The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

I came home today, and found my stuff being thrown out on the front lawn. I wasn't really sure what was going on, or why she was so angry.



"Like you don't know," she screamed while a remote control whizzed past my head.



"Really, I don't. What the fuck's going on?"



"People in this town are talking, Jeff. I heard what happened."



"What are you talking about?"



"That bitch you got knocked up and had her killed. That's really fucking sick, you know that?"



"I don't ev-"



"Even what, Jeff? What the fuck is the matter with you?"



"Honey, could you calm down, the kids-"



"FUCK THE KIDS," she screamed loud enough that I'm sure people living several blocks away could hear.



I heard one of the kids crying upstairs, "I'm going to go-"



She ran towards me, punching my solar plexus, grabbed my hair and dragged me back towards the living room. "Oh no you don't," she commanded, "You're staying right the fuck here."



The next thing I knew, a lamp was broken over the back of my head.



"AH! Goddamnit," I protested, "What the fuck is the matter with you? I come home, you're throwing my stuff out of the house... which, might I remind you, is in *MY* name... then you hit me with a lamp? Really?"



Her cold, angry stare did little to soothe the pain or swelling on the back of my skull. "You slept with her. You lied to me. YOU LIED TO ME."



"I don't even know who you're talking about. Would you fill me in?"



"Oh, like you filled her in, several times, Mr. 'might I remind you?' Igottammyknockedupandliedtomywifeaboutfuckingher. Does that ring any bells?"



"Really? You both went down on me in the back of the movie theater at the same time."



"Yes, AT THE SAME TIME. The agreement was that if you decided to fuck her, it was going to be a threeway with me involved."



"I swear to God, that was the only time."



"Bullshit. You know The Brothers are back and looking for you, right?"



"The what?"



"The Brothers: Lester and Morgan."



"Aren't they still in prison?"



"They just got out. Now you wanna get the fuck out of my house before I kick your ass some more?"



I shook my head and said, "No, I've got a better idea."



Quickly, I grabbed the pepper spray, and pointed it at her. With my other hand, I dialed 911 to report a domestic disturbance. Not long after that, we divorced. I let her have full custody of the kids, and was going to readjust to being single. Unfortunately, it didn't work out, and things only got worse from here.

"It's 3:17, you think they're asleep," Lester whispered.



"Of course they are. All the lights are off, and there's been no sign of movement of any kind in that house for the past 2 hours."



"Good, then let's do this. I'm getting really tired of this shit smell. It's kinda making me want to puke."



"You're not the only one, bro. Believe me, this will be well worth it. Jeff can fuck with us, but DON'T fuck with our family: That's the message we're trying to convey," Morgan mumbled while taking a drag of his cigarette.



With the headlights off, and the license plates covered with electrical tape and pieces of a black trashbag, they slowly crept their way towards the house, payload in tow, careful not to make any sudden stops, fearing that one of the colostomy bags might accidentally open.



"So we're going to use the ladder to climb on the roof, and then hoist the bags up in those bedsheets, dump all that shit down the chimney, and then leave. Our next course of action will be to target his mailbox and flowerbed. But we'll save that for another time," Morgan explained



"Yeah, we should probably spread this out over time, that way it has a greater effect."



"Exactly."



The truck came to a stop about 50 yards away from the house. The brothers slowly got out, careful to make as little noise as possible. Lester grabbed the ladder, and Morgan lifted the bedsheet with the rope tied to it. Both of them snickered all the way to the side of the house.



"Good thing this is only a single story," Lester said.



"The way The Lord intended," Morgan huffed, carrying almost 30 pounds of liquid feces, "This'll teach him a lesson. I'll get up on the roof first, though. I'll just need you to bring me the rope."



"You got it," said Lester, deftly placing the ladder on the side of the house.



Morgan slowly made his way up, making as little noise as possible while Lester followed, rope in hand. After Morgan made his way onto the rooftop, Lester stayed on the ladder to provide support for the bedsheet carrying the colostomy bags. Their plan was successful until Morgan momentarily lost his grip, causing the payload to fall several feet.



"Shit," Lester whispered, as Morgan regained his grip, only to have the bags swing towards the house, breaking a window by the ladder. Luckily, none of the bags broke. Quickly, they hoisted the goods onto the rooftop.



"I hope nobody heard us," Morgan said as he untied the rope, "We're gonna have to make this quick."



The silence was interrupted by the bark of an angry dog, and the loud, warbling screech of a security system. The brothers looked at each other, and then over the rooftop. A light came through the window below, and an angry voice bellowed, "Ishay, call the cops. I'm gonna go take care of this."



Quickly, Morgan began dumping bags of feces down the chimney as quickly as he could, still unaware that they had the wrong house. In a moment of panic, Lester pulled out his pocket knife, and cut the bedsheets with a strip where the eyes would be. As he put on the hood, the front door to the house opened, and a doberman came running out to bark at them from the ground, with an angry, large black man in tow. "What the fuck's going on up there," he screamed.



At this point, Morgan had managed to dump most of the feces down the chimney, but still had two bags left. From inside the house, a girl's voice could be heard, "Mommy, why does it smell bad in here?"



Without really taking into account the gravity of the situation, Morgan blurted out, "It's just a dream Martin Luther, go back to sleep."



"You'd better not have said what I think you said," the man angrily responded.



Not to be intimidated, Morgan and Lester walked over to the side of the rooftop and looked down, finally noticing that they had the wrong house. The angry black man noticed they were wearing mostly white sheets over their heads.



"Hell naw," the man continued, "Buncha fuckin white trash crackers, now I'm gonna shoot your ass."



Morgan looked at Lester, "Really, dude? Really? Lemme guess, you left the ski-masks in the glovebox, didn't you?"



The man made his way back into the house, and could be heard shouting, "Ishay, grab the bat, we got us some dragons to lynch."



The dog was still barking incessantly over the security system. The brothers grabbed the remaining two colostomy bags. Morgan threw his bag over the side of the house, while Lester poured the last bag down the chimney. As he did so, he heard the man bellow, "What the fuck are they doing to our goddamn fireplace? I'M GONNA KILL 'EM."



Morgan's bag landed on the lawn, breaking open the contents into a thick puddle. Inquisitively, the dog walked over to the puddle of feces, sniffed it, and took a few laps of it. It was as though the doberman had found the holy grail of stenches. Within a matter of seconds, the dog was rolling around in feces, snorting, wheezing and growling. Lester had already jumped into the bushes and was making his way to the truck.



"Goddamnit, wait up," Morgan yelled.



"Just jump or something," Lester shouted back, "I'm just going to start up the truck."



Morgan looked down, and decided that he couldn't risk having the dog chase him. He sat down on the side of the roof and steadied himself against the backside of the ladder. Grabbing the top rungs, the ladder fell, with Morgan's full body weight coming down on the doberman. A loud, canine yelp filled the air, followed by high pitched whining. Morgan sprinted towards the direction of the truck as fast as he could, stuffing the bedsheet into his back pocket.



Lester had left the passenger side door open for quick entry. As they sped off into the night, over the dull roar of the engine they could hear a distraught cry of the man's daughter as they discovered their gravely injured dog laying in a pool of fecal matter. "I'LL KILL YOU, MOTHERFUCKERS! I'LL KILL YOU!"



"That was close," Morgan said.



"You're telling me."



The brothers momentarily looked at each other before breaking down into fits of hysterical laughter.

"Jeff, I understand that you're under a lot of stress right now, but after what happened, I think that it's best if you take some time off, and let the rest of us handle the investigation the best that we're able," Thomas explained.



"It's because of what happened to Stanley, isn't it?"



"Partly, but Laurie told me about what happened."



Jeff rubbed his face and mumbled, "Here come the fireworks, I guess."



Thomas looked at him quizzically and asked, "What are you talking about? Fireworks? Is there something you're not telling me about Stanley's death?"



"No. It's just that I'm really, really stressed out right now. I haven't been getting a whole lot of sleep, and my marriage is about to fall apart. I came clean to Helen about the whole Tammy Johnson thing a while back, and she didn't take it too well. Granted, we're swingers -"



Thomas interrupted, "Look, Jeff, I don't really want to know about your sex life, but Laurie told me about what happened. She said you had a hallucination of some kind when you and Stanley entered the room. I'm not saying you're responsible for his death. For fuck's sake, he was overweight, was an alcoholic, and didn't really take care of himself. I'm honestly surprised that he didn't keel over sooner, but I didn't think it would be something as dramatic as a heart attack coupled with a double brain anyeurism. You can't predict that shit, nobody can."



Jeff stared blankly at a stack of papers on the desk.



"Jeff? Buddy? You okay?"



"Yeah. I just need a minute. Goddamn, I mean, of all the times for a clusterfuck of seriously bad shit to happen, why now?"



"I honestly couldn't tell you. But if what Laurie said is true, then you need to take a few months off, and go seek some professional help. I'm not saying you're insane, Jeff, but we're all a little concerned about you. The amount of time and energy you've put into trying to solve this case is truly amazing. I don't think I've seen someone with as much drive and motivation as you, and I've been on the force for nearly 30 years. That's saying something. But your lack of sleep, or even some kind of outlet is catching up with you."



"You're probably right. I'm just. I don't know," mumbled Jeff, rubbing his temples. "I think I'm starting to get a headache, do you have anything?"



"I know I'm not supposed to, but take these when you get home," Thomas said, reaching into his desk for a handful of pills. "They'll knock your ass out for a few hours, and you'll wake up feeling refreshed. And off the record, maybe you should go out, buy yourself some green and take a few puffs to calm you down a bit. Seriously, Jeff, something has to give, and I'm not going to have a repeat of what happened with Martin back when I first started here."



"I know, you've told me that story before. Killed his entire family, chopped them up into bits, stacked their bodies in a corner of the basement, and went about his business. Then he came in here a few days later, and blew his brains out in front of half the force."



"Yeah. You know what scares me the most about that?"



"What?"



"I've never told you this, but you're living in the same house that he did."



"Oh, for fuck's sake, don't tell me that. I don't need to hear that right now."



"I think you do, Jeff. I'm telling you this because I don't want to see you suffer the same kind of psychotic meltdown that Martin did. In fact, I don't want to see you have any kind of breakdown, to be quite honest. I just think you need to take a break from all of this for a while, and get your life in order. After that, I'm sure everything will be fine, as it should be."



"Well what about my leave, is it paid or unpaid?"



"Paid, obviously. You think I'm just going to tell you what I told you, and then leave you without any form of income while you're recuperating," Thomas snorted, "Please. I may be a hardass, but I'm not that cold. You should know me by now. Just go home, get some rest, and then call me later on when you have the chance. It doesn't have to be tonight or tomorrow, but just sometime in the very immediate future. Okay?"



"Sure thing," Jeff sighed.



Thomas walked over to Jeff and hugged him. "You take care, now go home and get some rest."

While the Creech brothers mostly kept to themselves during their incarceration, they did find themselves suspected, but never actually accused of starting a drug ring inside of the prison. Having communication through regular letters and cards, they had shipments of cocaine and MDMA brought in through the cards at least once per week.



Tammy's method of delivery was to lace the cards themselves with the drugs by liquefying them into a paste, and gently brushing them onto the cards before microwaving them for a few seconds. This allowed the water to quickly dissipate, and the substances to become part of the actual paper. Even though the staff routinely read the cards and letters, strangely, they were never routinely analyzed for narcotics.



After opening the letters and cards, the brothers obtained contraband razor blades to scrape off everything from the letters. The group of inmates who they had assaulted during the first week became their most frequent buyers, who then cut, and resold the drugs. Because of the nature of their deal, if the brothers found themselves low on anything, all they had to do was ask, and whatever legal goods they needed were delivered without question.



At times, it was apparent that their statement in court about becoming more corrupt than the judicial system wasn't just a bluff. While they did their best to stay out of the spotlight, it was common assumption that they were the ones running the show on the inside, and not the staff or the courts.



One of the inmates inevitably made the mistake of crossing them by attempting to have his gang rough up the brothers to "teach them a lesson", and to take a cut of their goods. Word got around about their plan, and was subsequently put to a quick end by a series of quickly executed, and quite brutal stabbings. The leader of the gang was unsatisfied about the outcome, and decided to take matters into his own hands. Unfortunately, this backfired, as the brothers thoroughly incapacitated him to the point of near-death, and ended up in solitary confinement. Afterwards, their hoard of narcotics from backdated letters and cards was almost unheard of, and once again, they had the ability and ample resources to call all of the shots. Naturally, they avoided crossing the threshold of suspicion from the staff.



Once they were eligible for parole, they were released under probation and regular screenings. A few weeks before their release, Tammy had planned to pick them up and offered them a place to stay. What the brothers were unaware of was that Tammy had been knocked up by Jeff, and not wanting his wife to find out about the affair, he suggested that she get an abortion, and fronted the money for the procedure. Two days before their release, Tammy had died from complications because of the abortion. Lester and Morgan, discovering what had happened, set out to find out who was responsible for her death.



Finally back in their hometown, they were greeted with mixed reactions. Some were glad to see that they finally returned, others were indifferent, some offered their condolances for what had transpired, while others threatened the brothers with physical harm. None of this really mattered to them, as they had a mission of their own that they intended to see through.



While the doctor who was responsible for the procedure was initially tight lipped, the brothers made it quite clear that if they didn't get the information they desired, that they would pursue alternative routes of obtaining said information. Once the doctor had given him the name of the male involved, they realized that their work was cut out for them. They weren't really upset that Jeff had knocked up their sister, nor were they upset that she had gotten an abortion. What angered them was that they believed Jeff was wholly responsible for the events leading up to her death.



They didn't plan on killing Jeff, because they had already been through the court system with prior convictions, and were under probation for several years. Instead, Morgan and Lester hatched a plan that involved harassing Jeff to the point of having a complete mental breakdown. What they didn't realize is that Jeff's life was already teetering on the edge of complete chaos, and that this is what would eventually push him to his breaking point.



Their plan was to start small, and nothing too serious. They called the first part of their plan "St. Nick's Payload," which involved dropping several half to nearly-full colostomy bags down his chimney during the early hours of the morning. In order to make sure that their plan worked, they had several friends watch Jeff's schedule, and map it accordingly. What they didn't expect that their first attempt would result in "dropping presents" down the wrong chimney, and as a direct result, they almost got caught had it not been for sheer dumb luck, and saying the wrong things at the wrong time.

Laurie closed the door behind her with her foot, holding two glasses of ice water. She nodded towards Jeff, looked down at her hands and said, "If you would."



"Sure," he said, walking over to her, and grabbing both of the glasses.



Laurie reached into her pocket and pulled out a flask of whiskey. "On my way back, I asked one of the tenants if they had any alcohol I could buy off of him. Figured you could probably use a few shots right now before we head back to the station."



"That's an understatement. All that's happened this afternoon kinda makes me think there's a reason this dude had so many empty cans and bottles just piled around this place," Jeff replied, while sitting back down on the couch.



Laurie sat down next to him, opened the flask, and handed it to Jeff. "Here, take a drink, I'll split it with you."



"But aren't you driving?"



"One shot is not going to get me drunk. I know my limit."



Jeff obligingly took a large swig from the flask and swallowed it, shuddering a bit as he did so. "That's got quite a bite to it. Here, you try it."



Laurie took a small sip and immediately cringed. "This tastes like Old Grandad. Ew."



"I'm sure we could use it as a paint thinner," Jeff chuckled.



"Probably."



Laurie re-positioned herself and Jeff so his back was facing her. "The hell," Jeff asked.



"It's just to help you relax a little bit, you've had a long day. I know, not exactly 'professional conduct', but you really need to relax."



Jeff said, "You know I have a wife and kids, Laurie."



She laughed and said, "Yeah, and you're also a swinger. Look, I'm not trying to molest you or anything. Besides, even if we did, who would know?"



"Um... probably the neighbors and Mr. Comstalk."



Laurie inched closer, wrapping her arms around him, and pulling him down on top of her. "I don't think I've ever said this before, but I'd really like to fuck your brains out."



This caught Jeff by surprise and he countered with, "Really? I've heard several times that I'm not your type."



"I can make an exception every now and then," she cooed.



"I don't know. This doesn't feel right, especially after what just happened."



"Well, if you want, we can go down to the station right now, and forget that I ever brought this up. I'm not trying to make you upset, honest," Laurie purred in Jeff's ear while undoing his pants.



"Fine. Just don't tell anyone, okay?"



Laurie giggled, and proceeded to slip her hands down his pants. "Nobody will know. I also locked the door. Only thing we have to do is keep it kinda quiet."



"If you think it'll make me feel any better, cool. I just don't want anyone to find out about it."



Gently nibbling on his ear, Laurie began caressing Jeff's already raging boner while gently teasing his scrotum with her fingernails. "You know, you're a lot bigger than I expected," she whispered.



Jeff moaned softly, enjoying the attention that Laurie was giving him. Laurie wiggled out from underneath Jeff, and had him stand up. Kneeling down, she cupped his balls, and deep throated him as best she could. She was able to take the better part of 9 inches, but she choked a few times. "You're hung like a horse," she commented.



"Wouldn't be the first time I've-," Jeff trailed off with a moan as she bobbed her head back and forth.



It was pretty apparent that she was enjoying what was happening. Momentarily she stopped to undo herself, pulling her pants and underwear down to her ankles, then resumed sucking Jeff's cock while fingering her pussy.



A few minutes later, she pushed Jeff back down onto the couch, carefully positioning herself above his lap. Slowly, she inched her way down and rocked back and forth on his dick like it was a coin-operated ride at the mall.



Jeff grabbed her by the hips, pulled her down as far as she could go, and then arched his pelvis, slowly forcing all of his member inside of her. The moans she emitted were somewhere between pleasure and pain, and she gasped, "Do it. Shove it all the way in. You need this."



"You were right," Jeff whispered, "I think I do."



After they were finished, Laurie sucked him off a second time as a courtesy cleanup. She explained that on the offchance that his wife was home when he got back, if he didn't have a chance to shower, the possibility that she might smell another woman on him would be greatly lessened. That, and she really wanted to see Jeff's eyes roll back in his head a few more times.



Before they left for the station, Laurie made it clear to Jeff that what had transpired was probably a one time thing, and not to read too much into it.



"That won't be a problem," Jeff said, "I just don't want anyone to find out."



Laurie giggled and playfully smacked his ass on the way out the door.

Once the Creech brothers were incarcerated, their stay at the maximum security prison, and some of the antics that followed, it was clear that even inside the walls and bars that housed them weren't exactly enough to contain them. While they never tried to escape, at times, other inmates, and even the guards wanted to. Subsequently, their first confrontation landed 5 other prisoners in the infirmary, and the brothers 2 months of solitary confinement.



The first night there, Lester and Morgan were subjected to the harassment that one would expect to be on the receiving end of. Mostly, they just laughed about it, and shot back with their own brand of retorts and insults. One of the guards cautioned them against this, and said that staying here carries its own risks. Morgan shrugged and said, "And? Not like I can't defend myself," with a hint of indifference.



When the lights were out, many phrases were chanted throughout the facility, the majority of them being cliche phrases such as "fresh fish," "virgin blood," and "I hope you like what's on the menu tomorrow."



None of this really bothered them, and they slept pretty soundly, despite the noise. Morning came around, and one of the guards knocked on their cell. "Put your hands through, so I can cuff you. Don't make this any more difficult than it needs to be. It's time to eat."



The brothers looked at each other, shrugged, and obliged with the prison guard's request. After arriving at the dining area, and receiving their portion of breakfast, they chose an empty table in one of the far corners, away from everyone else. Naturally, this cunning plan quickly turned against them.



As they were eating, five other inmates approached the table. The largest of the small group said casually, "You gonna eat that?"



Without so much as flinching, Morgan continued to eat, while Lester stared at them with an icy stare.



"I said, are you gonna fuckin' eat that?"



Morgan swallowed his food and said, "You can have what's left when I'm done."



The group laughed as one of the members snickered, "We got ourselves a bitch, from the looks of it."



Lester focused his icy gaze and said, "The only bitch is going to be you if you don't shut your fuckin' mouth, cockstain."



Before anyone had a chance to respond, Morgan deftly leaped from the table, spoon in hand, and gouged out both of the aggressor's eyes. As the remaining four members descended upon Morgan, who was already attempting to shovel food into the newly-blinded man's mouth, Lester also jumped into the fight, laughing hysterically like some kind of rabid hyena.



The group of five were quickly incapacitated by a swift volley of nut shots, sideswipes to the head with a food tray, with hot eggs and gravy temporarily blinding another attacker. The rest of the inmates stood up and watched in amazement and terror.



Before the security guards were able to intervene, Morgan was already punching the largest man laying beneath him, while between blows, shoving more food into his mouth while screaming, "I said you can eat what's left when I'm done. Are you deaf? Do you want some more? I bet you want some biscuits and gravy, don't you, pussy?"



Lester was in the midst of circling the other four members, and kicking them to make sure they stayed down. Momentarily, Lester looked over at the rest of the inmates' general direction and yelled, "Who the fuck's next?"



With that, he picked up one of the already seriously injured inmates off the floor, and proceeded to perform a suplex onto the man, making sure that he fell onto the table, resulting in a bent steel frame, and a fractured spine for the inmate. Once the guards made their way through the crowd, they quickly subdued the brothers with a combination of rubber bullets and pepper spray.



Between coughs and gasps, the brothers congratulated each other on their victory. One of the guards mentioned nervously that he felt these were two individuals that he did not want to cross. Once the brothers were released from solitary confinement, they were left alone for the most part.

When the paramedics and police entered the apartment, Jeff was already attempting CPR on Stanley. As they loaded Stanley onto the stretcher, Jeff explained what had happened the best that he could while trying to remain calm and collected. It wasn't exactly working to his advantage, and everyone who was present could clearly see this.



"I'm not exactly sure what I was thinking, but something told me that maybe we hadn't found a key piece of evidence involving the murder. I thought maybe there was a bug somewhere in the phone line that we'd missed or something. I don't know."



Laurie approached Jeff, and gently placed her hand on his shoulder, "Look, I know you're upset, but we need to know exactly what happened."



Jeff backed away slightly, as Laurie commented, "I understand, but what happened?"



"We came in here, and we noticed that nightstand and the phone that neither of us remember seeing any of the other times we inspected the place. Then the phone started ringing as soon as we opened the door."



"Jeff, I need you to listen to me. I've looked over all of the evidence and crime scene photos as much as you have, if not more. I can show you the pictures if you want. The end table and phone have always been here, but the phone wasn't connected to an outlet at any point. There's no way it could have been ringing."



"I'm telling you, it was. It fucking rang. I can't make this up, I have no reason to. We came in here, and the phone started ringing. Then I had this vision or something where Stanley had picked up the phone. He seemed pretty rattled when he handed it to me, and on the other end, there was static, and then a voice. He told us not to continue the investigation, and that the case would never be solved. It made me pretty angry, and I hung up the phone. After I did that, Stanley asked me if I was going to answer it or not, and then I noticed the phone was still ringing. I told him maybe he should pick it up instead. Something just didn't seem right at all, like we weren't supposed to be here."



"Hey, calm down. What happened probably isn't your fault at all. But I am kinda worried that you're having hallucinations. When was the last time you slept?"



"I dunno. Two, maybe three days ago, and it was for about 5 hours."



"Jesus Christ, Jeff. I think you're letting this case get to you a little to easily. I know we haven't had any further leads than what we already have, but you need to give yourself a rest. Otherwise, you're going to kill yourself from exhaustion. Did anything else happen?"



"After Stanley picked up the phone, he seemed to focus on whatever sound or voice was coming out of the receiver. He looked at me blankly, and then started convulsing. He puked on himself in the process, and then his face got really red and he started babbling incoherently."



"Fuck. Well, why don't you come down to the station, fill out a report, and then take the rest of the day off. God knows you need it. Stanley probably does too, but from the looks of things, he's probably not going to be in any kind of condition to be working for quite a while. Plus he is kinda heavy set, and eats a lot. Hopefully, it was just a heart attack."



"Yeah, you're right, but I just don't know what to do anymore," Jeff replied while walking over to the couch. Laurie followed him over, sat down next to him, and put her arm around him.



Mr. Comstalk returned and asked, "Everything all right?"



"Not really, but I think Jeff needs a minute or two to calm down, if that's okay."



"I understand," Mr. Comstalk said with a nod, "Just call me if you need anything."



Jeff mumbled, "Tequila and strippers."



Both Laurie and Mr. Comstalk laughed. "I'm afraid I can't help you with that one," Mr. Comstalk giggled, "You two try not to cause too much trouble now, okay?"



"Sure, I-I-I'll try," Jeff stammered, staring at the wall. "Goddamn, of all the times for shit to go wrong, it had to be now."



Laurie patted Jeff on the back and said, "I'll be right back, stay put, okay? I promise I won't be long, I'm just going to get us something to drink."



Jeff held his head in his hands and said with a hollow voice, "Yeah. Ice water will do. I just don't. Goddamnit. Fuck."

The brothers didn't wait long to exact their revenge. Once the attorney's investigation concluded, the disgraced judge stepped down from his position, and offered a tearful apology from a handwritten statement on television. This did little to reconcile what had happened, and that the level of corruption seen involving the case was simply part of a much larger problem that clearly needed to be dealt with.



Midway through the speech, the Creech brothers appeared in full view, taking everyone present by surprise. Several security personnel were also present, and attempted to apprehend the brothers. Before complete chaos erupted, Morgan had shot the judge in the head, killing him instantly.



Like a game of cat and mouse, more law enforcement was called in to deal with the situation. This idea quickly turned into a bloodbath, as they soon discovered that some citizens came forward to physically defend the brothers using any means necessary to stop their apprehension.



Over the course of a few hours, the focus shifted from apprehending the brothers to instead minimizing the number of fatalities, and controlling the rioting. Afterwards, it was revealed that the total body count numbered around 70. Later that evening, the brothers casually turned themselves over to the police.



During the interrogation, Lester and Morgan stated that other than firing off the killing shot to the judge, they had only fired three shots in self-defense. Their attorney later advised that they should file the NGRI plea, which would greatly reduce the chances of them having to spend time behind bars. They refused.



Once their second trial was underway, unsurprisingly, a storm of controversy arose. The judge, jury, and even the attorneys involved found themselves subjected to unprecedented scrutiny, as the public protested in large groups outside of the courthouse. No violent outbreaks occurred during these protests, but it was made very clear that if the police used unnecessary force of any kind, they would have to deal with a near-unrelenting human wave.



It would seem that the Creech brothers certainly made their statement loud and clear. Those who believed that the brothers were guilty realized that it was probably best to keep quiet, stay at home, and wait for the whole thing to blow over.



Much to the chagrin of their defense attorney, the trial was cut shortly after an outburst from the brothers, not professing their innocence, but instead, stating that what they had done was justified, right or wrong.



To them, it didn't matter what the punishment was, because to them, the real punishment was that they were forced into a situation that they had no control over. At least in this case, since they're presumed guilty, they could get away with saying whatever they wanted to say. When the wife of the slain judge began to protest, Lester called her a "cock-sucking faggot."



Stifled laughter and shocked gasps filled the air. While banging the gavel, the judge said sternly, "Might I remind the both of you that any kind of language like that is not tolerated in my courtroom. I also will not tolerate homophobic slurs being shouted, either."



"Fair enough," said Lester, "But she's still a cock-sucker."



The judge cleared her throat and said, "One more outburst, and I will hold you in contempt of court."



Morgan looked at Lester and mumbled, "Now who's the faggot?"



Eventually, the brothers had been found guilty, but at the recommendation of the jury, both of them were only required to serve 10 to 15 years, with the possibility of parole, and subsequent probation upon release. While the dead judge's family, friends and supporters were happy to see that the brothers had been brought to justice, they felt that the sentence was too lenient.



Before the brothers were taken away, Morgan said to the victims, "The only mockery of justice is the fact I wasn't able to blow his head off twice. You'll sit behind your piles of money, deliberating on how to get back at us, which I'm perfectly fine with. We'll deal with that when the time comes. But I will say this much: All of you? A bunch of cock-sucking faggots," he continued pointing at their accusers.



Lester chimed in with a laugh and said, "Every last one of them. You did this, and you brought it upon yourselves. Blame us, go ahead. We don't give a fuck."



The judge attempted to interrupt but was cut off by Lester. "You're the judge, that's the jury, and the state is the executioner. What we enacted was not only a political statement, but a physical statement as well. If the judges, juries, politicians, and corporations are corrupt, then so be it. We'll be even more corrupt. Life isn't such a beautiful thing when you've been wronged, is it? I want you all to take a look at our faces, and remember who we are."



After several minutes of silence, Morgan finished with, "We are the judge, the jury, and the executioner. We hope you enjoy your stay."



From there, the brothers had an unusually uneventful stay in a maximum security prison. Ironically, the same one they had found themselves confined in before.

Lester and Morgan had scoped out Jeff Avery's house for quite some time. In fact, while they knew a lot about Jeff, in return, Jeff knew almost nothing about either of the Creech brothers. However, Jeff knew quite a bit about Lester's cousin, Tammy on a very intimate level. So intimate in fact, that she almost had a child out of wedlock.



Unbeknownst to Jeff, the Creech brothers had spent time in prison, stemming from a previous appearance in court over an alleged bank heist. Their defense was that they were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Their defense attorney unsuccessfully argued that the actual perpetrators had fled the scene, and made it appear as if the Creeches were the ones that committed the robbery. The jury wasn't buying that line of reason, and neither was the judge.



Initially, their case seemed pretty clear cut, and it appeared that the brothers were looking at some serious time, until it came time to produce the video footage of them actually committing the crimes for which they were accused. Suddenly, the prosecutor's case started showing some serious flaws, and the jury began to question whether or not Lester and Morgan had actually broken any laws at all, because without the smoking gun, all of the rest of the evidence presented in the case was circumstantial at best.



After several days of deliberation, the jury declared a mistrial, while the judge ruled that a retrial with a new jury would be required to decide whether the two were guilty or innocent. This did not settle with the brothers at all.



By this point in time, the case had made national news, and even the public was split in their opinion of the case. The jury wasn't able to reach a verdict, and it looked as though a new jury probably wouldn't be up to the task either. To make matters worse, a good majority of the case was nationally televised, so even if they had been found innocent, there was still an angry public to contend with.



Claiming benevolence, the judge ordered that the brothers be held in a maximum security prison with a bail amount that neither Morgan or Lester had the ability to pay, but eventually, the funds were raised to see their release.



When the local media asked them what they thought about the entire incident, Morgan stated that he believed the Judge was a crook, and accused the prosecutor of rigging the case by paying off the judge. Lester simply said, "We'll be seeking restitution, and I'm going to see to it that someone gets their asses tanned."



The accusations from the brothers were met with sketpticism and indifference. During the course of their incarceration, several attorneys, including their own, spearheaded a legal investigation into the lives of the plaintiffs and the judge.



Evidence was found that financially linked the judge to the bank, and showed that several times during the court proceedings he had been paid off, and was inclined to make decisions based on the payouts.



Furthermore, it was revealed that the bank had been negotiating with an insurance agency over the matter to recoup lost money and replace and/or repair damaged property. Since it had been an inside job, and the brothers had been there attempting to stop the perpetrators, it seemed logical to pin the crime on Lester and Morgan Creech, and nobody would be the wiser.



The judge would have a nice amount of money, and the bank would also be able to pocket more than what they would have without a case to present before a grand jury. The only ones who were left high and dry would have been the brothers. Given their checkered past, it would be relatively easy to get a jury to find them guilty.



While they were innocent of a crime that was never committed, both of them decided that if it was believed they were guilty by a significant part of the population, they might as well perform a heinous act that would really leave an impression: Murder.

When the cops kicked down the door, they weren't entirely sure what to expect. Since no contact had been made with any of the tenant's friends or acquaintences, it was assumed that he'd probably taken an unannounced vacation. When the elderly lady living across the hallway complained about a putrid smell coming from the tenant's room to the landlord, that's when everyone took notice.



The first thing the team noticed was the rack, and the body tied to it. "Goddamn," Detective Stanley muttered, "It looks like a fucking warzone in here."



Empty beer bottles and cans littered the couch, but the most troubling part was laying in front of them. Underneath the contraption was a rather copious amount of newspaper. Where the arms had been tied to the ankles, the forearms had been slit wide open, and two large metal bowls had been used to capture the blood from the tenant's body. From the smell alone, the general consensus was that he'd been there for at least a few days. When the coroner walked in, the stench of decayed flesh and old beer greeted his nose. The combination of these two things was enough to sour his stomach slightly. "I'm not going to come to any rash conclusions," he said, "but I'd say it looks like we've got a homicide on our hands."



"That much obvious, Jeff," Stanley replied, "I don't think anyone would be capable of tying their limbs together after slitting their wrists. This pretty much speaks for itself. The real question is, who did this?"



"Lets start looking for evidence, then," chuckled Jeff, "Cases like these don't just solve themselves."



Jeff had seen countless cases over the course of 23 years, and naturally, had very astute powers of observation. As he slowly circled the victim, something caught his eye. He looked over at Detective Rhames and said, "Go check the bathroom over there and tell me if you see anything. Don't touch anything, just take a quick peek for me."



Both He and Stanley stood there for a few minutes before Laurie Rhames came back and said, "I found an empty bottle of magnesium citrate, and what appears to be his driver's license and wallet."



"Figures," Jeff mumbled.



"What makes you say that," Stanley asked.



"For starters, he doesn't have shit in his pants. That either means he hadn't eaten anything in a few days, or for some reason, the killer made his victim evacuate his bowels before he killed him."



"So that means we're looking for some kind of neat freak, or someone who is squeamish about feces, but not about blood," Casey asked.



"Exactly," Jeff said with a nod, "I would imagine the pants will test positive for urine, but we probably won't find much else. However, what reinforces my thought that our killer doesn't like shit is this," he continued while putting on a pair of gloves.



He leaned over and pointed to a note that had been stapled to the victim's chest. "If you'll notice, there appears to be a lack of any significant amount of blood on the note. Looks like there's a drop here down on the corner, but that's expected, considering the angle of the torso. This means that the note was applied post mortem," he said while gently removing the note to place it in a plastic bag.



"So what does it say," Laurie asked.



"To The Operator:



I place a long distance call. I'm not even sure where to begin, but really, I don't think it matters. Sure, things have been great, I guess. I can see where you're coming from when you say that nobody listens, but everybody places that call.



It seems that there is no traction, no give, no dropoff box for comments. Ironic, given the circumstances. I can't even begin to describe the inexplicable void that comes with these decisions I've made over the years. At times, all I can do is stare into the distance and hope something improves, but it never does. I'm not even going to ask for help, let alone imply it. And we both know it's not about financial reports, either.



I've tried doing the right things on a personal level, but it seems to little or no avail. It seems you're correct in your assertion that often times, the best way to deal with things like these is simply to ignore it and move on. You'll find recursion, but I don't believe that I can fit the bill.



The mounting depression at times seems like a pretty sick joke. All I can do is put on a mask since nobody notices what's going on underneath. The things that I want, I can't have, and the things that I need simply seem to be an unending grindstone. It's been a long time, and I honestly don't know how much more of this I can handle.



The more I face bleak reality, the more I think that maybe it's wisest for me to cash in my chips and fade into obscurity. I don't know what to do at this point, I really don't. I can think of a thousand ways to fold, but someone watches at every turn. I'm sure there might be a few that pretend they're in the know. You're the only exception I can think of right now.



As I said before, this isn't a request or an implication. I'm just saying what's going on right now. Eventually, an opportunity may happen. If I see it in time, I'll probably take that leap if the mood strikes me. If given an option, it would probably be a quiet, clean one."



"Sounds like a suicide note," Stanley commented after about a minute of silence.



"Yeah, but it's not. I'm even willing to bet money on it. We'll need to dust for prints, and as for that mound of beer cans on the couch... We're gonna be here a while. In the meantime, Laurie, go tell the landlord that we'll need a backup of any and all footage from the past week, starting today. Hopefully, he has it going back that far, and if all goes well, by the time we get each of these cans individually packaged, he'll be done with the video footage. It might take us a week or two, but we'll have this bastard nailed, and stop him from doing something like this again."

"So tell me again how you knew him," Laurie asked Hannah.



"Well, we worked together at the nursing home. He was always really nice, and a good worker. Always showed up on time, was willing to stay later if needed. He was somebody we could always depend on."



"When," Laurie momentarily paused, gently tapping her pen on the table,"... When did you start getting concerned?"



"About what?"



"Let me rephrase that. When did you notice something out of the ordinary before he disappeared?"



"It wasn't unusual for him to take a vacation every now and then, but I never paid attention to his schedule. I never really considered it any of my concern, but when our supervisor asked me if I'd seen him in the past few days, and she mentioned she wasn't answering his phone, I decided to check up on him."



"So you're friends with him, then?"



"Yeah, we hang out occasionally. Sometimes we'd go see a movie or grab a bite to eat. Like I said, he was a really nice guy."



"I see. Now, I don't mean to pry into your personal life, but were you friends at a strictly platonic level, or..."



"Why does that matter?"



"I'm just trying to find out as much information as possible. For all we know, whoever killed him could have been a jilted lover, and perhaps they may have seen you two together... I assume you've watched television and that you know how these things go sometimes. I have no interest in the lurid details of your sex life, but we do need to know things like this. It's not like we're going to air dirty laundry. That's not our business, that's not what we do."



Hannah hesitated before responding, "Yeah. We did have sex a few times."



"Okay, so there was something more than just friendship. Were your encounters, and not just sex, were they... um... frequent? Infrequent? Once, maybe twice a week?"



"No. It was maybe once or twice a month, sometimes three. Sometimes I would invite him over to my place for a few days, and we would carpool to work if we had the same shift."



Laurie noticed that Hannah's voice had begun to quiver a bit, and her body language seemed to suggest that she was on the verge of having a breakdown. "Do you need some time," she asked.



Hannah shook her head, and cupped her hands over her face. For several minutes, she sobbed in silent, ragged gasps. Laurie gently embraced Hannah, gently rocking back and forth, and said intermittently, "You'll be okay. Everything will be all right."



Eventually, Hannah regained her composure. "It is okay if I have a cigarette. I'm having a hard time with this."



Laurie pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of her pocket, and said, "Go right ahead. I can imagine this is pretty rough."



Not a word was spoken between them as Hannah smoked the cigarette, sometimes looking up at the light fixture, and shaking her head back and forth.



"You had some pretty deep feelings for him, didn't you," Laurie asked.



"I admit I did. I just never thought that he would leave so soon."



"If you don't mind me asking, what do you mean by 'leave so soon'."



"Well, at work, he seemed happy for the most part, but there were a few times that he didn't seem himself. I would ask him about it, and he said not to worry."



"Did he ever tell you about what was bothering him?"



"One time, I guess he did. It was strange though. It was the first time I came over to his place. He accidentally left his wallet at work, and I decided to bring it back to him. He wasn't even aware that he left it there until I showed up. I figured while I was there that I'd stay for a few minutes and talk to him for a little bit. He didn't seem normal that day."



"What did he tell you?"



"I don't recall asking him, but I mentioned that he looked a little down. He told me that he didn't want to discuss it, but there were times he wished he could renegotiate the terms of his contract. Something about a long distance call to an operator or something. He only ever mentioned it once."



"And that was the first time you had sex with him?"



"I hate to sound like a slut, but yes. I figured maybe a good lay would cheer him up."



"Did it?"



"It seemed to."



"Did he ever mention or give any indication that he was seeing anyone else at the time? Maybe he was leading a double life."



"Not at all. Even though I wasn't around him constantly, I figured he either would have told me, or I would have noticed."



"And what happened the last day that you remember seeing him."



"I don't think you want to know."



"Really?"



"No, it's not like that. I mean, we work at a nursing home, and..."



"Go ahead. It's still something that may help us."



"Well, there's this old man that has no legs, and his name is Billy Pritchard. He has Irritable Bowel Syndrome, and sometimes it gets really bad, and he can't make it to the bathroom in time."



"I don't understand... if he doesn't have any legs..."



"He's still fiercely independent, and he'll walk on his hands to the bathroom. He hates using a wheelchair, and says that they're only for pussies and invalids."



"So what happened exactly?"



"Well, because of Billy's IBS, there's always been a running joke about who's going to make it to the bathroom first: Mr. Pritchard or his bowel movement. We got an emergency call from his room, and rushed over to see what had happened. When we got there, Billy had shit all over the place. I remember surveying the damage and saying, 'Looks like his asshole had him beat by a country mile. But what I'd like to know is how he got it to make an arch on the curtains.'



He said, 'All Billy had to do was roll over. I'll be right back, this smell is making me sick to my stomach,' and he went to go grab the mop and cleaning supplies."



"Did anything else happen?"



"Not that I remember. Other than that, it was a pretty normal," a knock on the door interrupted their exchange.



"What is it, Stanley" Laurie asked.



"There's something we need you to take a look at, as soon as you get the chance."



"Okay, gimme about 20 more minutes, and I'll be right out."

"What I want you to do," Stanley muttered as he motioned at the array of a dozen of screens, "is pay close attention to this."



"Care to tell me what I'm looking for," Laurie asked.



"What we're looking at is the video footage of the last few hours that our victim was alive. Thankfully, Phil keeps surveilance footage of the entire apartment complex. Normally, this would make our job pretty easy, but something is fishy about this," Stanley explained while taking a drag of his cigarette.



"What do you mean?"



"Watch and see."



Stanley started the footage, and pointed his pen at the monitor on the left. Both Stanley and Laurie watched as the occupant walked from his car, entered the building, took the elevator to the 5th floor, walked down the hallway, and entered his room.



"Okay," Laurie smirked, "He went into his room. That doesn't really mean anything."



"Normally, it wouldn't, because this means we'd have a pretty clear indicator of who the killer is. Now I'd like you to watch the footage on that last screen."



"It's still the same," she said, "an empty hall. It kinda looks like a still life."



"Just keep watching."



Several minutes went by before Laurie had her fill, and was convinced Stanley was just wasting her time with one of his trademark facetious jokes. As she started to walk away, Stanley grabbed her arm, and pulled her close.



"LOOKLOOKLOOKLOOKLOOKLOOK!" He stammered.



"The hell?" Laurie stammered.



"Yes, it's the same footage of the tenant walking into the apartment. So that means that Phil is in on it, and we should bring him in for questioning."



"Not entirely," Stanley countered, "You see, it's not exactly the same footage. I made some printouts of both of the sequences, and there are a few differences."



"Such as?"



"For starters, the first time the tenant enters the apartment, as he approaches the door, he touches the doorknob with his right hand. Our killer, who seems to bear an uncanny resemblance to the victim, reaches with his left, pauses momentarily, and then switches hands he opens the door with. Doesn't that seem a little odd to you?"



"Yeah, but maybe it was taken from some other day, and spliced in."



"That's the thing. I've been going over this since we got the footage. Phil burns the footage to DVDs and labels them accordingly. He's got this stuff backlogged at LEAST two years. When I asked him why he kept all the footage, he laughed and said, 'For cases like this. That way, I don't have to answer any questions, and it saves me time in the long run.' Me and the rest of the guys have been going over as much video as we can, and he did make it kinda easier on us."



"How, since he's got so much video stuff."



"The cameras are equipped with motion sensors, so it wouldn't matter what time of the day it was, everything that moves is automatically recorded."



"I see, so what else did you find."



"After the tentant entered the apartment twice, according to what we just saw, nobody ever left."



"Nobody," Laurie asked incredulously.



"Nobody. We haven't found any physical evidence to suggest that anyone else, other than the tenant was in that apartment."



"Then who, or what killed him?"



"That's what Jeff is trying to find out."

Mr. Comstalk seemed surprised when we made our arrival. I explained to him what was going on, and that while we were fairly certain of his self-proclaimed innocence, there were a few more questions we wanted to ask him, check out the apartment again, and be on our way. Naturally, he obliged.



"Jeff," Stanley remarked as we made our way down the hallway, "You have got to be one of the strangest people I've ever had the fortune of meeting."



"What makes you say that?"



"Well, mainly, I think we're just going to be wasting our time here. We've picked apart every piece of that place, scoured top to bottom, printed, dusted, cross-searched, indexed... everything you can think of."



As the door to the apartment opened, we noticed in the center of the room stood an end table with an old rotary phone on top of it, completely unconnected to any phone line.



"This wasn't like this when we left, was it," I asked.



"No. I don't recall seeing any kind of phone or end table. Someone's been in here."



As I approached the end table for closer inspection, I was startled momentarily when it rang. The only thing I could do was stare at it blankly.



"Pick it up," Stanley said unflinchingly.



"No, something isn't right here. I can't put my finger on it, but something isn't right."



"Fine," he huffed, "I'll do it."



He answered the phone, and in retrospect, that was probably the worst thing either of us could have done.



A strange look came over Stanley, and I could see that he was clearly rattled. Nervously, he handed me the phone and said, "It's for you. I think it's The Operator."



I held the receiver to my ear, only to be greeted by the sound of static. Suddenly, I heard a voice.



"Sorry about that. Had to take care of some business, but nothing you should concern yourself with. You there, Jeff?"



"Yeah," I calmly replied, while trying to ignore the fear that something bad was about to happen.



"Good. Look, I know you want to solve this case, but it's not going to happen. I'm not telling you to close the case, or even keep it open. I really don't care, because that's none of my concern. If I was in your position, I would simply let this transformation take its natural course. Normally, it wouldn't be wise to say these things in person, let alone over the phone. Point of the matter is, there are some loose ends that need to be tied up. I can't tell you what those ends or goals are, but I can tell you that it's probably best if you just walk away and pretend like this never happened."



"Are you fucking threatening me," I responded in a belligerent tone.



"Not at all. I'm just telling you what's probably best for you at this point, unless you really want to dive in headfirst and make a further mess of things. The way your team handles the investigation is flawless, but this is something that will never fully be explained until you've been at the epicenter. It's complex, convoluted, and quite frankly, nothing that anyone in their right state of mind would want themselves thrust into. I'm telling you this for your own good. Nobody's out to get you, but if you and your team persist further, reality itself will deal with any loose ends, regardless of judge, jury, executioner. That's simply how this is handled."



"I swear to God, we will hunt you down, and bring your ass to justice. You made the mistake of calling here, and we will find you. Mark my words."



"If you'll recall, the telephone isn't connected to a landline. You'll also find the phone to be completely bug-free, so go ahead and take that with you. I don't know what you'd do with the end table, but I think it would probably make a nice decoration in your bedroom, if you're so inclined. Think of it as my gift to you, for being a good sport about all of this. Remember, if I were you, I would take this as my cue to exit, and never return. Otherwise, the "cue to exit" part happening will become more improbable as time goes on. Take care and keep your nose clean, okay?"



I put down the receiver, and glared at it. Stanley stared at me and asked, "Are you going to answer the damned thing, or am I going to have to do it? And why the fuck do you look so pissed off for?"



My attention snapped back to the telephone, ringing as it had when we walked through the door.



"You should probably answer it," I said.



That was the omen of things to come.

"So what you're telling me is that according to everything we have gathered, that the only reasonable explanation is that our victim walked into his own apartment twice within a few-minute window, killed himself, walked out of the apartment complex, and just vanished?"



"Yeah, pretty much," Stanley said, calmly taking a drag of his cigarette.



"Look," he continued, "I had been over these tapes countless times. I've even got it mapped out in this notebook of who was in that apartment complex at what time, what they were doing, and if they would have been able to theoretically SEE something."



"I know this isn't the time or place for," I tried to interject.



"For fuck's sake, I'm tired of looking at the same damn tapes over and over and over and over. Not to sound rude, but are we going to actually discuss something new, or just waste our time. My lunch is in a half-hour."



"As I said, I know this isn't really the time or place, but did you take a look at the suicide note?"



"Yeah, I've read it quite a few times."



"Well, I need you to read it out loud, and tell me if anything strikes you as odd."



Stanley took a copy of the note that I handed him and read it aloud:



To The Operator:



I place a long distance call. I'm not even sure where to begin, but really, I don't think it matters. Sure, things have been great, I guess. I can see where you're coming from when you say that nobody listens, but everybody places that call.



It seems that there is no traction, no give, no dropoff box for comments. Ironic, given the circumstances. I can't even begin to describe the inexplicable void that comes with these decisions I've made over the years. At times, all I can do is stare into the distance and hope something improves, but it never does. I'm not even going to ask for help, let alone imply it. And we both know it's not about financial reports, either.



I've tried doing the right things on a personal level, but it seems to little or no avail. It seems you're correct in your assertion that often times, the best way to deal with things like these is simply to ignore it and move on. You'll find recursion, but I don't believe that I can fit the bill.



The mounting depression at times seems like a pretty sick joke. All I can do is put on a mask since nobody notices what's going on underneath. The things that I want, I can't have, and the things that I need simply seem to be an unending grindstone. It's been a long time, and I honestly don't know how much more of this I can handle.



The more I face bleak reality, the more I think that maybe it's wisest for me to cash in my chips and fade into obscurity. I don't know what to do at this point, I really don't. I can think of a thousand ways to fold, but someone watches at every turn. I'm sure there might be a few that pretend they're in the know. You're the only exception I can think of right now.



As I said before, this isn't a request or an implication. I'm just saying what's going on right now. Eventually, an opportunity may happen. If I see it in time, I'll probably take that leap if the mood strikes me. If given an option, it would probably be a quiet, clean one.





Stanley looked at me with a hint of incredulity. "Is this some kind of joke," he chuckled.



"No," I said, "Look at who it's addressed to."



"The Operator?"



"Exactly."



"We've already been through the phone logs, and traced every number to and from his place of residence. Simply put, we're dealing with a sick, demented individual who has gone to great lengths to hide his identity, much like our victim."



"Yeah, I get that. I'm not doubting you for a second, but suppose that we've been looking in the wrong place. I think we need to go back to the apartment and see if his telephone was bugged."



"What, exactly, are you suggesting?"



"I'm not entirely sure, but whoever killed him, I think may be part of some larger plan."



"What kind of plan?"



"That's what we're going to find out. Take a step back for a few seconds and think about it. Everything we've uncovered so far seems to suggest some pretty outlandish scenarios, with the least outlandish of these being that we're either dealing with a Doppelganger, or some cracked-out conspiracy theorists wet dream."



"I don't like where the direction of this particular convesation is headed, but we'll go over there right now. Do you want anything on the way?"



"No, I'm fine. I work better before I eat."



"That's cool. Just let me know if you're hungry."



With that, we returned to the scene of the crime.

I had been working on this particular case for quite some time. Seeing our victim completely bled out with a "suicide note" stapled to his chest initially ruled out any other possibility than homicide, except for one thing: The staples.



After further investigation, it appeared the note had been stapled to his chest post-mortem. Clearly, this meant that someone was involved, and the case was now classified as a homicide. Had this not been the case, we normally would have written the whole incident off and not given it a further glance.



While we were initially able to identify the victim based on personal information we had found, none of it really matched up. It seemed everything was either registered or maintained by a series of assumed names. Clearly, our victim had something to hide.



As details involving this particular homicide came into focus, we soon came to realize that none of this was even in the same general location as ordinary. I personally collected, or at least attempted to collect, any background information pertaining to the victim, as well as any witnesses that were willing to come forward and provide us with the critical information that we would need to bring the murderer to justice.



Early on, our first suspect was the apartment manager himself. When we looked over the video evidence that Mr. Comstalk had provided us, we noticed a discrepancy in the time frame from when the victim entered his apartment, and the estimated time that the homicide took place. One of my colleagues had looked at the evidence, and subjected it to the highest level of scrutiny possible. His careful attention to the slightest detail, along with frame-by-frame analysis of the footage in question suggested that nothing had been altered.



Obviously, we brought Mr. Comstalk in for further questioning, but unfortunately, we had no leads. A break in the case came when a young woman contacted us, recognizing the description of the victim. She hadn't heard anything regarding his murder until that particular day. She noticed a discarded paper on one of the subway cars that she used regularly to commute across the city, and chanced across the article regarding the case at hand.



When she arrived at the station, she was in a state of complete disarray and emotional upheaval. Several hours had passed, but what we had discovered a few interesting pieces of information, including the fact that the murder victim had a drinking problem. This explained the unusual amount of empty beer cans we initially found at the scene.



As part of her line of work, which the DA agreed not to file charges provided we had her full co-operation, she also had a semi-frequent sexual relationship with the victim, which also brought a few more questions to the forefront of the investigation. Did she know his real name? Was he married? Did he keep in close contact with anyone she may have known? How long had it been since she'd last seen him? Were there signs that someone might be after him? Was he involved in drug trafficking?



All of these questions put us no closer to solving the case than we were before. What I found most frustrating about this wasn't necessarily the fact that people were willing to provide us with information that could help us break the case, but moreso the fact that we discovered soon therafter that nobody really had any information that was helpful. It was almost like the murder victim never actually existed, but somehow took a shadowy residence in our collective psyche.



When I had asked my colleagues about things on their end, it turns out that they had nearly the same experience that I was going through. Nobody doubted that the victim existed. We had him on tape, we had written confessions, and even newspaper clippings that detailed various aspects of the case, in hopes that someone would come forward.



To make a long story short, the case ran cold for an extended period of time. Every time we'd find a new piece of evidence that would possibly bring the killer to justice, it either turned a dead lead, or directly contradicted the original evidence that we had gathered.



Even though the case had basically died, it wasn't the last we would hear from either the victim or the murderer. In fact, this was just the beginning.



It started with an omen.

Took a trip to the other side of the mirror. I don't like them at all. I can see the other side of the world from them.



The other side is a desolate place. It's like a spiritually devoid region of the universe wrapped in a tiny little ball. That's what these mirrors hold. They hold secrets. They hold the static. They hold your fear.



The first time I found myself switched in this manner, it was in a dream. I awoke from my bed, my catly brother bolted upright from his nap and asked me what was wrong.



"I don't know," I told him, "I don't know. This isn't like the last time, but I guess I did make a mistake. I do apologize."



He purred, and motioned for me to go take a look in the mirror. I got up out of the bed, and walked over to the middle bedroom. Instinctively, I averted my eyes from the mirror, knowing that I wasn't going to like what I had to see.



I saw him. Rotting. At first, it just looked like his skin was turning to sandpaper, but soon began falling off in chunks. He began laughing hysterically. It echoed with the cancer of insanity and remorselessness mixed with catatonia. I felt myself shift.



I screamed right back at him. This one clearly had to be dealt with by volume. There was no other way.



The glass melted as I awoke, screaming in an ancient tongue, yet paralyzed from the neck down for nearly a minute. I broke free, or so I thought.



I got up out of bed, and walked over to the mirror, looking inside. There was nothing. My cat hopped up on the counter, and sniffed the glass. The hum of running electronic equipment filled the air.



That was the weakest transformation I've ever seen. Needless to say, I was not impressed. I walked over to the dresser, and grabbed the 6 pack full of black permanent markers.



I completely blacked out the mirror, on the offchance that if I didn't get out in time, I would be immortal. Of course, the old body would die, but nobody would know the difference after I escaped at a later point in time.



You see, this works both ways. Sometimes, if the physical body gets too old, you'll want to swap back. The only way you'll know this is by opening a mirror.



You can call me Lazarus Portman. I look just like you in every way, shape, sound, and form, except for one. You're not you anymore. Now you're someone else.



Welcome to Our side.