MW: Slate #2

               S         L        A        T        E


                    Issue 2.  by Ken Cooney
                        
[This metaworld series is intended for a mature audience.  This issue
 contains some violence and language.]
 
"Limb by limb and tooth by tooth
 It's tearing up inside of me.
 Every day, every hour
 Wish that I
 Was bulletproof."

-- Radiohead "Bulletproof ... I Wish I Was"


   I'm in a dark room.  Naked.  I notice a bright light ahead of me
and put up my right hand to shade my eyes.  I can't see what's making
that light.  I hear a distant high pitched beep.  I look down at my
chest and don't see a scar.  I look back to the light and start to
feel warm.  A very low whispering wind wraps around my face.  The wind
makes its way around my body in circles and wraps its way back up to
my ear.  In the distance there's another beep.  I try to lift my legs
to move toward the light but my legs won't obey.  The wind turns into
a soft whisper; a female voice.  "Not now," she hushes.  The light
fades, the wind dies down, and I'm in darkness again.  Beep.

                       *       *      *

   My eyes slowly open and I try to adjust to the artificial light.  I
am in a bed with an IV in my arm.  A nurse with her bad toward me is
checking on my vital signs on the machine.  She turns my way.
   "Looks like you're awake."
   She smiles.  She has straight strawberry blond hair that rests on
her shoulders, deep brown eyes, and some freckles on her nose.
   "We couldn't find any identification," she continued.
   "Matt Douglass," I replied, remembering my made up name.  I felt a
bad taste in my mouth as that lie rolled off my tongue.  I wondered if
she could sense it.
   "Matthew-"
   "Just Matt," I replied.
   "Matt," she said, writing it on the chart.
   "We found no ID, no credit cards.  If you had them, someone stole
them.  Maybe the same person that kicked the heck out of you.  The
person didn't take the money, what little there was." she said.  "You
can use the hospital phone if you need to call credit card companies-"
   "I don't have any credit cards," I replied.
   She paused as if a bit frustrated that I broke her stream of
thought but then a short smile washed over her face and the wrinkles
on her brow disappeared.
   "Ok," she said, thinking. "Wish I didn't have credit cards.  Worst
things ever."
   She looked at the machine and wrote some more things down.
   "A stranger brought you in, saw you at the side of the road.  He
saw that your shirt had a tear across your chest and some blood."
   The gun shot.  I remembered the sound and the searing pain.
   "The wound was very superficial.  It looks like whatever it was
just grazed across your chest.  Some very minor superficial burns.
It looks like whatever it was, it was a little warm.  Just some minor
scaring that should go away in a week."
   Minor?  Did I hear that right?  He shot at me point blank, from a
distance of maybe fifteen feet.  Are you telling me I got insanely
lucky and the bullet grazed me?  How could he?  We were perpendicular
from each other.  I couldn't have been a clearer target.  I felt a
surge of panic rush over me and had to calm  down.  I looked back at
the nurse; her attention was directed at the chart.
   "We did an X-Ray of your chest.  Your ribs are fine.  Just a little
bit of bruising on the stomach, but no broken or bruised ribs.  Must
have not been much of a kicker."
   I clearly remember the hard kicks he gave me.
   "Anyway, I don't see a reason why you wouldn't be able to discharge
yourself in the afternoon after the doctor's seen you."
   She paused and looked up from the chart.
   "Do you need to call someone?"
   "No," I replied.  I guess I could have lied about that, but the
truth came out of my mouth before I had time to stop it and think of a
better answer.
   "You got somewhere to go?"
   "Cincinnati," I said, not knowing where I was and wondering how
stupid that sounded.
   "I see," she said, looking back at the chart.
   Part of me was wondering what was going through her head.  I hope
she didn't think I escaped from an asylum or something.  I had to get
out of here before anything else happened.  The last thing I need is
to be taken away somewhere.
   She took off the device on my finger that was checking my vitals.
"We don't need this anymore since you're up."
   She then walked to the door and put the chart on a hook.  "I'll let
the doctor know you're awake."
   The nurse left the room and closed the door behind her.
   I got up and walked barefoot to the closet.  Why are hospital
floors always so cold?  I paused.  I wondered how often I've been in
hospitals and when the last time was.  I looked inside the closet and
saw my clothes clean and neatly folded.  Shirt, pants, socks, shoes,
and underware.  No jacket.  I paused for a moment.  Yeah, the jacket
was probably left on the bus.  I checked my pants pocket.  Wallet,
money, keys.  No pen or newspaper; those were left in the jacket.  I
still remember everything though, even the time I "woke up".  I'll
visit the gift shop and buy a pad and another pen.  I guess I'm out of
luck in the jacket department.
   I quickly got dressed.  I had to get out of here and try to piece
together what happened and what all of this means.  I was tying my
shoes when the doctor came in.  He was maybe in his mid 50s, a bit
heavyset, with gray balding hair, round rimmed glasses, blue gray
eyes.
   "Hi, I'm doctor Stevenson."
   He gave me a firm handshake.
   "It looks like you were in a light scuffle.  I'm not sure what to
make of the streak of superficial burn across your chest.  Something
hot and metallic.  Maybe a sword.  It's shallow, barely going below
the surface.  We gave you something to ease the pain.  Just take
four Advil in three hours and another two in six and you should be
fine."
   The doctor looked through the chart, flipping a page and reviewing
the notes.  "Whatever ordeal you've been though, you're recovering
well," he said and then looked up from the chart "I don't see a reason
to keep you here any longer, though you may want to grab something to
eat.  Something light.  You've been out for a few days."
   A few days?  I tried to register that fact.  I guess it didn't
matter, at least I hope it didn't.  I hope no one was waiting for me
at the other bus terminal.
   "Oh, we found this lodged in your shoulder," he said, pulling
something out of his pocket and handing it to me. "It's not a bullet.
Too smooth to be shrapnel.  I'm not sure what to make of it."
   It was ovular, about an inch long, smooth, black, metallic.  I
turned the object around with my fingers, trying to remember how it
got there and coming up with nothing.
   "Well," the doctor replied, getting up, "if you don't have any
questions, I'll be on my way."
   "No, I'm fine," I said. "Thanks."
   He left the room and I put the object in my pocket.  Another piece
of the puzzle.  What the hell have I got into?  I needed to eat
something and think.
   I turned to leave when I saw another nurse at the door.
   "Hold on, we need to give you one more shot."
   "Excuse me?" I asked, kind of taken back.
   "It'll only take a second," she said as she walked forward and
placed her hand on my shoulder.
   Two more doctors entered the room.
   "Wait a minute.  I thought I was discharged."
   I backed up a bit, taking this all in.  She was ignoring my
comments, holding a small bottle in her hand, putting a needle into it
and getting a dose of clear liquid it.  The room got a little darker.
I glance back to see one of the doctors closed the blinds.  I felt
a firm grip on my shoulder and turned to see the other doctor holding
down my left arm.
   "Hold him down," she said, tapping the needle.
   "Wait a minute!"
   The other doctor pulled me back and grabbed me from behind.
   "What the hell?!"
   "Hurry," the man behind me ordered.
   I thrust my head back, hitting the doctor behind me in the nose.
   "Motherfucker!"
   I threw a punch with my now freed up right arm, clocking the other
doctor in the chin.  He lost his balance for a second, falling back
up against the wall.
   I glanced back at the nurse,  she was lunging at me, with a death
grip on the needle.  I quickly grabbed her arm and spun her around,
twisting her arm upward, the needle up against her throat.
   "What's this all about!?"
   I moved up against her and turned us around so I could see what
the other two were doing.  One had his hands covering his nose, blood
coming out.  The other was reaching in his pocket.
   "No guns!" She said.
   I pushed the nurse at the doctor as he pulled out his gun.  I then
turned and ran out the door.
 
                       *       *      *

   "Get off!"
   Bert pushed Alison off himself and looked out the door.  Gone.  He
pulled his dress shirt sleeve up to his face.  "The fox is out," he
said, speaking into his cuff link.
   Alison looked up at him with a look of disgust on her face.
   "Don't just stay there, look for him!" he ordered.
   Alison  got up and stormed toward the door.  She quickly turned
and glared back.  Then she turned around, chucked the needle into the
trash, and ran out the door.
   Bert turned his attention to Don, who was coming out of the
bathroom, holding a face cloth against his face.  "Jesus, Don."
   Don just sat down on the floor, feeling a bit light headed.
   "It's fuckin' amateur night," Bert replied as he headed out the
door.

======================================================================
   SLATE   Issue 2  "Shots and Novocain"  A Metaworld comic.
   Copyright 2009 by Ken Cooney, all rights reserved.
======================================================================

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MW: Slate #1

             
S L A T E

Issue #1 -- by Ken Cooney

[This metaworld series is intended for a mature audience. This issue
contains some violence and language.]

"The more you try to erase me,
The more, the more,
The more that I appear."

-- Thom Yorke "The Eraser"

I'm sitting at the bus terminal. I have no idea why. I have no
where to go, nowhere that I'm aware of anyway. Music plays in the
overhead speakers; a mellow soundtrack filling the void. A boy with
short black hair sits across from me, his eyebrows furrowed and his
eyes downward. Next to him sits his mother, a brown coat draped over
her, covering a white blouse.
"What are you thinking about?" she asks him.
"Nothing." he says.
That could have been my response. Nothing. I have nothing in mind
right now. Absolutely nothing. I have no memory of my past or how I
got here. It was a little unnerving as I woke up. That's the best
way to put it, although I wasn't asleep. I only have memories of what
has transpired an hour ago.

* * *

I was in a panic when I came to. I felt the hair on the back of my
neck stand up and my fists turned white as I clenched the arms of the
chair. I felt my blood drain from my face and part of me wondered if
I was about to pass out. Sweat started to come down by forehear as I
let go my death grip on the arms and quickly looked for a tissue or
handkerchief. I found one and patted my face. I looked around and
found that I was in a public place. I needed to calm down.
I checked my left pocket. A wallet. I quickly opened it up and
frantically looked inside. A ten and two fives. No identification.
No credit cards. No notes. I looked up. The boy was looking at me
like I was a freak show. "Nice job playing it calm," I thought to
myself as I put the wallet back in my pocket. I looked around and no
one else noticed.
I paused and tried to think. I couldn't remember anything of my
past, but I knew what a credit card was. I knew what a driver's
license was. Did I have a car? I paused for a moment. I'm right
handed. At least I think I am. Wallet in the left. That's where
right handed people usually put them, right?
I checked my right pocket. I found a key but my heart sank when it
didn't look like a car key. A car would have a registration and a
registration would have my name. What the hell was my name? I tried
to focus, tried to force my brain to remember. Nothing came, not even
a nick name.
I looked at the key again. It wasn't a house key either, not that
it would have helped. I had no idea where I lived. I also had some
change.
I did an assessment of myself. I was wearing a long grey coat. I
checked those pockets as well. A piece of paper with handwriting on
it. Was it my handwriting? I looked at it but I couldn't tell.
A-159. Maybe it was for a locker of some sort?
Bus terminals have lockers. I looked around. I decided to get up
and look around. There were maybe a few dozen people around. Most
were sitting around, some walking by. I spied some rental lockers and
walked to them. My eyes glanced over them, but they only went to 100.
Someone wearing a uniform was walking by.
"Excuse me, do you have any other lockers?" I asked.
"No, that's it." he said, and continued walking.
I paused and thought.
Coffee. I need coffee.
I head out the door and cold breeze hits me. I grit my teeth and
looked around, spying a cart at the corner. He didn't have coffee,
but he had soda. That'll do. Maybe some caffeine will jog my memory
or wake me up. Realizing that I was hungry, I ordered a hot dog.
"Are you coming or going?" the man asked.
I paused, kind of taken back by the comment. Why was I at the bus
station?
"Neither," I replied.
"That looks like a bus ticket in your shirt pocket."
I put my hand on my shirt pocket and felt the ticket.
"That's just a business trip." I mentioned, trying to recover.
"Yeah, that doesn't count, does it?" he said with a smile.
"Not really," I said as I tried to remember buying the ticket.
"Mustard on your dog?"
"Huh?"
"Your hot dog. You want mustard on it?"
Did I like mustard? "Yes." I replied.
"Relish?"
"Yes."
He went off the list: onions, banana peppers, kraut. I said yes to
them all, not having a clue if I liked any of it. I guess I'll scrape
what I don't like. I'll just make sure I do that somewhere else. I
don't want him giving me strange looks, maybe call the police thinking
that I was high on something.
He gave me the hot dog and soda. I gave him a five. He gave me
some changed which I pocketed. I left and walked inside. I took a
bite and decided that I didn't like the kraut. I did my best to
swallow the bite as I headed for a garbage can and picked it off. I
took a sip to wash out the taste and took another bite. Perfect.
I took another sip and sat down. I pulled out the ticket.
Cincinnati, Ohio. I looked at the date and time. I glanced up at
the wall clock. I had two hours, assuming this ticket was for today.
I finished the hot dog and soda. I looked around and spied a
magazine store at the other end. I walked over and checked out one
of the daily papers and saw the date. Yes, it's the same day.
Did I buy this ticket? I grabbed the newspaper and looked around.
I grab a souvenir pen. I'll have to remember to buy a pad to jot
down notes. I'm not sure what if anything I'll remember tomorrow. I
paid the man and headed back to my seat. Hopefully my answer is in
Cincinnati or I'm taking a one way trip to nowhere.

* * *

That's the extent of my life experience, at least those that I'm
aware of. I wrote it all down on a full page advertisement that was
mostly blank; afraid that I might "wake up" again and forget it all.
I felt that I couldn't write it all fast enough, writing in fragment
sentences and pieces. The most relevant stuff first. The key. The
ticket. The approximate time I woke up. Then more details. It was
filling in the in between like filling in the white squares of a
crossword puzzle, but not knowing what the clues were.
I was now waiting for the clock to tick the minutes of my
departure. Waiting for the unknown was a bit unnerving, so I decided
to look through the newspaper. I recognized names and faces of
various figures: actors, actresses, models. I don't know if I have
seen them in a movie, on TV. How could I know these names, these
faces, and not know my own?
I needed a name. I glanced through the newspaper, looking at the
by lines. Walter. Andy. John. I settled on Matt. Matthew? No,
Matt. I looked for last names, feeling kind of stupid in doing so.
I needed a starting point of my identity. Waters. Phillips. Hole.
I chuckled to myself at the absurdity of that one and moved on.
Douglass. That will do. I wrote it down in the newspaper. "I don't
know my name, but I'm calling myself Matt Douglass."
I paused and decided it was time to walk to the bus terminal. I
folded the paper, rolled it up, and put it in my coat pocket. I
walked to the terminal and found a half dozen people there. It was
getting dark and there a slight breeze in the cold air. The bus
arrived and the door opened. A few people exited the bus; only a few
stayed on board. Another worker opened up the cargo door in the side
of the bus and started taking bags. Of course, I didn't have any and
stayed in line. I was fifth to enter and slowly walked towards the
door. I walked up the steps and handed the driver my ticket. I
picked a seat about five seats from the front and sat down. It was
going to be a long drive, so I took off my coat, bunched it up, and
placed it against the window, making it a makeshift pillow. I rested
my head and slowly drifted to sleep. Hopefully I'll remember
everything I wrote down and if I'm lucky, everything else

* * *

"Okay, we're taking this bus to Mexico!"
I open my eyes a bit disoriented. A bus. Okay, I remember now.
Well, I remember at least as far back as when I woke up at the
terminal. I rub my eyes. There's a thin man with pale skin, wiry
black hair, and black scruff around his chin. He's holding a gun to
the driver. His attention is directed at the driver.
What did he say? I pause as the whole thing sinks in. We're
going to Mexico. Mexico? We can't do that. The only shot I have at
figuring out who I am is in Cincinnati. I get up off the seat and
move to the aisle.
He turns around and directs his gun at me.
"Good, sleepyhead is up. Get in the back of the bus with everyone
else!"
He waves his gun at me, directing me to go back.
"I gotta go to Cincinnati." I tell him.
"What are you stupid or deaf? I said get to the back of the bus!
I ain't gonna say it again!"
"You don't understand-"
A large blast rings in the bus and all I can feel is a sharp burst
of pain in my chest. Everything gets fuzzy and my legs get weak. I
buckle over onto the floor.
"Aw shit!" That voice must be the bus driver.
"He had it coming!" the gunman explained.
"He's going to bleed over the carpet walk way. I just got that
carpet clean."
The pain is immense. I tightly close my eyes, grit my teeth,
trying to keep conscious.
"Look, you gotta help me get him out of here if you wanna go to
Mexico."
I hear the bus stop and the two men lift me up. I feel pulled
forward and then pushed off the bus. I roll over and land on my side.
I slowly lift my head, trying to focus. The gunman is in the doorway,
his gun pointed at me.
"You go, too!" the bus driver exclaims as he pushes the gunman out.
The gun man falls a few feet ahead of me. The bus quickly lurches
forward, door still open. The gunman curses and shoots at the bus,
hitting the side a few times.
"Fuck!" he yells, storming around, kicking dirt up in the air.
He turns his attention to me. "You're a dead man!" He aims the
gun and pulls the trigger. Click. "Fuck!"
He gives me two kicks to the stomach and storms off. Everything
goes fuzzy again and I start hearing static in my ears. The last
thing I hear through the static is his words: "You've gonna be dead,
anyway."

======================================================================
SLATE Issue 1 "A Fresh Start" A Metaworld comic.
Copyright 2009 by Ken Cooney, all rights reserved.
======================================================================