I don't know what it is...

Maybe its the way you look at me... 
The slight seduction in your eyes as your left eyebrow raises when you reach over the table to grab my awaiting, open hands.  The way your mouth hangs open and your lips curl into a smirk that sends my heart spinning as if it didn't bare a painful hole. 

As if dancing to a beat, my heart stops, briefly.  Then it slams into my ribs and twirls like a cage dancer. 

You are the composer of the techno beat that moves my inner soul.

Or maybe its your smile... 
That smile makes my face change for a split second.  My eyebrows almost shoot up and force intense creases in my forehead.  My eyes almost grow heavy as my shoulders slump and my lips almost form the first of three words that I shouldn't be uttering just yet. 

So I catch myself before I fall because part of me knows that you'll be waiting with open arms to deliver those three words back.

Or maybe its the way you call me "Babe..."
Quiet and unheard by the people we're dining with, but I hear it loud and clear as if my left ear works perfectly.  In that moment, I hear nothing  but the sound of your sweet, raspy voice.  Sounds as if you constantly have to clear your throat. 

You probably think it makes you sound weak, but when I look at you, I see the strongest woman I've ever wanted. 

Baby, I could hear your shout amongst millions.  I could hear you speak softly from down the block with a fire truck blaring behind me.

"I love you..." 
The words fall out of your mouth in a cracked whisper. 

They reach my ear with triumph like an astronaut on the moon.  Your smile carrying the same radiance as Neil Armstrong's American flag.  My heart, my brain, my stomach become one blob inside me. 

I think about all the times I've heard those words and how insincere they turned out to be in the long run.  I think about how dumb my face must look right now: Surprised, a little caught off guard, but happy to have someone to say those words to me at all, let alone someone as gorgeous as you are.
 
I think about thinking about not saying it back...
How hurt you would be.  How angry with yourself for coming out of yourself for some guy who can't even bring himself to say the words back.  I think about seeing the happy turn to hurt on your face. 

I think about losing you...
I think about losing you, and I swear, my heart begins to cry like a puppy who's owner just threatened to take away its favorite bone. 

The thought of losing you makes my soul want to follow you home--And its because Eye Low View Two. 

I don't know what it is...
But this is something stronger than anything I've ever felt. 

So this time, I don't catch myself.  I fall.

Suspect: Teresa Boittman

"My last encounter with George was an interesting one. He wanted to come inside after dropping Adrian off. He had a coffee. I was amazed at how little he had changed since the divorce. Still cute in the way he held his coffee mug. The way his knee bounced up and down whenever he was in a new environment; a sign that he was nervous and probably hungry. Adrian wanted to show him around but he kissed our litttle boy and told him to bed. So gentle in his voice, it only slightly brought me back to a happier time. Slightly...what's a word for the opposite of slightly? I got so happy that in the same moment I became angry. Mad at George for ruining our relationship and making our child suffer through watching his parents separate. Making that... Secretary of his take care of my baby. Letting her walk around in skinny outfits and bikinis on the beach in front of my child and posting pictures of the three of them on Facebook, looking like a wholesome family of three. He told me in my living room that he never stopped loving me. He told me that he sometimes regrets the decision that he made, but he's facing it by living through it--and I knew--I knew it was bullshit, but for that moment I needed to believe it. I embraced him. I took him. He took me. We were in love again. High school students--graduates of 2008, prom King and Queen, George Megauntry and Teresa Boittman. It was as if we were conceiving Adrian again. I went to sleep with love on my mind and remorse on my heart. Because, what was he going to tell Monica? Poor Monica. Should have seen it comin'. I woke up the next morning with a smile on my face that quickly faded into a tight lipped frustrated frown as I read the note he left on my pillow. "Going back home to my wife," it said. "The next time I drop Adrian off will be the next time I take you to Heaven." And just like that, I was back in my bittersweet moment from the night before; pissed that he would dare refer to that... Secretary as his wife--to ME. Yet ready and willing to play Sexual Russian Roulette with her. She, who hadn't a clue of the ride to the ninth cloud that her husband had given me three times that night. I watched him drive away with a frustrated smirk and slammed my apartment door. That was the last I saw of my ex husband, your honor. So I did NOT kill George Megauntry."

Suspect: Monica Anderson-Megauntry

"I tore his glove compartment apart looking for the one thing that would tell me that he had been committing adultery. If he wouldn't admit it, his car sure would. The smell of sex had already replaced that New Car aroma. But that's not enough, no. Not in this day and age. Men will always find an excuse for any foul thing they choose to live with. Of course, its also not enough that I, myself started out in this relationship as the other woman. After marrying Mr. Megauntry, there was no need to work as his secretary anymore, says George. And just like that, I became a stay at home wife. Stay at home...while your husband bangs his new assistant when he's supposed to help take care of the child that didn't come out of my womb. Stay at home while he goes to the strip club with his pool buddies and makes up a different excuse, every Thursday as to why he has bruises on his neck. Hickeys are what they were called in high school, right? George always said it was rough housing at the pool hall. There's going to be some rough housing alright, I thought. But it wouldn't be from his friend Joe. Nor would it come from its the real source; the lips of Candy, the stripper. When I broke the door of my husband's glove compartment, I didn't find any gloves. I didn't even find his car's reading manual. No, I found the one thing that told me that he had been cheating. In fact, it was more than ONE thing. It was a plethora of items that were just so ungodly and repulsive... The only words I could even bring myself to utter were "...My husband is a freak." Three pairs of women's underwear, four boxes of condoms all stuffed with empty condom wrappers. There was a lime green wig and even a small whip. My husband was definitely cheating on me. So, your Honor, you're right. I did think that my husband deserved some sort of punishment for making me pack my things immediately and call a divorce lawyer, for humiliating me when I found out that the whole neighborhood had known what he was up to. I thought my husband deserved the ultimate punishment for breaking the vows of our marriage. But I left too abruptly to cause him any physical harm. Besides, I loved that man. I did NOT kill George Megauntry."

Who killed George Megauntry?

Hi guys, Bryan here. So before we begin, I feel the need to tell you a few things about George Megauntry. He's a very nice man, sophisticated and handsome. You have to go into these stories with the idea that he's somewhere between James Bond and Frank Sinatra. He's extremely smart. I'm assuming he would have to be; he's VP of a big marketing company in New Mexico. Megauntry's only real vice is women. Can we really blame a man for loving women? Haha...I'd like to give a quick thank you to my good friends Chris Dane and Paige Cook for making up the names of all the characters in this saga. You guys helped give life to my ideas. You two are the best! Alright, get ready to read. I hope you guys like it. Oh, and there WILL be pictures coming soon to these blogs. Even the ones I post today, they'll be up eventually to help with the telling of each story. So yeah! Let's get it started!

WHO KILLED GEORGE MEGAUNTRY?
The following blogs are documentations of the testimonies of the suspects behind the George Megauntry murder. George was found burned to death in his car on May 3rd, 2028. His autopsy confirmed that he had been stabbed repeatedly before his car burst into flames. The suspects are George's widowed wife and his ex wife. There is also testimony from George's 7 year old son, who was witness to the murder. All testimonies were told in front of Judge Harold Hyman and a jury of 12 as well as an outstanding court room audience...

Death: Bittersweet Bliss

Bad car accident. Happens to the best of us.
She can still feel the shards of glass brushing against the back of her neck as she flew through the windshield.
She can feel the broken bones in her face, her back and her legs.
The pain is fading, she's accepting her own loss. But she's puzzled, and a moment too late, she realizes that she shouldn't be asking herself this question at this time. She's asking herself "Why do people call it passing on?"

Jessica was a good girl. Her mother was devastated when she got the news.
She wishes she could tell her mom that she's OK.
Her boyfriend, too. He's hysterical.
She wishes she could tell all of them that she'll be OK.
Her roommate, Jennifer. Her best friend Jae. Her father, too. Cause as much as he liked to hide it, he loved her.

She's gonna miss them, right? Its hard to tell. She's so...at peace right now.
This feeling...its like being in love, but having no money to pay the mortgage.
Its like graduating college, but not having a job in the real world.
This is like buying a new iPod, but having no songs on your iTunes.
Its like getting every gift you asked for on your birthday, but the person you love the most couldn't make it to the party.
Is this what bliss really is?

She's not alone, no. She sees the hearts of millions welcoming her.

This is dying. And as her soul escapes her body, Jess opens her eyes. She sees her soul touching the greater beyond but she wants to suck it back in and tell everyone that they've been saying it all wrong.
She wants to scream to the world that dying should not be referred to as "Passing On"
We shouldn't say "So and so is dead," "So and so died" "So and so passed on"
Those don't sound good. Those words are not what describes this...this indescribable approach to new life.
Death isn't the inevitable, dreadful act of DYING.
Death the embraceable journey to the everything you've ever wanted...
But she'll never get to tell them. They'll all have to find out for themselves....=/

I Deserve This....

You probably think I deserve what's about to happen to me. You're probably right. But I don't deserve this for any reason that you're assuming. You probably think that this girl is nice, she's probably very sweet in your eyes. Look at her little Forever 21 hoody/sweater that she got half off cause her sister works there. Her carefully ironed skirt--and her cute pony tail. She's gotta be a sweetheart! Probably a cheerleader, right?  A wholesome hometown girl with ambitions and goals. Yeah, and I probably said something way mean to her, huh?  If you're assuming all of this--you're a judgemental son of a b**** (or daughter, I don't wanna rule any genders out). No, I don't deserve this for any reason other than the fact that I shouldn't have been at lunch with this girl. This...this psychotic, sociopathic...freak of a woman. Let me take you back...

March 9th, 2009. I met Cindy at a Coffee Bean. Normally, I'm not one to approach a good looking woman. I mean, look at me. I kind of resemble Steve from Blue's Clues, I work at the Genius Bar in the Apple Store and I'm majoring in Geometry. The only time women even talk to me is when they didn't understand something our professor said in class. Which is ridicuous, in my opinion. I mean, how many times does he have to say that a quantum of electromagnetic energy is a photon? It does give me some satisfaction, though, when the prettiest girls in school ask to exchange notes. But that's all they want to exchange with me. Notes. Meanwhile, they're exchanging bodily fluids with the cool (douchebag) musicians and the (douchebag-er) football players. But there was something about this girl. She was special. She was different. She looked at me, winked at me. If I wasn't standing with my back against a wall, I would have sworn she was gesturing to some guy behind me. Long story short, I got her number. I'm not gonna go into details on how I tripped over an old man's cane while making my way over to her. It probably didn't help that his wife hit me in the back with her purse for not apologizing. But I was trying to keep my cool, and I did that to the best of my ability. Luckily, in her eyes, clumsyness is attractive. 

Cindy and I ended up really hitting it off. She was beautiful! At first I was having trouble believing that she liked me; no woman LIKES me. She had to be using me for something, right? Maybe she needed some help with some extremely hard science project or something. But after a while--she seemed genuine. Where other women would say that I was clumsy, she would call me handsome. Where other women would say I was a dork, she would say I was sexy. Some women would consider it repulsive to see me picking my nose with the same intensity as a dwarf fighting a midget for the last sip of sparkling champagne at a bar... But she would just tell me to stop and kiss me on my cheek. We also had a lot in common. She played tennis in middle school, I play ping pong with my friends on Saturdays. She was on the boys high school wrestling team, I watch WWE every Monday...sometimes. She plays the electric guitar in a band in college, I'm at PRO level on Guitar Hero! We were like--meant for each other.

That's what I thought, at least. Something happened, though. Something really weird. It was like waking up, expecting another ordinary day in heaven, but finding yourself in a level below hell. Cindy had become noticably needy. I embraced it for the first day. I thought it was cute, receiving ten text messages from her in the same minute. I even overlooked it when she jokingly said she would kill herself and our baby if I didn't propose to her on our six month anniversary... Which, I personally thought was weird, being that I'm still a virgin. But coming home at 1am from work and seeing her in my tub... Not showering, crying... That can take a toll on a man's equilibrium (I fainted). Especially since she didn't have a key to my place. I ended the relationship out of fear that I would wake up one day, hanging from the ceiling fan by my intestines.

She was crazy, and I had to face that. I wish I could tell you that this is where the story ends. That I lived my life, Cindy-free and got married to some sane lady ten years from now. But I agreed to have lunch with the, now rehabilitated Cindy. She had just gotten done telling me how great her life is without me. I would have believed that everything was fine until the look she just gave me. Its a demonic, Lisa Lampanelli type of look. "You see this cup, Jared?" She's just asked. "This cup holds revenge for what you've put me through. My soul burned when you left. My heart melted. And now you will feel the same sensation." ...Battery acid. She put battery acid in her milk. She hadn't taken one sip from that cup, I should have known. I should have known a lot of things. For one, I should have known that it was beyond dumb coming to lunch with her behind a mountain where no one would find my body. I should have known that she would try to harm me in SOME way...I should have known! Ignorance can only be blissful to children, adults get penalized no matter the circumstances. And here I am, about to recieve a face full of acid-milk. So if you think I deserve what's about to happen to me, you're absolutely right.

The Rapist

He sits across from her, legs crossed, left shoe untied. He takes note of it when he hears the laces slapping against his loafers as he dangles one leg over the other. A sophisticated man, yes. But not sophisticated enough to care when he sees that his shoe is untied. Her eyes move up from his feet to his legs to his button up shirt hardly covering his chest. She's barely uttered a word since lying down. All she can think of is how ashamed she should feel for knowing that this man is bad, but wanting everything he's about to give her. She's always been attracted to him. And now...well, now that he's admitted to being what he is, he can have her. Little will he know, she'll be having him as well. Her girlfriends also know him. Married like she is, they have vowed never to see him again, now that he's a bad man. She on the other hand, has been waiting for a moment such as this. Two buttons undone from her blouse and he'll be all over her...

Something is off, though. Everything seems the same as it always is. The thoughts in her mind almost being interrupted by the tick tock sound in his watch. The one light sigh that is released from his nostrils; his passive aggressive way to let her know that her time is almost up. She sits up, frustrated. "Why haven't you taken me?" She almost screams at him. Shocked by her own rage, she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror behind him. Maybe two buttons undone was too much. She doesn't look sexy, she looks eager. Still calm and collected, gentlemanly and handsome, he says "I'm going to get that fixed this weekend." Pointing at the door, he fights back a smirk, but loses all too easily. She realizes a week too late what's really going on. Embarrassed, she gets up, buttons her shirt to the top and storms toward the door. "You knew, didn't you?" She asks. "Mrs. Waters," he says, still smirking, "I've always known."

He helps people.

He listens to their problems.

He sits patiently while they scream.

People once called him their savior, now everyone runs from his office door...everyone except Mrs. Waters.

He is the rapist. Smart, sophisticated gentleman. He went to school for his profession.

He's losing business now. All because now people think he's the type of person who hurts women...or men, whatever.

His clients are petrified of him...all because of a typo. On his office door, under his name reads: The Rapist...he's getting that fixed this weekend. By Monday, it'll be back to Paul Manning: Therapist.

Blogging From My Phone...

Hey guys. This is me--bored. I'm currently sitting in a car, waiting for a certain someone to finish up with their rehearsal. I was wondering what I'd be doing in the meantime. I have yet to do any successful book shopping, so reading is really out of the question. No big deal, though--I can just blog from my phone! And here I am. No particular topic to discuss, just phone bloggin'. Haha. I'd really like to that everyone who showed even the slightest enthusiasm for my Rose Palms Motel stories. I appreciate all the love you guys gave me for that. And the patience with the 3rd story! I had become a slave to Artist Procrastination, and I when I looked up, a month had gone by! But thanks for keeping the love going even afterwards! Um...so I've got a couple more stories coming your way pretty soon. I'm just giving it a little time. But I will be back very soon with some more interesting stories for you guys, I promise! In the meantime--I should remind you all that I am a rapper--and I'm one half of The Crown Holders, so feel free to see what we've been posting on our blog http://crownhders.blogspot.com, and if you have a Twitter account, follow us @TheCrowmHolders. Everyone be safe, stay blessed and keep reading my crazy, funny, weird and sometimes violent stories.

-PrinceComodity

Rose Palms Motel - Room 340

The Final Chapter...
August 4th, 2008
Rose Palms Motel - Room 340
9:25pm

Puppets. That's what they all were to him. Or a farm of ants. He knew that he could do whatever he wanted with them, and he did exactly that. Most people would call him a vindictive monster. They'd say he was some kind of tyrant or something. A son of  a b**** would be a better term. He always called his mother that, in the back of his mind, so he'd be OK with it. The only title he would not accept was murderer. Because he wasn't murdering anyone. He wasn't a killer. All he had done was conveniently placed all his fish in the same barrel, and strapped a bomb to the ugliest one.

Mr. Mitchell had an argument with his daughter on the night before her wedding. "Daddy, I love Russie," Miranda whined. "I cant believe you're being so selfish. I'm getting married to him no matter what you say!" Mr. Mitchell had been trying to pull his daughter away from Russel since the day they met. Which had only been a month ago. He wanted his daughter to remain a virgin for the rest of her life. He knew his daughter fell in and out of love quickly. And frankly, he was tired of it.

Mr. Mitchell told his wife, who was concerned with what he would do to Russel after the wedding, that he decided to "fall back" as his grandsons would say. He told her that he would let Russel and Miranda figure out that getting married after one short month was a mistake. They'd get over each other as quickly as they fell in love. Mrs. Mitchell wasn't happy with that solution, but she wouldn't argue with him any further. Besides, it put Mr. Mitchell in a state of contentment. Unfortunately, Russel's Uncle Joey had picked a fight with the wrong guy at the wedding. It was as if Joey had no idea that Mr. Mitchell WAS who he was! Mr. Mitchell was the boss of all bosses in his neighborhood. In his STATE! No one messed with him. But Joey had a little too much to drink, and after all the commotion had settled down, he put a phone call through to Big Tony...

Big Tony and his brother Robbie were screw ups. Mr. Mitchell hated them for the way they messed up his business. The reason he was thrown in jail two years ago was because of a situation that involved those two idiots shooting at police officers in the middle of Manhattan. That was all it took, and Mr. Mitchell's whole operation was shut down. It took a year for things to get back to the way they were, but he knew better than to let Tony and Robbie screw that up again.

The Devil. They often called him the Satan of New Jersey. Mr. Mitchell could politely convince a man to kill himself with one just conversation. That's what he had done with Percy Mason... Percy owed Mr. Mitchell $100,000 and he just couldn't, for the life of him, come up with the money. Rather than hire another one of his goons to "handle the situation", Mr. Mitchell decided that he would get rid of Percy Mason, but he would do make HIM do it. Percy went to Mr. Mitchell, desperate and depressed, so that he could have his family killed. Mr. Mitchell told him how to get rid of them, but then he had convinced Percy to take his own life afterwards.

Everything was set. Big Tony and Robbie were beating the crap out of Joey in room 140. Percy Mason had been in his room, 240 waiting for the police to come. And Miranda and Russel were on their mini honeymoon room 241. Just like everyone else, Mr. Mitchell had been watching the news, and he had heard the police coming for Percy Mason from the window of the room he was was waiting in. For some reason, Mr. Mitchell was sure his room would not be affected by the blast from the final Mason Bomb... He was very, very wrong.

Mr. Mitchell could hear screams from the police officers, he could hear Russel's cries as he was being burned to death. From his window, he could see Robbie's body being thrown into the parking lot of the Rose Palms Motel on top of a squad car. And all in one split second, he could feel an immense amount of heat. It started at his feet, he felt his toes burn, but everything was happening too quickly for him to react. Then he felt it in his legs, his stomach, his chest, his neck, and then everything went black. When he opened his eyes, Mr. Mitchell saw a sea of flames surrounding his face. The man who planted the seeds for everyone who had booked a room on the east building of the Rose Palms Motel to die, had just inadvertently committed suicide. And now here he was, starting on his mission to the center of the earth to meet the real Satan.

THE END!!!...Hahahaha

Rose Palms Motel - Room 240

August 4th, 2008
Rose Palms Motel - Room 241
9:27pm

Professor Percy Mason never took his anger out on anyone.

He had been sitting there for 30 minutes. Remorseful, sad, hungry and guilty. He wanted to pull the bible out from one of the drawers of the motel room. But God would never forgive him for the things he had done. The authorities would find him sooner or later, and they would take him to jail. "God forgets about those who reside in jail" he used to tell his most troublesome students. Those words had just ricocheted off of the last kid he said that to, and it peirced his heart like a harpoon. Now he had to use the restroom. He hated this feeling in the pit of his stomach that seemed to be attached to his ribs. He rubbed the top of his head, half expecting hair to still be there, even though he'd been balding for three years. As he nervously ran his hand across his scalp, every moment that lead up to him sitting on the bed of this motel room came rushing back to him. Things did not go according to plan for Percy. Things never went according to plan for him, but he had originally thought that what he did was going to liberate him; free him from the hell he had put himself in all those years ago. Yet for some reason, all he could feel was sorrow. He missed them--all of them, even his wife. Actually, his wife was who he missed most. He blamed himself. Why didn't he just get a divorce, if he was that unhappy? Why didn't he just move out? Or hell, even if killing them was the only option, why didn't he just do what every husband driven to insanity does and chop them up with an axe?

No, he had to "Go All Out" as his students would say. Creating seven bombs from scratch in the basement of the five story house he lived in. He had to buy 7 Rolex watches for makeshift timers. Long story short...he had blown up his home. Percy had killed his whole family. His wife (1) Merta and her mother (2) Diane. His three children (4) Chauncey, (5) Charles and Deron. Deron was not his child. Merta had had an affair some years ago, and when Deron was born, his real dad showed up with proof that he was the father of that baby. It was obvious...the boy had come out of the womb as chocolate as a Hershey bar. His brother in-law, (6) Mort and his wife Tina were sleeping in the guest room, visiting from Ohio--they, too had suffered the fate of the Mason Bomb. That's what the news had called it. The Mason Bombing. He wasn't watching the television, but the Fox 5 news reporter was buzzing in his ear from it. They were talking about Percy like he was some kind of monster. But they had no idea what he had been through. They had no idea that THEY were the monsters! The in-laws, the wife, even the KIDS! Oh, the kids. Those devilish little beings. They had to die. All of them. Right?...No? Should he regret it? He should, shouldn't he? Whatever. It was done. He had murdered them...he was a murderer! Percy Mason, the man who freaked out and killed his entire family. Blew up his whole life like some kind of terrorist in Freehold, New Jersey. Jumped into his dark green Mercury and drove at 105 mph to Patterson was now sitting on a bed at a lousy motel, thinking about life. About the lives he had taken.

He could hear commotion coming from downstairs. It sounded like a man was getting punched repeatedly. What kind of dirty rotten scoundrel would beat up a man in a hotel room?...was he any better? He was beating himself up without even moving a muscle. He had done this before whenever he was sent up to his room after a verbal beating from his wife and mother in-law. Even after Mort would call him a whimp and tell him that he wasn't good enough for his beloved sister. But he would get comforted later, by all of them. They would all tell him that he would learn to grow, and they would one day accept him into their circle. He looked forward to that, but he had killed all of them. How could he seek comfort from the family that he had just killed? And now the cops had found where he was. The news reporter was saying something about the cops pulling into the motel parking lot. He could hear the sirens on the television and from outside of his window. He sat there anxiously and daydreamed about a life in jail. He thought about how horrible they would treat him there. He thought about the quote he would tell his students that he got from his grandmother: "God forgets about those who reside in jail." Grandmother was right. Jail would have been like hell. Would have...if he hadn't gone through with his plan. Three loud knocks on the door of room 240. "Open up, its the Police!" Even though he expected the loud knock and the disturbing voice coming from outside, it still jolted him out of his daydream. He heard the door from the room below open slowly, but loudly. Then he heard a gun shot! This was the perfect opportunity! He rushed to the briefcase in the corner of the room and set the detinator on the seventh bomb he had made.

"Stop right there!" He heard one of the police men scream to whoever was causing commotion downstairs. There was another knock at Percy's room door. He opened it quickly with a smile on his face. "Hello officers," Percy said with a wide grin. Those were his last words. The (7) seventh bomb was the biggest one he made. It was originally crafted to take out all 5 stories of his home in Freehold, but he decided that making 6 for each of his family members, and killing himself and those who tried to take him to jail, also known as hell, would be more benefitial in the long run.

The bomb exploded and took out 4 rooms. Percy's room was the first to go, obviously. Big Tony and Robbie's room was taken out next. Robbie survived but lost his arm, leg and a chunk of his neck. Tony wasn't so lucky. Neither was Joe, who had still been tied to a chair. Miranda and Russle died slowly. They weren't exactly...blown up. The fire from the blast had swallowed them like a fat man at a hot dog eating contest. The scene was tragic, onlookers said. And in the fourth room...in the fourth room...

TO BE CONTINUED!!