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The divorce went pretty smooth, even though my wife kept the house, kids, all of the furniture, and one of the vehicles. After she had hit me over the head with a lamp, I decided that our relationship was pretty much over. Because of the material possessions, and the fact she had a full time job, I got to keep most of the money, since I would have to pay child support, and was on paid administrative leave for an indeterminate period of time.



Then there was the case that I was working on. Something about it wasn't right. The more I looked into it, the less it made sense, and the more I wanted to know. It was like a trainwreck that I couldn't look away from. There had to be some kind of logical solution to it.



The victim had worked in a nursing home, had no serious relationships, nobody that really knew him all that well beyond work-related situations. He did have casual sex with a prostitute, but even she didn't know his real name. Nobody did.



Complicating matters, he had a ton of aliases, but no direct ties to anyone that would have wanted him dead. The video surveillance showed an unexplained anomaly, but nothing that could be conclusively proven as a coverup. There was no physical evidence of forced entry and no signs of struggle, other than possible alcoholism. This left only two possible explanations. Someone had hired a hitman that bore an uncanny resemblance to the victim, or he was killed by a doppelganger.



I'd seen episodes of The Twilight Zone, but this was something that I refused to believe was the cause. The more we had tried to solve the case, the more dead ends that we ran into. Logically, this can only mean that a hitman was responsible. I chalked the hallucination in the apartment and the all-too-convenient timing of Stanley's death to be nothing more than a coincidence: A conscious choice to not take care of one's health, and being overworked. That's all that was.



The only real question that had to be answered was who was the note written to, and what did it mean. The more I read it, the more it sounded like the victim was looking for a way out. But why hire a hitman to kill you? What would be the point? Perhaps the victim was psychologically unbalanced enough that they wanted to die, but wanted to leave their death open to dubious circumstances that would make people want to investigate. It would make them want to believe it was something more than it really was. The only thing I can say for certain, is that clearly, our victim had something to hide. As to what it is, or was, only time will tell.



The telephone rang, but I didn't pick it up. I was too busy lost in thought, looking at the paperwork scattered in front of me on the coffee table while taking shots of whiskey, which I had suddenly grown a strong appreciation for. At the end of the coffee table, I had a deck of cards to pass the time when I was bored.



Granted, I had a new apartment, but nothing to show for it really, other than a nasty divorce and an unsolved murder case that I felt compelled to solve, whether or not I was on leave.



It kept ringing, so I let the machine take a message.



"Hi, This is Jeff. You know the routine. *beep*"



"Jeff, I don't know what you did, but this is really fucked up. The whole goddamn house smells like shit. First you cheat on me, and"



I walked over and picked it up. "What? What is it now?"



"You poured shit down the chimney, Jeff. I know it was you."



"Uhhh, excuse me?"



"Yeah, you poured SHIT DOWN MY CHIMNEY."



I laughed and retorted, "Yeah, I wish. Why would I do that, especially when you wanted me to come watch the kids while you go fuck your new boytoy Fabio lookalike?"



"I don't know. Maybe because you're jealous?"



"Or it could just be that you're fucking stupid? What makes you think it was me anyways?"



"I just know. You cheated on me anyways, so why not? I have everything, except for your bank account, and this is how you would get back at me. That's what I think."



"You cheated on me too, if you seem to recall. Before I had even fucked Tammy behind your back. I mean seriously, how many loaves of dick do you need to toss in the oven before you thought I'd notice you were baking some sourdough?"



There was a long pause.



"That's what I thought. You know what else? I'm glad we divorced. I'm glad you have full custody of the kids, because if I was going to be working full time, and you're sleeping around behind my back, then who knows, maybe the kids aren't mine either."



"You did not just say what I think you said."



"Yeah, I did. You know something else, I'll be there to watch the kids. I'll even stay in the house of shit and we'll all enjoy the fruits of your labor. How does that sound?"



"*click*"



Back to work, I suppose. I hung the phone back up, but decided that perhaps I should call her and see if she'd pick up. If she did, maybe I could chew her out a little bit more. I accidentally hit "0" on the button, but quickly remedied the situation, and dialed her number. I waited for it to ring, but instead, I heard static, and a familiar voice.



"Jeff. Jeff. Jeff. What did I tell you? Just go back to playing cards, and leave it alone. This does not concern you."



I looked at the phone, unsure if I was having a hallucination. I put it back up to my ear. "No," Lazarus said, "You're not having a hallucination. I can assure you, this is real."



What. The. Fuck.

"This makes the second time," said Morgan, "Let's try not to fuck this one up."



"Let's? Correct me if I'm wrong here, dude, but it was YOUR mistake the last time. YOU got the wrong address."



"Okay. Fine. Whatever," Morgan countered, "I admit, I did have the wrong address, but it was the right street. Don't blame me because that cheesehead mixed up the last two digits when he wrote them down."



"So you're sure it's the right one this time," Lester asked, "Like, absolutely sure."



"Absolutely sure."



"One hundred and ten percent sure?"



"Yeah, I'm positive."



"Magic Johnson positive?"



There was a long silence before Morgan rolled his eyes, looked at Lester incredulously and said, "I swear to God, if you make one more wisecrack before we get this shit done, I will beat you senseless, all right?"



"Oh, so you're saying you can do this yourself, then," Lester said with a nod, opening the door.



Morgan slammed on the brakes, causing the tires to squeal. Lester hissed, "Are you fucking insane?"



"Maybe. Not as insane as you trying to exit a moving vehicle," Morgan said with an angry tone.



"Could you keep it down a little, perhaps? It is three in the morning. You can't just make a loud noise and not expect someone to hear it."



Having lost his patience he screamed, "I don't give a damn, just get back in."



The brothers stared at each other only to be interrupted by a familiar voice. "I've been waitin' for you two assholes to show back up."



Lester turned around and saw the occupant of the first house they had vandalized approaching them with an aluminum bat.



"Cracker-ass bitches ain't even smart enough to use a different truck. Now I'm gonna open a can on both of ya," he continued, approaching faster.



Morgan yelled for Lester to get back in, but it was already too late. A dance of warriors commenced on the front lawn, with the angry occupant swinging the bat with ferocity while Lester kept just out of reach.



"Calm down. Please. This isn't what you think."



"Damn right it isn't. You're lucky my wife and kids are out of town right now, otherwise, they'd be out here too."



"The fuck, man," Lester replied, "Try to keep it down."



"I ain't keepin' nothin' down, other than your white ass."



Morgan turned stepped out of the truck and ran towards the two, "No, he's serious."



The angry resident turned around and nailed Morgan in the abdomen and mumbled, "Fuckin' racist-ass hatemongers."



Morgan fell to the ground, moaning and crying. "The Lord may not take care of you, but you bet your sweet ass that I'm going to."



"Wait, wait," Lester said, still keeping well out of range, suddenly recognizing their attacker's face, "Heath."



"How the fuck do you know my name?"



"Heath. It's me, Lester. 7th Grade. Out on the playground, remember?"



A look of confusion filled Heath's face. "I... what?"



"We're not racist. It's us. Lester and Morgan Creech. Remember when Timothy and his gang picked on you that one time, and we stepped in and beat their ass."



Heath stepped towards Lester, with the aluminum bat still readied. "You'd better start talkin' really fuckin' quick, cause I'm not sure I even know you."



"Really, please, just calm down and listen to me for a second."



Heath and Lester looked over towards Morgan, who was struggling to stand back up. "Just stay there, Morgan," Lester said with a calmly reassuring tone, "Heath, just let me explain."



"You got 5 minutes before I call the cops."



"Look, we didn't know it was you that night we dumped all that shit down your chimney. It was a misunderstanding. I swear to you, it was a misunderstanding."



"How the fuck is pouring goddamn shit down my motherfuckin' chimney some kind of 'misunderstanding'? I should beat your ass where you stand."



"Yes, you should, but before you do, at least hear me out. We had the wrong house. It was meant for someone else. There's this guy, he... he..."



Morgan grunted, "He's responsible Tammy's death."



"Yeah," Lester continued, "I swear to you, we didn't mean it. I'll even help pay for the repairs."



Heath shook his head, "I ... Tammy? Wasn't she..."



Lester nodded, "Sister. Look, I promise you that we're not out to get you, it's someone else. We had someone track down the dude that basically killed her, but when he wrote down the address, he got the last two digits mixed up. His name is Jeff, he lives right down the street. Not even a block from here. I swear to God."



Heath nodded understandingly, "What I don't get, is why the fuck you two were dressed up in fucking white sheets."



"I forgot the ski masks in the glove box. I had to think quick, and we just wanted to get it done and over with, and leave."



"I know a Jeff that lives over there. What are you planning on doing to him? You gonna kill him?"



Morgan huffed, "No, we can't. We're on parole, but we're going to make him wish that we did. Would you want to help us?"



"What's in it for me," Heath asked.



"We can talk about that later, but right now, we need to get these bags of shit down a chimney."



"Okay, I'll help. You better make this quick before someone wakes up and calls the cops."



Morgan was still clutching his abdomen and panted, "I can drive, but you two will need to do it. I don't think I can."



"It's cool," said Heath, "Y'all need to be more careful next time. Might not be so lucky."

It was a typical, overcast day, accentuated by occasional drizzling, sniffling, and muffled sobs. Jeff sat in the front row next to Laurie, with immediate family members of Stanley occupied the rest of the front row seating. The Reverend cleared his throat, which served only to quell the expressions of sadness long enough for him to begin his speech.



"I stand before you today the representative of a friends in grief, and a family in mourning before a community in shock."



A few weeps filled the air. Laurie rubbed her forehead and a look of sheer disgust crossed her face. Jeff leaned over and asked her, "Is there something I should know about?"



"Just keep listening," she replied.



"We are all united not only in our desire to pay our respects to Stanley, but rather in our need to do so. For such was his extraordinary appeal that the hundreds of people taking part in this service from all walks of life, feel that they too lost someone close to them in a manner such as his. It is a more remarkable tribute to Stanley than I can ever hope to offer him today."



"I can't believe this," Laurie said, shaking her head in disbelief.



The woman next to her leaned in to console her and said, "I was never particularly in close contact with Stan, but you worked with him nearly every day, I can only imagine how you must feel. Here, honey," she continued, reaching into her purse, "Do you need some tissues."



"No, I'm fine. Really. Thank you."



The Reverend continued with his opening eulogy, with its impact leaving nothing more than background chatter among the mourners and the hushed conversations continuing around Laurie and Jeff.



"Well here, just put these in your pocket anyways, I'm sure you'll need them."



"Thank you anyways," Laurie said with an insincere smile.



Laurie looked at Jeff and said, "Just wait for it. I'm half expecting him to bring up lepers and exploding landmines."



"What makes you say that?"



"Remember when Princess Diana died?"



"Yeah, I do. Why bring that up now?"



"Did you not hear his first few lines, Jeff? He's practically plagiarizing Earl Spencer's funeral oration. Jesus, has he no taste?"



The Reverend cleared his throat again, which startled both Jeff and Laurie, who seemed to be lost in their own conversation that was quiet enough to not be heard by the people seated behind them, but apparently just loud enough for The Reverend to take notice. "Would either of you care to add something in memory of Stanley," he inquired, with a slightly miffed, but still pleasant smile.



"No, no," Jeff calmly reassured, "We were just... um... talking."



The Reverend smiled and continued his eulogy, nobody else seem to noticing that he had, in fact, lifted nearly his entire speech directly from Princess Diana's funeral.



Afterwards, there were some refreshments and food available for everyone in attendance.



"So what makes you so sure he was stealing lines," Jeff asked Laurie.



Laurie pulled out her smartphone and said, "I've got it right here," and handed it to Jeff.



Jeff stared at the screen incredulously. "My God, you're right. What an asshole!"



"I know, right? You'd think he would be smart enough to come up with his own material. I mean, it's not like this particular area is short of preachers, so I can't imagine it would be too difficult to gather some information from the family members and piece something halfway decent together."



"Maybe he's just lazy. It does make me wonder something, though."



"And what might that be?"



"Do you think he uses the same speech every time, just changes it up a bit. You know, like a template?"



"If he does, Jeff, there is a special place reserved for people like him. And the music is terrible from what I hear."



"Just how bad are we talking?"



"Disco Inferno," Laurie casually remarked with an equally chilly, overcast tone.



Jeff nearly choked on his drink.

After falling asleep last night, I had a dream. Not the usual kind of dream, but one that left me completely bewildered. One of the dreams, I found myself standing in front of a door in an empty parking lot. Above the door, there was an "EXIT" sign, which is odd, because usually exit signs are on the inside of a building, not on the outside.



I opened the door, walked in, and noticed it was completely empty, save for a round table and two chairs. On the table was a bottle of whiskey, two shot glasses, and a deck of cards. I heard the door close behind me. The most peculiar aspect was that the floor seemed to be covered in a foggy mist of some kind. The temperature of the room wasn't too cold, or too hot, so naturally, I felt no need to take off my jacket, but I did anyways.



I slowly looked around the room, but noticed that other than the table, chairs, cards, shotglasses and whiskey, there was nothing. I walked around for a bit, seeing if maybe there was a wall, or perhaps a lightswitch of some kind. The only light that could be seen was above the table, beaming down like some ethereal glow, almost like something out of The Twilight Zone. After about 20 minutes of roaming around, I figured I might as well have a seat.



I poured myself a shot, and noticed that the bottle was still full. I guess this was some kind of weird mental reflection of having seen the mountain of beercans in the apartment. I looked at the deck of cards, and discovered they were all in order, from two to ace, diamond, club, heart, and spades. For some reason, the queen of spades stuck out.



I shuffled the deck repeatedly and thoroughly, and each time, the cards were in the same order. If I couldn't shuffle the deck, then I probably wouldn't be able to play very many games with it, so I settled on building a house of cards.



Amazingly, the cards wouldn't fall if I angled them, or kept them straight on their edge. If I didn't know any better, I would have guessed that building a cardhouse had been the plan all along.



"Mind if I take a seat," a voice asked.



I looked around, and saw a man dressed in a black business suit walking towards me.



"Sure, I guess. I don't see anyone else clamoring to get front row seats here."



"Except for me, of course," he said warmly.



"Quite a house of cards you've got there," he continued, "Do you play any games?"



"Yeah, everyone plays card games. Couldn't seem to get the deck to shuffle right, so I figured building a house out of them was the next best thing."



He poured himself a shot, and replied, "Not what I meant. Do you play any games?"



"You mean like board games? Video games?"



"Do you play games," he asked in a more serious tone.



"I guess we all do."



"What kind of games?"



"Might I ask why this is any of your business?"



"You can, but it won't do you any good. I'm just curious. What do you do for a living?"



I almost felt like I was being interrogated. I laughed and replied, "Is this like a good cop/bad cop kinda thing?"



"Not at all. I just like to get to know my clients a little bit before we start with business."



"I... I don't think I follow you here."



Suddenly, I noticed that the house of cards was gone, and he was shuffling the deck. "How about we play some poker?"



"But we don't have any chips."



"We don't need to. Losing hand does a shot."



"Sounds fair."



Suddenly, the queen of spades fell out of his hand and onto the table. "Look at that," he chuckled, "We haven't even gotten our game started, and I've already got butterfingers."



"Well, I hope your tolerance is pretty high, otherwise, it's probably going to be a quick game."



"I wouldn't say that, necessarily. The night's still young."



"Well, before we start, can I ask you what your name is?"



"Lazarus Portman. Now Jeff, can I ask you a question?"



"I don't think I told you my name. How did you know?"



"We'll chalk it up to a good guess," he said after taking a shot. "As for my question, what do you do for a living?"



"I'm a detective."



"Ah, very astute then. This should be a good game."



"I would hope so, maybe you'll have more luck shuffling that deck than I did."



"It does that from time to time. She doesn't usually warm up to anyone other than me. Not sure why, but it's always been that way. Guess sometimes the cards stack themselves as they please."



"Can't say I've seen a deck do that before."



"Most never will. Think of it as the opportunity of a lifetime," he said while dealing 5 cards.



"So what are we playing?"



"No wilds, and since there's only two of us, three chances to put two cards back."



"So who goes first?"



"You do, since I dealt. Rules in that, losing hand takes a shot, winning hand deals. Dealer draws second. In the advent of a tie, we both take a shot and restart the round."



"Sounds fair enough. Do you count cards at all?"



"Count cards? Please. I can stack a deck, but I'd rather not shuffle all the time. The temptation gets too great sometimes. Ready?"



"Ready as I'll ever be."



I looked at my hand and nearly shit my pants. Royal fucking flush. The odds of getting a royal flush are over 649739:1. "I think I'll hold," I involuntarily choked.



"So will I," Lazarus said with a grin.



"Well then, are you ready to read 'em and weep?"



"I sure hope so."



As we laid our hands on the table, I realized that he also had a royal flush, but of a different suit. I just stared at the cards. "The odds of... of this are like."



"Roughly one in a million, low end probability. Realistically, I'd say closer to one in 422 trillion, give or take a few million, but since I dealt, let's take a shot and I'll shuffle again."



"You can't be serious."



"Oh, I am. What suit do you want this time?"



"Diamonds, I guess. The commercials say they're forever, but try telling that to my wife."



"She cheated on you? Sorry to hear that."



"Well, not exactly, it was kinda my fault, but there were extenuating circumstances."



"Aren't there always. I've been partial to spades myself. The queen of spades, specifically. In a game of hearts, she's my favorite, since she's worth 13 points, and most people consider 13 to be an unlucky number."



"Bah, that's just superstition."



"Is it?"



I looked at my hand. Diamonds. Royal Flush. As I shook my head, Lazarus laughed and said, "I told you I could stack the deck. Now here's my hand."



He had a straight flush. "I decided to be a gentleman and let you win this time. I'll go ahead and take a shot," he said with a wink.



"Your deal."



Then I woke up.