The Ruiner “All Things Considered” Pt. 3

III. Amateur Spy, Professional Jerk

Philly traffic isn’t as bad as New York traffic, but that’s no consolation when you’re stuck on a bridge due to the brutal one-two punch of road work and a six-car pile up caused by some idiot who couldn’t put their phone down. The cacophony of honking horns, screaming drivers, and sirens had most of the motorists in a full-fledged rage. Not the Ruiner, at the moment he was enjoying being a spy so much that nothing short of a phone call from work could blow his mood.

The bridge was situated near a sewage processing plant and the air always smelled like shit. Even with the windows rolled up. The putrid stench was no match for Harris’ enthusiasm but didn’t it seem to be improving the overall mood of the other stalled commuters. Eventually, after nearly an hour of limping along, traffic returned to its normal pace.

Harris wondered if he should call his “handler” back at the hotel and let him know about the traffic delay. He also just realized that he forgot to get a code name. This almost upset him until he realized that forgetting to get a code name was exactly something that an amateur spy would do.

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T.J. Washington In “B Is For Basement” Pt. 4

Late to the game? Catch up here.

IV. 21 and Done

I took a nice long drag on my cigarette and exhaled it over the top of my coffee mug so I couldn’t tell the smoke from the steam. I looked at my wrists again, just to make sure I wasn’t dreaming as I thought about the dream I had just finished doing. I say doing instead of having because it’s a more accurate description. After all, the point of language is to, as close as is possible, describe things that you can’t point a finger at and say “That’s what I mean.” Language does the best it can at this despite being used mostly by people.

Before I lulled myself into an internal debate about the differences between language and communication, I pulled a beat-up leather-bound journal from underneath the pile of last week’s mail. I had bought it years ago with the intention of keeping a daily journal of my thoughts and activities but got distracted from writing them down by the nature of my daily thoughts and activities. I fished a pen out of the pocket of the shirt I slept in and clicked it three times even though once would have been plenty.

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Jimmy Jam, Sally Slam and The Rude Awakening Pt. 6

The Rude Awakening Pt. VI

“King me, Magus,” Sally said while pushing one of her red checkers to the end of Grand Father’s side of the board. Grand Father complied with a smile. He wasn’t even trying to lose on purpose, Sally just had a gift with checkers.

Jimmy was sitting on the couch watching cartoons and eating potato chips after having been eliminated from the checkers tournament three games ago. He failed to notice an opportunity to double-jump Sally and as a consequence ended up squaring off against four kings who had backed his remaining pieces into a corner. He never stood a chance.

All three were dressed in their formal robes and had spent the past two and a half days playing games and being lazy. Not the usual kind of lazy, but rather the well earned, justified sort of lazy that happens every once in a while if one is lucky.

Meanwhile back at Jimmy and Sally’s houses, their Parents had been asleep for the past two and a half days. They weren’t sleeping out of laziness but rather as a side effect of the counter-Whammy Jimmy’s Grand Father and the Spirit of Jimmy’s Grand Mother had placed upon them. While they slept each Parent was visited by the spirit of Jimmy’s Grand Mother who explained to them, one by one, how they had crossed the line by placing a Whammy on their children instead of parenting them.

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The Ruiner “All Things Considered” Pt. 2

II. Professional Jerk, Amateur Spy

Harris hung the phone up and sat down on the bed. He was trying to decide how responsible he should feel about the man on the phone’s death. Did he get shot as a direct result of losing the diamonds? He seemed to think that was a reasonable conclusion. If he was expecting a mule to show and the mule showed up empty handed and told him a story about a stranger stealing his bag and giving him a weird business card, he’d probably make him call the number on the card and then shoot him too. It just made sense.

“Damn,” He said out loud. “This is going to take at least a few days to clear up.” He continued, but this time he just thought it: “This isn’t the time to be talking to myself,” as he continued to consider the situation.

He felt responsible for Rodger’s death, probably because he was. And because he felt a pang or two of guilt over it, he was willing to spend up to two days trying to find out who did it. One day didn’t seem like enough time and three days was out of the question. He was only planning on staying a week and didn’t want to waste half of it solving some murder he felt was only mostly his fault.

After a while of quiet contemplation and internal debate, Vincent Harris decided that calling his boss would be in his best interest.

He took out his work phone and hit the only button on it. He listened to the ringing sounds while mentally drafting his conversational opener.

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T.J. Washington In “B Is For Basement” Pt. 3

Late to the game? Catch up here.

III. 3×7

“I’m not the devil,” the man stressed before taking a sip of his beer before continuing, “I’m a devil and I hear you’re a shaman.”

I guessed I was in a bar. I hadn’t looked around yet, but judging from what I already experienced, bar seemed a safe bet.

This would be pretty weird if it happened while I was awake, but was pretty standard for double dreams. People are always acting like this in double and triple dreams. I’ve never met anyone who’s been in a quadruple dream.

“C’mon now,” I said as I raised my palm and pushed him back with my eyes.

“Sorry, didn’t see your light.”

“Easy mistake, I tend to keep it covered or dimmed,” I said turning to leave.

“Understood, nice knowing ya.”

“Likewise,” I replied while going through the door.

Once through the doorway I found myself sitting across from an old man, obviously a widower judging from the decor. I was wearing a black suit, a red shirt with a black tie and a two-toned hat. One of the tones was black and the other was red. We were smoking pipes in silence, one of my favorite things to do on a cool fall evening, which a glance out the window confirmed it was.

After some time two little kids came through the door without guns. One was dressed like a witch but with a long gray beard and the other was in a wizard’s robe. Must be Halloween. They were holding a broom and staff respectfully. The items looked familiar for some reason unknown to me. Recognizing stuff you don’t isn’t anything that usually needs to be worried about in a dream. No telling where one’s mind pulls dream imagery from. It’s not a question I ponder much.

The kids seemed nice enough but it was too late for them to be coming in and they didn’t have any candy. Candy-less kids on a day like this is dirty pool, even for dreams. They were covered in what I intuitively knew to be monster guts. We had a pleasant enough conversation, I suppose. I decided to leave a few minutes after I was referred to as “Grand Magus” by the old man. I knew what one was, that I was one, and why I was dressed in the manner I was. I wasn’t happy about it though.

The imagery was indicative of some of the parts of my Self that I don’t put forward very often. The reasons I choose to put a bushel over my light, so to speak, are mine to keep. Exerting spiritual or magickial energy can be, and usually is, a nuisance wrapped in a hindrance. I prefer to remain invisible to the unseen universe as much as I possibly can. Easier for everyone that way.

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