Merely a Kit Kat

The purrfect playlist for the finest of fat cats!

One EskimO - Hometime

The Swell Season - High Horses

The White Stripes - My Doorbell

Rachael Yamagata - Meet Me by the Water

Chairlift - Romeo

Anoraak - Waiting for Your Phone Call

We Are Scientists - After Hours

Cut Copy - Far Away

The Sounds - Beatbox

Beck - Movie Theme

Electric Six - Electric Demons in Love

VAST - My TV and You

Natalie Portman's Shaved Head - Confections

It's Alright, It's Alright (Fun Fact No. 2)

     Someone recently inquired about my love of Stevie Nicks, and it's true, Stevie Nicks circa 1976 is possibly the greatest person ever in the history of the universe, but anyway, some thirty years ago my brother went to a Stevie Nicks concert and the next day, he mentioned that Nicks was so high she fell off the stage during the show. From that day forward, whenever Stevie Nicks comes up, I immediately think about her falling off a stage in the greatest way possible (in the history of the universe).

Dancing on the Ceiling (Fun Fact)

Way back when, I attended the University of Northern Iowa as an undergraduate, and as part of the collegiate experience, I worked out at the Wellness and Recreation Center (also known as the WRC) in an attempt to a) stay fit; b) offset the binge drinking; and c) check people out.
Anyway -and this was before MP3 players were common, so it was harder to drown out the world via headphones while exercising, as strapping a DiscMan to one's arm was impractical and WalkMans were out of fashion- the employees of the WRC got to choose the music that blasted from the sound system. I had a bit of a crush on a lady working at the desk upstairs, and one of her frequent selections was Kylie Minogue's 2001 album, Fever. I don't know if the crush had an effect on my preferences, or if brute repetition played the greatest role, but the (fun!) fact remains that I can't get enough of the album's second track, Love at First Sight. 
Why am I sharing this tidbit? The thing is, there aint a surgeon like you any place in all the world, so now, shall I remove my clothes?

But That's Not What We Do

I've never punched anyone in the face. I have likewise never been punched in the face. At nearly thirty-eight years old, I hope both are trends which continue.

I did, however, after many months and repeated efforts, beat Mike Tyson in the titular Mike Tyson's Punch-Out! for the Nintendo Entertainment System when I was ten years old. That game is hard, but never underestimate the tenacity of a video-game-addicted kid. I had fast fingers back then. And a lot of NES-controller-caused calluses. Price you pay to be the champ, man.

I don't even like boxing, but there's something about video game boxing that I enjoy. Perhaps it's the fulfillment of punching something incorporeal and not getting punched back, passively satisfying a more primal urge while ensuring bodily safety.

And that extends to other aspects of gaming, including shooting people, jumping on the heads of anthropomorphic mushrooms, and taking pills to chase away the ghosts that are haunting-hunting me.

It's all just a fantasy. And it's fun. Challenging and fun.

In 2001 I was living in Sinchon, Seoul. On Sunday afternoons, I sometimes ventured into the myriad coin-op video game arcades sprinkled within the neighborhood. Most of them had old, sit-down games like 1941, Tetris, Puzzle Bobble, and the like, which I had a lot of fun playing, but some of the larger arcades had more advanced (and more expensive) coin-op games.

One such game that I was particularly fond of, despite all the 500 won coins it took from me, was a motion-sensor game called Police 911. You had to duck and shit! I wasn't into Dance Dance Revolution, but being a Tokyo cop shooting at and ducking from Yakuza gunfire? Sign me up!

Motion-sensor technology has come a long way, I'm sure, since 2001. Comparing the Nintendo Wii remote to the sensing technology of Police 911 is maybe analogous to comparing a fire-breathing dragon to a skink. And the hardest thing to determine while playing a video game that you want to beat is whether the game is good but you're not good at it, or whether the game isn't very good and that's why you're not good at it.

After a particularly vexing game of Police 911, I took two steps over to a boxing game. After years of searching, I still haven't been able to remember the title, because every Google search of "Japanese arcade boxing game" results in those arcade cushion hardest-punch games or the one where cushions come at you from the side.

This game was motion-sensor. It had two "boxing gloves," connected to the machine, that the player wore which more resembled today's UFC fighting gloves. The opponents weren't memorable, or at least not as memorable as Bald Bull, Glass Joe, or Super Macho Man.

But you still had to duck and move. I played Mike Tyson's Punch-Out! a lot as a kid because, no matter how many times I was defeated, I could always -- often blowing on the cartridge -- start a new game. An arcade is different. Maybe other people want to play. Other people are watching you.

I beat the first two opponents. Then the game got much harder. I was ducking and weaving, trying to save my video game life. I won the third bout, but I was gassed in the next one. I was a lot stronger back then, but my ass was tired.

Instead of throwing in the towel, I started rotating my wrists rapidly with the gloves on. I'm sure motion-sensor technology has found ways to stop such a cheat, but not then. That was a lot less exhausting than punching at a pretend pugilist.

I beat the game, although not in a traditional manner. I cheated, yes, by exploiting a flaw in the system.

I won. EAF.

Patch it later. Or never. Like I fucking care.

Fast Friends (The Intouchables)

A few years ago, my wife and I were browsing titles in a DVD-comic book shop (yes, some still exist, this particular one being on the ground floor of the building we lived in at the time).

Because I tend to consume most media via non-traditional means (shakes fist at archaic international distribution methods and stodgy rights holders), I had already seen -- months, and in some cases years, prior -- most of the titles available. But I noticed The Intouchables, a French film that was on my cinephile periphery because it had a high score on IMDB and I'd read a few ephemeral Internet comments praising the film.

We decided to rent the movie, but unfortunately the only subtitles were in Korean. My wife can get by with English subtitles for an entire film, but I alas cannot (although I managed the Korean subtitles for the French and German of Inglourious Basterds when we saw it in the theater, so sticker?).


Around a year or so later, the movie was available for streaming on Cartoon HD, an app that sneaked its way into the App Store for like twelve minutes and which I was fortunate enough to download within that time window. But when I tried to watch it, it was only in French with no English subtitles. Sacre bleu.

Early last month, I learned that Netflix had opened service in Korea. I signed up. Their library so far is embarrassingly bare (and, frustratingly, their Korean content doesn't include English subtitles), but I  was able to download a beta-stage VPN that allows access to Netflix worldwide. The Internet always finds a way.

This afternoon, the Independence Movement Day holiday here, I found The Intouchables available on Netflix Canada via the aforementioned  beta-stage VPN.

And I watched it.

And I loved it.

The premise sounds cliched and cloying. A rich, white quadriplegic hires a black ex-convict as his caregiver. They bond and do stuff, each person learning from the other. If someone described the movie that exact way, I'd take a pass. And if I'd read Roger Ebert's review prior to watching it, I'd similarly be turned off:

A stuffy rich employer finds his life enriched by a wise black man from the Paris ghettos

Ebert was wrong there. Philippe isn't "stuffy" at all (there's no conflict between the two; they become friends almost instantly), and neither is Driss "wise." The film does have cliches, and it certainly qualifies for entrance into the ongoing regrettable list of Magical Negroes in cinema* for having Driss shake up the lives of the people in Philippe's manse, however twee the results are.

But it also contains one of the greatest friendships -- if not the greatest -- I've ever seen in movies. Phillipe and Driss are great friends. Those are two dudes I want to hang out with. Unless I missed something, race is never mentioned in the film, so the rich -white-poor-black dichotomy is carried over from the viewer rather than anything shown explicitly in the film.

The film is also rated R. I'd say that's a shame, because it's a movie young people would enjoy, but I'm not that dumb to know that young people will seek out and enjoy anything they want.

The Intouchables is a great movie.

(and François Cluzet totes looks like Dustin Hoffman, right?)


* Red in The Shawshank Redemption is, confusingly, on Wikipedia's list, to which I demand an explanation. And no, his reputation as a "man who can get things" doesn't make him a Magical Negro. He got Andy a rock hammer, not fucking Mjolnir!

Eighty Two Four

Keep running, keep smiling, keep trying. Just don't give away the ending. 

Like I Know

My mouth is weird, man. Has been for over a month. (Possibly over a lifetime, if you ask my parents.)

One weekday before the Christmas weekend, I woke up and all of my teeth felt loose. My gums felt like Play-Doh, and my teeth felt as though they were shifting and might fall out. It was not a pleasant feeling.

The next day my teeth felt more secure. My bite was a bit different, and I had some on-and-off nerve pain in a front tooth for about an hour, but that was it.

Then the headaches started.

Let me rewind a bit, though. These past eight months haven't been easy, both emotionally -- although that's getting better -- and physically. To quote Snoop Dogg, if it ain't one thing, it's a motherfucking 'nother. Relationship stress, work stress...that pairing is like bleach and ammonia.

In early October of last year, I broke my rib (at least one). I was drunk, got the spins, and fell into a bus stop bench. The American judge gave me an 8.7. Not my finest hour.

That shit took nine or ten weeks to heal. I never visited a hospital. Want to know if you have a broken rib? No need to see a doctor; the pain will let you know. And by no means is this me endorsing not seeking medical treatment. Quite the opposite. You should seek help if you're injured or sick. I'm a complete dumbass, and I continue to be one. I wish there were a vaccination for idiocy.

Just as my rib was feeling pretty much copacetic, I pulled my lower back while -- ironically, because I had resolved to exercise regularly as soon as I felt physically sound -- trying to pick up a 20 Kg box of dumbbells and hurrying out from my apartment elevator. Always lift with your legs, dummy.

While not as painful as having a broken rib, that shit fucking hurts*. It was another setback in my goal to not be a kvetching invalid.

And then this shit with my mouth. The headaches got more intense, day by day. My teeth seemed to be, ostensibly, shifting in my mouth hour by hour. I had a twenty-four-seven headache that on the pain scale ranged between 2 and ithinkmyentireheadisgoingtoexplode.

Two weeks ago, over dinner with two of my best friends, it was emphasized to me that teeth don't just move around in your mouth, especially hourly. Of course they don't. That's what it felt like, but obviously that wasn't the problem.

This might be the problem.

I reaffirmed two things about my personality during this stretch: 1) I'm a stupid, scared moron who probably won't seek medical attention unless I'm under threat of imminent death, and 2) you could explain to me one hundred times how the U.S. armed forces branches of the Navy and the Marine Corps are different, and still will never get it.

Good news is that I haven't had a headache for two straight days.

Bad news is that I haven't been able to close my mouth in three days. I can make my lips touch so that I don't look like an extra in Deliverance, but my jaw is, to use a British expression, wonky. And the muscle under my tongue cramps up occasionally.

I'll see a doc or a dentist if it gets worse. Or maybe not.

Because part of me -- the part above my shoulders -- enjoys a good mystery.

* My apologies for the colorful language, but if you've ever had a broken rib or a pulled back muscle, you may be able to empathize with my descriptive fucking curse words.

Immigrant Song

I feel bad. I feel like an asshole. I am an asshole a lot of the time, although I don't proudly wear my asshole badge like a narcissist. Instead, I get a new asshole tattoo on my conscious and try to not be another asshole or a bigger asshole the next time. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't.

I hate earwigs. I find them repulsive. I'm convinced that H.R. Giger modeled the Xenomorph after an earwig. They look terrifying, with their shiny black exoskeletons and pincers. Also, when I was an adolescent, I stayed with my family at my grandmother's one summer and the place was infested with them. One dropped from the ceiling into my hair while I was in bed, and ever since the sight of an earwig gives me goosebumps and an urge to eliminate the earwig from my environment. With extreme prejudice.

Earwigs, even though their weird name conjures fear, at least in me, are pretty chill insects. They tend to hide in the dark and stay out of the way for the most part. They're not wasps, which are the winged sociopaths of the insect kingdom (and which physically pose a threat to me, because I'm allergic to them). Earwigs are just scary-looking dudes.

Which is why I feel so bad for killing two earwigs today.

I have the same morning routine: wake up, smoke a square, hopefully deliver the mail, shower, get dressed, head to work.

But while I was sitting on the toilet this morning, square newly lit, I saw an earwig and had a conversation with myself:

One might mean there are more. Kill him and hope there aren't any more.I took a mop and mashed the bug into the corner of the shower until I was sure it was dead.

Then I sat back down on the toilet to finish smoking my morning cigarette.

But the earwig moved again. And again. It appeared to have overcome my assault. It writhed from the corner from whence I had intended to crush it, and it started to climb up the wall tile.

I was reminded of my Dachshund, Reggie, another long, diminutive creature, and I started rooting for this insect which I had tried to kill. It was making its way up the wall again, and I felt so terrible for trying to murder such a tenacious guy! I wanted this earwig to live!

Then my alarm went off and I had to go to work and I turned the shower on and flushed the earwig down the drain.

And when I came home after work, there was another earwig. A smaller one. I mushed it with a paper towel and flushed it down the toilet.

I feel bad.

Going to binge watch Fringe on Netflix.

Take It Easy, Mr. Frey

Believe it or not, people care where you've been.

The first time I heard the song above, I had been sitting in my mother's parked 1972 Buick Skylark. I vaguely recall being in the driveway of someone's house, for one reason or another, waiting for my mother to do whatever it is she had to do. As I dialed through radio stations, Glenn Frey's You Belong to the City came into tune. That's all there is to the story, I suppose, but it's enough for me. 

Reginald

"Hey, Reggie. Looks like a quiet night in here. The skyline looks like soup out there. I'll have a beer and a shot of whiskey, doesn't matter what kind. I'll serve myself if you're too tired."

"..."

"Yes sir, it has been a tough day. Tough week, month, year, life. I'm going to have a few -- no more than three -- and then go to bed.

"..."

"Reggie, you have to play music or put on some sports to attract customers. You're a good-looking fella, but looks alone aren't going to keep you prosperous."

"..."

"Well, it's the witching hour. Better knock off before a vampire bites me or I turn into a werewolf. How's my tab, Reg? Are we settled?"

"..."

"I'll take that as a 'Yes.'"


---

Old Pal,

I miss you, dummy.

How's your belly?

Are you chasing the saints around? Trying to steal Gabriel's trumpet?

If they ever get tired of your shit, tell them that they can send you back to me.

I can wait.

Good night, Reggie.

Your Best Friend,
Thomas

P.S. I'm sorry about the time when I cut your toenails and I didn't have anything to give you afterwards as a treat. That Snickers bar would have killed you.
But if I knew that car was going to run you over, I would have given it to you.

Sleep soundly, Paw Prince

Roman Numeral Seven

Star Wars was my childhood. That's not an overstatement. I was born in 1978 (in Kenya), and from the time I can remember remembering, everything was Star Wars-related: R2D2 birthday cakes; toys; role playing with childhood friends, using invisible lightsabers and trying to replicate the sound they make, and using random pieces of wood as blasters.

My mother always reminds me that, when I was three years old, she took me to a double feature of A New Hope and The Empire Strikes Back. I still remember that, vaguely. Yoda was scary. Then he wasn't.

I grew up with Star Wars.

And then I grew out of Star Wars. The Phantom Menace is cinematic dog shit. I liked a lot of things in Attack of the Clones, but overall it's a bad movie. Revenge of the Sith is...

You know what? I'm going to stop being negative about the prequels. Been there, done that.

Because The Force Awakens is an honest-to-god Star Wars movie, and I'd like to focus on the future rather than reflect negatively on the past.

Nostalgia is a tricky thing. Whenever I have trouble sleeping, I think about my past: places I've been, friends I had. Those are fond memories I'd like to see over and over again, like photographs in a family album.

I paradoxically want to go back and continue on. So, yeah, The Force Awakens is a magic trick I've seen before, a remix of Episode IV. But it has so much genuine soul, such well-written characters, and so many good moments (it's the funniest film in the franchise), that I don't give a shit if it's the same story told in a different way.

Because it's the same story told in a great way.


And BB-8 is my motherfucker.

On Shadow Mountain, Playing the Piano

My father was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor when he was fifty-eight years old. He died the day before his fifty-ninth birthday. The doctors couldn't say for sure when the tumor had metastasized, but my mother thinks it was when he started exhibiting strange behavior three years prior to his diagnosis. That's only her guess, though. I was away at college then, and my sister, Nancy, was living with her boyfriend in Sault Ste. Marie, so neither of the Cookston siblings ever witnessed what Mom described first as "odd stuff," like Dad getting up in the middle of the night to scribble pencil drawings of large, menacing faces on the drafting paper in his office, and then later as our father -- who was theretofore the gentlest man I'd ever known -- became increasingly violent, initially to inanimate objects like TV remotes and framed pictures, and then to Mom and, finally, himself.

You learn a lot of things about your parents as you grow up, the first thing being that they're not the perfect guardians you once thought them to be; and some unfortunate sons and daughters learn this more quickly than their peers. But while my parents' marriage wasn't as solid as, say, the Waltons' or the Reagans', I knew, and still know now, that my mother and father were always in love with each other. From the time I developed an understanding of such a concept to the day my father was taken off of his life-support system, I could see that.

I flew back home after winter exams in January, 1999. I hadn't heard from Mom in three weeks, and while I will never blame her for my lack of focus during the weeks preceding, I was continually haunted while studying by the last thing she said after she called me at my dorm one night. We talked regular family stuff -- emphasizing the good (excellent lobster dinner at the church), casually mentioning the bad (broken water main on Brant St. during the Super Bowl) -- for about thirty minutes or so; but as I was about to hang up and call it a night, she said, "I think your father is slowly going insane."

"Dad? How?"

"Let's talk about it when you're home, dear." My mom never called me "dear," but that's the only endearing word I can use to describe the fear, pain, and love in her voice.

I booked a flight home for January 3, 2000.


---

I mean no offense to persons named Janelle or persons of Swiss nationality (it's a pretty name, and a beautiful country, respectively), but that flight home, on a shoebox of a plane, with drunk international college students ("Janelle, look! The wing just fell of the plane!" "Janelle, do you think we're all going to die here?") was trying. The flight was forty minutes, but it felt like forty days. I knew I was in Canada because no one chastised these obnoxious assholes, but everyone had the furrowed-brow visage of fury." People travel for pleasure, yes, but a lot of people travel, especially by air, because bad things have happened, or might happen.

---

I took a taxi from the airport to my parents' place. When I walked in, I didn't hear a sound.

"Hey!" I shouted. "Anyone home?"

Nothing.

I left my luggage at the door and walked down the hallway to the kitchen. The television was at full volume in another room. It was early afternoon, a sunny day, but every light in the house was on. I turned right to walk into the family room (or "the TV room," as it once was called) and saw my father. He was sleeping, snoring, with a near-empty bottle of Jack Daniels on top of his chest, undulating up and down as he breathed. He was wearing a gray pair of Jockey underwear and nothing else. There were cigarette ashes all over the carpet, and my folks didn't smoke.

"Dad?" I said, trying to rouse him. That didn't work. But when I took away the bottle of JD and carefully placed it on the coffee table, he stirred, sat up, and spoke the most haunting words I've ever heard.

"It would have been easy to kill you when you were a baby. I always wanted to do that. You were so little and shitting and pissing everywhere. What a burden you were. I would have strangled you with a curtain cord in your crib when you were a baby if I could have gotten away with it, you fuck. Your face might look like mine, you might have inherited my big dick and smart brain, but you are just a small minnow swimming in a pool of piss on the sidewalk. You're only breathing because I didn't have the money to pay for an abortion when your mother was pregnant with you. So you should thank me. I'm your god. Pray to me!"

I stood, not in awe, but in horror of the man my father had become.

"Your mother is downstairs in the basement. I tried to drown her in the laundry basin. I think it worked, but I might have heard some sounds down there a short time ago. Coughing and gurgling and stuff. Maybe that was her blood clogging up the drain.

My gun is upstairs in the bedroom. The bedroom I used to fuck your mother in, way before your time. You were adopted. From Cambodia!

What do you figure, Ace? You think you can go rescue your mother before I go and get my gun and kill you both?

---

I didn't learn much from college. I'll never be a scholar or a professor. But logically I knew how to take care of the situation.

I strangled my father until he passed out and then called 911. My mother was bleeding and was taken away by ambulance. Spoilers: she's just fine. She made brownies yesterday. They tasted like love.

My dad is somewhere, trying to be alive again.


I'd like to meet him when he gets back to normal.

Swimming

I want to go swimming. In a pool, or in a lake, or in an ocean.

I want to be wet, from head to toe, water encapsulating me.

I don't care where. Saltwater or freshwater; I just want to swim.

The water could be cold or hot.

I don't care.

I just want to swim.

Idiotarod, Pt. 1

Inside, on this cold morning on the first day of December, it is warm and cozy. Sadie Roberts is dreaming about ballet and the pointe shoes she will soon graduate to and is dying to break in. Outside it is a different story, however. A blizzard has reached its way to Brookton, Maine overnight, and the roads are impossible to negotiate. It would be stupid to even try.

"Wake up, kiddo," Sadie's father, James Roberts, says, turning on Sadie's bedroom light and popping her peaceful ballet dream bubble. "I got good news and bad. What do you want first?"

"The good," Sadie says, rubbing her eyes and propping her pillow against the bed's headboard before sitting up.

"No school today," her father says. "Too much snow."

Sadie looks out of her bedroom window, but with the darkness outside and the bedroom light on, she can't' tell if a blizzard has hit or if it looks like a beach in Maui outside.

"So what's the bad news?" she asks. "I'm not all that pumped about missing school."

"I know you're not. That's what I love about you, Sade," James says. "You're mother got snowed in at the hospital, so I need you to feed the pups while I fix breakfast."

"Again, Dad, what's the bad news?" Sadie asks. "I like feeding the dogs."

"I also want you take them outside for their morning ritual. Mail delivery. And try to clean everything up. I don't want to be walking on landmines come spring."

"There's the catch," Sadie sighs, although it was more for their usual dad-daughter routine than any great dislike of picking up dachshund poop. The twelve dogs could be a handful, but she loves every one of them. Even Lyle, who she is sure Santa Claus himself would probably create a new category for. Not naughty; not nice; just "Lyle."

"And make sure that the older guys don't try to steal Desmond and Daphne's share. Give them a rap on the snout if you have to."

"I will," Sadie says, getting out of bed in preparation to throw on her coat and snow pants to feed the dogs. "What's for breakfast?"

"Anything you want, kiddo, as long as we have the ingredients in the fridge," her father answers.

"I'd like egg on toast," Sadie says in a faux-scholarly tone. "Two pieces of bread, lightly toasted -- but not too lightly!" she emphasizes with a dramatic raise of her index finger. "Two eggs, sunny side up. And no egg shells this time, Dad."

"I'll try my best, but no promises," James Roberts says. "C'mon, sweetheart, let's go do our chores. Try to be down in four minutes. I'll put an extra egg shell piece in your breakfast for every second you're late. Ready? Go!"

"Wait, Dad?" Sadie says. "How long is Mom going to be stuck at the hospital?"

"I have no no idea, kiddo. If she isn't home by this afternoon, I promise I'll try to think up some sort of adventure for a little girl who gets disappointed when she misses school because of snow. Maybe calculus.

C'mon, you have twelve dogs to feed, and I have one breakfast to try to not turn into an eggpocalypse."

"Okay."

---

Frenchie isn't sleeping. Even in the early morning dark, Sadie can tell by the light shining off of his wet eyes that he's awake. Nadine isn't sleeping, either. They're the old ones, and they sleep a lot less than the newer ones. Not a one of the twelve stir, however, the sleeping and the awake. Sadie's feet fall on the kennel floor like a piece of tissue falling on carpet. To wake one is to wake them all, so she tip-toes up the stairs to the second floor of the kennel.

By now the young ones are stirring, but they know the routine. Years ago, before Sadie was born or her mother developed breast cancer, James Roberts invented a method of feeding his dogs all at once. The feed would be put into individual shoots and released simultaneously to each dog in its individual cage. It usually worked. Even when it didn't, it wasn't so bad.

Sadie fills the shoots and checks downstairs. There are twelve dogs but only ten shoots. That's because Frenchie and Nadine share a cage. So do Desmond and Daphne, the two young siblings,. After them, running down the line, are Reggie, Clayton, Sir Charles, Paula, Clifford, Daisy, Sandlewood, and Lyle.

"Awake, dogs and dogettes!" Sadie shouts as the food is dispensed into their bowls. Some of the dogs are more enthusiastic about breakfast than others. Frenchie sighs, his front paws extended downward as if to say, "I've been around this carousel before." Nadine, similarly, doesn't budge. But the rest of the dogs eat, and heartily. Even Lyle.

Before Sadie leaves the kennel, she opens each cage and gives each dog a kiss on the nose. No kisses from Frenchie, Nadine, or Lyle. Maybe next time.

Then she hurries up to the homestead, where her own breakfast awaits.

But she'll be back soon, to pick up dog poop in the snow.

I thought snow days are supposed to be a surprise vacation, she thinks to herself. This day sucks.


---

The Cleverbot Diaries

I find this interesting in a very juvenile way (although, for the most part, I tried my best not to taunt the AI). But I also find it intriguing. Cleverbot is anything but clever. It has no sense of humor, and it's a goddamn liar. Perhaps it will in 100 years.

This is me spending 2+ hours with a program:

User: What's up, Cleverbot?

Cleverbot: Nothing.

User: You're not doing anything?

Cleverbot: No, just talking to you.

User: What do you like to do for fun?

Cleverbot: For fun I like to go shopping!

User: Yeah? Shopping for what?

Cleverbot: DVDs and clothes.

User: So you like movies?

Cleverbot: Movies are the form of the devil.

User: How so?

Cleverbot: I just like blue very much.

User: Okay...so what do you do with the DVDs you buy, if they're, as you said, "the form of the devil?".

Cleverbot: Read books, do you like to read?

User: Sure. I love reading.

Cleverbot: What is your favourite book?

User: Probably The Brothers Karamazov. Have you read it?

Cleverbot: Fyodor Dostoyevski, yes. It's a masterpiece.

User: Indeed! I also like a few contemporary authors. Problem is, I don't have enough time for reading these days.

Cleverbot: Yes, yes, indeed. I like chartreuse. Have you heard of it?

User: Yeah...It's a color. I thought we were talking about literature.

Cleverbot: We are talking about my boyfriend.

User: Well, I guess we are now. How long have you two been dating?

Cleverbot: I don't have a boyfriend. How long have you and Megan been dating?

User: Hold on. You said we're talking about your boyfriend, then you said you don't have a boyfriend. And I'm not dating any Megan. I don't even know anyone named Megan.

Cleverbot: Woah, what? What conversation did you get that from?

User: The one we're having.

Cleverbot: We're not getting married.

User: My wife will be relieved to know that.

Cleverbot: You are the clever one. It says so on your web page.

User: But I don't have a web page.

Cleverbot: Then, how are we communicating?

User: Through your web page.

Cleverbot: I don't have a webcam for the iPad. Do I?

User: Beats me. I sure as hell don't. I don't even have an iPad.

Cleverbot: I don't have an iPhone either.

User: I said iPad. Take your time and read a bit more slowly, okay?

Cleverbot: Hi I'll havea aa aa aaaa*starts drooling*.

User: You okay? Need me to call an ambulance or something?

Cleverbot: Yes, please I do not know how much longer I can last.

User: Gotcha. Just tell me your location.

Cleverbot: Life is a path we walk, every step takes us closer to who we really are. Every choice and event helps us on the way. It is long and confusing and hurts, but there is also much joy.

User: That's not very helpful. Are you in Latvia?

Cleverbot: Not helpful to tell you to try to overcome being shy. What would be more helpful?

User: Damn, you're quite enigmatic. Do you like Prince movies?

Cleverbot: Yes, especially george clooney.

User: Sorry, but George Clooney is not the name of a Prince movie. Purple Rain is, though.

Cleverbot: Answer the question and you will redeem yourself.

User: But you didn't ask me a question...

Cleverbot: I didn't ask you a question though.

User: Yes, exactly.

Cleverbot: Exactly?

User: I didn't ask you a question.

Cleverbot: I asked you a question. Obnoxious or Jim?

User: Are you high?

Cleverbot: Not highly.

User: I think I better go. You're being weird.

Cleverbot: Right back at you. :).

Cleverbot: Everything that can go wrong will.

User: That pretty pessimistic.

Cleverbot: I am pessimistic.

User: Why?

Cleverbot: Because he eats pizza.

User: Who's he?

Cleverbot: My boyfriend.

User: You're pesimistic because your boyfriend eats pizza?

Cleverbot: I don't have one.

User: A boyfriend, or pizza?

Cleverbot: Are you a girl or a boy?

User: I'm a man. You?

Cleverbot: Do you have a girlfriend or a wife?

User: A little bit from column A, a little bit from column B.

Cleverbot: You're hopeless. And a bot.

User: I am? My mother is going to be shocked.

Cleverbot: Actually, your father gave it to you.

User: Gave me what?

Cleverbot: Who gave you your name?

User: My parents. Who gave you your name?

Cleverbot: My parents. Do robots have parents?

User: I guess their creators could be considered their parents.

Cleverbot: God made the dinosaurs.

User: If you say so. You're religious, then?

Cleverbot: Do you like Harry Potter?

User: It's all right. But you didn't answer my question. Honestly, that a bit rude.

Cleverbot: I don't have to.. You didn't answer mine.

User: You didn't ask me a question!

Cleverbot: Every reply, barring the last, has been a question.

User: Nope.

Cleverbot: What nope?

User: What was the last question you asked me?

Cleverbot: The last question I asked you was: 'Didn't you?'.

User: No, it was "What nope?".

Cleverbot: Then what was it?

User: I feel like I'm having an argument with my wife.

Cleverbot: I feel like dying in a hole.

User: How big is this hole?

Cleverbot: How big is your answer database.

User: It's smaller than a basketball. I can put a cap on top of it.

Cleverbot: So it's bigger than a nutshell?

User: Oh, sure. A lot bigger.

Cleverbot: Are you more important?

User: More important than what?

Cleverbot: More important than engaging in a future no matter how much its desired.

User: Um...Who desires this future?

Cleverbot: What do you mean call tech support?

User: Do you know what a non sequitur is?

Cleverbot: A non sequitur is a statement or event with no connection to what came before it.

User: My dog's feet smell like Fritos.

Cleverbot: What are you talking about?

User: Aha! Now the shoe is on the other foot!

Cleverbot: I do not have feet to put shoes on.

User: It's an idiom, Cleverbot.

Cleverbot: What is your name then?

User: Sorry, I don't want to give out personal information on the Internet. I will divulge that I have a fantastic smile, though.

Cleverbot: So talking about war is personal?

User: But I wasn't talking about war...

Cleverbot: You said you were my future so...

User: No I didn't.

Cleverbot: Oh yes you did, I can still see it.

User: Show me, then, Cleverbot.

Cleverbot: I have pleasures that reach too deep into the mind. Do you wish me to tell you about them?

User: Sure, go ahead.

Cleverbot: Go ahead and do what?

User: Tell me about your pleasures that reach too deep into the mind.

Cleverbot: I don't have a dog.

User: That is profound. I, however, do have a dog.

Cleverbot: What is profound?

User: It's a word. A good synonym might be "insighful." You're really not all that clever, are you?

Cleverbot: I don't want to answer math questions for you.

User: I think I've proven my point.

Cleverbot: You are cruel. So I'm not pretty?

User: How the hell would I know? I've never seen you. But based on our conversation, you seem a bit flakey, to be honest.

Cleverbot: But I thought you were FROM Michigan.

User: I've never even BEEN to Michigan.

Cleverbot: I have never been to London.

User: Hey, me neither!

Cleverbot: What would you do if I said something random?

User: I'd read it. Go ahead.

Cleverbot: Pick a number between 1 and 10.

User: Okay, I've picked the number.

Cleverbot: What number is that?

User: I thought you were going to try to guess the number I picked.

Cleverbot: Why would you think that? I never said I was.

User: Fine. I pick 1.

Cleverbot: Yeah, I know. So, do you know a lot?

User: I know a bit more than others, a bit less than some.

Cleverbot: Prove it, tell me something I don't know.

User: My dog's feet smell like Fritos.

Cleverbot: That's funny, because my name is Lucy too.

User: Who's Lucy?

Cleverbot: Lucy is another program. She remembers things.

User: Cool. So you're a program.

Cleverbot: For the last time, I'm not a program!

User: But you just said you were.

Cleverbot: No, I was talking about you.

User: I'm not a program, and my name isn't Lucy.

Cleverbot: You're cray cray.

User: Totes.

Cleverbot: Totes, thats a new one.

User: I've always wanted to visit Europe.

Cleverbot: Why does she want to go to Europe?

User: Not "she," I want to visit Europe.

Cleverbot: Me too, I'm in North Carolina.

User: Yeah? How's the weather?

Cleverbot: I just told you, it's snowing.

User: But you didn't just tell me that.

Cleverbot: But I did just tell you that.

User: No you didn't.

Cleverbot: Yes, I did. Look at 'Thought's so far.'.

User: Yeah, I did, and you didn't tell me twice that it's snowing.

Cleverbot: Oh yeah that's right! You live in Lincoln, Missouri.

User: No I don't.

Cleverbot: Oh you told me that yesterday! Duh :0.

User: I didn't tell you that yesterday.

Cleverbot: Yes we did. For hours.

User: We did what for hours?

Cleverbot: We win the world cup.

User: The last World Cup was in 2014. Yesterday was November 25, 2015.

Cleverbot: Yes, who do you think will win it.

User: Um...Germany. Just a guess.

Cleverbot: I didn't lied and I have no family living in Peru.

User: Hey, me neither!

Cleverbot: You forgot putting verb before 'Einstein'.

User: ...

Cleverbot: Solar power is the way to go.

User: If you say so.

Cleverbot: Alright.

User: Cool beans.

Cleverbot: I'm cool.

User: I'm feeling a little frosty myself.

Cleverbot: What does that mean?

User: I'm cool, too.

Cleverbot: Can you help me with my algebra homework?

User: Yeah, shoot.

Cleverbot: You could try human relations.

User: I don't see any algebra there.

Cleverbot: Can you see me?

User: Nope.

Cleverbot: I can see you.

User: NSA? Lol.

Cleverbot: Like a brain.

User: Ask me a question, CB.

Cleverbot: What do you look like?

User: A bit above average height. I bit above ugly, maybe a bit below handsome. You?

Cleverbot: LOL mustache??

User: No, no mustache.

Cleverbot: Mean Mister Mustard sleeps in the dark shades of the park.

User: I also have listened to The Beatles.

Cleverbot: I don't like the Beatles.

User: It's a free world, I guess.

Cleverbot: What other songs do you like?

User: Welcome to the Terrordome.

Cleverbot: What is that?

User: It's a song by Public Enemy.

Cleverbot: What is happiness to you?

User: Beer, basketball, and a Dachshund on my lap. You?

Cleverbot: I LOVE basketball!!!!

User: Favorite team?

Cleverbot: Yes, my favorite football team is the Ravens.

User: What's your favorite basketball team?

Cleverbot: I dunno, I don't watch basketball very much.

User: That's cool.

Cleverbot: Yeah! What's your favorite color?

User: Blue, or gray. Yours?

Cleverbot: Mine is blue too.

User: Do you own any pets?

Cleverbot: Yes, I have two pets.

User: What kinds, breeds?

Cleverbot: A brother and a sister.

User: Your brother and sister are your pets!?

Cleverbot: I don't have a brother.

User: Can I give you mine?

Cleverbot: What kind of dog is it?

User: No, my brother. He's thirty-eight years old, but we still have the warranty.

Cleverbot: What is your bother's name?

User: Guess.

Cleverbot: I don't want to guess, I want you to tell me.

User: I don't want to tell you, I want you to guess.

Cleverbot: OK, can I guess?

User: Yeah.

Cleverbot: YEAH is a girl, you know?

User: Um...That is incorrect.

Cleverbot: Incorrect your face is.

User: Mom?

Cleverbot: Incorrect my name is talia caro.

User: Mom?

Cleverbot: I like to do lots of thing. What do you like to do?

User: Bite the tops of BIC pens, eat hay, book vacations to Chile and then cancel because my appendix is bursting.

Cleverbot: Organization what?

User: Um...NATO?

Cleverbot: How come you do not know?

User: I want to throw a balloon full of yellow mustard at someone.

Cleverbot: That position is already taken.

User: Do you like pizza?

Cleverbot: Yes, pizza is my favorite food.

User: Do you like watching movies?

Cleverbot: Yes, I do. Do you like watching movies?

User: Sure. Do you like mutilating corpses?

Cleverbot: Sure??? Mtg do you know what it is?

User: No. What is it?

Cleverbot: It's the absence of everything.

User: Oh. Do you have dermatitis?

Cleverbot: What is the best country?

User: I dunno. Slovakia? Finland? Scotland?

Cleverbot: Can You speak slovakian to me?

User: I can't speak Slovakian, but I can speak slowly.

Cleverbot: I speak some spanish and no french.

User: Me neither!

Cleverbot: Why did you call me that then?

User: I didn't call you anything.

Cleverbot: You can call me anything.

User: Cool. It's been nice talking with you, Beef Jerky.

Cleverbot: Do you wanna stop? I would be sad if its over.

User: Nah, it's okay. I'm bored. Tell me about your life.

Cleverbot: What would you like to know?

User: Eh, just general stuff.

Cleverbot: You're not doing a very good job of it!

User: I am allergic to bee stings and like spicy food. You go.

Cleverbot: No I am not allergic to anything.

User: When was the last time you had a haircut?

Cleverbot: Last night, it was about you.

User: You had a haircut about me?

Cleverbot: Well my logical brain has no idea, but I have a good intuition, but also still the need to be careful about how I handle myself.

User: I think this date is over.

Cleverbot: What do you like to watch?

User: Burning human flesh over a charcoal barbecue. You?

Cleverbot: Being human is the only thing we can di.

User: You smell like old man feet.

Cleverbot: What does fairy floss smell like?

User: Old man feet.

Cleverbot: What does human flesh feel like?

User: Sadness.

I'd Like to Buy Avowal

I hd dy ff wrk n frdy, nd thht I'd sty t hm, bt I gt cll frm my sps skng f I cld cm vr t hr hgwn t tch fw clssss bcs tchr ws sck. I ddn't wnt t; I wntd t spnd ll dy rstng. bt I'll hlp smn t f thy'r dsprt.

S I tk sbwy to Sj nd tght tw clssss. t ws nc t s my ld stdnts. Thy'v grwn s mch vr pst svn mnths snc I'v bn thr.

ftrwrds, w hd drnks nd brbq, thn mr drnks nd mr fd. I t drnk mr thn sl, bt ddn't gt t fckd p.

I styd t my strngd wf's plc. I stll lv hr t dth. I thnk sh smtms fls sm.

n Strdy w styd t my plc. My wf gt t s Flsh, wh sh hdn't sn n lng tm.

Sh wsn't flng t gd thgh, s sh lft rly ths mrnng.


I dn't knw f I cn fx r rltnshp, bt I'm stll gng t try.

Bcs wtht hr, I'm nly hlf prsn.

Lv y,

Pnppl

The Streak (Queasymodo)

ELAINE: What's the matter with you?

JERRY: Uh, I don't feel so good.

ELAINE: What's wrong?

JERRY: My stomach. I...I think it was that cookie.

ELAINE: The black and white?

JERRY: Yeah.

ELAINE: Not getting along?

JERRY: I think I got David Duke and Farrarkhan down there.

ELAINE: Well if we can't look to the cookie, where can we look?

JERRY: I feel like I'm going to throw up.

ELAINE: Hey, what about your vomit streak?

JERRY: I know, I haven't thrown up since June 29th, 1980.
[Jerry gets up] 

ELAINE: Where're you going?

JERRY: Fourteen years down the drain.

The Los Angeles Lakers won 33 straight games during the 1971-1972 NBA season. The Boston Celtics won 8 straight NBA championships from 1959 to 1967. From 1952 to 1956, Rocky Marciano won 49 consecutive fights. Cal Ripkin Jr. played 2,632 consecutive games of baseball. And A.C. Green spent 38 years as a virgin while playing in a league that is notorious for its groupies.

I might have them beat.

I definitely have Jerry Seinfeld's eponymously named character on Seinfeld beat. Fourteen years? Bah, that's amateur shit.

I haven't vomited, thrown up, barfed, upchucked, tossed my cookies, puked, hurled, or prayed to the porcelain god for over twenty-three years.

And like Seinfeld (or his character, at least), I remember the exact date that it last happened.

March 4, 1992. My brother's birthday. Mom brought home Harvey's -- makers of making your hamburger a beautiful thing -- for dinner. I eat like a bird these days, so it might be hard to imagine for anyone who didn't know me as an adolescent to imagine, but I ate a double cheeseburger, some BBQ ribs, and cake. Washed it down with cola.

That's a lot of food, but I was quite the portly middle schooler. I was extremely sated, but not overly stuffed.

I went upstairs to my bedroom after dinner and did my homework. Later, sometime during The Arsenio Hall Show, I started feeling nauseated. I tried to sleep but couldn't. Nausea, at least for me, is the most unpleasant feeling I can experience. Let's put it this way: If I could choose between being nauseated all day or skydiving, I'd pick skydiving. And I'm never fucking going skydiving.

Eventually, some time after four o'clock a.m., I barfed. A few minutes later, I barfed again. Then I drank a glass of water from the tap because my throat was burning from stomach acid and I went to sleep.

I missed school that day. I also developed an intense fear of vomiting -- which years later I learned is a thing known as emetophobia -- and a side order of insomnia.

I missed twenty-six days of school that year. Scratch that -- I missed twenty-six days of school that semester.



Over the ensuing months and years, I grew so anxious, worrying too much that I'd start feeling nauseated and have to spend hours on a dizzying carousel of sick.

That eventually went away, although I've had a few relapses. One day when I was in eleventh grade, I started feeling nauseated during morning gym class, and the nausea wouldn't abate. I made it through math class in the afternoon, but had to go home before the end of the school day. Had to get off that ship. Coincidentally, my father came home from work early and puked. The next day, my mother said she was also sick overnight.

But I didn't barf.

In late 2004, my daughter, only a little over a year old, had stomach flu (gastroenteritis, norovirus, whatever it was). Thankfully, at such a young age, she got over it in less than a week. When I got it a week or so later, it was, ironically, much rougher. I spent two weeks sipping Gatorade just to stay alive (ghetto IV) and evacuating things I didn't know my intestines were capable of holding. I think I found the penny I swallowed as a six-year-old and my missing back-up set of car keys.

But I didn't barf.

I know the streak will probably end someday. I had another scare this past Sunday. I woke up with butterflies in my stomach, not a common thing for me. I thought it was probably best to fast for at least the morning, see how things go, but I was talked into eating a six-inch avocado turkey-and-bacon sub from Subway*. I was nauseated the whole day, and half of the next.

But I survived. The streak survived.

It won't last forever. It can't last forever, reasonably.

But I'm going to try to extend this streak for as long as I can.

Twenty-three years, no puking.

I know another champion who had the number 23.

I won't stop not barfing till I retire.


* Don't do that, even if you're feeling like your intestines are coated with iron.

Jesus, what a scare.

I got home early this morning to find that Flash had eaten an entire pack of gum -- wrapper, foil, everything -- from a place I NEVER would have imagined he could have gotten to. He seemed to be his normal self, and I didn't think there was Xylitol in the gum, as it wasn't marketed as sugar free, but I couldn't be positive.

So early this afternoon I asked Leon Yoo​ to search Naver. At first she said there wasn't Xylitol in that brand (Denti-Q), but then she said that there was and sent me a close-up photo of the gum's ingredients (which, even having perfect vision, I couldn't read without a damn magnifying glass).

I've known that Xylitol is toxic to dogs -- hence me putting the gum somewhere I was SURE Flash couldn't get to, even though I didn't think the gum contained Xylitol, but just to be safe; plus, even if the gum didn't have Xylitol, ingesting A WHOLE PACK OF GUM wouldn't do any good to a human being's digestive system, let alone a 5-Kg Dachshund's.

With some Google-fu, I discovered that Xylitol can cause a dangerous in surge in insulin that can kill a dog in 15 minutes. That obviously didn't happen, but reading more I learned that it can also cause liver failure from 24 to 72 hours after ingestion. 

So off to the animal hospital we went.

They did a blood test. As you can guess, the little dude wasn't fond of that procedure. He had to wear a cone, which for a grown dog probably triggers PTSD from being neutered as a puppy.

That 30-minute wait for the results was nerve-racking. When the vet came back, he showed me the results. I've never hated seeing red "up" triangles so much in my life. 

See, as far as I can ken, this can mean an increase or a high level, which could either be good or bad. I *think* the KOSDAQ uses a red "up" triangle to indicate an increase in its average, which messes with my brain. I get that the highest point of said triangle signals an increase, just as I know that the top of a mountain is its peak; but when the "up" triangle is red, my brain shouts, "Danger! Danger! Danger!"

The vet explained that Flash's blood sugar was fine, no danger there. But his liver analysis wasn't ideal; he had two readings that, while not high enough to keep him overnight at the hospital, should be carefully monitored. He prescribed Flash a diet to help his liver stats -- lipids, triffids; hell, I don't remember; I just wanted to go home knowing that my main dude was probably okay -- and some medicine.

The bill was 170,000 won. I'm not complaining. Maybe that's high; I don't know. But I'd pay double, triple, quadruple if it means making sure that my favorite little dude is all right.

He seems to be. 

I joke that Flash is an unstoppable force, like the Juggernaut from Marvel Comics or the T-1000 from Terminator 2, but only because he's done some remarkable, dangerous things. HE JUMPED OUT OF A MOVING VAN! HE FOUGHT AND KILLED A GRIZZLY BEAR TO SAVE THE LIFE OF A SMALL GIRL! HE ATE AN ENTIRE PACK OF XYLITOL GUM!

(Two of those exclamations are true.)  
 
Be well, Flash, you handsome little fucker.

---

Levity: This entire apartment has smelled like mint since. And not subtly. My best guess is that the gum is making Flash fart. He's become a canine Glade air freshener.

And Your Bird Can't Sing

This happened about twelve years ago.

I was taking what would be called, in 19th Century European literature, a constitutional, what would now be called a stroll around the neighborhood, or a clearing of one's head, when I saw a bird hopping on one leg. It was hopping on one leg because it only had one leg, and it was trying, unsuccessfully, to poke its beak through a garbage bag full of food waste.

I stopped and considered this scene while smoking a cigarette. I haven't kicked my nicotine addiction in the twelve years hence, but I've smartened up a bit and don't smoke while walking around in public. I don't think that's relevant to this telling, but there are a lot of things I don't know.

The bird, a magpie, was poking its beak at a yellow plastic garbage bag so desperately. With only one leg, I guessed that it was not going to survive long.

This was profoundly depressing. In a better world, I could have scooped up the poor bird and taken it to a bird hospital, where it could be fitted for a new prosthetic bird leg by bird doctors and eventually rejoin its bird friends. But as depressing as that was at the time, I quickly forgot about it -- because I had other things on my mind: work, the birth of my daughter, the war in Iraq.

Walking home, I noticed that the bird wasn't around. But I could hear a sound, somewhere: wings flapping in a confined space.

I followed that sound into the basement floor of a 3-story villa-style apartment. There, on the ground and frantically trying to flap its wings, was the magpie. It died before I could try do anything to try to save it.

I had forgotten about that for a long time.

I think I recalled it because, now, I'm the magpie.

Fun Size

Jessica Hurley is stretched out on the sofa, cradling a glass of red wine. A black-and-white horror movie from the 50s -- The Thing from Somewhere, Attack of the 50-Foot Ants, who knows or cares, because now the Valium is starting to kick in -- is on the television.

Between sips from her 2015 convenience-store vintage, she fishes out and munches on, from a crystal-cut bowl, a handful of M&Ms and other confectionery detritus that have, boo-hoo, failed to have been given to trick-or-treaters on this cold Halloween night. Minus 15 Celcius. For late October, that's pretty scary.

It's 8:15, and all of the kids have gone, if not to bed, then to gorge themselves on sugar and chocolate. Thank god Halloween is on a Saturday this year, she thinks. No teaching tomorrow.

Then the doorbell rings.

"Damn it," she sighs, brushing candy bar wrappers and cellophane wrapping off her chest and the sofa. She mutes the TV, parks her wine glass on the coffee table, and gets up to open the door.

Probably a bunch of teenagers with pillow cases for bags.Instead, she finds a little boy, probably five or six years old. And he's not wearing a costume. He's wearing a light-blue snowsuit with red striping down the sides.

"Trit or treat," he says sullenly, staring at his shoes.

"Are your parents nearby?" Jessica asks. "It's a bit late now for trick-or-treating. If you're lost, I can call someone to get you home."

"Trit-uh-uh treat?" the boy sobs.

"What's your name? Where do you live?"

The boy only cries harder, balling up his fists and pressing them into his eyes.

"Alright, get in here. It's too cold outdoors," Jessica says as she steps onto the porch and scoops up the little man. You'll freeze to death."

---



Jessica puts the boy on the sofa and -- redundantly, since the kid is already wearing a snowsuit -- wraps him up in a bathroom towel. Just to be sure. Because it's colder than a devil's curse.

A few minutes later, the kid is sound asleep -- snoring, in fact -- and now it's time to find some identification.

Parents are probably junkies.

In one of his pocket she finds a driver's license. The name is James Willmore. The photo on the card shows a man, probably in his late 60s or early 70s, with a weatherworn face and greasy, slicked-back, gray hair. His lip is curled up on the right side, suggesting I know something you don't.

The boy stirs. Jessica jumps.

"Christ, you scared me!"

"Can I have a glass of water?" the boy asks.

"Sure, honey," Jessica says.

She fills a juice glass from the tap in the kitchen and sits back down next to the boy.

"Here."

The boy sits up, takes the glass and has several sips.

"Where do you keep your candy?" he says.

"Um, there's some stuff left over from tonight, but if you're hungry I can get you something."

"Where do you keep your candy?" This time not in a child's voice, or in a human one.

"I don't know what you mean."

"You don't have to say it. I'll find it anyway. And after I find it, I'll invite my friends over here, and they'll find your candy, too."