spiteful, of course. All of them all the time spiteful. The forklift operator slow, on this particular thursday, his prongs chafing against the floor as he moved and struggling to align to the palet. Boen walked up, climbed on the rear. Yanked at his waist. The man jumped down and almost fell. He wiped the sweat off his brow and sucked in his lips and observed Boen from the bottom. ¡°Let me do it.¡± Boen said. He was a terrible driver. Rushing through, pushing palets into other palets, deeper into the cargo of the sixteen wheeler sitting in the parking. Men on the other end trying to align with the jack. ¡°We¡¯re only hitting a quarter of the daily quota, come on guys.¡± He said, coming out the forklift. This was the day. The whole day. Little moments like these. It was no surprise no one ate with him in lunch. It was no surprise he ate in his car, burritos in brown paper and thin foil from a food truck. That brief ten second of interaction with the cashier being his only moment of kinship. Lunch spent at ten in the morning, with six hours left to go. The day passing by him. Himself lost in the loneliness of the warehouse. Concrete jail. Warden and prisoner all the same. He chewed. Meeting at eleven. He chewed. Talk with shipping in an hour, something about the barcodes. He chewed. Sixty boxes left. He chewed. The whore on Breeker Street. Come the end of the day. He was wiped. Two hours left and the last of the factory¡¯s necessary labor split amongst four towers of boxes at the edge of the yellow painted docking area. Men looked up from the mezzanine, their arms at the guard rail. ¡°Wake up people, wake up!¡± Boen said. His heart palpitated. The final truck droned in the parking, a white one that said Joseph and Jacob moving services on paint almost stripped off the side of the walls. It hummed and the smog rolled past Boen. The shutters scraped against the already full trunk. The driver pulled at the chain, struggling to get it down. ¡°There¡¯s no room, pal.¡± The driver turned back. Just like his underlings had said. Just like he knew. Boen nodded. He got into the safety box of the forklift. The palet suspended already in the air. He tried pushing it, crushing the wood. The driver squirmed, twitched, he looked away. ¡°You¡¯ve gotta take that out man.¡± The Driver said. The day¡¯s end waiting for him here. ¡°Excuse me?¡± ¡°That don¡¯t fit. It¡¯s not even closing, see?¡± ¡°We paid for all of these¡± ¡°You¡¯ll get another guy to come in later or tomorrow. Just take it out, man.¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°No?¡± ¡°We paid for every palet.¡± Boen said. ¡°Pal. The don¡¯t. Fit. I¡¯m not going to drive with an open door. Take that the fuck out or I¡¯ll call my people.¡± Boen looked at the Driver. Looked upon his lanky frame and the cigarette sticking out the edge of his mouth. A hat fitted baseball cap fixed upon him, shading his already browned face. The just-barely youth tensed at the face. This wasn¡¯t the first time either had this conversation. Boen felt his chest clench and he grabbed it for a moment before he worked the palets down. The whole factory looking at him as he did so. Unimpressed faces, always unimpressed. All of them. Everywhere. The Driver sighed. Closed the door in front of Boen and drove. Boen slouched in the seat of the forklift still running, with the load still on the forks. His chest more pained than before, he turned his face and surveyed the floors and they all turned away from him. As ashamed as he was. ¡°Fuck.¡± He said. ¡°What was that?¡± A worker at the door said. Boen grabbed his face and rubbed his eyes. The day worn upon him, on his shoulders for which he slumped. Filling his chest, of which it pained. The whole world against him. ¡°Fuck!¡± He hit one one of the levers. The forks tilted down, the palet slipped and cracked and rolls of paper jettisoned out the boxes. Fuck, Boen screamed. He moved another lever in panic. The prongs tilted all the way to the floor and he backed up and sparks shot out. The prongs dragged against the floor and he made a half-donut. He backed up more. Hit the wall. Stopped. ¡­ Boen breathed, finally. By the time he¡¯d leveled it all out and shut the machine off, the manager had come out. He snuck up behind Boen, bending down and looking at the broken prong. A jammed chain, a bent tip. ¡°What the fuck, Boen?¡± His manager asked. The workers turned away, the scene so grotesque it seemed like voyeuristic sadism to even watch. Schadenfreudian porn. Boen did not turn, his shoulders slumped, he looked at the machine, then out and around himself, out through the little square towards the parking lot. The many cars and the chainlink fence and the trees growing just outside, an underpass somewhere to the side that echoed the noise of trucks driving fast past the warehouse. No birds roamed here. No animals, save for those auxiliaries stealing food left on the floor. He stood and absorbed the noise only to find it muted - or perhaps him too hyper sensitive to the voice of his manager. He did not turn around. ¡°Did you break it, Boen? Can we replace it?¡± He asked. ¡°Yeah. We can replace it.¡± Boen said. ¡°Can I see you in my office?¡± It was dark when he came out. And his chest hurt. He was given a citation, as a supervisor. And given a recommendation - relax. That it would cost them. And he needed to be safer. But that also he needed to be more efficient. Quicker. Yet more attentive. Harder working. But lax enough to not let the nerves catch up to him and well. Again, he needed to relax. The horse-rope pull, his body taken to pieces by the Roman jockey yanking at his every limb every which way. He was the last one out the factory and breathing heavy as he turned off all the lights from the fuse box. And shut every locker and secured every chain. First one in, last one out. He sat in the parking lot. The night just about to set in. He wasn¡¯t even tired, his body was too numb and his limbs too electric to feel tired. He sat in his car and waited with his hands on the steering wheel. An old honda civic, cracking and whining at every small move he committed to on the road. He did not drive though, not yet. Simply waited in the parking. Breeker Street. Industry District, Havenbrook. You could always tell by the ocean and smog mixed air. A salty-grease scent that came from the west. Boen turned his car on and went to the bank. An ATM specifically. He took out eight hundred dollars. He went to a bar and drank a little and drank some more in the car when he picked out Bnazepril pills from his little week-day orange tinted box the nurse had organized for him. He swallowed. He drank. He sat. He was not drunk (not that it¡¯d convince an officer}, he was sure he was not drunk. This was it. Sitting in parking lots wasting the day and waiting - his hobby. And he waited alright, all the way until eleven. Just before midnight. Just enough to get five hours tonight. If he were quick about it. He went back to the strip club on Breeker Street, away from down town. On the perimeter, where roads turned formless and boundless into expanses of spotty-asphalt and creosete-growing patches. That point of duality between nature reclaiming and man reconquering. He waited on the street and lurked with his high beams on. The cars behind him few. He pulled over to the side. The strip club some ways ahead of him. And Boen himself arguing whether he should or shouldn¡¯t be there. The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.??That was until he saw her, or the back of her neck. The woman with the long black hair. She sat underneath a lamp post on a bus bench. She turned her head and her pale face looked at him. Asian perhaps? She was so pale. So small. A living Geisha, he did not know people could be that clear white. Alabaster. Statuesque. He rolled up next to her. Crisp air hit him and he pulled his jacket lapels up and around his neck. He tucked his chin and stuffed both hands in his pockets. ¡°Hello.¡± Boen walked around and away humming car towards the street. The concrete was uneven. He almost tripped. She smiled at him. Her leg showing from a slit underneath her black coat and dress, slender. Red platform shoes. It almost looked disjointed, her body. The limbs extended out and pale but her torso itself dark under the coverings and invisible in the night. Around them were more empty warehouses, some mechanics and a carpet-installer. Pawn shop up ahead. The strip joint back behind. And beyond that - empty buildings, mobile homes, native reservations. A flat desert scape without interest for humanity or its engineering. ¡°How much?¡± Boen asked. She did not speak. She put her pointer on her lips and smiled. Boen smiled. ¡°How much is that?¡± He asked. ¡°I¡¯ve got¡­I¡¯ve got a lot.¡± He patted himself down and looked for his wallet, his heart racing. First he took out one hundred. She didn¡¯t budge? Why would she. He offered five hundred yesterday. Right. Six hundred then? She smiled. Nothing. No nod, no nothing. Six hundred. Seven. Eight! Eight hundred dollars. ¡°Just for thirty minutes. I fuck you out back, right there.¡± He turned and pointed to the car with his thumb. When he turned back, she was stood and away from him, gone from one lamp post onto another. Almost into an alley in the ruins of Breeker street. Old machine shops and fabrications. ¡°Hey. Wait.¡± He said. He jogged. His heart raced. He clenched it. His head felt dizzy. He felt light up above the chest, but heavy in the legs. So heavy. Like he was sinking into the broken asphalt. He turned a corner on some graffiti, and she was gone. He looked at the empty alley. A wall at the very end, some apartment complexes and tagged brick walls to his rear. Broken glass to which he turned away from. They say you can feel being watched. And he was sure at that moment that it was true. He walked out and back to his car. The strip club beyond him, but something unappetizing about it. As if his palet had shifted in the maturity of his tastes. Why wouldn¡¯t it? There was no woman like the prostitute on Breeker Street. No other woman like her. With her flawless skin, and her ruby lips. And that bare body. Nothing at all. Opening the door, he slid his fingers in the crack and pushed slowly trying to hold the knob whenever the hinges made noise. A criminal entrance. He wiped his shoes and put them to the corner next to a basket with heels and a pair of child¡¯s sneakers and tip-toe¡¯d on the hardwood hall. His hands were out and in front. Boen touched around and felt for the walls and tables, his keys firm in his hand and pinched quiet tight. He stopped at the frame leading into the kitchen with the cat clock above ticking and looked around. The dark was steeped into his house all encompassing. His very form without definition, he raised his hand in front of his face. Turned it. Could not see himself. It must have been one in the morning. And he could not believe a thing of what happened, only that it did happen. There was eight hundred in his wallet that he didn¡¯t even have the pleasure of having spent. The weight of, heavy in his pocket. He sighed. ¡°Disappointed?¡± She said. His shoulders hiked. He turned towards the obscurity. Something moving in the dark but just barely. A silhouette of a silhouette. He turned on the lights and it blinded him. Blinded her too. Joan, who turned her face down and returned with narrowed eyes. The silk nightgown around her covering everything. She looked like someone in a morgue. She sat on the dinner table with piled dishes behind her. She tilted her head. Boen looked, frowned. He leaned against the wall with his legs already pointed for a fast sprint, a man about to run from the police. He opened his mouth but no words came out. ¡°Tough night, huh.¡± She said. Something jumped in his throat. He swallowed. ¡°What¡¯re you doing up so late?¡± He rubbed his eyes. ¡°Waiting. What about you?¡± He bounced off the wall and slid the keys on the kitchen counter. He paced and moved his hands. His head rattling, turning, as if the muscles in his neck had been reduced to gelatin. ¡°I caught up with the boys at the factory. We went out. Team bonding.¡± The sweat came down the back of his neck. ¡°Oh? How¡¯d the bonding go?¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t get close at all.¡± He said. ¡°They¡¯re all young with their own lives. You starting to feel a generational gap?¡± ¡°That¡¯s why you were sighing?¡± ¡°Yeah.¡± He shook his head. ¡°Yeah. Yeah.¡± ¡°You must have drank a lot.¡± She said, almost smiling. ¡°Yeah.¡± ¡°And you¡¯re tired.¡± ¡°Very. Extremely.¡± ¡°Let¡¯s not keep you up then. Bed is over there. You remember, right?¡± She pointed. As if he¡¯d forgotten. Perhaps he had. She had her fingers interlocked in front of her, she studied him and her gaze drilled a hole through him. One that trailed him as he slunked towards the bedroom. He paused and looked around the corner once more. ¡°You¡¯re not coming?¡± He asked. ¡°No.¡± She said. ¡°I think I¡¯ll stay here for a while.¡± He walked in the dark of the hall, the kitchen lights shutting behind him. The door to his sons¡¯ room shutting abrupt in the dark. He paused, heard the hard floor creak. It was not his wife. If only he could get rid of the coil in his stomach, the rusted metal turning and turning. Springing to no particular emotion, just tightening in his belly paunch. He went to the bed, took off his shirt. He could hear her breathing. Even as he laid down on his bed. He could hear her, down the hall, breathing. Choking up some. Muttering. Those low frequency noises of muted suffering. Just loud enough that he could not sleep and so he didn¡¯t - not an hour. And Joan never went back into the bedroom with him. That was the last day he spent at home. He rented a hotel afterward. Motel 66, down Breeker Street. Each day he had gone to the little ATM by Breeker Street, next to that pawn shop and had taken out a hundred dollars more. Tapping his fingers along the glass screen as the invoice loaded. His wallet would get heavier. He would feel smaller. He¡¯d wait on the broken road of Breeker Street, past Industry, past Divine and the pawn shop and he waited. The Geisha girl had not been there the next day, or Thursday, or Friday. His wife had called him every day - enthusiastic about it. He didn¡¯t make much of a fuss about it. Every night his thoughts would fall deeper and deeper into daydreams of enjoying the girl. Ravages, heavy thrusts he was no longer even capable of. It helped get his mind off his family. On Friday she called him a monster. He did not feel like a monster, but he assumed that¡¯s what he was and so he threw the phone at the hotel bathroom mirror, like a monster. Not that anyone cared in Motel 661. A few miles off of Breeker. Sitting on the bed with his arms to his knees, knowing he¡¯d already lost his job. Feeling better for it, funny. No more whispers behind his back. No more obligation to numbers and graphs. On Saturday he picked up the pieces of his phone and flushed them down. Some were jammed in the toilet hole. It was good to be alone. Felt natural. Normal. He finally slept without the days weighing on him. Without anything weighing on him, with the images of the Geisha lifting him in his dreams. No more fucking forklifts. Or fumes. Or tired glares. No more paying for that shitty house-! For a wife who did not even fuck him-! or family. Responsibility ages you, they don¡¯t tell you that when you¡¯re young. And boy was he an old forty. It wasn¡¯t the years that¡¯d done it, it was the stress of the years. Time was just time - a gallery of all his hope and desire. Cells were just cells - the predetermined physical make. You see, none of you dies ''till life comes to collect. The wear came from the world. And who''s helped me? Who? He sat thinking a lot before he left Sunday night to Breeker Street. Skipping almost, outside of his car as he waited by the side of the road. The dirt patch expansive next to him. Lamp posts at even intervals guided the the road. He stopped for a moment and let the engine run. Then he approached slow, neon signs of bright light and color appearing close to him from a strip mall as he came to the bus bench. The words were gone. Only the bright yellow remained. This was the spot. The bench had no advertisements, no mark of repair. Here in this place where infrastructure ceased. The paint was chipped off the wooden bench, fliers for year old sales or politicians were crumpled in between the seats. Plastic water bottles lingered, a smell of urine like bacon grease rose up and through the window of the car. Condoms, coiled tapeworms caught in the drainage grills. Boen stepped on the brake. He left his car and stood next to it, with his hands in his pocket. He breathed in the scent. He turned his head and raised his collar to his cheeks. His eyes felt bloodshot. He blinked and rubbed his nose bridge. He was fired a yesterday. Laid off. Whatever it was his boss made it look like. He only knew because he needed his last paycheck. He had fifteen hundred in his pocket and a dwindled savings account in the back of his mind. The stains of day old tv-freezer dinners were still on him. And he approached, jumpy and shaking his head. He came up to the bench. The lamp post flickered above. The skyline was devoid of stars. Only the city light of Havenbrook shown past the hump on the road, past the pawn shop sign or gasoline station marques. He stood. He looked around. He sat on the bench. Then stood again. For a moment he felt stupid. Only then and only for a moment. It passed as he narrowed his eye into the alley. ¡°There you are.¡± He smiled. Boen ran up. She was there. White in that dark passage, somewhere in the shadow of an apartment building. Cardboard flattened next to a dumpster. Chainlink half torn down, an alley half-dirt path expanded out. Rough grass grew out the cracks in the concrete. The buildings were far past condemned. They were ruins. She stood by a wall and retreated into the dark. It was as if her torso had gone first and her head followed, into the dark turn of the alley. Boen did not hesitate. He ran. He reached for his wallet. His heart beat fast. ¡°Just ten minutes.¡± He said. ¡°Please. I have nothing.¡± He saw her in the alley corner. The nubile face. Somewhere in the far end of it, the lamp post light no longer reaching them. He approached. The large brick walls overhead to his rear. His shadow wide and tall as he came closer to her. Then. His shadow shrunk in the dark. Or perhaps something devoured it, the building? The light disappearing behind him? He followed the girl, only seeing her pale face. ¡°I have almost two thousand.¡± He took out his wallet. ¡°Come. See. See.¡± She smiled. ¡°What more do you want?¡± He asked. He walked slow. They were coming to an end in the alley. A white cinder block wall. An overpass above, a large flood line underpass the brick. Behind the chainlink. Behind the ruins on Breeker Street. She stopped. He didn¡¯t. He walked forward, looking for that pale face in the dark. Narrow eyed. His hand shaking with the bills in them. He cupped them as if in prayer. ¡°Please.¡± He said. ¡°I¡¯ll give you anything.¡± ¡°Anything?¡± He smiled. The sweat came down his face. He shook. He felt hot. She blinked once. He stopped. She opened her maw, mouth growing wide. Her neck cracked, her face shifted and wandered left. A headless woman, it seemed, head wandering out. It floated in the dark expanse. That bright pale face levitated attached from a spine like a fishing line. Her body remained stationary. Boen took a step back, eyes wide. Her head floated up and approached. Her body remained there. Pale legs. Pale arms. The face came closer and her figure took form. Little limbs grew out her elongated vertebrae. Her head at the end. Smiling. He took a step back. Tripped. ¡°Anything, you say?¡± The Split Woman said. The face got closer. The mouth grew wider. Boen screamed. But there was no on there to hear him. #003 - Kevin Choi Massacre Case No. 003...Kevin Choi Massacre Filed Under...Attempted Mass Homicide, Attempted Murder Relevant Date(s)... February 03, 1988 through May 05, 1988 He cut himself across the forearm, the blood seeping down his arm. He turned it over, each drop falling down onto the table and onto his book. Kevin Choi fixed his glasses. The ¡®The Genealogy of Dissent¡¯ turning red close to the spine, the blood pooling down into the crack. He nodded his head, shook himself from the hypnosis. Kevin dropped his scissors. He winced and grabbed his arm, moaning with sudden pain. He ran to the sink and flicked the medicine cabinet open and sprayed himself with antiseptic. A familiar pain that he¡¯d been through, one he¡¯s felt across his body. He took deep breaths like hisses and held his arm as it bled down. Walking the university was a frightening. Brushing against other bodies as he went up and down marbled steps, across the colored brick floors and past the roman-inspired buildings was something of a concern. Mediterranean drafts, a heat that made him sweat, all things worked against him in making sure his sleeve hid the wound. The bandage wrapped around the middle of his forearm all the way up to his wrist. Kevin spent most of his time grabbing the cuff of his sweater and pushing it up to hide the stained bandage. Slitting his thigh last week was easier. The chest was easiest of all. A simple t-shirt and making sure the cotton did not stick to the gash. Of all his torture, the forearm was problem dumbest of all. When he opened the door and brushed against the line of students and sat down to the lowest steps, the first thing Kevin did was cross his arms and tuck them into his arm pits. He slumped forward and looked at the teacher, hooded and particularly vagrant looking. Philosophy 101 A, required lecture for the Undergraduate Havenbrook Stanley Medical program. His worst subject and the worst time of the day. Professor Hughes took his chalk and marked the board with names and arguments and segmented periods of time and so on and so on, hieroglyphics upon the blackboard that made Kevin¡¯s head spin. Around the mid point of class with several decades gone by in short sentences, with no notes taken on his open journal Kevin looked up from his tiny desk and started tapping wild on the boarded floor. The pencil rolled left and right as the table shook. He did not understand any of what was being said on the chalk board. What doctor has ever needed to deconstruct platonic moralism? The pencil fell off the desk and Professor Hughes tuned in. Gaze down upon Kevin who sat front and center. Kevin¡¯s eyes went wide and he turned his head down. The professor stared for a while, fixed his glasses on his nasal bridge and turned back around. Everyone noticed the pause. And the realization that everyone knew that he knew made Kevin shake all the more. He was not still for the hour. At noon(-ish), the usual end of Philosophy A, the professor rose up from his chair as Kevin went up the steps of the auditorium. ¡°You, Mr. Choi, can we talk for a moment?¡± Professor Hughes asked. Kevin turned around head down. He hesitated, then took small steps down. A curiosity murmured among the students who stood at the front of the room. ¡°This is not a public affair.¡± Hughes said. The students turned and started jogging up and out the auditorium. With the last on, the doors slammed close and a sudden silence filled the room with the doomed feeling of what-did-I-do-wrong anxiety. The scent of chalk in the air, the slow-floating dust from a projector in the corner. Black earl tea smoked up to the professors face from a duster. ¡°How are you doing, Mr. Choi?¡± He asked. ¡°Good. Thank you.¡± He said. ¡°How are you enjoying Cristoff?¡± ¡°He¡¯s¡­difficult.¡± ¡°You should read his post-war things. Real head spinners. That one.¡± Hughes sipped. ¡°Philosophers could do well to learn from poets, not a damn one writes well. And they don¡¯t care. Too much arrogance.¡± Kevin waddled in place, nodding his head. The professor cleared his throat. ¡°How are you doing at home? Do you like the dorm? If you don¡¯t mind my asking.¡± ¡°Yes.¡± He said. ¡°I¡¯m doing fine?¡± ¡°Not home sick? Not depressed, anything?¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°I hope I¡¯m not prying.¡± ¡°You¡¯re not.¡± ¡°How¡¯s your arm?¡± Kevin took a step back. His hips poised towards the exit, his upper torso somewhat maintained towards his professor. Needles in his gut that turned and dropped inch and inch down his belly paunch and towards his testicles. Hughes sat on his table. Legs crossed. ¡°What cuts?¡± Kevin asked. Hughes sipped. His glasses blurred and his face foggy and the steam about him like a machine of sorts, steam come out from fresh casted steel face from the lava pot. ¡°It¡¯s okay to talk about your problems. It doesn¡¯t have to be me either, I just want you to know that.¡± Sweat came down Kevin¡¯s neck. ¡°I work with my dad sometimes. Warehouse, shipping and receiving. The packages can cut and sometimes the box cutters fall and there¡¯s accidents in the lunch room all the-¡± ¡°Is that right?¡± Kevin¡¯s eyes fell, his shoulders slouched and his whole body on the wood desk drooping like a mannequin without strings. Silence. Nothing could be heard but the run of a fan at the top of the classroom. The quiet buzz of the engine turning wind currents. Outside, perhaps a few sounds of sneakers streaking across polished floors and the dropping of books. Muffled laughter. But sounds so remote and foreign as if to be from horizons far across the earth. He stood in the quiet feeling cold down to his feet. He did not even notice he was sweating until it started drying off and his clothes were tacky against his skin. ¡°I¡¯m here to talk. About anything really, not even about your personal life if you¡¯d like.¡± He said. ¡°We can discuss Cristoff. Discuss life. Philosophy is about asking the right questions, you know.¡± ¡°I know.¡± Kevin said. He didn¡¯t know. He didn¡¯t talk. It was a terrible way to start the day. He felt that way going in and felt that way going out the classroom. Running up the steps in that panicked rush. Out the door papers came out of his plastic binder and he had to stop several times to catch them before they drifted away. People stared and he felt colder, still. He shoved his scraps into his folder and they spurted out haywire. He ran out the main classroom building, stretching his sweater lower past his wrist and over his fingers, shelling himself in a striped red and black cotton carapace. Just a break. Any break, please. A few hours later, he finally came out of his dorm. He skipped class having been so afraid. It was just Art History, who would care? He needed a break and more importantly, a friend. So he called his friend and when he didn¡¯t answer, left a note. Kevin sunk his head and went to the mess hall, a new Burger Star having been added to the lunch area. Kevin waited out the front, not entering, being afraid to sit alone and look any stranger than he already had. But they stared any way. And he went inside not feeling much better. Nothing ever goes my way. Never has. He sat. Head down. Napping. How long? Someone yanked at his collar and pulled him. He shrugged the hand off. ¡°You look like you¡¯re waiting for trial, man.¡± Anthony said. ¡°I practically was.¡± Boyish looking, bowl-cut. A little taller and well built. Kevin always resented that about his friend. Something else to resent; today Anthony was sporting a varsity jacket, though he never played a sport. Not in highschool and sure as hell not in college. Havenbrook Crows. Black and white and red went across his jacket in several stripes. Anthony ordered for both of them, Kevin sat and the meal plopped down before him. A large table for six sat by two and with no one bothering to join them, or cared enough to ask them to go away. They laid their backpacks on the empty seats. Kevin went for the fries first, Anthony for the burger. In minutes, Anthony was done. ¡°You eat like you¡¯re about to go to war.¡± Kevin said. ¡°I¡¯m always at war,¡± Anthony narrowed his eyes and leaned back. ¡°At war with myself.¡± ¡°Retard.¡± ¡°It¡¯s for drama, what do you think?¡± ¡°Terrible. I¡¯ve never heard anyone say that.¡± ¡°But I just did, didn¡¯t I?¡± Anthony tapped his temple and smiled. ¡°I¡¯m glad things are going well for you. How¡¯s acting school. Good?¡± Kevin asked. ¡°Mayhaps, methinks.¡± Anthony took a fry from the opposite tray, his tray. ¡°I don¡¯t know. I¡¯m still discovering myself, you know?¡± ¡°Discovering yourself, what¡¯s that mean?¡± ¡°It means I don¡¯t want to dedicate myself doing something I might hate for the rest of my life.¡± ¡°Sounds like you¡¯re wasting your parents money.¡± ¡°No. No¡­¡± Anthony said. ¡°If I decide on something I hate doing, and I end up doing that for years, then I¡¯d be wasting their money. And time. Among other things, I think college is a great opportunity to test the waters, you know? What about you.¡± ¡°That must be nice. That luxury.¡± Kevin said. His voice drifted into a whistle. Anthony coughed. ¡°How¡¯s the doctor program going? Still working out on it?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± He said. ¡°But it¡¯s just-¡± Kevin rubbed his forehead, massaged his skull. ¡°There¡¯s so much useless shit, man. This guy Cristoff, it¡¯s - he¡¯s unbearable. What doctor needs to learn how to deconstruct platonic moralism? Jesus.¡± ¡°Philosophy would go over your head.¡± He said. ¡°It¡¯s not really a subject for the uh, analytic, science-y types.¡± ¡°Because it¡¯s stupid.¡± He said. ¡°Really? I think the sciences are stupid. I mean, they all deal with surface level stuff, right? Action, reaction, record.¡± Anthony said. ¡°You don¡¯t really answer any big questions, you just make observations and record.¡± This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.??¡°That¡¯s the problem. We¡¯re not answering any big questions. Cristoff just goes off and off about the will to power, and how we need to kill ourselves to reincarnate. How we¡¯re bound to parents and lineage and I just can¡¯t - I don¡¯t know how people live like that.¡± ¡°Like what?¡± ¡°Hating their family. Everything¡¯s owed to your father and your mother, right? My dad oared his ass from a Vietnamese raft down to the shores of Florida. Can you believe that? That¡¯s amazing. That¡¯s¡­everything!¡± Kevin had not breathed. Anthony stared. ¡°What? I think we lost the plot. A little too much injection of the personal on your part, don¡¯t you think?¡± Anthony asked. ¡°What¡¯s this got to do with how you¡¯re doing?¡± ¡°What?¡± Kevin asked. ¡°How are you doing, K.¡± Kevin mulled it over with a fry pointing over his lips that he rolled around his mouth until he ate. He shook his head and nodded. ¡°I¡¯m fine.¡± ¡°Are you?¡± ¡°Why does everyone keep asking me that? Of course I¡¯m fine.¡± ¡°You look uneasy.¡± ¡°Midterms are coming up. We can¡¯t all just do a little dance on the stage. You know? Some people have to study.¡± Anthony¡¯s eyes narrowed. He mulled over the words with a fry, like he was leading an imaginary orchestra. ¡°Good luck on your mid terms.¡± Anthony said. A sort of quietness came over them that not even the surrounding tables could stop. Anthony stared at Kevin, wordless. Kevin looked down to his food. Kevin finished. Anthony waited, before he smiled awkward and dismissed himself. Then it was just Kevin. Kevin in that cafeteria. Tables of people around them. Warm pilot light from the kitchen, the tiles red and white and the murmur of the crowd distinctly sounding muted to him. He brought his backpack closer to him and chewed quickly. ROOM FOR IMPROVEMENT Physics A 45/100 CALCULUS II 51/100 PHILOSOPHY A 101 Multiple Choice 33/100 ESSAY 52/100 FILM HISTORY 88/100 II PILLAR NUMBER 3 - And we must accept that any first act of transgression against institutions of power will and should be the destruction of the individual agent. For only in self-destruction, in that great mutilation, do we prime ourselves in objection over the world that is for the world that can be. He sat in his dorm. Cinderblocks all about him like prison walls, playboy posters across where his roommate had slept. His toes dug into the carpet that felt rough on his feet. He had to his side a single-bed with neat grey covers, spotted with copper colored stains. The flourescent light buzzed. People in the hall rushed and laughed. Across from him on his study desk was a single family picture. Him and his mother and father with tropical button shirts. He forgot when they took it, only that it must have happened and now he was looking at it. His eyes trailed down, back to the report card. He sat slumped. His report card, Cristoff next to him. Seeing where he went wrong. Seeing where all of it must have gone wrong. Kevin read it over and over until his eyes looked like they would roll up to his skulls. Eyes blackened, a pale pigment had formed around the edges of his lips and the tip of his cheekbones. He rubbed his face and took out the pair of scissors. Just a little incision, just to help him through the day. No where special. He chose his hips and started the line cut. A smile, a crescent moon, across. He bled and put his palm over it and shook his head and threw the scissors back on the table where it rolled above the sheets of class work. It was only a few days after the report and by now he was about feeling the courage to tell his parents. Later that day, perhaps. For now he was looking at his cut and stretching out the skin. Watching the blood go down the folds of fat along his body, down the creases. He smiled. Tilted his head. Then shook as if waking. ¡°Oh.¡± The pain came through. ¡°Oh! How¡¯d that happen?!¡± Kevin went for the first aid kit in the kitchen. He left for philosophy class early in the morning to start the week right. First to class. He went for his top row seat in the class and sat quick, the glaze look on his face. He sat with his hands interlocked, weak smile throughout the hour and a half. Then he went up. ¡°Oh Kevin, can we talk?¡± His professor asked. Kevin left without so much as raising his hand or voice and made his way to the library, which was to him a kind of sanctuary. He went in. Past the main study room at the front and base floor, to the corner where he went down carpeted steps. Into the basement deep, the reclusion spot at the bottom of the library. Where most of the philosophy books were, where few even came down for. He sat down on the first table he could find. Wooden and sturdy, laid all his belongings on it and put his head down. No more tears left to cry, nothing left to do but enjoy the failure that was his school life. He slept. He enjoyed the silence of the room. Who would be here? No one. No one ever was but half a dozen psuedo¡¯s scattered about and so anti-social as to not exist in the first place. ¡°Hello, Mr. Choi.¡± Someone said. He woke up from his rest. He rubbed the crusts off his eyes and looked around. Someone breathed deep in front of him. ¡°Who are you?¡± Kevin shook his head. ¡°The Librarian.¡± The Librarian smiled. A tall man with gaunt cheeks, a receding hairline like a crows beak. He wore a black vest up to his neck, a chain around him with a symbol Kevin had never seen before. Somehow religious, but certainly not a faith he recognized. The Librarian extended his hand and reached into Kevin¡¯s backpack. ¡°Do you mind?¡± The Librarian asked. ¡°What?¡± ¡°Your book. Do you mind?¡± Kevin hummed, made a disgusted face. But kept quiet. The Librarian took out the book. ¡°The Genealogy of Dissent.¡± He said. ¡°Are you a student of philosophy?¡± ¡°No.¡± Kevin said. ¡°Of course you are. Why else would you have this book?¡± ¡°It¡¯s just a class.¡± Kevin said. ¡°It never is just anything.¡± The Librarian said. ¡°Have you read his other books?¡± ¡°I can¡¯t even read that one, let alone-¡± Kevin stopped and looked around. ¡°Am I not supposed to be here? Who are you again?¡± ¡°The Librarian.¡± He said. ¡°You¡¯re in the library.¡± Which wasn¡¯t wrong. As a matter of fact, all of that seemed factual. The man did have a badge over his breast, with a scratched name tag blurred with light from a slow spinning fan above. That being said, Kevin retraced his memory: he was in library and this was the bottom floor and there was a haunting silence of books all around him. Layers and layers, rows and rows, half bulging out or laid flat on the floor, rolling trays with tomes that pressed deep with heavy weight. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I¡¯m just a little confused. I was napping.¡± Kevin said. ¡°What time is it?¡± ¡°I believe it¡¯s a little past eight.¡± The Librarian said. ¡°I guess that means I missed physics.¡± Kevin chuckled, he waved his hand aimlessly. ¡°Ah, fuck it.¡± ¡°Mr. Choi.¡± The Librarian said. ¡°As a student of Havenbrook University I can not quite allow you to blunder about so aimlessly. May I make a reading suggestion?¡± ¡°Sure. Whatever.¡± ¡°Walk with me.¡± The Librarian went without warning. Kevin groaned, grabbed his stuff and chased after. A carelessness about him. Apathy beyond anything he¡¯d felt before. His waist was still in pain, he was still failing, and he was dedicated to skipping everything until he¡¯d flunk out. Perhaps school wasn¡¯t for him. Perhaps being a doctor wasn¡¯t in his fate. And he¡¯d tell his parents all this later tonight. That and much, much more. Kevin walked behind the tall man. All fate and history rolling over his dreary eyes, eyes passing by the blurry letters on the spines of textured books. He fixed his glasses. Both of them went around a corner (which corner? They all looked the same). And stopped at the C section of the books. Books of multi-colors, all blending into a seeming brown wall. They came to no one particular spot. A few frills on the spines of the books. A few ribbons draping the edge of the book cases. And amongst that giant wall of brown and occasional red and orange, the Librarian took out a black book. Melancholia it said, by Cristoff Wulf. The Librarian looked it over, opened it, shuffled through the pages and turned it over to Kevin. ¡°Here you go.¡± He said. ¡°Something to help you.¡± ¡°What? Help me? In what way?¡± ¡°In all the ways you need help, no?¡± The Librarian said. ¡°You¡¯re failing everything. Aren¡¯t you? Academics are very important, Mr. Choi. And as an employee of Havenbrook University, it is my responsibility to assist the student body.¡± Kevin stopped and looked at him. ¡°How would you know that?¡± ¡°Know about what, exactly?¡± ¡°The failing everything.¡± ¡°Knowing the students of this elevated institution of education is half my job, young man.¡± The Librarian smiled. ¡°It is the job of every octogenarian to propagate the next wave of wisemen.¡± A smile like none other, thin. A little crackly given the giant wrinkles upon the Librarian¡¯s face. The giant spots rose and bent and scrunched along his forehead, where his hairline once was many decades ago. Kevin took the book. His hands shook for whatever reason. Perhaps it was the temperature of the room, though it was a moderate, controlled one. Perhaps it was the ambiance, though there wasn¡¯t anything strange about the basement room save for it being a little red on the spectrum. Warm toned. Kevin looked down to the book, to the title and to the author. This was Cristoff, though different. A moody looking thing, unlike the republished and reprinted jovial covers of past. This one was blank. Oppressive1. The weight in his hands buckled his shoulder some, he tucked the book close to his chest and looked back up. The Librarian was gone. Kevin rubbed his eyes and looked both ways of the alley. A few books were jostled out of place, there was a shuffling of people. Readers from aisles across were repeating the phonetics of difficult words. Kevin shook his head. He slapped his face. He looked around again. He was truly alone. Then he looked down to his chest to the book. Maybe he¡¯d read it, after dinner. After a phone talk. Sometime¡­soon¡­tomorrow¡­ Havenbrook University
Alma Mater: Cum alas suas, Ad sidera. English TL: With Wings, to the Stars. Also known as Alas, I came. Try to guess why.
Havenbrook University The University of California, Havenbrook or Havenbrook University (HBU for short) is a public land-grant university located in downtown Havenbrook in the North East side. Being absorbed in 1984 into the California state university system makes HBU the eleventh and youngest to join. It''s academic roots can be attributed to Mr. Henry McBride who created the school in 1871 following California''s absorption into the United States of America. Officially started as a teacher''s college, HBU began it''s stride during and following the great depression and subsequent world war. Now, Havenbrook University enjoys one of the largest campuses in Southern California, with over 157 undergraduate and graduate programs. With so much talent to choose from, the admission ratings have made a steep drop from 35 percent in 1972 to now 1.5 in 2020. This, coupled with an unsavory division of ethnicity makeup (55.2% white, 30.8% Asian, 6.5% Black, 6.5% Hispanic or other) have created controversy for modern day students. Still, the politics of modern hierarchy calcification through academia aside, HBU is poised to become a public Ivy if it''s trend of Nobel Laurette''s, actors, politicians, engineers and artist achievement continues on. History Origins (1860-1880) It must have started off as a quite literal dream for that man, to ride off into the west. Past the natives that roamed and the savages who scalped, to set himself off in the hopes of his own little gold on that new dirt. Havenbrook University began from western-expansionist Henry McBride, son of a shoemaker turned cowboy, as the legend goes. In actuality, his father was an owner of a fleet of ships all along New York City. An east coast trader, McBride CO, who¡¯s tagline ¡®We¡¯ll get it fast, we¡¯ll get it safe¡¯ might have quite literally turned it into the economic juggernaut it was at the time. Trading everything, having traded everything; leather, faux leather, spices, tea, steel, coal, cotton, slaves. Slavery. The bulk of the origin of wealth for the McBride family, a tradition preceding Henry by a few decades. And a tradition Henry did not follow up from, having at a young age as was quoted in his memoir, ¡®a dream about the sun on the western front. Is it darker? Is it brighter?¡¯. A decision that would end up being the better one, as his father¡¯s company would later end and liquidate following the defeat of the south and the end of slavery. In 1866 with California¡¯s entry into the Union and slavery¡¯s end coming in the 1860¡¯s, McBride decided to venture west. With his father¡¯s capitol in his bank account he trekked the land. An adventure that would find itself more brutal than expected. Of the twenty-two guards he employed, all but three would die. Inching towards the west ward coast and traveling the frontier upwards and past Los Angeles proved it¡¯s own hazard, killing the last three surviving guards. He would not make it to the coast until 5 years after. He did of course. And landed on the little city of Havenbrook, seeing Los Angeles as too cutthroat of an area to live in. Havenbrook, having only been established a few decades prior, seemed a more sensible and ripe opportunity. An agriculture city known for it¡¯s vistas and Mediterranean climate. Havenbrook became fertile land for bovine animals and farming. Months into settling Havenbrook University would be established in 1871. The McBride house being the first and a necessary building for the learning and the certification of local professors. Two years later McBride would kill himself through hanging in that very house.1 After McBride¡¯s death Henry McBride Jr. Continued to school, adding two more college buildings to the quickly expanding school. A trajectory that would continue well into the new century.
The original McBride house. Burned down by Jason McBride III in 1959 when he doused himself and the interior with gasoline. Ashes and a few wooden effigies were found around his corpse and around the house, presumably to assist with the conflagration. Fire fighter James Cejudo remarked, "The fire would never go. We jus'' kept throwing water but it wouldn''t even ease. The bitch ate it up."
Post War (1940-1960) Of all things that survived the Great Depression, it seems strange that entertainment would be one of them. Not the workers, or the farmers, but the actors. But it was so. Maybe people want to be entertained more than ever when the world around them is burning. Distracts from the smoke. As it was, Hollywood had left Los Angeles wealthy come the tail-end of the Great Depression. And with close proximity, Havenbrook too managed to shoulder away most economic turmoil. Seeing the success of cinema and the power of the camera, the city in conjunction with with the school and by famous Hollywood Actor Aldolfini Marriote decided to open the first Actor¡¯s Academy in Havenbrook U. A failure of a decision the school, the city, and Aldolfini would learn promptly. With Hollywood¡¯s name already established and with no actor who wanted to make the move, Havenbrook suffered many years of rough competition. A failure that would transition the school from focusing on acting in cinema, to acting in plays2. Feeling a gap in the market for thespians in the west coast, Havenbrook University would focus on the theater instead. Something that would bring immediate revenue into the city after the first theater was built in 1953. Dozens would spawn on the North-East of Havenbrook and would trail down the mountain range, with nickel theater¡¯s spawning amongst the working class, offering the same traveling actors on poorly tarped hillsides. Though cheap, the ¡®nickel and penny theaters¡¯ would prove to be the best producers of revenue. It turns out there are more poor people than rich people. Back to the school¡­however¡­ Acting was not the only avenue to which Havenbrook University made it¡¯s name (money, really). The school of engineering would also prove it¡¯s merit in recoil absorbing hydraulic mountewd onto 120 mm and 127mm3 naval guns. Helping in the machining and industrialization of cartridges, Havenbrook university would receive millions in grant money for it¡¯s contributions to the Pacific campaigns. Rumor was that the McBride the third was so satisfied with the work done in naval weaponry that he put the number of Japanese killed at the front of the engineering school on a placard.? No one knows if this is true, for the sign must have been taken away immediately following backlash. Whatever the school¡¯s stance on war, what is quote in the paper to the question a decade; ¡° Now that time has passed, how do you feel about the school¡¯s roll in the death¡¯s of the Japanese and German¡¯s?¡± ¡°What¡¯s there to feel? That¡¯s war, baby.¡± [End Quote] - Henry McBride III ¡°The Great Masterworks¡± and expansion into the University System of California (1960-1990) Five years after McBride the fourth killed himself, Havenbrook University would begin it''s great movement towards the first of two "Masterworks". First, by dissolving into a public institution - as stated in the final McBridge''s will - and second, in the reformation, rebuilding and rebranding under the leadership of Jacob Lance. Lance,who decided on the doubling of land and the sudden upward and downward expansion of the school. The first Masterwork, as blue printed, was a 50 million dollar expansion of each main school building, with the central liberal art¡¯s school receiving two wings. Not only that, but to create Havenbrook University as a cultural center and to cater a mass who largely viewed it as an exclusive and often elitist college. Between 1980 and 1990, Havenbrook University sought to complete it''s second expansion, which added an Observatory on the nearby mountain range, an underground lab for the medical school, a central garden open to the public and the amphitheater or¡­Colosseum¡­or theater. (It¡¯s hard to tell, no one can really decide on it¡¯s use, for it¡¯s shape is round and it¡¯s insides are parceled and it¡¯s columns tall.) It was at the end of Lance¡¯s tenure that he decided to recreate the original McBride building. Some say with frightening authenticity. ? Campus Architecture The houses were made of bricks. Before the earthquakes took them. They used to fear the valley, before they conquered it. They were humbled, up until they weren¡¯t. The architecture of Havenbrook is one of a varied history, where each president (each McBride, I should say) left his mark on the architecture. Leading to a hodgepodge of conflicting styles. The first for example, wanted something simple and so the first building offered was a kind of brick barn-house, almost poor-man¡¯s victorian. A peasant¡¯s Victorian. The second McBride opted for more grandeur, adding a bestiary around the campus: animal statues on every corner of every building, to which most of the actual layout of the school can be attributed to. The school built around these statues and fountains, large victorian board-room style buildings. And so offered a kind of hub of education with a spread out layout. The biggest contribution here were the roads. Red and black bricked. The third McBride destroyed most of this. Ripping and tearing most houses, the third preferred the roman aesthetic after a trip to Italy prior to the great second war. And so laid out the foundation for the first Masterworks, though never able to execute with the coming war and the necessity of the school to assist in grant research. Instead, he renovated the buildings already there. Namely, layering each building with cement and columns up-the-wazoo. The fig wreaths loomed on every door, the marble statues stretched far and wide. Most colors were changed to red and white, banister''s were rolled down and fit on the sides of buildings. Smooth stucco, smooth cement. If there was wood framing, if there were bricks, they were all covered in the veneer of Roman white. A lot could have been done with the third. The ambition was there, some of the money too. Unfortunately, under strange circumstances, he had burned himself alive inside the original McBride home. At least it opened up a plot for a new construction. It was not until 1960 to which most of the school was actually laid out. Plots of land established for future buildings, the giant center liberal arts school being marked and started upon. The aesthetic all the same, but the ambition obviously different. Land was purchased further down the school, far past the sides and foot of the San Joaquin mountains. Steel mills, emptied train stations, all manners of small business swept up and bought out by the school. These plans did not go through the fourth. It wasn¡¯t until Lance. The first non-McBride president, that everything was set to place. This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.??The style - decided. Red pleated tiles upon the walls. Mediterranean sprawling villas replaced the small groups of classroom. Giant pantheons and columned homes made up the bulk of the central buildings, over floor upon floors. The sides of the mountains were built upon, the technology finally allowing (there were only two deadly mud slides, can you believe it?), and gardens and wild life were spread far. A terrain pointed towards the sun to take advantage of the glow, allowing for the brick to soak and char and deepen red upon the roofs. Giant door frames, windows, to allow the breeze to flow in. The school now almost resembles a nice ocean-side bronze age village than anything. And you¡¯d be hard pressed not to be confused, up until you stared at the Observatory up the mountain. Or the giant Colosseum. Or the grand central school. It largely remains the same too. With the new president, Mr. DeFreeze, carrying out a steady expansion towards the hills. Hills unruly. And hills that don¡¯t take kindly to the school growing at all. Student Life Gathering information... Controversies Hualtin August 24th, 1983. The first of four police calls would be made against the 15463 Sunny Palms, Havenbrook California. A small ranch style home with a pool fit for four and a half people. A typical middle class home in upstate Havenbrook. A location about three miles off of Havenbrook University. And a location that would serve as the base of operation for the Communist organization known as the Haultin. It would not be until December 8th, 1983 - five gas station robberies, one attempted bank robbery, one kidnapping and one assassination against Charlie Steinberg - that the twenty five man terrorist group would finally come to it¡¯s resounding end. In one of the bloodiest fights in Havenbrook History. It began with Gustavo ¡°Macho¡± Jose-Luis. A graduate from Havenbrook in political science. Gustavo and his cohort, Jacob Melvin, ex-army, began the Hualtin after Jacob left prison four years prior. Apparently meeting in the Wulf Bar in downtown after a particularly hot and stressful night. Jacob, coming back from his construction work met Gustavo attempting to swoo a group of four women. After the failure, Jacob would allegedly show Gustavo ¡°How it¡¯s done¡± and spark a four year long friendship. A strange friendship between a Marxist and a Libertarian. Both failing in their private lives, both in debt for over thirty thousand dollars. What started as friendly debate eventually become a kind of codifying of ideals between Jacob and Gustavo as they recruited likewise individualds in the political science areas of Havenbrook, often sending fliers at club and activity fairs. The pitch was simple; the state had failed, debt was encroaching on all of them, and the only way to beat the system was to fight back. In 1980, with half the final members in tow at, Jacob would ask his uncle for financial and material support, often allowing Jacob and a rotation of Hualtin members to coast in his Uncle¡¯s house. The safe Haven, 15463 on Sunny Palms, would serve as the main base of Hualtin off campus. Which would be necessary as Gustavo influenced Jacob more and more. Often teaching club members to shoot on the empty edges of the Havenbrook mountain ranges. After months of practice, the Hualtin would commit to their first heist. They would robe a small gas station, Lucky 73 on Breeker Street, and run off with about 1042 dollars in pocket change. It is assumed that the success of the heist was the reason the Hualtin continued their spree of violence. Jacob would often go out with members on small ¡°zero-dark missions¡±, small thievery gigs in which they would steal bits and pieces of cars parked along the side roads of suburban Havenbrook. Radios, electronics, and purses being the primary targets of these missions. It would not be until 1982 that the Hualtin would shift; after procuring about thirty different M16s from past connections in his military life the ??Hualtin would stage their first ¡°extreme¡± trial. The kidnapping of Jullie Duvall, of the Duvall family. A famous Havenbrook born actor. Though it is debated whether she was ¡°kidnapped¡± or ¡°willfully joined¡± (a point of contention in her trial in 1985). The action of her taking and the changing of her name to Rose Powers would put the Hualtin on the CIA and FBI¡¯s most wanted list. Their manhunt would not begin until 1984, after Gustavo and Jacob¡¯s staked Senator Steinberg¡¯s house for approximately five days. In August 19th, 1983. The two main leaders as well as ten other members would crash into the senator¡¯s car right along Milton Avenue in the dead of night, apperantly as Steinberg returned from his mistresses house. They would turn his car over and spray down the senator for approximately two five second bursts. A shooting that left the senator nearly unrecognizable to his wife. The drive was dead on impact, the senator died after the first barrage of bullets. After finishing, as a boast or warning, two members would go into the tipped over car and would begin to decapitate the senator. Gustavo allegedly among the two. They would only make it part ways before Jacob would recall each member back, a delay however, that would leave trace evidence bits. Namely one knife attempted on the senator¡¯s neck. After noise complaints of a too ¡°rowdy¡± household, later to be found out as several house parties staged by the Hualtin, the police would narrow down their perpetrators in the household on Sunny Palm street. The Hualtin Massacre (December 8th, 1983) It was probably the knife that had done them in. The police found the blade used in the attempted decapitated of the senator to have come from a Bowie knife bought at a local pawn shop only weeks before the murder took place. Done under the name of a student-criminal Manny Guajo. The FBI were the first to question him after his biology classes in Havenbrook University. However, getting nothing of an answer, decided to follow and investigate his living situations which other students had called ¡°troubling¡±. It was later found out that Manny was hovering between four different homes, one of them being the Sunny Palm residency. At first apprehensive from the questioning, the Hualtin decided to allow Manny to continue with his membership assuming he could stay far away from the main base the duration of his tenure. This proved difficult after getting drunk one night and asking for sex with fellow member Josefina Valencia. The FBI kept close watch on him and when they both came outside, attempting to commit coitus at a local alley way, they were seized and arrested. The car being found with an opened box of rounds and a loaded rifle. One week later the police, sheriff, FBI and CIA would surround the property in what would be known as the Hualtin Massacre of 1983. ¡°I didn¡¯t know what they¡¯d come. A whole army of them, I didn¡¯t think they needed it. Officers just kept rolling in though. Kind of like those clown cars in the carnivals. And one moment they were standing and the other everything was just drilled with holes. You didn¡¯t even know what you were looking at by the end of it. Things just kept blowing up inside, it kinda[sic] of sounded like the fourth of July. Smelled like it. That and blood.¡± - Neighbor, Sarah Kelly. A collective of 52 officers. 32 sherrifs. 35 FBI had surrounded the small ranch home, one of the largest collective and conjoining of organizations in Havenbrook History. Lines of officers so large they took up spaces in the neighboring houses, creating a circle of scrimmage. The ring of police had warned the Hualtin inside for approximately one hour, though spectators believe it was only ten minutes. At about 10:23 AM that day, the first round was fired. A warning shot from inside the house. Which was just a firework gone off. Ten officers fired back, though were stopped. A miracle, allegedly, that not everyone had swarmed immediately afterward. Two children ran out with parents after them, all four were held to the ground with knees and taken to the side. The house owners - those four. At approximately 11:23 AM witnesses say the first shot was fired by the police, though the police say they were fired upon. For bursts of ten seconds the house was demolished with bullet-fire. Windows exploding first and cutting members taken cover underneath the sills. The glass cut several, even officers who tried to lean against it. The Hualtin fired back. Missing most their shots, but hitting an officer in the toe by the garage. A ricochet¡¯d bullet that engraved itself in the car wheel he stood behind. The officers (allegedly) gave another warning through microphone. Though car alarms and other noises were so loud, that not even the spectators surrounding the vicinity could listen. Another firing line. Those inside firing back. Two officers shot in the head, approximately eight Hualtin dead, two more injured. One Hualtin - bleeding from the neck - waved his hands and came outside the house surrendering. Police say he collapsed on the floor dead only part ways to safety. Others say he caught a bullet to the chest and collapsed. After a few rounds of fire, police chucked tear gas cannisters to force out the remaining members. Why they hadn¡¯t opened up with that is still open to debate, which the common consensus being that Havenbrook PD wanted to execute as many Hualtin as they could. Whatever the situation, none of the members actually left the house after being smoked out. Instead, suffering through the gas until one of the canisters caught fire and exploded in the kitchen. The fire spread to the living room and eventually to the rest of the house. Exploding out the windows. Members were caught running out, fire on them, dropping and rolling and flailing about. About half the remaining Hualtin died from incineration. The remaining members choked and suffocated, with both leaders dying and submitting to the flames. Nothing was recovered from the house. Police allegedly were slow to move their vehicles to allow the fire department entrance, only doing so when most of the house was burned down. Trial Only three remaining members survived. All three who were out of the house, smoking marijuana behind Buck¡¯s Pawn Shop. About a few miles from Havenbrook University, on the intersection of Sunny Palm and Breeker Street. The three; Jullie Duvall, Henry McInnes, and Jose Mandoval, had picked up a few grams of marijuana from Jose¡¯s dormitory in Havenbrook University, had taken that marijuana and had decided to get high on the particular morning the Hualtin house was stormed in. They were apprehended walking back from the pawn shop and into the local gas station asking if the man sold 5.57 rounds. Henry had heard about them in a gun magazine and during trial, had said he was only remembering what he¡¯d heard in a kind of drug induced fugue state. Aside from conspiracy of murder, the three were charged with domestic terrorism, possession of narcotics, burglary, hit-and-run, and all manners of thievery. Jose and Henry, both students, were representing their school in what was called ¡°an obvious favoring of colorism¡±. Jose, a white-mexican and Henry, pale-Irish were represented as ¡°innocent¡± as opposed to their darker compatriots (most dead). However, the biggest criticism was towards Jullie Duvall, the ex-Havenbrook University learning actress and heir to the Duvall family name-sake. The trial hinged on her claim that she was A) Brainwashed, B)threatened, C)manipulated into joining the Hualtin. Often crying during trial and invoking alleged sexual encounters with the other members. The trial was met with protest as both Jose and Henry were sentenced to death while Jullie, acquitted of all accusations, was set free and into the arms of her wealthy family. Protests and riots broke out the week following the result of the trial at Havenbrook University. A sharp movement speared by the socialists, representatives of colors, working class american clubs at the school. Claiming that Jullie, a fellow ex-collegiate, was spared by nepotism and her ¡°white-girl beauty¡±. The movement was, ironically, met with approval from most other members of the school. Across ethnicity, religion and politics. The protests ended when police crushed a walkout on April 26th, 1984 by spraying them down and beating them at the front of the school. The Yellow-Room You would think government funded flesh eating bacteria and apocalyptic viruse outbreaks would be the least of Hanvebrook University¡¯s problems. Through the clearance of a couple CIA files as well as accumulated articles, I have concluded that the Maisley¡¯s School of Medicine might be hell on earth. Read more¡­ McBride Suicides Gathering information... Yellow Room Gathering information... Kevin Choi Massacre Gathering information... Notable Alumni Angel Loufini (actor) Janel Nabi (actress) Bobby Lavanzo (actor/senator¡¯s son) Bain Belluve (nobel laurette, medical sciences) Billy ¡°Bigsy¡± Bonnel (tv actor/comedian) Benny McTaylor (comedian) Jullie Duvall (actress/survivor/Timothy Duvall¡¯s daughter) Kenny Kinsley (comedian/terrorist) Jeffrey Musuo (actor/terrorist) Gustavo Jose-Luis (Hualtin) Gathering Information¡­ Four Horsemen