fiction – Page 6 – A Piece, of the Sky

Stay calm and stay regular. “Take your Metamucil.” I mean, Brett played the game. I am glad Angela wasn’t surprised, in regard to Brett’s impending treachery. We just witnessed the Level 6 civil war!

Tyler, Angela and Kaycee flexed their first strike capability against Brett, before he could even make a move.

I am happy for Tangela; I just don’t do showmances well. The “I love you”(s) feel forced. Law 20, of the 48 Laws of Power: “Do Not Commit to Anyone.” It takes years to truly love someone. Fans, this is for TV. Just pull out a script.

Also, in the Stupid File: Nobody decides anything on Thursday morning. Governments and corporations have things planned out, beyond 2023. Wake up, Hay. She didn’t deserve a coup de grâce – and she didn’t get one. In Survivor, telling someone he or she is going, is risking that such a person will dump the rice.

I get excited when my favorites win comps, because I value action, over words, but Kaycee doesn’t have the killer instinct. She was really excited, to get Brett out of the house – but only once Tyler walked her through it and explained a blindside, to Kaycee, Barney-style. Otherwise, Kaycee would still be saying “Let’s Go,” for all of Level 6. That’s not how the real world works, Kaycee. Out there, some people are devious and underhanded.

Kaycee will be rocked by a betrayal – if Tyler doesn’t carry her to the end, and lose to her, in the Final Two. In the GBMs, Angela and Tyler decided to blame Hay’s exit on Brett. But that’s just poor planning, since Brett will be following her, soon after and they will compare notes, in the jury house. Hay will then wonder why Tyler and Angela had to lie to her, even in the GBMs. Again, we’re looking at a Kaycee win, by accident, not on purpose.

JC was more horrified for himself, than for Brett. JBrett was over before it even began; Tyler and Angela nipped that power pair, in the bud. JC didn’t even vote to keep Brett. JC is just trying to keep all his ducks in a row. He did jump off the Brett boat, before it went down, but JC’s still a rat, fleeing sinking ship, after sinking ship, Titanic after Titanic. Could JC still win? Maybe, but also only by accident, not on purpose.

If Julie asks you if you are going to vote for Tyler or vote “bitter,” that’s not a real choice. Of course, on live TV, Brett is going to be a good sportsman. But coach the question, in another way: voting “emotionally,” instead of voting “bitter,” and Brett is totally on board.

You cheer, when you get out an enemy, but Tyler, Angela and Kaycee really laughed, while twisting the knife, into their friend. Yes, friends expect everything and betray, at the drop of a hat, just like in the 48 Laws of Power – while enemies expect nothing, and will be loyal, for a scrap of goodwill. But Tyler and Angela are killing their chances with the jury. Pyrrhic victory? We’ll see.

Dan stood by the window of Hod’s study, watching the storm outside. The fire cracked and popped in the hearth. Hod sat on a huge, scarlet armchair, patterned with subtle, yellow flowers, in his magenta smoking jacket, – with the black, velvet trim – the paragon of fine sensibility and sophistication.

“I wouldn’t have taken you for such a dandy,” Dan remarked, still looking out the window, holding his familiar snifter of whiskey.

Hod also had a snifter on the table, at his side. In his delicate fingers, he held a cigar, Honduran tobacco. As he took a drag, the butt burned crimson. “Do you know why you’re here?” he said.

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Dan answered, finally turning around. He was in a black blazer, no tie, no socks, burnt sienna loafers. A Persian rug lay between them.

“Do you know why serial killers act the way they do?” Hod asked, taking a sip of whiskey.

Dan came closer, into the light of the flames. He could see a bleached skull and a golden Solar System ellipse on Hod’s desk, “Again, I haven’t the foggiest clue.”

He chewed slightly on the end of his cigar, even though he wasn’t supposed to do that, “The first step, is that serial killers – or unsubs, as we call them – won’t, or can’t, communicate with the entity that’s really bothering them.”

“Like their mothers or ‘the system,’ right?” Dan guessed.

Hod nodded, “Their own lives are chaotic, confused, frustrating. They won’t, or can’t, establish control, in what we consider to be ‘normal’ life.”

“For whatever reason, they don’t feel like they’re getting their due,” Dan added again.

A degree from Yale, lay behind glass, glittering in the darkness beyond, near the bookcase, “People break up; people get rejected. These are things that happen to everyone – but to the unsub, they are stressors. Why?”

Dan put out a hand and leaned on the mantelpiece, “The problem lies in the way the unsub thinks…”

“Yes,” Hod answered, looking at Dan directly for the first time, “Rob Ressler thought so, too.”

“You know,” Hod said, getting up and topping off his whiskey, “unsubs crave power and control; they just wall it off into one area of their lives. This process of reasserting power and control, though, eliminates the one witness to their great exhibit of dominance – the victim.”

“The nature of their crime thus becomes serial!” Dan realized, slapping his hand on the mantel.

“Correct,” Hod said, as he turned back around. Where his head had been, when he was seated in the chair, was a photo on Hod’s desk, of himself, Sebastian and a sandy-haired teenager.

“Your son?” Dan indicated the direction, with a slight movement of his head.

“Yes!” Hod raised his heavy eyebrows and looked behind him, picking up the frame, “Jon’s visiting his aunt this weekend.” He smiled for the first time that evening.

Dan looked wistful, “It’s a hard job, isn’t it?”

“Indeed,” Hod replied, solemn, setting the picture back down.

“Why did Cai bring me into this?” Dan wondered aloud.

Hod laughed, “That lothario with the curls, wearing coats redolent of Lord Dracula’s cape? The anti-avatars we’ll be hunting, are like the unsubs I mentioned, if not worse…”

The blood in Dan’s veins dried up. “Really?” he rasped.

“Of course,” Hod spread his arms wide, glass in one hand, cigar in another, “You didn’t think the spirit world was some sort of heaven, did you?”

Rain beat a staccato on the windowpane. Dan set his snifter down on the mantel and looked at his shoes on the 18th century rug. “He really pulled the rug out from under me, eh?” Dan said, glancing up, with a painful, rueful grin.

“The earth is shaky beneath everyone’s feet,” Hod intoned, as he reclined in the armchair once more.