The wicked ways of Sprint...

Author's notes: Apparently, this column was too "hot" for my newspaper to run. I mean, what interests could a newspaper possibly have in exposing the confusing and customer-unfriendly antics of a major U.S. corporation, right?

Customer service.

Yes, it's two fairly simple nouns, sort of mundane and, for the most part, driven far into the ground thanks to innocuous television commercials and corporate mouthpieces. Whether it's your hometown mechanic letting you know he's ready to take care of your automotive problems or the cable company bragging on their support technicians, the phrase gets tossed around endlessly.

One company that absolutely loves to use the phrase is my cell phone carrier, Sprint. You know, the guys with that really cool black and yellow logo who love to brag about offering the only truly “unlimited” data plans in the smartphone industry.

Now, if mention of Sprint has you frowning — or downright defeated like a george Foreman fan watching Ali rope-a-dope your boxing hero during the famous Rumble in the Jungle — you're not alone, as recent outages in the Big Spring and surrounding areas are leaving Sprint customers anything except satisfied. Apparently, the cell phone carrier's rather large well of customer service has, well, run dry.

So, here's the short and skinny version. Nearly a week ago, many Sprint customers noticed they could neither make or receive calls, send or receive text messages or access the famed “unlimited” data services, turning their $600 smart phones into rather snazzy paper weights. Granted, if you had music downloaded onto your SD memory card you could at least listen to your tunes, possibly making the phone the world's most expensive MP3 player.

Calling Sprint is, in itself, an adventure, mind you. First, you get to navigate an automated phone system that would have Lewis and Clark more turned around than my girlfriend on the New Jersey turnpike. You get transferred from financial services to tech support, then to residential services and back, finally, to financial services, which continually chides you for not choosing an option from their menu.

Eventually — and I use the word very, very loosely — you'll get a live person on the phone who will have you answer a dozen different security questions, from your mother's maiden name to your blood type. And then, my friends, the fun really begins.

Shortly after our service went down, myself and about a half-dozen people on my Facebook friends list began calling and sharing the information relayed to us by the Sprint staff. One person was told a single cell tower was down, but don't worry, service would be back up in less than 24 hours. I was told there were actually three towers down and, according to the work ticket in the Sprint system, the problem with our service would be resolved by the end of July. A third person was told, without missing a beat, Sprint had no idea what was wrong and no idea when service would be restored.

That last Sprint agent may sound like a jerk, but in the end, he may have been the most honest one out of them all.

And so, we continued to call Sprint and share information as the service outage went two, three, four and then five days. At that point, it appeared at least one of the towers had been fixed, as Sprint customers living in or traveling to the northern part of Big Spring began receiving a signal. However, those of us in the central and southeast part of the city were still thrust into the Dark Ages, forced to live without the communications we had come to expect and, for the most part, need.

And that brings us to today, six days into our smartphone blackout, cut off from friends and family for nearly a week now. We're also a good 24 hours past the last repair deadline a Sprint noodle-head gave us.

I have to admit, there has been an aspect of this struggle with one of the world's largest cell carriers that has been, at best, morbidly entertaining. Most of us have experienced this at some point in our lives, when someone or some corporate idiot has told us something so blatantly offensive that, instead of getting angry, we descend into a sense of shock that is, for all intents and purposes, hilarious.

My moment came at day five, when I spoke with a Sprint financial department supervisor. My request was simple: Let me out of my contract and waive the $300 to $400 penalty so I could switch over to Verizon, which was unaffected by the down towers. His answer was, without a doubt, one of the most idiotic things I've heard in a long time, and that is certainly saying something.

“I'm sorry Mr. Jenkins, but I simply can not let you out of your Spring contract right now because the level of your quality of service isn't low enough,” the stuffed shirt told me. I was so taken aback, I descended into silence, which those of you who know me doesn't happen very often, if ever.

“Are you still there, Mr. Jenkins?” he asked.

“My quality of service?” I asked.

“Yes sir. The system looks at the service you receive and then rates it. It has to fall below a certain point before we can let you out of your contract,” he said with what I can only imagine was a completely straight face.

“My quality of service?” I said again, still somewhat shocked. “Sir, I don't have any service. If I want to use my phone, I basically have to get into my car and drive to the other side of town. How would you rate that?”

“Sir, I apologize for the problems and I understand your frustration,” he said, obviously catching on to my growing sense of amazement.

“All I want is a phone that works,” I said, my voice giving way to the hopelessness of the situation. “My dad has a flip phone with Verizon that's about 15 years old, and it works. He can make and receive calls … well, unless they are to or from me. And you're telling me my quality of service is to high? After nearly a week of this?”

Needless to say, I'm still under contract with Sprint, although Mr. Mouthpiece did tell me I could check back in about a week and see if my quality of service had fallen enough to let me out of my deal with Satan. I suppose two weeks without service might do the trick, although I'm not holding my breath.

Yes, customer service, my good folks. Because Sprint wants me to know they care about me and my loved ones. Well, unless caring means being able to communicate with one another or even the ability to dial 911 in an emergency. Then, obviously, Sprint couldn't possibly care less.

As a bit of a footnote to this column, I find it worth mentioning what caused this outage. According to Mr. Mouthpiece, it wasn't suicide bombers simultaneously driving their SUVs into the three Sprint towers. No, they were shut down so the company could make improvements and upgrades to them. In other words, Sprint knew full well — in advance, mind you — all three towers would be, to some degree, shut down.

That, my friends and family, is what I call first class planning.

And here I sit, still without service, even as I write this column. Sure, the inability to check the Internet Movie Database (IMDB) to see if Dax Shepard wrote and directed “Hit and Run” is annoying, but it's not the end of the world.

On the other hand, my father not being able to get in touch with me when my mother — who has been ill for quite some time now — needs to go to the hospital? Yeah, I think you get the picture.

After being a Sprint customer for more than 10 years, I think it's safe to say the company still doesn't understand the meaning of customer service, and, at this point, likely never will. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to listen to some tunes on my $600 Sprint-crippled MP3 player.

Deadbeat parents and entertaining distractions ...

The internet has become a huge part of my life. Much larger than I imagined it would when I got my first PC, but not exactly at the “living in virtual reality 23 hours a day” level my parents predicted. You know, the eventual downfall of the human race.

So, near the top of my browser I have a series of bookmarks for my favorite and most visited websites. From my personal blog — gotta keep one eye on that number of hits, right? — to Facebook and LifeHacker online magazine, I like to think of it as my “short list” of sites I can't necessarily live without.

One of the bookmarks on my short list is the Texas Attorney General's website, which includes a portal for parents to keep track of their child support payments and that sort of thing.

Thank goodness Google is nice enough to remember my username and password, because a crew of Al-Qaeda suicide bombers couldn't scare it from my subconscious, where it quietly resides, adjacent to all of the things my daughter has told me but I'll pretend I never heard.

Now, I'm sure for some parents this particular website is a thing of beauty, a beacon of fiscal hope shining its light into the deep, dark bowels of inequity. Unfortunately, I imagine it's the same for me as it is for most custodial parents trying to get a less-than-responsible ex to cough up their child support … an entertaining distraction.

For those of you lucky enough to have never visited the site, let me lay it out for you.

First, you enter your case ID number and password. For the record, it took nearly two months and numerous phone calls just to get the stupid thing set up, but that's a story for another day.

Once you're logged in, you're greeted by a bevy of handy information. It gives you a list of the payments which have been sent to the attorney general, including how much they were and when they were received. It also gives you a “case status,” but judging from the ambiguous nature of it, I imagine most everyone's reads the same:

“Your case is currently in the enforcement process. We use several methods to collect child support. Our office may withhold wages, unemployment insurance benefits, worker's compensation, military allotment, and other sources of periodic income. For those parents who have fallen behind in their payments we may use collection letters and calls, interception of income tax refunds, credit bureau reporting, license suspension, administrative liens and interception of lottery winnings.”

Now, if you've ever actually had to track down and try to get a parent to pay their child support, you know there's a secret code at word beneath the surface of this simple statement. What it should read is:

“Your case is hopeless, at best. We have several methods at our disposal to collect child support, but the chances we'll actually use any of them in anything that resembles an efficient manner is little to none. For those parents who have fallen behind in their payments, you can stop worrying. Worst case scenario, you might spend the night in jail. In all, if you're hoping to receive any sort of child support payment through these efforts, you had best hope the non-custodial parent plays the lottery. A lot.”

However, the most entertaining part of the site — at least in my opinion — is the “arrears” section, which is just a fancy way of saying the “deadbeat” section. This is where you get to see just how far behind your former significant other is on their child support.

I recently reached a milestone, as the non-custodial party in my case surpassed the $16,000 mark. That's right. During the past six to seven years, she has accrued $16,230.02 in back child-support. Say what you will, but the woman is incredibly consistent.

Just for the record, if I were her I'd pay the 2 cents, simply because I can't stand pennies. Seriously, she could just snag them from the “leave a penny, take a penny” thing at 7-Eleven.

I suppose the entertainment in all of this comes from having watched that number steadily grow over the years. I can remember a time when I was in absolute amazement she had reached $10,000 and hadn't so much as gotten a slap on the wrist from the courts.

However, after several court dates and the presiding judge sounding much like I imagine British police officers sound — “Pay your child support, or in three months we'll come back to this courtroom and I'll tell you to pay your child support again!” — it's hard to believe what has and hasn't happened.

Despite being placed on probation and threatened with 180 days in jail on three separate occasions, her first no-nonsense sentence from the judge was for 10 days in jail, which ended up being less than five days after she behaved herself. That's taking a hard-line stance against deadbeat parents if I've ever seen one.

So, every so often I'll log into my OAG account online to see how high the child support lotto has gotten in my case. I imagine what it would be like if I actually got a check for that amount and what kinds of improvements it could help make for my little girl, who is 13 years old now and harboring a serious case of resentment toward deadbeat parents in general.

Sometimes I like to smile and envision Miss Deadbeat buying a lottery ticket — a winning lottery ticket, mind you — and being forced by the state to pay up what she owes. Granted, I'm sure the state could find a away to screw that up, but, hey … it's a fantasy, so back off and let me dream.

Unfortunately, I'm smart enough to know that day will never come. So, for now, I'll just keep logging on to the OAG website and watching the deadbeat-deficit grow the first of each month, tipping my hat to the attorney general's office and their fantastic record keeping and impotent attempts to do their job.

You know, if the males in this state were as impotent as the Texas OAG, we'd have a lot fewer deadbeat parents. Hey, it's just a thought.

Kevin Smith, words of wisdom...

"So here's the tough shit: Security, normalcy, convenience, protection and identity are opiates you've gotta wean yourself off before you can be an individual. You can't stand out if you're blending in."
- Kevin Smith, from his book "Tough Sh*t"

The meeting...

As he sat at the small, sidewalk table, quietly sipping a latte and watching the people hurry by, it struck Lucifer that this mundane, simple activity was one of his favorites. There was no influence to exert, no accidents to facilitate, not even a small animal to torture.

No, it was these kinds of moments, when he could get lost in the hustle and bustle of everyday human life that he could somehow find himself again.

Of course, he'd never tell any of his underlings — mostly demons, mind you — this, as their simple, single-minded psyches could never grasp the beauty of human nature. When they saw humans, all they could see was the meat and bones, the souls ready to be harvested.

However, Lucifer had learned long ago there was something beneath the fleshy exterior, something he tearned to understand and, possibly, even possess. It was something no angel had ever had or experienced, and it called to him much like the needle calls to a heroin addict.

He grinned to himself, amused at the thought of what would happen if he revealed himself, right here and now. He could imagine standing up and simply shedding his human vessel like a human might shuffle off his coat or jacket as he makes his way in the front door of his home. All humor aside, vessels were so confining, like a suit two sizes too small.

However, Lucifer would never expose himself in such a crude and meaningless manner. While demons might feed off human fear like a hummingbird darting at the heart of a blossom, he found the whole process empty and counterproductive. Besides, he had gone to great lengths during the past several thousand years to convince the world he didn't exist, quite possibly the most expansive — and successful, for that matter — public relations campaigns ever mounted.

Yes, there were still a few believers, but they were far and few between these days. And they were getting even rarer with each passing year, a fact Lucifer found both satisfying and humorous. As the fear continued to dissipate, humans became more and more brave, until, eventually, the believed neither he nor his Father existed.

And, what could possibly make him happier than to see his Father's believers chucking their belief to the wayside in favor of iPads and expensive cars? It was if karma were finally catching up to the old man for casting his child — his favorite child, for that matter — down into a sea of darkness.

“How can you drink that foul stuff?” asked Raphael as he pulled up a chair, blocking Lucifer's view of a couple of punk rockers wearing large, red pentagrams on their black T-shirts. He had toyed with the idea of having a cab plunge through them as they crossed the street, but decided against it. It infuriated him to see humans take symbols they knew nothing about and pervert them.

“I suppose it's an acquired taste,” Lucifer said. “How have you been, brother?”

Raphael stared at the fallen angel with his normal, emotionless stare. However, over the past few thousand years, Lucifer had seem a single emotion begin to creep onto his brother's face, a faint hint of despair. He wondered if Raphael felt this all the time — quite a possibility when you want your father's kingdom fall apart around you — or only when he was in his presence.

While the first possibility made Lucifer's heart leap, he figured it was likely the second, much like a brother visiting his sibling through a prison glass, feeling sorry for him but knowing he got what he deserved.

“Michael is worried about you,” Raphael said quietly.

“Ahh, Michael. Forever the big brother, worrying about us all,” Lucifer chuckled. “You know, if he took some of the energy he uses to worry and used it to fuel a search for our father, I bet he'd find him in the time it takes that man over there to step in front of a car.”

As the last syllable left Lucifer's lips, a horrible screeching sound cut through the air, followed by screams and shouts. Pretty much everyone on the block turned in shock to see a man had been hit by a speeding car, which had then spun off the roadway into a fire hydrant, which was now happily spraying water 30 feet in the air. Everyone, except Lucifer and Raphael, that is.

“That man had a wife and children,” Raphael said coldly.

“Oh, sweet brother. I never get tired of your reactions, even if they are as predictable as the damn sunrise,” Lucifer said. “You know I don't cause these accidents, humans do. I just get advance tickets and front row seating.”

“Should we expect any more interruptions, then?” Raphael asked.

“Unfortunately, no. Today is a pretty slow day, to be honest. I considered not even getting out of bed this morning, to tell you the truth,” he said.

“Ahh, the truth from the prince of lies,” Raphael said with a grin. It was the first time Lucifer had seen him smile in a very, very long time.

“Poor humans, if they only knew my lies were 95-percent truth,” Lucifer said with a smile in his eyes. “They might not be so quick to label me with such names.”

Several police officers and an ambulance had joined the scene down the block, as humans did what they do best … clean up the carnage with stoic, cattle-like faces. Oh, if they had any idea the devastation Lucifer would rain down on them if just given the chance. Sure, he put on a good show. Sometimes, it even seemed like he liked the humans. However, all he felt for them was loathing, a quiet contempt that smoldered just below the surface.

And how could he be expected not to hate humankind? Hadn't his father lifted them up above him and his brothers? Hadn't his disdain for them gotten him thrown into the basement?

“I know you're looking for the book, Lucifer,” Raphael said.

“So, that's what this little powwow is about, is it?” Lucifer said, shifting back in his chair. “I take it you're not here as my little brother, but representing ... upper management?”

“Stop now and there will be no action taken against you,” Raphael said quietly.

Oh, how his brothers loved to just twist the screw that was his banishment, Lucifer thought. No matter how much they loved him — and most of them still loved him — there was a certain amount of smug satisfaction in their voices when they reminded him who held the key to his cage.

“And?” Lucifer said, letting a grin creep slowly across his face.

“And what?” Raphael asked.

“Come on, Raphael. I mean, we've been at this long enough, you'd think you would learn the game by now,” Lucifer said with a chuckle, waiving a waitress over to order another latte. “You know, you really should try one of these. The epitome of indulgence, I tell you. There's more calories in one cup of this concoction than some poor children in Africa get in a week. It's exquisite.”

“Ever the humanitarian,” Raphael said, watching as Lucifer stirred copious amounts of sugar and cream into his drink.

“Obviously, this is the part of the conversation where you tell me if I don't lay off the book, you and the rest of the team are going to smack me around,” Lucifer said. “And, please tell me you guys have come up with a new kind of torture. The gags you've been using for the past 4,000 years are getting so boring.”

“This is your last warning,” Raphael said, rising gracefully from his seat.

“Oh, I think I just got chills,” Lucifer said defiantly. “You know, Raph, you used to be a lot more fun. I really mean that.”

Raphael adjusted his glasses.

“We're at war, Lucifer. That sort of takes the fun out of a heavenly creature. It was good seeing you, but I'd lay off the lattes. You're beginning to get a bit of a spare tire around the middle,” he said, turned and simply disappeared.

Lucifer chuckled under his breath.

“Oh, brother, you have so much to learn,” he said, taking a sip of his drink.

An angel's passing dreams...

Author's Note: This story was written several years ago as part of a series. Thanks for the support, everyone.


He sat there in the dark, perched on the back of the chair with absolutely no regard for physics or gravity. The shadow he cast was long and dark, almost as dark as the expression he quietly wore on his unmoving face, his brow showing every bit of the weight that was now on his shoulders. The shadow travelled and thinned, laying quietly in wait at the doorway.

"You know why I'm here?" the perched figure asked quietly as the large, round man found his way inside the room, the huffing of his breath a stark contrast to the unyielding silence of the night. "Look, I've done everything you've asked. Why can't you just let me die? Just let me go to which ever place, Heaven or Hell. It really doesn't matter much at this point." As he lumbered into the room, a slat of light from a nearby street light came in a nearby window like a dagger, illuminating the man's dark, hollowed eyes, and the gunshot wound that continued to ooze dark blood from his temple.

"There will be plenty of time for that," said Raphael, hopping down from the chair in one swift, controlled motion. "Trust me, where you're headed, you shouldn't be in such a hurry to get there. Did you get the book?" Raphael's long, dark hair fell at shoulder length and reflected the light from the window as he drew close. He could smell booze and defeat on his helper, not exactly a reassuring thing at this point in his current gambit.

"Sure thing, Raph. Hold on and let me pull it outta' my ass, right along with the Easter bunny and my uncle Earl," he said as he searched in his pocket for another cigarette. The pack was almost empty, but he could have sworn he had one more. Raphael moved closer now, closer to his companion than he would ever care to be, almost whispering in the huge, rotting man's ear."We need that book," he said sharply. "And until we have it, you will not be visiting Heaven or Hell. You're going to stay right here, with me, on this spinning rock as what's left of your body continues to decay. Parts of your body will turn interesting colors, and even fall off, but you will not die. Oh no, Frank, you're going to stay right here with me. Like two buddies, inseperable till the end."

Frank began to sob quietly. The prospect of spending another 30 seconds in that room with a so-called angel made him want to vomit. The smell of his own rotting flesh caused him to gag, and the quiet sobbing quickly turned into coughing and spitting as something awful began to work its way out of his lungs and into his throat. As he spat the mass onto the floor, Frank was thankful it was dark.

"Look, I've told you a hundred times, I dunno' where that damn book is," said Frank between wretches. "Do you really think anyone around here would trust me with that information? I'm a drunk, for Christ sake!" He spat again and again, finally falling to his knees. He wasn't sure, but it felt as if his leg had popped out of joint during his short trip to the floor, but he couldn't feel any pain. In fact, he hadn't been able to feel a damn thing since he had pulled the trigger and placed a bullet in his brain with his service revolver. That's when Raphael had appeared, and Frank's real troubles had begun.

"Frank, you're beginning to bore me," said Raphael, his wings quietly spreading behind him. "And do you know what angels do when they get bored?"


******************************************


The moon hung there in the sky, defiant, as the sun began to chase it from the dawn sky with it's tendrils of light and hues of orange and brilliant red. Beside the quiet ebb of the surf, the only sound was the wind as it worked its way through the grass and the gentle feathers of his wings.

It had not always been this quiet.

There had been the endless stream of cars, trucks and every other mode of transportation imaginable, winding along the highway, dispersing each morning in the public access parking lots. The sounds of change dropping into parking meters, heels clicking on the sidewalk, busying off to work or some other world-shattering destination. Bicycle chains, as they stretched time and time again around cogs and gears, speeding riders off to the shoreline shops and businesses.

Now, as the dawn made its way up from the water and into the morning sky, there was only silence.

He drew in a deep breath, tilting his head back and smelling the salty air and the early morning dew. There was a hint of seagrass, maybe even a fruit or two, mingling in the mist as it made its way down his throat, filling his lungs. Thankfully absent was the harsh smell of exhaust, it's chemicals no longer splaying across his senses, threatening to choke the very life out of him. Those harmful carcinogens had long since been filtered out by the ocean, in all her majesty, and replaced with the peaceful scent of the sea, just as God had intended in the beginning.

Michael smiled. After all the wars, the treachery, the deception... After all the death the war in Heaven had brought to Earth, man had found a way to best its most dangerous foes. Gabriel. Lucifer. Pyriel. All of them had vanished like darkness before the dawn, brought down from their lofty perches by mankind. The monkeys. And while humans seemed to have divine favor on their sides, they could not defeat their greatest enemy, the enemy that would eventually topple their thrones and lay their race to waste: themselves.

The quiet was pleasing, he had to admit. However, Michael knew full well it wouldn't last. The end of war was only the precursor to the next conflict. The same, unfortunately, was true of Heaven.

War, it would seem, only slept. It never died.

Raphael

Author's Note: This short story was written several years ago as part of a series. Enjoy.


"How long has it been?" asked Raphael, moving slowly across the cold, marble floor. The figure standing just a few feet from him was clothed in a dark robe, the hood pulled up tightly to obscure his face with blackness.

He stood there in silence.

"I bet its been at least 100 years," said Raphael, drawing closer. "Come now, Ezra. Is this silence really necessary. Here, in the bowels of the Vatican. It's more like a dungeon than a place of worship. Why do you come here?"

Ezra slowly pulled back the hood of the robe, revealing long, white hair. His eyes were dark, partly from the deep shadows and flickering candles surrounding them, and partly from something else. Something foreboding.

"It helps me think," he said quietly, turning to face the sarcophagus where the candles had been placed. Inside were the bones of Saint Peter, although the tomb bore another name. Humans could be so careless with their history, but little escaped the angels that roamed the Earth. Smells, tastes... They held answers the humans could never see.

"It's time, Ezra." Raphael was standing behind his larger counterpart, practically whispering in his ear. "The prophecy has been fulfilled. We can no longer stand with them."

Ezra turned to face Raphael, who's pale skin shown almost white in the candlelight. "The prophecy isn't what troubles me, brother. It was a matter of time, and something those of us that watch over the humans knew was coming, and learned to accept eons ago."

Raphael averted his gaze as soon as his eyes met Ezra's, letting his vision fall to the gray, marble floor. "Then what is it that bothers you so?" he asked.

Ezra stared at his friend, never breaking his gaze. "How much you and some of the other angels are enjoying these last days. I know how you have prayed for the end of mankind's rein, how you have looked forward to seeing them fall."

Hell?

Author's Note: This short story is part of a series I began writing several years ago. Enjoy.


Hell was nothing like Max had expected, if one can really have expectations about something so abstract. There were no burning lakes of fire, or rows of emaciated bodies chained to walls. There was no smell of burning flesh, no demons sweeping down from above on leathery wings.

There was sunlight, brilliant and dancing on the window near his seat. There was ice cold orange juice in his glass, and the toast was slightly overdone, but certainly not burnt. A copy of the New York Times, folded neatly, laid next to his plate, waiting to be read. The room was so bright, mainly because virtually everything in it was white. A sterile, quiet white that held no secrets, no shadows.

"Do you know why you're hear, Max?" asked the man sitting across from him. He wore a white uniform, similar to what you'd expect an orderly in a hospital or care center to wear. However, there was no name tag, no ID card on a lanyard... Nothing at all to give Max an idea who he was. His face was average, at best, and would most likely turn into a blur the minute he left. It felt as if a dull knife was digging at Max's brain as he tried to search his memories, tried to place who this man was, where he was... and why he was there.

"I... I didn't take my medication again," Max uttered almost quiet enough to go unheard. But everything was heard in this place, Max somehow knew. They saw everything here, they knew everything. Any questions this man asked, he already knew the answer. It was all just a head game.

"No, Max. You don't have to take medication anymore. You're dead, Max."

He sat there as a shiver worked its way down his spine. Dead. Of course he was. Why, dead people often have conversations over orange juice and toast. Happens all the time, right? He wrapped his hands together under the table, hoping the feeling of his flesh pressed together would help him understand what was happening to him. His skin was just as warm as it had always been, the deep scars on the backs of his hands still there. H raised a hand to his face, as if to scratch his nose, but he really just wanted to smell his skin, to know if it were decaying, rotting its way to his bones. It smelled like aftershave.

"You always wondered Max, especially after you did something bad. You always wondered what Hell was like, if it was real. It's real Max. It's very real. But there's no fire and brimstone like the good preacher yelled about on Sunday. There's no burning flesh, no darkness. Hell is what Hell always was. Hell is control."

Max looked around the room. While it was certainly sterile, devoid of any real human touch, it was hard to imagine it as some sort of punishment. Slowly, as if fearful his host would reach out and snatch the pages from him, Max reached out and picked up the newspaper. The date on the paper was Feb. 3, 2008. As he stared at the letters and numbers, there was something familiar about the date. Something that was eating at the back of his mind, but still hiding in the shadows of his memories.

"You weren't sent here as punishment, Max. This isn't retribution for the comic book you stole when you were 12 years old, or for the house you broke into when you were 18. It isn't revenge," said the host, slowly taking a cigarette from his pocket. "You don't mind, do you?"

Max stared at him as a crooked grin worked its way onto his lips. "If I'm aleady dead, I don't have to worry about dying from cancer, right? Smoke away," he said, turning his gaze back to the newspaper. That date, it was glaring back at him, as if it were daring him to remember its significance. It was right there, on the edge of his memories, if only he could...

"Max, you created this place when you died. Everything you see right now, even me, was made by you. Your pain, your disbelief created this, this... abomination, as a way to cope with what you could not accept. Here, everything is a clean slate. Each day is exactly like the day before it, and it will continue until you can find a way to accept the things that have happened and pull these pieces of the puzzle together. You created me to be a guide, the last little bit of hope for you to make your way out of this abyss."

Max chuckled under his breath. "Abyss? You call this an abyss?" He stood up and walked to the nearby window. Outside, he could see for miles and miles, as fields of green grass and clovers seemed to go on forever. It was beautiful, but it was odd. Where in the world could he be? Where on this planet could there be such beautiful expanses with nothing - not a Starbucks or a restroom - there to mar it. Where?

"Max, I have to go now. I'm only allowed so much time here each day. I hope you'll think about what I've said. I hope you'll begin to see things for what they are, not what you want them to be. There are others, people you don't remember right now, and they miss you very much. They want you to join them. They can't come here, Max. No one can. That's how you made this place, that's the bluepring you have to find a way to defeat. Because if you can't defeat it... well, we'll be having many, many more conversations like these."

With his back still turned to the host, Max asked, "If each day's a clean slate, then won't we just have this same conversation each morning?" He turned, intrigue showing keenly in his eyes. "Won't we just get stuck in some sort of loop, a never ending cycle of forgetting and remembering?"

"I hope not, Max. For your sake."

A Dark Angel Visits...

Author's note: This story was written several years ago, part of a series of short stories. Enjoy.


He lay there in the alley with the cold, wet pavement pressing against his face, watching the lifeblood slowly pool near his face in a shallow, cold formation. Never in all of Matthew's life had he thought this is how he would die, alone and shaking, the knife still deep in his chest.

Of course, there was a lot about the past six months Matt hadn't expected from life. The sudden lust for adrenaline, an addiction that rivaled any he had ever read about, especially puzzled him now.

Her name was Elaina. Matt had never even knew her last name, and a part of him didn't want to know it. It would have just been another piece to the useless puzzle that had become his obsession. They had met at a company Christmas party. She was the guest of one of his firm's wealthiest clients, and somewhere in the night things had gone south. She threw her drink in his face and he slapped her across her's, sending her marching off into the New york night like a scalded cat.

Matt went after her, despite a cross eye from the senior partner, and caught her two blocks from Central Park. He thought she had no idea what she was doing or where she was going, fueled by the normal dose of anger after such a public spat, that she had no idea she was marching right into certain death. At night, the park could rival even the hardest neighborhoods, filled with meth-heads and dealers, prostitutes and pimps.

He couldn't have been more wrong.

"Hey, wait up!" he shouted to her, at least a dozen steps behind her quick pace. "Look, I'm just trying to help!" She stopped, but hadn't yet turned toward him as he came jogging up. "You know, most people just pack their bags and move to Yonkers after a scene like that," he said with a quick grin. It was an honest grin, one he had developed in his younger years along the East Coast, moving from city to city with his father. It was disarming, at the least.

"I don't need your pity, and I certainly don't need your help," she said, turning toward the park. "I need prey."

She quickened her pace, but Matt stayed close. It reminded her of a puppy, playfully tagging along. "Look, I'm already in hot water with my boss for running off from the party. You think maybe I can at least get your name... and your number?" She stopped and started at him. "What makes you think I would give my number to a complete stranger like you? Did you think your $200 shoes or that $1,000 suit would convince me? Maybe you have a Mercedes waiting around the corner. Did you think that would persuade me? You're dead, and you don't even know it. You're just like the rest of the stiff suits in that office, toiling away day after day, and for what? To buy things someone else thinks you need? You're a cute guy, but you don't have the balls to play my game."

Matt knew he looked like an idiot now, his expression half-grinning and half shaken, like a clown someone had kicked in the groin. The silence lasted only a moment, as she turned and headed off into the park. She was suicidal. That's all Matt could think as she strolled indifferently toward the park and its inhabitants.

As he lay on the cold pavement remembering that night, Matt simply had no idea what had possessed him to follow her into the park. He remembered being surprised she got as far as she had before her long legs and short skirt caught the attention of a trio of thugs sharing a joint near one of the park's jogging paths. "Just walk away. Just walk away," he told himself, over and over. But he couldn't. There was a sick feeling... A tingle running up his spine now, something he'd never felt before. He felt like he was going to puke, but at the same time he felt so alive every inch of his skin was tingling.

He couldn't tell who attacked who. It had to be the thugs, he told himself. But once the battle begun, it was hard to sort out who the aggressors were and who the would-be victims were. The first lunged toward her with a wicked looking knife, only to have half his face bashed in with the side of a high-heel shoe. The second thug, a large, round man who spoke with a heavy Australian accent, was behind her in a flash, grabbing her arms and twisting them behind her. As he spun her, the woman's eyes locked with Matt for just a second, and even through the darkness the young man could have sworn he saw something... something primal. It was the look of the hunter.

Before he realized what he was doing, Matt was on the third guy, grabbing him quickly by the throat and twisting his hand to the side, taking as much flesh as he could with it. The man tried to yelp, but it just came out in a gurgle. As Matt spun the heavyset man to the side, he caught the second thug with a spinning punch to the head, and despite his obvious lack of experience and fear for the longevity of the bones in his hand, Matt was surprised to find the shot right on target. A crushing sound, deep and sickening, came from the second thug's face, as he and his companion hit the ground at the same time.

It was over in the time it would take to pour a cup of coffee.

"You know, we all began as something, or someone else. Do you believe in reincarnation?" she asked Matt, adjusting her skirt and hair in the moonlight. All he could do was stare at the blood on his right hand, the blood that had come gushing out of the third thug's throat and covered him to the elbow. "Honestly, i don't know what I believe in," he whispered, still in shock. A part of him was repulsed at the scene laid out before him, while another part of him... a part that had remained hidden, dormant all his life, was relishing it, filing away each detail for some sort of sick, mental orgy.

The days that followed the incident in the park had become a blur, one confrontation after the next. They never struck first or instegated the fights, but they were always in the right place at the right time. Her name was Vivian, but Matt knew that was a lie. He could see it in her eyes each time he called her by name. The haze of adrenalin, blood and sweat all began to run together, and Matt couldn't have loved it more. He had begun dreaming, sokmething he had rarely done in the past. The dreams were all from different times, ranging to before the birth of Christ to the early 1900s, and while his face changed only marginally from one dream to the next, one thing stayed the same: killing. He was a killer, and he knew it now. Some part of him had always known it, but he had managed to keep it at bay... until he met her.

Tonight they had gone looking for purse snatchers on the streets in China Town, and gotten more than either had bargained for. As the fight drug on and on, and the enemy seemed to multiply before his eyes, Matt realized it had only been a matter of time before the pair had met their doom on these streets and in these alleys. They had been reckless, even sloppy. And, even as the fight reached a fever pitch, Matt saw Vivian fall. There had been a gunshot, and the crimson stain was creeping slowly from the center of her plain,. white T shirt. He was next, as one of his assailants stabbed him quickly in the back, quickly pulling the knife from the wound and finding his chest. They grabbed for his wallet, but he didn't have one. The man that stabbed him spit on him as he lay there, gasping for breath, grasping at the knife that was buried in his chest.

Quickly, it was silent, a fact that told Matt the end was here. There are two things that don't exist in New York City: soil and silence. He waited for the darkness to roll over him and claim his soul, but it didn't. He lay there, still gasping and spitting. As he rolled onto an elbow, he caught a glimpse of a dark shadow crouched near him.

"Hello Matthew," he said, moving into the light. There was something incredibly familiar about the man. He was dressed in all black, with long black hair and deep, dark eyes. He wore a red rose in his lapel, but there was something sickening about the flower. Something evil. "I've waited long enough for you, my friend. Now it's time to come home. Now it is time for you to serve."

of angels...

Author's note: This short story is part of a series I started several years ago... enjoy.

"Why won't you leave me alone?"
Sean stood with the toes of his shoes hanging over the edge of the platform, several stories above the river below. It was a beautiful summer night, and the sounds of the city were all around. The traffic on the bridge had slowed down considerably, and somewhere off in the distance he could hear church bells chiming the hour.
The quiet figure next to him sat perched on the railing of the platform, precariously balanced with no apparent effort at all. The position was both beautiful and terrifying, with hands clasped near his face, as if he were praying in the dark.
"So, how far have you thought this out Sean? Did you at least leave a note? There will be so many questions, so many people left trying to understand why you decided to throw yourself off this bridge. All of those questions, Sean. It can be so annoying."
Sean's dark skin showed silver in the moonlight, as the light came down from the heavens, struck the water and bounced up toward the pair. The reflection shimmered beneath them.
"What's there to wonder? Another black man that can't take living in this fucked up world. It's nothing new. Hell, I bet you some psychiatrist out there even has a medical term for this shit, like black rage. Been held down all my life. Only makes sense to end it by my own hand. I say when and where. I'm in control."
Raphael tilted his head back and smelled the water, the cheap cologne eminating from Sean's clothes, the sweat that was beginning to soak the young man's clothes. He smelled something else, something much more important at the moment. He smelled fear.
"You're afraid, Sean. And rightfully so. All those Sunday mornings pressed into those tiny pews with your grandmother, praising God and the Holy Spirit. You remember what the preacher said. You know where suicides go."
Sean was staring over the edge of the platform. For the life of him, he couldn't figure what purpose the small, grated platform on the edge of the structure served. Maybe a way to reach the pipes that were under the bridge, or a place to tie off scaffolding when it came time to paint the monstrosity.
When Sean was 8 years old, his older brother, Michael, had taken him here and shown him the spot. His brother told him he liked to go there when their parents were fighting. The constant, dull roar of the cars helped him think.
About 13 years ago, Michael had lept from the same spot Sean was standing. The police said he died on impact, that the fall had been so violent he never even had the chance to fill his lungs with water before he went under. It took them nearly a week to find him washed up with some brush about 12 miles upstream. When Sean had seen his older brother in the morgue, he couldn't get over how peaceful he looked.
"Look, Sean... If you do this, if you take your own life, you're going to throw events into motion that create death and suffering around everyone you've ever loved, everyone you've ever cared about," said Raphael, looking out over the water. "Each moment we grow near to something... something awful. And these events in this life, they are like tumblers in a lock, all lining up for one big show, one big finale. There's nothing we can do to stop it, but we don't have to go racing into it with our hair on fire. Each decision you make is one of those tumblers, and the wrong decisions will bring a world of hurt down on the people you care about."
Sean looked at Raphael, who was half cloaked in the shadows of the bridge. One one hand, he was a beautiful man, but Sean had come to understand a long time ago he was anything but human. He had seen the wings and the decorative scars all over his body. He had seen the cold, deadly gaze of a hunter, a trained killer, in his eyes. There was no doubt Raphael was an angel... and a figment of his imagination.
"You've been following me around for months now," said Sean, now looking down at the water again. "Every time I look into a crowd, you're there. I look around the corner, you're there. I look in a mirror, and I swear I can see you behind me somewhere. You're like some sorta fuckin' ghost!"
Raphael watched as Sean moved closer and closer to the edge, but he never moved from his perch. It would be so easy to just reach out and grab the young man, wrestle him to the ground and show him what was coming. An angel could share his second sight with a human, although it was almost always a traumatic experience for both. One glimpse of what was to come, and Sean would have fell to his knees and begged for forgiveness.
Unfortunately, all Raphael could do was watch. Anything else would simply make things worse.
"Think of me as your guardian angel, Sean. I've always been here, been around you, watching and looking after you. I watched when you got your first kiss from that little Puerto Rican girl up the block. I was there when your best friend, Enrique, overdosed and choked to death on his own vomit. I was there when you and Wanda made it in the back of that abandoned Chevy. I was even here, on this platform, when your brother died."
Raphael could see the anger growing in the boy, and instantly he knew the mention of his dead brother had been a wrong move. Sean swung at him, but missed high. His momentum quickly shifted as he got ready to throw another punch, but he would never get the chance, as his foot slid off the edge of the metal grate. In one swift motion, Sean was now holding on to the woven metal as his body swung over the powerful river below him.
He screamed, but not for help. It was anger.
"Sean, if you ask me to help you, I can," said Raphael, never moving from his perch. "But you have to ask. You have to ask to be saved, just like you did when you were a little boy in your grandmother's church."
"Fuck you! You're in my head! You can't help me!" Sean yelled, trying desperately to swing his body back up on the platform. There was nothing for his feet to grab ahold of, however, and blood began to ooze from between his fingers and the metal grating.
As their eyes locked, Sean could see the pain in Raphael's eyes. For the first time, he could see something almost human. It was compassion.
And, as that thought raced through his mind, Sean found himself falling, the wind rushing by him as he desparately grabbed for something to save him, but there was nothing except the quiet sounds of the water rushing up to meet him.

Raphael sat on his perched and watched Sean die. His body hit the water with a sickening snap, the young man's torso twisting at an odd, almost comical angle. It was almost as if he had hit a concrete floor as the water quickly rushed up to engulf him, to drag him down to the depths.
"You know, you could have saved him."
The voice came from a dark figure, perched somewhere in the darkness beneath the bridge.
"All you had to do was reach out to him."
Raphael knew the voice. It was the fallen one, and he had been there all along, watching and waiting.
"If I had, it would have just made matters worse," said Raphael, pulling his coat tight around him.
"Yes, yes... all those silly rules. You know, Raphael, I'm no fan of rules. Come to work for me and we can just say hang the rules and do things our way."
"I have work to do, Lucifer," said Raphael. "Stick around though. I hear this spot's popular with the jumpers this time of year. You never know, you just might make a friend."
With that, Raphael spread his silvery wings and was gone.

Manny's cell...

Author's note: This is part of a series of short stories I wrote several years ago and appeared on Myspace ... Hope you enjoy. — Thomas

Manny sat on his cot with his head in his hands, silent, completely oblivious to the maelstrom of screaming and cursing going on just outside his cell. He had asked his mother not to come, not to lend credence to the entire fiasco by playing their games. The people that had put him there wanted tears, a million of them, just to show him just how wrong his actions were. It was a cycle for them. They saw mother cry when their children were arrested, they watched them sob when they were sentenced, and now they were watching as his mother fell to her knees and begged them not to kill her only son. Somewhere inside, somewhere deep and dark, she knew the guards that were trying to help her to her feet and get her out of the cell block couldn't, and wouldn't, do anything to her save her son. But she couldn't help it. They were tears that needed to be cried, if only to remind those in charge they were killing someone's baby.
Killing. It had come easy for Manny. Growing up in a broken home, where a stream of abusive and sadistic men had made their ways into his home, he had learned quickly that pity was a tool, nothing more. It had no real use in his world, other than to get what he wanted, when he wanted it. He had learned early that pain was useless, as well, unless it loosened the lips of others. It amazed Manny how little pain someone would endure before they'd give up their own mother. He knew he should feel something, anything, for those who fell under his gun. He knew he was supposed to regret killing, to feel pity for his victims. But the world had taught Manny one undeniable truth: No one was innocent. Even the ones that looked innocent were hiding demons. Child molesters, rapists, sadists... They hid under the guise of a lamb until they had what they wanted. Then they showed themselves for what they really were.
"Hey Manny, you gonna be OK?" It was Lester, in the cell next to his. He'd scene everything, heard every pleading word his mother had screamed. Lester was going to die too, but he didn't have anyone, or if he did they never came to see him or wrote to him. Lester was a killer too, with the same hard heart, filled with the same life lessons. The only difference now, however, was Lester had found Jesus in one of the several chapels in the prison. Had found him, said hello, and welcomed the bearded, sandal-wearin' dude into his heart. Lester would talk about the Bible for hours, and while Manny didn't believe one word of it, it reminded him of a better time in his life. A time when his grandmother had stolen him away from the hell-hole her daughter called home. She had tried so hard to teach him something better, to show him the world as he knew it wasn't all that he had seen in his short life.
"Hey Manny, I'm sorry man. It's gotta be hard to see your mom like that, right before you know you're gonna," Lesters voiced trailed away. The two had talked about their death sentences for a couple of years now, but even with the day looming over them like a black cloud, they both had a hard time saying it. "Hey man, I asked the warden if he'd let me come over there and minister to you, you know, when the priest is supposed to come. He said it was OK if it was OK with you, but I still don't get to eat any of yo' last meal," he said with a gentle laugh. So many of their conversations had happened just like this, with the two of them talking long into the night, unable to see each other or read each others expressions, going only on the sound of their voices. Manny could see Lester, sitting on a cot just like his, wearing a gray jumpsuit, just like him. Hell, the only difference between the two men was the color of their skin, cause Lester was black and Manny was Latino... and the fact Lester believed his life would continue beyond that cold, steel room with the table and the needles. Manny had no such hopes. In fact, after all he'd seen and done in his life, he was glad it would all end.
"Hi Manny." The voice didn't come from Lester. It came from the shadows of Manny's cell, where the blackness was impenetrable. It was a voice Manny knew well. He'd heard it enough in the past several months. "What the fuck do you want now, man?" Manny asked. The figure seemed to settle into the darkness, with just the left side of his face and the glint of one dark eye visible. "How are ya' doing, Manny?" The expression on the one eye seemed to shift, resembling concern, but Manny knew different. "Well, I'm gonna be executed tomorrow. How the hell are you?" The figure seemed to almost grin at Manny's choice of words.
"He back, Manny?" It was Lester this time. Lester had heard enough of these conversations to know full well the dark guy was back. That's what the two called him, but they both knew better. They knew his name. "Yeah, he's back to bug me some more, while he fuckin' can," Manny said. He glared at the darkness. At times, he thought he could see a flash of a toothy grin in the darkest parts of the shadows. "That's right Manny, it's almost time. Are you excited? I certainly am," said the darkness. "I've been looking forward to this for a very long time." Manny closed his eyes like he always did, praying the darkness would just go away. It was like he was six years old again, closing his eyes, counting to 10 and praying the boogeyman wouldn't still be there when he opened them. But he always was, loaded up with book, or crank, or whatever other chemical him and his mother could get their hands on. He was always there.
"Don't listen to him, Manny. Don't listen to what he says. He just wants to break you, man. He just wants to enjoy the pain and suffering he's created," said Lester, his voice well above a whisper, as if his words could chase away the darkness. It was almost enough to make Manny laugh at times, a convicted murderer turned minister trying to chase away demons with his might words from God. He wondered if the darkness would be there to torment Lester when his time got closer.
"Manny, I know you don't understand yet, but you're special. You've always been special, to me, to my work. I know you don't believe in God. Hell, I don't, most of the time," the darkness hissed at him. "But tomorrow's just the beginning for you, my friend. Tomorrow isn't your fuckin' going away party, son. It's your welcome home. It's the beginning, Manny. Do you hear me? It's the goddamn beginning."
Manny barely even realized it, but he was quietly sobbing now. He could feel the warm tears sliding down his face, sliding down his lips and leaving a salty feeling on his throat and chest. The very thought of crying infuriated him. He was determined to make it to that room tomorrow without so much as a cringe, and silently accept the end of things. Of course, his plan didn't include deputy dipshit in the corner, and he was, without a doubt, fucking up his plan. Manny suddenly became furious, as if his outrage could burn like a torch and wipe away every shadow in his cell, in the entire prison! It started as a groan deep in his throat, until it became something bigger, something guttural, something instinctual. He was rising to his feet now, his hands balled into fists of rage. He would silence that voice, one way or another. He would tear his throat out and show it to him, as he gasped for breath and found none. He flung himself up, his eyes opening for the first time, alive with fire and rage.
But there was no one there. There never was. This had been their ebb and tide for more than a month now, and it had yet to change. He could hear Lester in the background, through ringing ears, telling him to calm down before the guards came, but Manny didn't care. What could they do to him? How could they hurt a man just hours from his own cold, sterile death. Manny didn't believe in God, but he prayed. He prayed the darkness would stay away from him, whether it was real or just in his head, and let him die with some sort of dignity.
Somehow, however, he doubted that was going to happen.

x

Dumb criminals...

With the responsibility of gathering arrests and reports on criminal activity for publication on a daily basis, I have to admit, some pretty weird stuff comes across my desk.

OK, let me back up. Some of these items seem to be weird — and, obviously, worthy of this rather tiresome disclaimer — because, for the most part, I'm only getting a very brief, face-value report on what has actually transpired.

I'll give you an example. A guy gets arrested and his name listed on the daily arrest sheet for a single charge: evading arrest or detention. Sometimes it's with a vehicle, others it's on foot (it's the foot-racers I truly feel sorry for, because I can only imagine how ticked the law enforcement officer must be about being inadvertently entered into a sprint or marathon).

Either way, this guy is headed to the can on just one charge, evading arrest or detention. By my own rationale — which is quite often flawed, mind you — if this guy had just stood still, he wouldn't have spent the next couple of days showering with a large man named Jojo.

This, my friends and neighbors, amazes — and amuses — the living daylights out of me.

I mean, what goes through this person's mind in that moment right before they choose to take off? “Hmm, I might have an outstanding traffic ticket.” Maybe they are just scared of police officers. Maybe they were abused as a child by a man or woman in a police uniform, or even a costume?

Another thing I see that makes me chuckle is local residents arrested for public intoxication. Or, more specifically, those who have been arrested on the charge repeatedly.

One Big Spring man — I'm omitting his name to protect the identity of the insanely guilty — has been arrested for public intoxication more than 80 times, with 28 of those coming just in the past year. And, believe it or not, he's running a distant second place to another Big Spring man, however, I'm sure through hard work and perseverance he can win that crown of inebriation.

Now, bear in mind, I love a good beer, or even better, a stout ale. However, the aching head and twisted stomach I normally wake up with after imbibing a bit too much of he stuff is more than enough to make me swear it off for at least a month or so.

I often wonder if this gentleman, who jailers at the Howard County Detention Center tell me is quite the cooperative type, is on a first-name basis with the police officers and deputies who regularly arrest him? Maybe he has his own cell, sort of like Otis Campbell from the Andy griffith Show, and just sort of comes and goes as he needs to.

And, for those of you who are new to alcoholic beverages, it's like my college professor once said, “Nothing good ever came from an inebriated person saying, 'I think I'll take a walk.'” Then again, that same professor was arrested for driving under the influence — that's what they call it in South Carolina, by the way — just a few weeks after my last semester ended.

Oh, the irony.

However, the crown jewel of the local lawbreakers, at least in my opinion, anyway, are the ones who get pulled over on a regular traffic violation and end up charged with about a dozen different crimes, all of them completely foreseeable.

I'll give you an example, directly from the hallowed pages of our dear Herald:

John Q. Public was arrested on charges of possession of a controlled substance, possession of marijuana – two ounces or less, driving while intoxicated – open container, driving while license suspended, expired motor vehicle registration, no valid inspection certificate, failure to maintain financial responsibility and disregarding a stop sign.

For the uninitiated, Mr. Public — aka Captain Bonehead — ran a stop sign with a law enforcement officer in sight, was pulled over and the charges began ringing up like a lottery winner with the munchies. Beep!

The part of this story that intrigues me, however, is not the arrest. Oh, I think we can all say we saw that one coming. No, it's that moment right before Mr. Public got behind the wheel of this vehicle, the one with the registration and inspection certificates out of date, with no insurance, no driver's license and a pocket full of weed and meth.

You honestly have to wonder if it ever crossed his mind, “Hey, dude … maybe this snack run isn't such a good idea.”

While I know our local law enforcement officers are entirely too professional to do so, I firmly believe they should be allowed to sit the handcuffed perp on the sidewalk and point and laugh for a minimum of a half-hour. Cruel and unusual? You decide.

These are just some of the things which break up the monotony of my daily trek to the dispatchers' office for arrest and activity reports, and thank goodness for them, each and every one.

Thanks, Russ...

Some columns are easy to write. In fact, at times, it seems like the words just spill out of my brain, usually much faster than my hunt-and-peck approach to typing can keep up with.

Others, however, are much harder to write. Maybe its because these tough columns come not from a place of logic or reasoning, but from a place in the heart. It can be so much easier to discuss statistics and politics than to tell the world what someone meant to you, especially when you realize you didn't tell that person nearly often enough.

And such is the case of former Big Spring mayor Russ McEwen, who recently passed away.

For those who knew and loved Russ, it's not hard to understand how he had such a deep impact on not only the community, but on so many individual lives. He wasn't the type to just sit on the sidelines and hope things got better. No, he wasn't the least bit afraid to jump into the fray and get his hands dirty, whether it was championing children causes or just recognizing the hard work of others.

While I could sit here and go on and on extolling the many virtues of Russ for hours, that's not what this column is about. The story I want to tell today is about the effect Russ had on me, both as a reporter and a part of the Big Spring community.

I first met him during his bid for mayor, hot on the campaign trail for an office many local residents wouldn't serve in if you blackmailed them with explicit pictures and a Communist flag hanging up in their garage. However, McEwen, a former member of the Big Spring City Council, was a bit of an optimist and was ready to serve his community in the best way he knew how.

Around that same time I was something of a tenderfoot in reporting, having only moved to West texas a few years earlier. In all honesty, you could have floated a battleship with everything I didn't know about city government, elections and the world in general.

During the course of McEwen's election, I interviewed him several times while I was working as a reporter and news anchor for NewsWest 9, and, I have to say, I probably asked him some of the dumbest questions any politician hears during the course of their career.

And, for those of you who hold by the old adage, “There's no such thing as a dumb question,” you've obviously never been interviewed by a television news crew.

Despite the obvious chaos encountered on the campaign trail, Russ was more than happy to take the time to explain things to me, regardless of how complicated they were or how thick-headed I was in trying to understand. He never lost his patience with me, which is more than I can say for most of my friends or coworkers.

It was that same understanding that helped me become a better reporter long after Russ won the mayor's office and began tackling the city's problems, which, for the most part, were mounting up quickly.

As the years went by, Russ became more than just a politician, however. Whenever I ran into him at a local store or on the street, he always took the time to talk to me and ask how my daughter was doing. His love for children was legendary, to say the least, and on more than one occasion he offered me advice as a father who had successfully raised his children.

And trust me, as a single dad I needed all the help I could get.

I spent time talking with Russ on a number of non-city related topics during numerous trips to Austin and at other community functions and it was within those conversations I got a glimpse beyond the politics and meetings and was able to meet the man I'd go on to consider a close friend.

Now, don't think for one moment Russ was without his faults. He was human, after all, and although we'd all like to eulogize him straight into sainthood following his passing, I think Russ would rather have the people who knew him remember him for who he truly was.

Yes, we laughed at the expense of certain local politicians, especially during and following the council meetings that would eventually lead to the design and construction of the Big Spring Aquatic Center. We laughed about speedos, innocuous outbursts from council members and a number of other topics — many of which I will take to my grave — but Russ never lost sight of what he was trying to accomplish.

I suppose if I tried to sum up what Russ McEwen taught me through the years, it would come down to one idea: If you know it's right, then don't give fighting for it a second thought. He knew what was right, both for the community and especially for the children of the Crossroads area and he was not afraid to fight for those things.

On election night, talking to some friends, I made a quip about our current mayor and someone said something that hit a deep chord within me. They said, “Mayor? I only have one mayor and he recently passed away.”

I suppose that sums up how this reporter feels. Thanks, Russ, for all the help and great talks. I feel like you helped me be a better dad. You will be greatly missed, not just by the Big Spring community, but by this wayward writer.