Excerpt:

“Against the beastly human being, even the gods are powerless.” ~Czech proverb, translated.

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It all started on a birthday…

My 21st birthday. Usually my birthdays are just like any other day, I should have known that this one would be different. Nothing ever goes like it is supposed to.

The day of my 21st birthday started with screaming. I awoke from a nightmare, one so vivid and lifelike that I thought it was real life until I actually woke up and realized I was in bed. But within moments of being awake, that very real and vivid dream had already faded away, and I couldn’t even tell you what it had been about. All I knew was that screaming had woke me up, and now it had stopped.

That’s because I’d been screaming. In my sleep.

Who am I? I’m Eric Mallory. I recently turned 21 years old and I could very well be the unluckiest person on the face of the planet. Bullshit, right? Who could possibly be THAT unlucky? Me, that’s who.

For instance, as a child I always wanted a pet. I pleaded my parents for months and months to get me a dog, and on my tenth birthday I went home from school to find a young Golden Retriever pup sitting next to my father’s recliner in the living room. I was so excited that within the week I had gone to the library to get all the books about Retrievers and dog training that I could carry, only to go home that very afternoon and find the puppy was gone. Not gone, dead.

My mom prides herself in her well-kept lawn with the beautifully trimmed exotic plants and the expensive weed-free grass that isn’t the “native” grass that everyone else grows in their lawns. When she’s not working overtime at her job, as head accountant for Evanston Hospital, she’s spending all the daylight hours trimming, planting, and pruning in the garden.

When we got the puppy, who I’d named Coraline after one of my favorite Neil Gaiman characters, she started having health issues right away. Her paws would swell and blister every time we brought her outside in the yard. Even just a quick trip out to go to the bathroom and back into the house later would cause her paws to swell to horrific proportions.

Dad called the vet, who explained to us that dogs can have pollen/grass/hayfever allergies, just like humans do, and that it can seriously compromise their quality of life if not medicated and even then it’s not great. We decided to put her down, to put her out of years of misery and before we all got emotionally attached and had to watch her suffer.

Later, we found out that she was likely allergic only to our grass, because it was different than everyone else’s, and would have probably been fine if we’d adopted her out to another family without a penchant for hoity-toity lawn care. Basically, we managed to adopt the only dog in the world allergic to designer grass, and we killed her for it.

And try explaining to a college professor that you don’t have your homework because a dog ate your homework. Not your dog, just a dog. I do my homework at the public library; I spend hours and hours a day there with a bag of heavy books and a notebook, then go home and type what I’ve written by hand into my laptop.

One day, after spending hours writing by hand this seven-page paper on “the usage of slang terms in the American ad industry versus in other countries”, I’m walking down the front steps of the library and spill my notebook. All the loose pages of my paper fly in the wind all over the place – into bushes, water fountain, into the busy traffic of the road 50 feet away, etc. A young woman was walking her dog nearby, and the thing went crazy chasing after my papers.

It would have been difficult enough collecting up all the papers and hoping they were legible enough that I could read them and type them up at home, but it was impossible when the dog ate about two and a half of the pages, all from the “meat” part of the paper and not the easy parts to rewrite like the introduction or conclusion. Of course not. And of course, that story is so completely bogus that my professor didn’t believe me and I failed the assignment.

I went into the city late last night with Casey O’Connell, my best friend. We were extremely bored and decided to go looking for one of those hippie smoke shops. Casey wanted to get a Hookah and some flavored tobacco, and we wanted to look at the “Adults Only” room that had porn, dirty magazines, and sex toys. We never buy anything, but we spend enough time looking at the titles of some of the movies (like “A Thin Line between Love and Taint”) that we spend the entire drive back to suburban Evanston talking about what the “plot” of each title might be.

So, when we first got into the city we drove around the more scummy areas of town looking for this smoke shop that a kid from school swears by. He’s a complete stoner, though, and so we should have known his directions would be completely bogus and double-checked them on MapQuest or something. Instead, we got lost somewhere around the vicinity of ________________. In this totally ghetto area. But we found somewhere to park, along a street of bars, and came up with the guts to get out of the car, lock it, and go get hammered.

I swear Casey can talk himself into any situation, and we found ourselves spending most of the evening in a biker bar with a bunch of leather-clad Harley guys playing pool and talking about which brand and model of motorcycle is the best. Me. Talking about motorcycles. I’ve never rode one before in my life!

After bar close, we went out to the car and (this is where my bad luck kicks in) lo and behold the tires are slashed, the hubcaps are missing, and we’re “stuck” in ghetto Chicago at 2:30am on a weekday. After calling the cops for help/rescue, all we could do was wait by the car. And then, like a beacon of hope, we saw it. The Guru’s Tobacco and Novelty Shop. All the smoke paraphernalia and bad pornos that any coming of age boys need for a lifetime, or at least one really boring weekend.

We left a note on the car’s windshield (“HEY COPS, WE NEEDED SOME SMOKES, BRB”) and wandered over.

Inside Guru’s Shop, it smelled like green. I don’t know how else to explain it – the combination of the scents coming from burning pine and lavender incenses, flowering and non-flowering plants, the flavored tobacco and “other” smells coming from the Hookah room in the back, and the earthy smell of the unclean, unshaven shopkeeper, who we found out later was Alfred, it all just instantly hit you with the thought of “green” when you walked in the door.

The guy working the register was one of those guys that could sell you the shirt you were already wearing, he just oozed that much charisma. What he was doing working in a hippie shop, instead of like selling cars or real estate or something more profitable, I’ll never know. Perhaps it was because most successful because you don’t expect that level of manipulation from a guy wearing tie-dye and a pony tail instead of the black suit and tie you see at a car dealership. But whatever his reason, there he was, watering this huge ficus plant, when we barged into the store in our drunken haze. “Are you open? Why are you open this late?” Casey asked him, a little too loudly.

I elbowed him sharply in the ribs. “Dude, he’s right there. Use your goddamn indoor voice, man. You’re drunk.”

“You’re drunk.” Laughs.

Alfred watched us bicker, chuckling to himself the whole time. “Can I help you fellas find anything?” he asked. Casey immediately chimed up about his desperate need for a Hookah and tobacco, and the two of them wandered up the stairs to the second floor, where the smoke area was located. I stayed on the ground floor, smartly deciding that I was a little too drunk to be attempting a full flight of stairs and expect not to fall over.

To my left was a dark room, and through its open doorway I could see that everything was lit by black lights. “Ha, that means felt posters and lava lamps!” I laughed to myself. I walked into the room and instantly had this rush of feeling of what it must have been like to live in the late 60’s and early 70’s: black light-trigger felt posters of Bob Marley and marijuana leaves everywhere; lava lamps of a variety of colors and sizes; incense burning at every table (and all different flavors, which is very brain-buzz-inducing); tie-dyed tapestries hanging from the walls, and a rack of tie-dye shirts with a variety of hippie slogans and images on them.

It made me wonder if either of my uptight, perfect parents had ever lived that lifestyle. Maybe, somewhere under that hard, money-centered exterior, perhaps there was a stoner just begging to break out of my father. Or if my mother ever let loose her tightly pulled bun and threw off the stiletto heels, would there be a long-skirt wearing, peace-loving, “Make Sex Not War” Vietnam protestor underneath that façade? Were they ever cool once?

I probably sat there staring at the glowing neons in that room, without really looking at anything specific, for a good twenty minutes before Casey came and woke me from my thoughts. “Spazz!”

That’s been Casey’s nickname for me since we were in Junior High. I’ve been the source of every bully’s torture since I was five. I’ve never been an emotionally strong guy. The first time a bigger kid told me he wanted my candy bar or he was “gonna punch me in the nose”, I practically unwrapped and hand-fed him the thing. I’m spineless, and that’s the story of my life to a fault. If someone bigger, stronger, richer, and/or more popular than me wants something of mine, I’d sooner give it to them than endure the torture that’s sure to come later if I don’t.

The one time I ever stood up for myself, we were thirteen. I had recently become friends with Casey and he’d been telling me for weeks that I’m not going to go anywhere in life if I constantly let people walk all over me. “The next time someone pushes you around,” he’d said, “push back. Hard. Return the punch once and show you’re not afraid, and they’ll leave you alone from now on.” The problem was, I was afraid. I’ve been having nightmares my whole life because I’m always afraid of something.

So eventually one Monday morning Larry Crawford found me, as he did frequently, to collect the English homework I was supposed to have done for him and his girlfriend. The deal was, I did their homework so they could spend the whole weekend fucking at his mom’s house while she was on a business trip, and Larry left me alone for a week or two… if they got ‘A’s. But over that particular weekend, Casey had managed to convince not to write the papers, to tell Larry to find someone else to pick on because I wasn’t going to be his doormat anymore.

So by the time Monday morning came around, I was regretting my decision and I was scared. Scared to face an angry bully who was about to learn he was going to fail because of me. And at that exact moment, a hushed silence rounds the hallway corner, preceding his arrival and there he is, hand outstretched, looking for his easy ‘A’. “I didn’t do them,” I stammered quickly, then flinched, expecting a left hook to the jaw or something similar. Nothing. Silence. I hesitantly opened one eye, Larry was red-faced and angry, and staring at me.

“Well it’s not due ‘til after lunch, you little shit, so you were just planning on writing it today during your classes, right?” He cracked his knuckles absently. A crowd started gathering, people were whispering around us.

“Uh, no. I’m not doing it. Larry, I’m not going to be your doormat anymo…” And that’s the last I remember, because while I was saying that, he started to hit me until I was unconscious. I was in the hospital for a week after that, then a wheelchair, then crutches. I didn’t write those English papers for Larry and his girlfriend, as promised, but he never left me alone afterward like Casey promised.

He was constantly a bane of my existence, and every time I’d see him coming, I’d spazz out. I’d freak. I’d run screaming in the other direction, if I had to. I couldn’t get calm and comfortable within the walls of that school until after graduation, because I was forever paranoid that Larry would walk in behind me when I wasn’t looking and just beat me senseless again for no other reason than because he could. Thus the nickname.

Casey never was on my case again after that about sticking up for myself, though. Instead he made it his personal objective to stand up for me so that I didn’t have to. He became more than just my best friend, he was always like my big brother, too. I’m not sure how I would have survived High School without him…

Someone’s shaking my shoulders. “Spazz! Wake up, dude, I’m ready to pay. You want anything? It’s your birthday anyway. What do you want?” Casey looks around the room. “But don’t tell me a lava lamp, k? Because I’m not wasting my money on that shit. C’mon, let’s move.”

When we went to pay for Casey’s haul, we’re standing at the counter looking at all the stuff there. The register sat on a class display case filled with pocket knives and machetes of a variety of sizes and prices. That itself was fascinating, as I kept wondering who on earth in downtown Chicago would ever need a machete. Then I realized what part of town we were in and realized that you just never knew, now, did you?

Almost every inch of the top of the glass case was covered with something. There were gag toys to buy, like fake lighters that shock the person trying to use them, and boxes of candy bars and gum. There were at least half a dozen old newspapers and dirty magazines strewn all over, open. There were coffee stains on all of them, with fresher coffee stains on top of those – the papers had all obviously been there for quite a while, like someone’s strange idea of a tablecloth. Next to the register was a small calculator, and a sign that said “If you BREAK IT, SMOKE IT, or STAIN IT: you BUY IT”. That made me laugh.

And in the middle of all this chaos, there was a Magic 8-Ball, that silly fortune-telling toy that everyone under the age of 7 thinks is seriously the most amazing magical thing on earth. Casey picked up the 8-Ball and started asking it questions while Alfred calculated his purchase total on the calculator.

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“How much for the ball, man?”

Startled, the shopkeeper sharply looked up from his calculations. “This is the store model. Not for sale. We have unopened Magic 8-Balls brand new, in their boxes, next to the lava lamps in the other room, though. Would you like me to get you one?”

“No, dude, I want this one,” Casey pointed to the black ball in his right hand. “This one works, I can tell. And my buddy here could use some good luck like you would not believe, man. So, how much?”

Alfred shook his head slowly, holding his head in his hand with his eyes closed, as though he was preparing himself to patiently explain something that should be simple to someone who just isn’t comprehending. “You didn’t hear me, perhaps, sir. That one is not for sale. Here, let me get you another. Try before you buy! I’ll let you! You’ll see…,” his voice trailed off as he headed into the adjacent room.

I turned to Casey, “What the Hell are you doing, dude? I can think of a million things I need for my birthday that are better than some stupid toy.”

“It’s not just some stupid toy, Spazz. There’s something about this thing, it works, I know it. It’s calling to me.” He looked me in the eyes. He was dead serious. Casey may have been just as drunk as I was, but he honestly believed this nonsense. “When Alfred gets back, distract him. I’m gonna swap this ball with the one in the box and we’ll buy the box, then.”

I shook my head, “What? That’s stupid.”

“Shh, quick, here he comes. Distract him!” Casey elbowed me in the ribs, hard. I made a face at him and looked around. What to distract him with? …

So, it was quite the venture last night. I have no idea what time we finally made it back to the apartment, I didn’t even change out of my smelly bar clothes. I just fell, face first, into my pillow and was probably snoring before I hit it. That was probably the soundest night of sleep I’ve had in a long time… until the nightmare. Until I woke up, now, screaming.

I just got this instant wave of hunger, but I’m not sure if it’s going to be safe to try to eat something. Could very well all come right back up. I sit up in bed, see how I feel. No nausea, so far so good. Then I try to stand. “Okay, bad idea,” and sit right back down.

Looking around the room, I see my book bag for school and remember the Snickers bar hidden in the front pocket between my calculator and drawing tools. “I suppose that’s as good a way as any to test if my stomach is okay,” I think.

While I am literally inhaling my candy bar because I’m that hungry, I look around my room. Something feels off. Everything looks the same, though. My desk area is a mess of papers and art and trash, but the rest of the room is spotless. That has to say something about my life, right? The important part, the school and ultimately what I’m supposed to have a career doing in the future, that part is a complete catastrophe. The stuff that doesn’t matter in the long run, like if my DVDs are alphabetized or if my clothing is all hung neatly and facing the same way in the closet… all of those things are what I obsessive-compulsively overdo and even freak out about.

But something was definitely triggering that OCD side of me. I kept looking around, until finally it dawned on me. The Magic 8-Ball from last night, Casey’s “real” one that he swapped with the supposed “fake” one at the store, sat atop my dresser and honestly creeped me out a little bit. Casey was never one to believe in the paranormal or fortune telling or anything like that. So the fact that he suddenly did believe, after like only five minutes of playing with this thing… well, that’s kind of unnerving, really. Maybe it was just a drunken idiot moment on his part.

I tried standing up again, throwing the Snickers wrapper in the trash can next to my bed. No dizziness, no nausea – “Score!” I grabbed the Magic 8-Ball on my way out the door toward the kitchen. “Should I be nice and cook breakfast for Casey this morning?” I asked the toy, shaking it. I turned it over to read the triangle-shaped answer in the window… Yes. “Well, that’s blunt enough, I suppose.”

Suddenly, I have a flashback of sorts, and I remember part of last night’s nightmare. All I recall was seeing that circle window of the Magic 8-Ball, waiting for the answer to appear. I remember feeling strongly about what I wanted the answer to be, but knowing I’d only act if the ball said that was what I should do. I waited, watching. Then the little triangle rose to the window, giving me my answer. I smiled.

…

I’m an art student at

Nightmare:

Next bit he remembers…
I’m very young, maybe four or five years old. I’m playing drums with wooden spoons on various pots and pans while a woman (I think she’s supposed to be my mother) is cleaning and cooking in the kitchen. A man comes in, screaming at me about the noise. The both get in an argument, during which the man grabs me by the arm and throws me into the wall. “Quit that fucking noise, I said!”

She screams, says she’s going to call the cops. I’m crying, yelling for “Mommy”. He walks up to me, arms outstretched, saying he’s sorry, but the closer he gets to me the louder and more hysterical my crying is. He looks hurt, turns and looks at my mother, who is reaching for the phone, and then walks to the closet, grabs his coat, and leaves.

He will never return, and I know this. And she’ll never be the same because of it, she’ll spend the rest of her life blaming herself.

Next…

Original owner of eight ball is sick and twisted. Takes every answer that the toy gives him randomly as sound and absolute advice. Murderous spree followed by suicide.

Best friend = Casey O’Connell, lives with Eric, goes to DePaul University, working on a degree in Finance. Rex not-so-secretly wishes that Casey was his son instead of Eric.

Shopkeeper = Alfred

Father = Rex Mallory, CFO of Motorola USA

Mother = Regina Mallory, Evanston Hospital accountant

Boss = Kyle Landry

Girlfriend = Emily Bailey

Eric – goes to school at SAIC (School of the Art Institute of Chicago). Wants to be an art director, working on a consecutive degree (BFA and BA in visual and critical studies).

Thanks to Kez, Steph, Merl