Don't you know I can't see your face
Or play all of your little games
Don't you know I can't see your cards
But I can see your cheating ways
Don't you know I can't Hold 'Em
Or work with a royal flush
Don't you know poker is a game of lies
And you play poker all the time
Don't you know I can read your poker face
And even when you aren't playing cards
Don't you know I watched you cheat
And I'm hiding a two pair
Thursday, March 19, 2015
Friday, March 6, 2015
Weird Nights 2.0
The doctor choked on his own saliva. He had watched as Subject 3R-Justin brutally murdered Subject 3R-Holly. The feeling of helplessness plagued his mind and his throat. His breath was constricted by both his disease and his worry. Subject 3R-Justin would be going for more. He would make a ghost of that town. He had started with Subject 3R-Holly, and the doctor knew he would not stop until the last person was gone. The doctor sneezed. His head pitched forward and his balance shifted. Had he not been sitting, he surely would have fallen.
The only thing more unsettling than Subject 3R-Justin's actions was Subject 3R-Holly's last words. Instead of calling her killer Nate, she called him Justin. She had asked for an Andrew, whom she knew as Bass. The serum had faded the minutes before her death. Was it her terror? Was it her resignation? What had she seen while knocked out? The doctor sneezed and sent his chair backward a bit. No, it wouldn't be long.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Frenchie Midrange awoke to silence. Not the kind of silence where there isn't noise going on around him, no, this was not normal. Frenchie could not hear his own breath, or the beating of his own heart. Frenchie could not hear anything. He sat up and was greeted by the rustle of the covers, but nothing else. Nothing. The silence unnerved him to the point of looking around to make sure something wasn't stalking him. What would be, he didn't know.
A sudden stabbing pain gripped his chest. He felt like his heart was being torn in two. Frenchie crumpled to the ground, panting and hugging his chest. His chest was falling apart, falling apart on the inside. Frenchie could not breath, couldn't think, couldn't breathe...
As quickly as it came on, the feeling stopped. Frenchie stood up shakily. His chest seemed to have knit itself back together, but a throbbing pain pulsed to the beat of his heart, directly in the center of his chest. Frenchie put his hand on the epicenter of the pain. That part of his chest felt stone cold, but otherwise no different than it was usually.
Frenchie padded down the hall with bare feet, stopping at the door to French's room. He pressed his ear to the door. He was greeted by yawning silence. Frenchie opened the door, just a crack. The room was empty. The covers on the bed were rumpled and the window was open. Open. French hissed through his nose. What had his sister done now?
The constricting pain surged forth once more, spider webbing through his chest as though it were glass. For a precarious moment, the cracks in Frenchie's chest balanced carefully, then shattered. The glass of his resistance broke away and the pain flooded through his chest. Frenchie found himself on the floor, hugging his chest. Hot, molten glass poured itself into his chest cavity, and Frenchie couldn't breathe.
Like the first time, the pain snapped away as suddenly as it had set upon him. Frenchie felt heavy and full of glass. He stood up shakily. His feet stuck to the ground, weighed down with the glass that had leaked out of his chest. What had happened? Where was French? The spiderwebbing pain threatened to break him at the thought of French.
Frantic, Frenchie pulled on a shirt and jogged outside, breaking the glass in his chest with every step. His socked feet pounded in protest against the sidewalk. The shards of the glass scratched around, and around, and around, attempting to excise Frenchie's heart. "French?" He shouted. "French!" He ran down the sidewalk next to the pitifully unused street. "French! French Midrange!" His throat scratched at him, angry at being used so quickly and so rudely.
Frenchie was all but sprinting in his socked feet, shouting for his sister. He couldn't breathe anymore, and tears attempted to close his throat, to choke him while he was screaming for the only thing that made his life worth living. Frenchie refused to let them fall out of his eyes, refused to let the salt stream down his face and forcing him to get up. "French!" He choked, his vision blurred.
Navigating the town by memory, Frenchie went everywhere he could think of and some places he couldn't; the ration bank, the houses of everyone that lived in Band, the automated salon, the clothing dispension, the library, and the entrance to the park. Choking on his own failure and gripping the now numb soles of his feet, Frenchie debated on getting help before he went to search for his sister in the park. "French!" He quaked in exhaustion, fear, and a strange sense of heavy peace, laden with depression, stagnant rivers of once-clear water, and a grim truth.
And Frenchie Midrange did the heroic thing in that instant.
He fainted.
The only thing more unsettling than Subject 3R-Justin's actions was Subject 3R-Holly's last words. Instead of calling her killer Nate, she called him Justin. She had asked for an Andrew, whom she knew as Bass. The serum had faded the minutes before her death. Was it her terror? Was it her resignation? What had she seen while knocked out? The doctor sneezed and sent his chair backward a bit. No, it wouldn't be long.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Frenchie Midrange awoke to silence. Not the kind of silence where there isn't noise going on around him, no, this was not normal. Frenchie could not hear his own breath, or the beating of his own heart. Frenchie could not hear anything. He sat up and was greeted by the rustle of the covers, but nothing else. Nothing. The silence unnerved him to the point of looking around to make sure something wasn't stalking him. What would be, he didn't know.
A sudden stabbing pain gripped his chest. He felt like his heart was being torn in two. Frenchie crumpled to the ground, panting and hugging his chest. His chest was falling apart, falling apart on the inside. Frenchie could not breath, couldn't think, couldn't breathe...
As quickly as it came on, the feeling stopped. Frenchie stood up shakily. His chest seemed to have knit itself back together, but a throbbing pain pulsed to the beat of his heart, directly in the center of his chest. Frenchie put his hand on the epicenter of the pain. That part of his chest felt stone cold, but otherwise no different than it was usually.
Frenchie padded down the hall with bare feet, stopping at the door to French's room. He pressed his ear to the door. He was greeted by yawning silence. Frenchie opened the door, just a crack. The room was empty. The covers on the bed were rumpled and the window was open. Open. French hissed through his nose. What had his sister done now?
The constricting pain surged forth once more, spider webbing through his chest as though it were glass. For a precarious moment, the cracks in Frenchie's chest balanced carefully, then shattered. The glass of his resistance broke away and the pain flooded through his chest. Frenchie found himself on the floor, hugging his chest. Hot, molten glass poured itself into his chest cavity, and Frenchie couldn't breathe.
Like the first time, the pain snapped away as suddenly as it had set upon him. Frenchie felt heavy and full of glass. He stood up shakily. His feet stuck to the ground, weighed down with the glass that had leaked out of his chest. What had happened? Where was French? The spiderwebbing pain threatened to break him at the thought of French.
Frantic, Frenchie pulled on a shirt and jogged outside, breaking the glass in his chest with every step. His socked feet pounded in protest against the sidewalk. The shards of the glass scratched around, and around, and around, attempting to excise Frenchie's heart. "French?" He shouted. "French!" He ran down the sidewalk next to the pitifully unused street. "French! French Midrange!" His throat scratched at him, angry at being used so quickly and so rudely.
Frenchie was all but sprinting in his socked feet, shouting for his sister. He couldn't breathe anymore, and tears attempted to close his throat, to choke him while he was screaming for the only thing that made his life worth living. Frenchie refused to let them fall out of his eyes, refused to let the salt stream down his face and forcing him to get up. "French!" He choked, his vision blurred.
Navigating the town by memory, Frenchie went everywhere he could think of and some places he couldn't; the ration bank, the houses of everyone that lived in Band, the automated salon, the clothing dispension, the library, and the entrance to the park. Choking on his own failure and gripping the now numb soles of his feet, Frenchie debated on getting help before he went to search for his sister in the park. "French!" He quaked in exhaustion, fear, and a strange sense of heavy peace, laden with depression, stagnant rivers of once-clear water, and a grim truth.
And Frenchie Midrange did the heroic thing in that instant.
He fainted.
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