Little Linda chapter1

Setting: San Francisco, California- the city of fog.
Date: 11/2/1987 - 11/3/2011

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fog hung thickly this day in san fran, generally, that would slow the bustle of the city. This day in san fran, however, people were in a rush, bumping into each other like blind mice.
Like vermin.

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he looks at the pictures, then at the sloppy mess he made trying to fix the negative. A short, stout man smoking a cigar exhales a puff of smoke, blasting in the mans face like some half exhausted, half dead dragon tried to breathe fire on him, but ended up sending a foul smelling puff of smoke his way. The smoke hung on the ceiling, mixing with the fog that drifted in from the open basement window. The whole place smelled like cigar now. The little room was too crowded, so the smell hung in the air as if it were reluctant to leave.
The stout man sighs a puff of smoke before beginning to mumble. The other man puts the pictures in a bath filled with what he believes are the right chemicals.

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He has been going to and from this alleyway several times before. He only walks through here when he is holding a job downtown. His boots trudge silently past me today, not even aware…
Blind…

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He walked out the door, making sure to get the last word in before slamming the door. He storms away, even though he knew what he did wrong, countless times. He squirms around the people who don't seem to have the decency to move out of his way, or even acknowledge the fact that he was there. He eases through an alley. He trips and falls on a mixture of glass and broken concrete, cutting up his hands and side. He curses as he gets up, sucking on the wound, half enjoying, half despising it's iron taste. He walks through the alley and curves around a corner, blending again with the people in the street.

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The monotonous click clack of urban footsteps frustrates me. Yelling, car horns, all of it. They choose not to think anything could happen to them at any time. It only takes one short moment before a bullet could tear through their skull. But no, they walk, blind vermin, walking to wherever they want to…
They truly are such trivial things…

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The bar was where the man went. Drinking all the exotic alcohol he could drink with his last paycheck. The skin and bone bartender slid the check under his last drink, a large glass of imported japanese sake. The sake was held within a glass mug that had the company name etched on it, "kosuko", which was commonly mispronounced by americans. The bar used beverages from small businesses, so maybe he could move to japan and get a job there. First, he needed a job to pay for the trip, and the housing, and necessities. By that time, the whole thing would be redundant. He reaches to grab his wallet and write a check for several hundred dollars, should his handwriting be legible enough.

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I'm starting to get really bored…

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the man rushes back to grab his coat, rushing through the foggy alleyway. Glass crunches under his boots as he makes the sharp turn around the brick wall, isolating the children's playground like the Berlin Wall.

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this city is so boring…

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The shop was locked, but he could be arrested for not paying. Then again, he could be arrested for breaking and entering. His coat lay inside on the coat rack. He rang the doorbell impatiently.

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the only real good thing about this place is the fog.

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he wasn't home… just his luck… he runs around back and climbs up the fire escape to the floor above. After all, he needed his wallet.

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and that's where the damage can start.

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He grabs his coat and feels the weight of his wallet inside. He exits at the same place he came in and runs back to the bar, right as he sees red and blue lights carried over by the fog.

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he's late… he should be here…

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The crash was huge. Several mangy cars got almost pretzeled together in a sorta web of metal. Pedestrians were sandwiched between cars in a horrible way. There was no getting around this huge wall of metal…

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Sigh… I guess I'll play ball… too bad…

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he ran back. That was enough to call it a day, for sure. The glass in the alleyway crunched under his boots as he ran past. He turned several turns back to his apartment and sighed.
Life sucked.

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He was turned down almost everywhere he went, but his charisma and personality grew in acting. Though he was mainly in low budget films, locals still recall the sets and his role as the happy-go-lucky guy who helps a child out of a tree, who then murders him.
Things like that don't happen ln real life though… sadly…

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his life was fair. He washed dishes instead of reusing paper ones. He watched TV instead of play with carpet lint. Life was good. He'd all but just forgotten about the wreck. It made headlines for weeks, then people lost interest and forgot about it. Even the mayor, who didn't even try to control traffic, forgot. He pours himself a glass of instant coffee and adds sugar, no cream. The coffee woke him up with a bitter tang, but calmed him with a sweet after-taste. He turned on the news. The picture was blurry, and the audio wasn't great, but still, the fiery haired anchorman was still understandable with his thick Boston/Chicago accent. With another sip of his coffee, he put down the remote and started his daily routine. News, town, and if he was called in, to the movie set.

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I've watched him for years. I know him like a book i've read over and over and over again. I know that today, they're filming downtown. He will walk through the alley today. I'm certain he'll see me. Today is just right.

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the weather was perfect today. Nice and sunny, but semi relaxing with a thin, tourist attracting layer of fog. The group thought so too, and it seems he was called downtown. He walks around the coffee shop and the old, closed up building and enters the bustling downtown area. He walks over towards the set and ducks under the caution tape. They picked a good place this time, he thought the old, mangy hotel was a great place to shoot. The side cast shook their head. The idea of sleeping on a cold, hard mattress didn't appeal to them, nor did waking up in the middle of the night to see a killer snapping turtle in their room. The director showed the man his part. He would be the drop-dead-stoned hotel employee who tries to smother the turtle with a pillow. After it bites of his finger, he would run to the boiler room with the chines janitor and cook the poor turtle. This man had a sick sense of humor, but thankfully, deep pockets, otherwise half the people wouldn't have agreed to do what they were doing. Alas, he was no exception. The small young woman directing the snapping turtle look frightened of the thing as it looked at her with a dull, beady eyed gaze. She jumped back and poked it with a stick. Today was going to be a long day.

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I'm starting to get impatient. He finally got out of the set after ten hours, but he's walking as fast as that damn turtle. I just need to be patient a little longer… sigh…

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He walks home sober, though more than a bit tired from acting his part several times in a row. He walks though the alley and pauses. His neck started to cramp badly. He clutches his neck and keeps it still until the pain fades. He rolls his neck. Loud popping sounds emerge and he sighs.
Wait, which way was he going? He looks around. The alley looked the same on all sides and he couldn't find his way. He sits down, brushing away the litter around him with his hands. He leans against the wall and picks up a piece of a beer bottle. Already, just by the color and curve, he could tell the brand name. That was a bad thing. He drops the glass down and listens to the clink sound it makes. He rolls his neck and stands up. He turns around and takes a step in what he believes to be the right direction.…

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Are humans really this blind?

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Before yelling and falling over, cutting his hand on the glass piece he dropped earlier. There stood a young girl, about nine or ten. She wore a small wedding dress, but the veil was to thick to see her face. Her skin was a sickly white and her hair was jet black. She had a teddy bear in her hands and what looked like a friendship bracelet on her arm. She swings the teddy bear back and forth. The bear seems to sway to that rhythm like a noodle rather than a toy. The girl looks up... Or down.... He couldn't tell. She wasn't saying anything, so he decided to make conversation.
"Mister, you have a cut on your hand." just as he was going to say something, the girl grabs some stuffing out of the bear and puts it on his hand. He takes it, only because he finds it rude to refuse. The girl stands still, so he collects himself from the confusion and speaks.
"Thank you young mam. Appreciate it. May l ask you one question though? Why are you w-" he was cut off by the girl.
"your from Tennessee, although you were born in New Zealand and you spent the first few years of your life in Pennsylvania." as if to confuse him more, she continues. "Your accent gives that away. The smell of your coat is clearly of wine and alcohol, but you don't drink because you want to party or your addicted, your depressed. Nothing seems to bother you, which is why you worked for the director, because no one else will. You have lost several jobs and several woman and attempted suicide once, but you were scared and you figured you could do more with your life. Thats what I came here to talk to you about. First off, whats your name?"
The man just stood awestruck as his whole life was narrated by a scary looking young girl. All he could think to say was answer.
"Isaac Lambert? You don't look like a Lambert.... You hated your family, so you adopted another last name. Try again." what the hell was with this girl? He sighs and replies truthfully this time.
"You look more like a Conway." she stops. It was finally his turn to speak, wasn't it.
"What the hell is going on here?" he sighs as he says that. His turn was over once again.
"thats what l came to talk to you about you idiot. If you couldn't already guess, I'm dead. Hence the veil and the glue colored skin. I was killed by a twenty something year old woman with black hair just like mine and an engagement ring on her hand. Hence the dress and the hair. I was just a young girl then, hence the bear and bracelet. She lives in east Tennessee. If you go, your life will have meaning, wont it? I could be alive if you kill her. She is likely to kill others too. You could help several people." her voice changes into one of a young girl doing the cute "l'm your daughter, give me what l want" trick. "Please Isaac, your all I've got. Tell me you'll do it please."

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How could he let this happen to him? He was on a train, traveling east, first to Las Vegas, first few stops in Pasadena, bullhead city, and Henderson, to talk to a friend of his. Two seats on both sides of him were empty, he supposed, because the dead girl didn't count. She was coloring now, removing his sense of her ever having a demanding attitude. The train ride was pretty awkward, but he'd have to deal with it for a few hundred miles. The fog seemed to fallow them for miles, though it was getting thinner. He put his cap on his face and dozed off.

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~End of chapter 1~

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The Show

It was raining on this day a year ago exactly, and the day after that too. I remember too, because something happened that day. Something more rememberable than your best friends birthday, hopefully… I don't have good friends, so birthdays are rarely a big deal.
Anyhow, up here in Main, when your snowed in, your out of a job. Up here in Main, the winter season last almost seven months. Up here in Main, you have to buy in bulk or eat snowcream for weeks and weeks. I do admit, I hate it up here, hate it. Even during the summer it's too cold to swim.
Otter beach was were l was at, it was cloudy, but we didn't care, or at least I didn't. Yea, I took a swim in that icy cold water, half freezing, but a dive in the ocean is still a dive in the ocean.
Well, I figured I was just about done when a crab snapped on my ankle. I waded out of the water, tossing the tiny crab off. It scampered off stupidly sideways towards the big rocks that separated us from the highway. I looked passed the rocks. I heard cars, but sure enough, we were the only ones there, me and jessica and caleb. Poor crab walked straight onto the highway and crunch.
It didn't bother me, the crab was going to a better place. Crab crossed the highway to the other side of Otter beach. His shell was shattered, and a piece was sticking out of his back. He looked even stupider than last time.

Well, all my friends, neighbors, and co- workers knew me as a mad man, and they had every reason to think that. After all, I write gibberish on the walls of my apartment. No no no, I'm not mad, I'm actually quite brilliant. Walls are just handy for being right there when you need them. Co-workers at the shop see me arranging the DVD's in a different order, hiding notes inside the ones that bombed, Tappy Toes, other low budget knock offs.

Next day, a guy in a flashy purple coat, almost like a pimp or something, walks in and asked me where he could find Bruce Cambel's Army of Darkness. I grabbed it, rushed back, and he gave me his credit card and walked away. I eyed it suspiciously, then stuck it in my wallet. I wasn't going to use it, never did, but I realized I had a note regarding several mind bending computer algorithms and such. Made a fool of myself trying to chase after his car, got fired too. Forced to give up my happy cap and keys.
That night, walking home in the rain, I see the man's car parked in the white lines front of Caleb's place. Lord knows I wanted the note back, so I walked into Caleb's apartment and asked. No dice. Jessica? Nope.

Well I walk in my place and sit down, turn the TV on and watch the theme song for Supernatural and rapidly start changing channels. 357, 353, 320, 300, 256, so on. I hear the theme song for Doctor Who and stop. Britain loves their mad men, why not America? They have Sherlock and Doctor and… others, and we have Survivorman and Deadliest Catch. We like seeing people suffer? Best way to get yourself known in America must be putting your life in jeopardy. Well, I planned on doing that. Scribbling on the wall franticly with crayon and I remember purple guy. Yes yes, him. I rush out, crayon in hand, and see him walking to his car. I toss the crayon his way and it hits his window and smears. He stops and pulls out a washcloth from his side pocket. All I could think was what the hell was he doing with a washcloth? It occurred to me, and I tried my best to rid myself of the feeling of this stranger grabbing my note with those filthy hands. He put up the washcloth, in his pocket, and opened the car door and walked in. No no no no no sir, don't leave yet! I ran after the car as it drove off. Damn thing got away from me. Well the rain didn't let up, so I was soaked. I felt like killing him, but I needed to do the show.
BOOM! The idea struck! I was going to do a jacked up Fear Factor! Or, or… A Saw type film! No actors, people! These people! Oh Mr. Purple, I must thank you.
Spent two years making This studio in Arizona. Much better than Main, much quieter. I got famous for my horrors, slashers, and gameshow parodies. Caleb became a star in Firestarter.
Jessica was known for her role as protagonist in Nevermore.
Sadly, they both had to retire after their performance.
I still have Mr. Purple's credit card, the crab made a good prop, and all my movies were sold at my old shop.

Troy: Mr. McLinsy, has there ever been a time where you questioned your film making practices?

McL: Nope *chuckles* Not at all.

Troy: Do you now, now that your in prison?

McL: No no no I say *laughs*

Troy: One last questio-

McL: Am I not important enough?

Troy: We only have time for-

McL: We have all the time in the world.

Troy: Well… you said you were detained during the production of GreyTown. Could you tell us what it was about?

McL: Colors. Wonderful colors! No no, it's going to be a hit! A blockbuster! A work of art!! It's perfect! On broadway! GreyTown on broadway! Beautiful! Wonderful! Oh how wonderful…
Sadly, we don't have a star yet… you? You? How bout you? You look like a hero, I suppose. But hero's all have flaws… yes! Your the perfect hero! Your the star! Oh yes… oh yes yes yes…