\n| <\/td>\n | <\/p>\n <\/td>\n<\/tr>\n<\/tbody>\n<\/table>\n <\/p>\n Ashen drizzle. Black sky. Christ<\/em>, thought McKinley – nothing like the fucking rain<\/em>. It collected in muddy drifts. It pooled at the curbs. Already the streets were slicked with wet soot. McKinley lifted his boot from the accelerator and hit the emergency flashers. The bald tires of his Ford Focus fishtailed. It was bad enough on clear days when the ash was like fucking snow, but when it rained everything just turned greasy. It collected like plaque on the hoods of parked cars. It filmed over windows and all but blotted out the neon lights of the Baum Boulevard corridor. The lit names flashed past: Cricket Gentlemen\u2019s Club, Li-Yang\u2019s Electronics, Hot-Hot Tandoori, Mr. Bulge\u2019s Slut Capital, Lizzie\u2019s Knickers<\/em>\u2014but three a.m. was a dead hour and the sidewalks were barren except for clusters of immigrants ducking out of the rain in bus kiosks, deep-set doorways and under awnings – Indians mostly, but Arabs, Chinese, and Mexicans shared the corners, fondling stacks of glossy handbills advertising white women ready for sex, or stripping, handjobs, blowjobs, golden showers, glass-bottomed boats, bdsm, Russian Girls, Israeli Girls, Japanese school girls, even corn-fed Americans. But who would come out in this shit? McKinley slid to a stop at a red light at Aiken. A skeletal Sikh, dark-skinned with sunken yellowish eyes, jogged from the corner and pressed a handbill against the windshield. whatever U want it\u2014XXX\u2014st. lucy gets it. discreet businesses. hotels.<\/em> The gibberish was printed over a public domain image that McKinley had seen several times before: a pig-tailed blonde wearing a Union Jack tank top and cut-off jeans. Thirteen years old? Fourteen? She smiled like she was at a family picnic, her dimples cute, leaning over a wooden fence in some sun-drenched field. It was the sun-drenched field that caught McKinley\u2019s eye\u2014now where the hell might that be? Video screens looped mute advertisements: sunshine blondes drinking Lemon Zesty, smiling, spilling Zesty over ice like it didn\u2019t cost twelve quid per can. The drizzle stained the adverts, making the girls look like they suffered from skin disease. While McKinley watched, the Sikh touched his door handle and McKinley didn\u2019t wait for the light to change. He pushed through the intersection, spraying sludge.<\/p>\nTwo minutes later and Ritter\u2019s Diner was an oasis of light just off to McKinley\u2019s left. He pulled into the chain-link fenced lot. Fried Green Tomatoes EVERY D4Y. Blueberry Hotcake special. Fresh pies.<\/em> Ritter\u2019s was concrete and glass, a squat box decades older than the surrounding buildings. A few cars cluttered the lot, but not the gunmetal blue Lexus he\u2019d been told to expect. From where he was parked, McKinley could see the entire diner\u2014straight through into the kitchen through the open pass doors, the cooks in white, the waitresses in pastel scrubs. A couple of lone diners or drunks sobering up with coffee sat at the bar. Otherwise, the place was empty. McKinley watched the ghostly faces illuminated by the harsh interior lights, wondering who he\u2019d kill, whose photograph was in the envelope on the passenger seat beside him. He felt nauseous. They all looked so dull and lonely, he couldn\u2019t plausibly imagine any one of them representing a threat to anyone, let alone the UPMC, but who was he to judge? He was just a fucking McKinley. For the first time all night, the murder seemed real\u2014seeing those faces, imagining the shot. McKinley\u2019s gut lurched and his mouth went cottony. He was afraid he\u2019d piss himself. His palms were sweating. Fielding knew McKinley\u2019s palms would sweat.<\/p>\n\u201cNow let me get this fucking clear,\u201d Fielding had told him two nights ago in the back of the ambulance. \u201cOne rule about the gun: don\u2019t touch it without gloves\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cRight, right\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAre we fucking clear?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t touch the gun without gloves,\u201d McKinley had said. \u201cI got it\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIf you\u2019re not wearing gloves it might misfire and blow your fucking hand off. You ever see that? It\u2019s a fucking stump. Your fingers are fucked\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI got it\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDry,\u201d Fielding had told him. \u201cKeep it dry\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n The envelope was manila\u2014document sized. It was puffed out like a pillow and McKinley knew that Fielding had wrapped the gun in cotton. McK, r-17, 7th floor<\/em> was scrawled in Sharpie across the front. Fucking rain, he thought. He stuffed the envelope down the front of his coat and zipped back up to his neck. The rain came down in torrents. He thought of his crew without him\u2014Willy, Mick, William and Mix\u2014probably wondering where the hell he was, navigating the garbage lorry down the narrow, twisting avenues of Polish Hill, huddled in the cab with thermoses of Irish coffee, mackintoshes slicked with the sticky rain. It wasn\u2019t too late, he reminded himself. He could leave right now, find them already on shift and punch back in later that morning as if nothing had happened. No, he realized. It was much too late.<\/p>\nMcKinley slid from the car, hunched over in the rain. The rain battered him. Oily and frigid. He jogged across the gravel lot and up the front steps into Ritter\u2019s lobby. A Bear Claw machine stood just inside the front door, a pound for a play, the gleaming metal hook tantalizingly poised over a jumble of stuffed toys. Pornographic handbills littered the floor, crisscrossed with muddy boot tracks. The British teen climbing her wooden fence stared out from nearly half a dozen of them.<\/p>\n The diner stank\u2014cigarettes, air freshener, grease. An Empire\u2019s Forge clock with a glowing hologram of the Eliza Furnace hung above the register: 3:25 am. One of the waitresses sat alone at the near booth eating a bowl of chili sprinkled with goldfish crackers. She wore scrubs patterned with pastel lambs, a ratty gray cardigan and searing white Adidas sneakers. She was young, maybe early twenties, McKinley thought, her dishwater blonde hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. She looked up at McKinley, gaping at him, her buggy eyes taking him in, her mouth half open, ready to receive the spoonful of steaming chili poised inches from her lips.<\/p>\n \u201cMcKinley,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n \u201cCan I sit anywhere? How about one of those booths? You serve McKinleys, don\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou know this is cash only,\u201d said the waitress, after eating her spoonful of chili. \u201cWe don\u2019t do those eye scans or thumb scans or whatever the hell else you scan\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ve got cash,\u201d said McKinley. \u201cI\u2019m an adult, right? Twenty-nine, if you can believe that. Tonight\u2019s my thirtieth birthday\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cJesus Christ,\u201d said the waitress.<\/p>\n \u201cI have cash,\u201d said McKinley. \u201cAnyway, I\u2019m just getting pie and a coffee. Cheap stuff\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSit where you want,\u201d said the waitress. \u201cAnywhere\u2019s free\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n McKinley took a booth. He caught his reflection in the glass\u2014the rain had smudged him, like mascara streaking down his forehead and cheeks. Twenty-nine years old and he looked fifty, or sixty. His reflection depressed him. He\u2019d declined so swiftly, so suddenly. He unrolled his napkin and wiped the smudges from his prominent forehead, inspecting his receded hairline. His eyes were cloaked in shadows from the overhead lights and the acne craters covering his cheeks cast shadows as well. Unlike the rest of his face, however, his nose was still elegant, like a raptor\u2019s beak. McKinley turned three-quarters profile and admired his nose in the window reflection. The rest might look like shit,<\/em> he thought, but I\u2019ll always have my nose<\/em>. McKinley slid the envelope to the table. He pulled a pack of Kools from his pocket and hung his coat on the back booth hook.<\/p>\nA few moments later, the waitress poured him a glass of water and a cup of coffee.<\/p>\n \u201cCream and sugar\u2019s over there,\u201d she said. \u201cYou wanted pie?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah,\u201d said McKinley. \u201cYeah, I do\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cChocolate, chocolate cream, strawberry, key lime, rhubarb, pecan, pecan walnut, pecan supreme\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cApple?\u201d asked McKinley. \u201cHow about Dutch Apple?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDutch apple,\u201d she said. \u201cA la mode?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat does that mean?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt means with ice cream\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhy not?\u201d said McKinley. \u201cA la mode\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m Jaime,\u201d said the waitress. \u201cGive a holler if you need anything\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWill do\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n At the far end of the bar a middle-aged man sat with a newspaper. A traveling salesman<\/em>, McKinley thought. His shirt collar was unbuttoned, his tie loosened. He sat without moving, almost without blinking. He stared at the newspaper to distant thoughts. Smoke curled up from the cigarette in the tray and disappeared into the lights. His hair was sandy blonde, cut short. His lips were plump and pouting. After a moment, he languidly picked up the cigarette and took a drag. He replaced it in the tray. Nearer to McKinley was the drunk he\u2019d seen from outside, slumped over, probably asleep, a plate of hotcakes half eaten and probably cold on the counter near his elbow.<\/p>\nMcKinley unsealed the manila envelope\u2014two pairs of latex gloves, a tri-fold brochure, several pills, a wad of cotton, and an 8 x 10 glossy of his mark: an older man, white hair shaved close to his skull, vivid blue eyes. Fielding had written Councilman Rutherford Ockley<\/em> in Sharpie beneath the man\u2019s face, but McKinley already recognized the man. Local news broadcasts, the immigration debate, the Public Trust. What have I gotten myself into?<\/em> Even seeing Ockley\u2019s photograph, knowing he would kill the man, triggered nausea and McKinley chewed and dry-swallowed two of the white pills. The nausea abated.<\/p>\nMcKinley slid the photograph back into the envelope and pocketed the rest of the pills, in case he needed them during the kill. He hadn\u2019t seen Rutherford Ockley in the diner. McKinley took the envelope with him but left the brochure on the table. He took a quick walk around Ritter\u2019s, scrutinizing the two men\u2019s faces as he passed them. The drunk was an older man with white hair, but nothing like the man in the photograph. The traveling salesman was decades too young. McKinley checked all the booths, but found them empty.<\/p>\n \u201cFuck,\u201d he said, making his way back to his booth. \u201cFuck me\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n He glanced again at the Empire\u2019s Forge clock: 3:32.<\/p>\n \u201cHappy Birthday, McKinley,\u201d said Jaime, plopping down a steaming slice of Dutch apple heaped with vanilla ice cream. The ice cream had already started to melt, running like cream in rivulets between the apple chunks. She\u2019d put a candle in the ice cream, pink and blue stripes.<\/p>\n \u201cMake a wish,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n McKinley wished. He blew. The candlelight disappeared in a puff of fragrant smoke, but sparked and flickered back into light.<\/p>\n \u201cGot ya,\u201d said Jaime.<\/p>\n McKinley snorted a laugh. He plucked out the candle and dropped it in his water glass.<\/p>\n \u201cVery funny,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n \u201cYou know, I dated a McKinley once,\u201d said Jaime. \u201cThe Protocol Board made me break it off\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cEveryone slums with McKinleys\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt wasn\u2019t slumming,\u201d said Jaime. \u201cI really liked him\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHow old are you?\u201d asked McKinley.<\/p>\n \u201cTwenty-one\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t take it so hard. Your boyfriend\u2019s probably already starting to look like me\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHe already was looking like you,\u201d she said. \u201cJust a younger you\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThanks for the pie\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s on the house,\u201d said Jaime. \u201cThirty\u2019s a big year\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s mighty swell,\u201d said McKinley. \u201cThanks a lot\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSo, how long do you have? To live, I mean\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDepends,\u201d said McKinley. \u201cI\u2019m healthy, I work out. I might get a week, a week and a half at the outside\u2014unless something miraculous happens. Unless I get the right kind of medication\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThey don\u2019t have anything to help you,\u201d said Jaime. \u201cIt would be banned, anyway\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThey have it,\u201d said McKinley. \u201cAnd it is banned. That\u2019s why I need a miracle\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah, well, like I said. Happy Birthday\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou never know,\u201d said McKinley as she walked away. \u201cMaybe my birthday wish will come true\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n McKinley scooped a bite of pie and a bit of ice cream. The Dutch apple was good\u2014cinnamon and brown sugar, a crisp crust. The apple filling wasn\u2019t fresh, but what could you hope for? Fresh apples would bankrupt a place like this. He ran his hand through his hair and saw black, curly strands flutter down onto the white ice cream. Fuck<\/em>, he thought, picking out the hair. The hair\u2019s the first thing to go<\/em>.<\/p>\nHeadlights pierced the window and McKinley looked outside. The gunmetal Lexus had turned from Baum and pulled into Ritter\u2019s lot. McKinley went tingly. His heart fluttered. Keep it together, McKinley, just calm the fuck down<\/em>. His hands shook, but he slid on a pair of the gloves, snapping the latex over his wrists. His forehead broke out in a cold sweat, as did his armpits and back, but he was careful not to wipe his forehead with his gloves. Keep the gun dry.<\/p>\nThe Lexus doors opened and two figures hurried across the gravel lot, sharing an umbrella. McKinley only saw their legs\u2014a man\u2019s in dark trousers, the other\u2019s a woman\u2019s, in heels. He watched them hurry up the walk then lost them around the front corner of the building. A moment later, he heard the front bells ring.<\/p>\n \u201cThe two of you?\u201d asked Jaime. \u201cSit anywhere you want\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThank you,\u201d said the man, his voice graced with a lilting Welsh accent.<\/p>\n McKinley swiveled in his seat and saw the man from the photograph: Rutherford Ockley. He was taller than McKinley would have guessed, and much thicker, more muscular. His eyes were even more piercing than the blues in the photograph. When he and McKinley\u2019s eyes met, McKinley felt pinned to his seat, exposed.<\/p>\n \u201cGood morning,\u201d said Ockley as he passed. \u201cHow\u2019s the pie?\u201d<\/p>\n McKinley grunted, clutching his gloved hands beneath the table. Ockley wore a charcoal-colored suit and an overcoat, a brimmed hat clutched in his hand. He exuded charismatic plasticity. Snuggled beside him was a lean blonde, a quarter of his age if not younger. Her hair was curled, parted over the left eye in a tight zigzag. She wore a crimson dress that clung to her, a modest neckline in front but cut low enough behind to expose her pale back all the way to the shapely curve at the base of her spine. Rutherford Ockley\u2019s hand was inside the dress, around her bare waist. She wore crimson pumps at the end of her milky, long legs, her calf muscles shapely and defined. The drunk lifted his head as if he could sense her presence and stared at the woman as she passed. Even the traveling salesman broke his pose, ogling the woman\u2019s legs until she\u2019d tucked herself out of sight into the far corner of her booth.<\/p>\n McKinley slid a cigarette from his pack. He lit up with a stray match left over in the porcelain ashtray. Ockley and his girlfriend laughed over some joke Jaime made. They ordered pie. Jaime went to the kitchen and Ockley\u2019s girl slid from the table. McKinley sucked his cigarette and watched her. She made her way to the jukebox, slipping between the empty tables. She leaned over its glass to see the selections. She\u2019s posing<\/em>, thought McKinley. Bending over like that on purpose.<\/em> The salesman couldn\u2019t keep his eyes off her. McKinley wondered if she was a hooker, or a dancer from one of the clubs. He wondered if he could find her picture on a handbill if he asked on enough street corners, or peeked into enough dives. She heightened the tension in the room, but McKinley\u2019s lust was dull\u2014had he not been impotent from a lifetime\u2019s worth of Sterilites in his mashed potatoes, she might have done something for him. As it was, he watched her like a butcher, wondering if he\u2019d have to kill her.<\/p>\n\u201cYou don\u2019t mind if I play a song, do you?\u201d she asked the salesman.<\/p>\n \u201cLady, you can do whatever you want\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n McKinley\u2019s stomach spewed acid up his throat and into his mouth. Eckstein\u2019s Mr. Saturday Night<\/em> sounded from the jukebox and the woman started dancing, just enough motion of her hips to suggest something, just enough movement to let the men know. Her eyes were almond-shaped, emerald green. She locked eyes with the salesman and laughed.<\/p>\n\u201cCome on over here and sit down,\u201d said Ockley. \u201cCome on, baby\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhy don\u2019t you dance with me?\u201d she asked the councilman.<\/p>\n \u201cLet\u2019s have some pie instead\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n The show was over. The woman pouted, but returned to the booth. McKinley lowered his eyes, inspecting the brochure from the envelope. It was a travel brochure for the Kingfisher resort in Haiti\u2014the cover photograph showing a beach at sunset with two silhouettes jogging together, hand in hand beneath palm trees. Haiti by morning, Flights and Hotels starting at \u00a3499.<\/em> Inside the brochure, the pictures showed the Kingfisher\u2019s interior\u2014a deluxe bedroom with an ocean vista, two women sharing drinks at a bar near the fireside, one a brunette, the other a Haitian, her skin a rich mahogany. The opposite page showed the same women wearing bikinis in an outdoor Jacuzzi, palm trees ringing the outer dark. We\u2019re waiting for you, it read. The idea of Haiti calmed McKinley. He\u2019d always wanted to go to Haiti. In Pittsburgh, he\u2019d never been able to truly see the sun. Whenever he looked at the sky, even on the brightest afternoons, he could stare at the sun and it was only a pale white disc because of the soot and ash. In Haiti, he\u2019d be able to see the sun, to squint at it, to feel its light burning his skin.<\/p>\nMcKinley pulled the cotton wad from the envelope, glancing at the others in the diner, wondering if they\u2019d turn towards him, if they\u2019d somehow sense what he was doing, but no one looked his way. He unwrapped the gun. It came in two shrink-wrapped pieces, the gun itself and a magazine pre-filled with bullets. The gun was compact, blunt, and both it and the magazine looked like beige plastic, Braddock Firearms<\/em> embossed on the grip. McKinley cut into the shrink-wrap with his car key and opened the package, carefully removing each piece. The world was receding from him. His ears were ringing, they couldn\u2019t hear quite right\u2014like they were stuffed up with wax. He checked the clock: 3:45. The magazine slid into the grip with startling ease and clicked into place. He held the gun beneath the table, wondering if anyone had heard the click <\/em>of the magazine, but no one had noticed, no one had heard. McKinley chambered a round. There was no safety on the Braddock.<\/p>\nHe lowered his head and stared dumbly at his melting ice cream, wanting to pray for strength, but there was nothing and no one he could pray to. He pulled the white pills from his pocket and ate a few more with another bite of pie.<\/p>\n McKinley slid from his booth, the Braddock semi-automatic at his side. Eckstein switched to Como\u2019s Some Enchanted Evening<\/em> on the jukebox. McKinley stopped at Ockley\u2019s booth. McKinley\u2019s tongue felt too swollen to speak. He breathed heavily, inhaling, exhaling, feeling flush, and nearly hyperventilating. Spittle frothed at the corners of his lips and mucous dripped from the tip of his elegant nose.<\/p>\n\u201cWell, what is it?\u201d said Ockley, his Welch accent curling around the words.<\/p>\n \u201cAre you Rutherford Ockley?\u201d McKinley managed to say.<\/p>\n \u201cCouncilman,\u201d said the woman.<\/p>\n McKinley raised the gun, a thin stream of blood trickling from his nostril.<\/p>\n \u201cCalm down,\u201d said the salesman. \u201cHey, we\u2019re ok. It\u2019s all right, calm down\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWaitress?\u201d shouted Ockley. \u201cWaitress? Get this McKinley away from me. He\u2019s malfunctioning\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n McKinley fired. The sound was a sharp clack<\/em> and Ockley\u2019s forehead exploded into blood, his vivid blue eyes rising confusedly to the ceiling. The woman squealed. McKinley took a step forward and grabbed the councilman\u2019s throat, steadying him. He put the barrel of the gun against Ockley\u2019s temple and fired again. Ockley\u2019s brains sprayed the window and the woman. She screamed and McKinley panicked. He raised the gun to her.<\/p>\n\u201cNo, no,\u201d she said, \u201cYou don\u2019t understand who I am\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n He shot her in the chest to quiet her. The woman slumped forward and slid from the leather booth to beneath the table, her dress hiked up past her thighs. Empty the clip, Fielding had told him. Be sure to empty the fucking clip. The air smelled sharp.<\/p>\n The traveling salesman was on his knees, hands raised. The drunk was passed out cold. Jaime cried from behind the bar, \u201cDon\u2019t shoot me, oh please God, don\u2019t shoot me, don\u2019t kill me, oh God\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d said McKinley. \u201cFucking Christ\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n Time was like syrup. McKinley\u2019s ears rang. His head pounded. He felt like he was choking. McKinley turned back to Ockley\u2019s corpse and raised the gun with both hands, targeting the councilman\u2019s face. McKinley emptied the clip\u2014clack, clack, clack<\/em>\u2014until Rutherford Ockley was an unrecognizable slur of cartilage, bone, brains and blood. Even over the waitress\u2019s screams, McKinley heard the corpses bubble and suck, the blood plashing beneath the table in a pool, running into the aisle. McKinley dropped the gun and nearly fainted, his vision dimming. He breathed. His head cleared and his senses returned to him. He picked up the gun.<\/p>\nRitter\u2019s men\u2019s room was down a narrow hall that ran alongside the kitchen. It smelled of vomit and urinal cake, the floors linoleum tile, the walls covered in graffiti. McKinley filled his palm with lilac-scented foam soap from the sink dispenser then knelt in the stall in front of the stainless-steel toilet. The walls were covered with phone numbers and names, a few detailed sketches of genitals. McKinley lathered the gun with soap then plunged his hands into the toilet water, scrubbing vigorously. Spit pooled beneath his tongue and he felt like he was going to cry or puke, or both, but he scrubbed until finally the gun started to come apart in his hands, dissolving, turning into a blackish lump, then to paper pulp floating on the surface of the water. He broke down the larger clumps with his fingers and flushed. The foamy pulp swirled to the center but went down. The water came up clean. McKinley rinsed off his gloves in the sink. He hurried back through the dining room.<\/p>\n Jaime and the salesman stood near the corpses, gawking at the blood.<\/p>\n \u201cI called the cops,\u201d said Jaime, almost distractedly.<\/p>\n McKinley shoved the Haitian Kingfisher brochure and the shrink-wrap trash back into the manila envelope before putting on his coat.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n McKinley rushed past the front register. He slipped on the handbills littering the lobby. Half his boot track was blood, the other half dirt. He looked back through the diner and saw his boot tracks stamped out in blood. McKinley ran into the night. The rain had weakened into a sooty mist. The cold spray felt fresh against his face. \u201cChrist Jesus,\u201d McKinley muttered. Sirens blared in the distance. McKinley sprinted to the parking lot. He knew full well the police could be responding to any number of crimes along the Baum corridor. Once in his car, he turned the ignition and for a brief, heart-sickening moment, worried that the cold engine wouldn\u2019t turn over, but it started smoothly. McKinley backed out from the lot, speeding past the dead man\u2019s Lexus.<\/p>\n ![\"\"](\"https:\/\/somethingwicked.co.za\/magazine\/wp-content\/uploads\/2011\/05\/divider.jpg\" "\\"divider\\"") <\/p>\n
\u201cAnswer, damn it. Answer\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n He was at an AT&T pay phone bolted to the wall of the Lawrenceville Quick Stop. McKinley stood under the awning, out of the rain, lit by shop lights and cigarette adverts, his boots in a muck of slush. The line rang. Twenty times. Twenty-one. He slammed the phone to its cradle and his \u00a32 coin belched from the slot\u2014a profile of Queen Elizabeth II. Headlights raked him when cars pulled into the lot. McKinley fed the coin, dialed the number a third time. Ringing. He was panicky. Beads of sweat rolled over his belly and greased his back. A minute\u2019s worth of ringing before he gave up and picked out his coin.<\/p>\n \u201cWhere are you, Fielding?\u201d McKinley muttered, pulling up his sweatshirt hood to avoid stares. When he ducked inside the Quick Stop, he cringed at the fluorescent glare of the convenience store aisles.<\/p>\n \u201cWelllllllllcome to Quick Stop, pardner!!!\u201d<\/em> Okie twang from cartoon cowpokes in red, white and blue leather chaps, holo-fluttering in and out of McKinley\u2019s sightlines as he scanned products on the aisle. Animated labels blinked 3D eye-kicks and blared tinny jingles as he passed. A bored Mex-American clerk slouched in a bulletproof cubicle, the glass pocked white with shatter patterns. The clerk watched news on the flat screen bolted above the Slushie machine. A Reagan on KDKA:<\/p>\n\u201c…from earlier tonight. Police believe the suspect to be a twenty-nine year old William McKinley, serial coded R-17, delinquent from garbage 343 in Polish Hill. Others in his class have already been apprehended and questioned. Breaking news from overnight: Councilman Rutherford Ockley, pursuing antitrust legislation against the United Pittsburgh Medical Conglomerate, has been assassinated by a lone gunman in Pittsburgh\u2019s Bloomfield neighborhood. Footage from the assassination has already become the number one download on LibertyTube, reaching three million hits faster than even Uncle Charley\u2019s sausage-wrapped dancing cats. His legacy…\u201d<\/p>\n McKinley nuked an Ugly Dog and grabbed a Big Slurp Pepsi as footage of the killing filled the screens: The woman slumping; McKinley emptying the clip; Ockley bucking from bullets like a spasmodic. McKinley dug into his pocket and pulled out more white pills. He swallowed them with the Big Slurp and the sudden nausea at the violence on TV abated.<\/p>\n \u201cAre you one of those fucking Dollar Bills?\u201d asked the clerk. \u201cYou must be fucking giddy\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCome on, man, I have nothing to do with this,\u201d said McKinley, dropping coins on the counter, head lowered to skew the recognition software. \u201cI just haul trash. I\u2019m not happy when a man dies. I can\u2019t be\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n The clerk slid the coins to his side of the bulletproof glass. Black hair in cornrows, forearm tattoos wrapped in dress-code appropriate ace bandages. Stitched on his Quick Stop shirt: Ernesto.<\/p>\n \u201cMy cousin hauled trash,\u201d he said. \u201cUntil the city passed the spic laws and the Dollar Bills took his job. Scabs. The City deported him under the Gainful Employment Act\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n Breaking News on TV\u2014an impromptu funeral procession for Ockley. Hundreds of people\u2014immigrants and illegals, mostly, but families of illegals joined with white leftists, teenage anarchists and hippy sympathizers\u2014gathered near Ritter\u2019s. City of Pittsburgh Police in riot gear were already on hand, but keeping a distance. An armored truck emitting sound blasts to disperse the crowd was ineffective. Some of the activists threw rocks, which pinged off the officers\u2019 helmets or were easily parried with their clear shields. The funeral rally disturbed the crime scene. Ritter\u2019s was flooded with immigrants. A group of Indian Muslims took Ockley\u2019s body and wrapped it in linen. They carried him above the crowd, shouting and near tears.<\/p>\n \u201cI didn\u2019t ask to haul trash,\u201d said McKinley. \u201cOne day I just woke up in a tube, the next I\u2019m emptying dumpsters\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMy cousin had valid documentation, man, but they kicked him out because he couldn\u2019t find a qualifying job. You know what happened to him? He was a mule in Tijuana and a cartel cut his fucking head off. UPMC created you Dollar Bill mother fuckers to take his job, and then he dies crossed up with the narc they pumped into Mexico\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s conspiracy bullshit\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBullshit? Then why\u2019s Ockley dead? You dumb fuck. Ockley was going to fix this. He was going to break those fuckers apart\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n McKinley didn\u2019t stick around for his change. Back in his car, the dash clock told him he was turning thirty years old. He watched the digits flip from 4:59 to 5:00am.<\/p>\n \u201cHappy fucking birthday,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n McKinley drove. Aiken was closed by police barricade\u2014officers in gasmasks and helmets, black riot armor and submachine guns directing traffic away from the funeral procession. McKinley could see firelight from the rally and heard gunshots fired into the air. He followed detours through Friendship and East Liberty, behind snowplows scraping paths through the sludge rain. What have I done?<\/em><\/p>\nEast Liberty and Highland. McKinley spotted another pay phone at a defunct Sunoco\u2014boarded windows, tattered plastic bags shrouding the pumps. McKinley pulled around back and hunched in the rain to make his call\u2014another \u00a32 coin, another twenty unanswered rings.<\/p>\n He\u2019d met Dr. Fielding at Big Jim\u2019s in the Run\u2014a Dollar Bill bar, down in Greenfield near the train trestle. Big Jim\u2019s d\u00e9cor was grease: grease-saturated faux wood panels, grease-stained carpets, grease-shined tabletops. This was three months ago, McKinley celebrating the thirtieth of a Milhous Nixon he knew from finishing school. The place was crawling with Nixons and friends of Nixons, rowdy drunks every one of them, a few McKinleys, a W. or two. The Steelers were on the 27-inch above the bar. McKinley sipped Drambuie. The place was overcrowded, thick with tobacco smoke. A line of men sat at the bar downing beers and groaning at the quarterback play, but most of the room was teeming with Presidents. The few Citizens at the party had picked out their Palins and snuck away to dim corners, slow dancing and groping the girls. Fielding collapsed into McKinley\u2019s booth, making like he needed a break from the party.<\/p>\n \u201cFucking Logan\u2019s Run in here,\u201d he said. \u201cThis is depressing. I\u2019m Fielding, by the way\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh, shit, I know who you are,\u201d said McKinley, recognizing the man from the monthly newsletters. \u201cYou\u2019re the director of the program\u2014I think I have your signature tattooed on my ass\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n Fielding laughed, \u201cYou probably do\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou knew Nix?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI helped him out from time to time,\u201d said Fielding. \u201cI\u2019m a chemist, remember. Nix liked certain cocktails. Are you interested? You\u2019re about twenty-nine, aren\u2019t you? Maybe a bit younger? We could party\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n Fielding was close to sixty, McKinley guessed\u2014a mythical age, as far as he was concerned. The doctor\u2019s hair was curly but ashen gray, his face pocked and somewhat ruddy\u2014almost elfin in its features, with long smile lines creasing the corners of his bright eyes.<\/p>\n \u201cTwenty-nine,\u201d said McKinley.<\/p>\n \u201cTwenty-nine? Come outside with me,\u201d said Fielding. \u201cThis place is too crowded for old men like us. I can give you an early birthday present\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n The Steelers closed into halftime and McKinley needed to piss anyway.<\/p>\n \u201cFine,\u201d he said. He downed the last watery sips of his Drambuie and chewed the ice. The two men threaded through the crowd and left the bar. Outside was quiet, with snow drifting from the black sky in fat, grayed flakes. Snow piled in blackish drifts, ice caked in mud with a sheen of oil. McKinley pissed against Big Jim\u2019s wall and followed Fielding around back, between houses lit by the Steelers on television, into a gravel field, the security lights busted out.<\/p>\n \u201cHere,\u201d said Fielding, and McKinley smoked.<\/p>\n They passed the joint without speaking, watching the blur of lights on the 376 overpass as if they were stars. Fielding rubbed his hands for warmth and shivered.<\/p>\n \u201cAre you afraid of dying?\u201d Fielding asked. \u201cI know how it\u2019s supposed to work, but I\u2019ve never really asked a President before. We\u2019re terrified of dying\u2014normal citizens, I mean. We\u2019ve spent years trying to break the Biblical Barrier, and even now that a person with good healthcare can break 140 or 50 easily, nothing\u2019s changed. Life blinks by just as fast. We\u2019re just as fucking scared of dying as we used to be and still regretful about all the years we\u2019ve wasted. But look at you\u2014calm, even though you\u2019re almost 30\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t think I\u2019m afraid of dying, but there\u2019s a dream I get from time to time,\u201d said McKinley. \u201cI\u2019m riding a horse\u2014this black horse, shiny with sweat and muscles. I realize I\u2019m in a war\u2014wearing a blue wool jacket. I have a musket and something happens\u2014it differs depending on the dream\u2014either a musket shot flies past, or an explosion. The horse stumbles and I\u2019m falling. I wake up. I\u2019m sweaty and nauseous. I guess that might be a fear of death, but it dissipates. After that, I don\u2019t feel a thing, brother. I can\u2019t\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWell, what if you could?\u201d said Fielding. \u201cWhat if I could fix you? What if I had the drugs to block out your Sterilites and dampen your genetic restrictors? What if you could discover the ecstasies of religion? What if I could help you have sex? What if I could let you live a little bit longer? I can\u2019t let you live forever\u2026but maybe another five years?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s a big what if\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNot fucking what if,\u201d said Fielding, laughing. \u201cI work for the UPMC.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat are you trying to sell me?\u201d said McKinley.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m not selling you a damn thing, Mr. McKinley,\u201d said Fielding. \u201cCome with me. There\u2019s something I\u2019d like to show you\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n The Run was unplowed and McKinley trudged through snow, following Fielding in silence. Small houses in a valley of shadow, the lights from the overpass unable to reach this far into the Run, the sounds of a thousand cars nothing more than a distant whisper. Fielding led McKinley up the block toward the Orthodox Church that had once prayed over the corpse of Andy Warhol, its onion domes catching streetlamp light and glinting gold. An ambulance was parked on the street, Three Rivers EMS.<\/p>\n \u201cIn here,\u201d said Fielding.<\/p>\n \u201cYou want me to get in there?\u201d asked McKinley.<\/p>\n \u201cCome on,\u201d said Fielding. \u201cWhat are you scared of?\u201d<\/p>\n McKinley took a last pull of the joint before flicking it away\u2014a burning arc of light falling into snow. \u201cI guess nothing\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n The back of the ambulance was cramped, but with enough room for McKinley on the bench and Fielding in a swivel chair. They squinted in the sudden florescent glare of the truck, their faces pallid and drawn with shadows. Fielding pulled shades over the rear windows.<\/p>\n \u201cCozy,\u201d he said, removing a leather satchel from beneath the driver\u2019s seat. He unzipped the bag and lifted a syringe and vial. He filled the syringe with liquid.<\/p>\n \u201cYou have a girlfriend?\u201d asked Fielding.<\/p>\n \u201cSure,\u201d said McKinley. \u201cAn occasional Palin\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cPresidential romances are sweet,\u201d said Fielding. \u201cChaste like perfect teenagers\u2014holding hands and going out to dinner on your meager allowances. You and your Palin feel companionship, but you can\u2019t feel love. You can\u2019t fuck. I don\u2019t know if you\u2019ve ever felt her up or would even want to, but I know your sex drive is abysmally low. And that\u2019s not all, Mr. McKinley. You have some emotional sensitivity, but you\u2019ve been programmed to feel extreme nausea at the thought, let alone the intention, of violence. The idea of God has been stripped from you, even though platitudes have been programmed into your genes. You go to church every Sunday by genetic compulsion, but I know damn well you\u2019ve never had a religious experience. The reason you don\u2019t fear death is partly biological\u2026it\u2019s partly the way we\u2019ve programmed you\u2026but it\u2019s partly because your lives are already a living death. You are deadened slaves. I want to give you life, Mr. McKinley. I want to give you freedom. Roll up your sleeve\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat is that?\u201d said McKinley. \u201cWe do drug testing, man. Listen, they take urine samples from us. I can\u2019t\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n Fielding tapped a vein, pressed the fluid into McKinley\u2019s forearm.<\/p>\n \u201cHoly shit,\u201d said McKinley, his eyes widening, his mouth gasping for breath. \u201cOh my God, oh my God\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s life,\u201d said Fielding. \u201cThat\u2019s what citizens feel every moment of every day. That feeling is nothing more than having the veil lifted, my friend. I can give you life. I can give you freedom. I can give you pleasure. We have gene therapy that can extend your life a solid five years, if not a bit more: imagine, a William McKinley celebrating his thirty-fifth birthday. I can give you the therapy, and I can get you out of the country to enjoy it. UPMC has resources\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHaiti,\u201d said McKinley. \u201cI want to go to Haiti. I want to see the sun\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n Fielding\u2019s plan had seemed simple: Kill the councilman. Make a payphone to payphone call to Fielding after the kill. If everything went smoothly, Fielding was to tell him a location, a place where McKinley could ditch his car. Fielding was to meet him there with the ambulance. The gene therapy was to be immediate, conducted en route<\/em> to the airport. At parting, McKinley was to receive: a flight ticket, a passport, a room key to the Kingfisher resort in Haiti, a wad of cash.<\/p>\n\u201cHow do you know your councilman will come to Ritter\u2019s?\u201d McKinley had asked.<\/p>\n \u201cI have someone working for me. She\u2019ll get him there, it\u2019s no problem\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n But it was a real fucking problem\u2014a double \u2013homicide, sparking citywide riots. McKinley already pegged as the killer, his face and serial code flashed on every TV and Mobile. Fielding nowhere. McKinley let the payphone ring, huddled against the oozing rain. Thirty times, thirty-five. No one answered.<\/p>\n \u201cFuck, fuck, fuck,\u201d he said, slamming the phone against the cradle until the hooks broke. \u201cShit\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n A heavier rain left oily slicks with a variegated sheen on sidewalks and the Sunoco parking lot. In the car, the Demagogue spoke: And the savages\u2014all the inferiors of the world that come to our great nation like parasites to suck our blood and infect the fat of the land. They riot, murder, loot and burn the very neighborhoods where we\u2019ve let them live\u2014<\/p>\n McKinley coughed\u2014a deep, wet rattling in his chest\u2014and he knew his thirty years on this earth were almost up, that his innards, as he\u2019d seen in countless instructional videos, were beginning to jellify and break apart. His eyes locked onto ambulances as he drove, sirens whirring past despite the rain-spattered streets.<\/p>\n A body on the street. Anarcho-kids, faces covered with handkerchiefs, beat it with baseball bats. McKinley sped past the scene, catching that the victim was a W. Bush, his body torn apart like tissue paper from the violence and the lubricating rain. McKinley fished out the last two white pills, chewed and swallowed\u2014the nausea softening. These riots sparked from time to time, he knew, and Presidents were attacked\u2014unable to defend themselves because of their anti-violence reflexes. Millions in city property lost, millions in personal property lost if the riots reached into Shadyside, where families owned Hoovers for butlers.<\/p>\n McKinley threaded through a police line set up to contain the riots. He drove into Shadyside, through the United Pittsburgh Medical Conglomerate main campus; the sprawling structure of interconnected glass lit hospital-white, gleaming despite the drizzling sludge. Every inch of surface was covered with light projection adverts\u2014women\u2019s eyes with Versace diamond-lashes, Vuitton by Murakami cartoons gorging on handbags, Ralph Lauren blondes playing croquet in shimmering sundresses. Forty-foot Burberry close-ups of women\u2019s feet in plaid high heels. Armani, Cartier, Miu Miu.<\/p>\n McKinley parked where he could, blocking a hydrant near Ellsworth and St. James. He hunkered in his jacket, coming out of the rain into the Galleria and the Emergency Room entrance, hiding his face from the commercial scanners that plied him with coupons and sales, trying to pin his identity\u2014What\u2019s your name? Anything you want, the UPMC has it. What are you looking for?<\/em>\u2014runway models carved from light walking with him, directing him to boutiques. Nurses in tailored white suits wheeled patients through the ER receiving doors and down the Galleria halls. The mall teemed with Presidents bloodied in riot violence. McKinley scrolled through a hospital roster until he found him, the man\u2019s photograph a smiling, airbrushed publicity still from ten years ago, maybe twenty: Fielding, Richard Felix. Bioinorganic Procedures, Director<\/em>.<\/p>\nNear the Cancer Ward, a commercial scanner caught McKinley\u2019s retina: an alarm sounded even as the commercials adjusted themselves to suit his profile. McKinley ran, but American Eagle Outfitters\u2019 personalized window display caught his attention: a blonde with vanilla skin, impossibly gorgeous, with dimples and radiant blue eyes. She climbed on a wooden fence wearing cut-off jeans and a Union Jack t-shirt. McKinley coughed, gagging on fluids he kicked up from his lungs. He coughed again, sprayed slurries of bloodied vomit on the display window. Tears streamed like molten iron from his eyes, blurring his vision. One of the nurses approached him and asked if he needed to be admitted to the ER.<\/p>\n \u201cYes,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019m dying\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n He followed the nurse, Galleria stores layering displays to appeal to him. All around, nurses hustled battered and vandalized Presidents onto gurneys or in wheelchairs. McKinley wondered what the other Presidents saw when they looked at the Galleria stores\u2014what sorts of advertisements vied for their attention and plied their vestigial dreams.<\/p>\n Once into triage, McKinley left the nurse and wandered white hospital halls. He swallowed down a mouthful of mucous-thickened blood, scanning room numbers as he made his way from department to department. Patients convalescing, televisions tuned to broadcasts of the funeral procession. The riots surrounding the funeral were gaining momentum. In the processional\u2019s wake, cars burned or were overturned, windows broken. Presidents lay dead in the streets.<\/p>\n McKinley found the doctor in his office.<\/p>\n \u201cFielding?\u201d he said.<\/p>\n Doctor Fielding sat at his desk, flipping through paperwork, his bifocals perched on the bridge of his nose. At McKinley\u2019s voice, the man looked up and smiled.<\/p>\n \u201cWilliam,\u201d he said. \u201cI was wondering if you\u2019d show up. Come in, have a seat\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI came for my tickets,\u201d said McKinley. \u201cWhy didn\u2019t you pick up the phone? I killed that guy\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou did a lot more than fucking kill that guy,\u201d said Fielding. \u201cYou also killed a woman. She was a colleague, a damn promising colleague. You weren\u2019t supposed to kill anyone but Ockley, you dumb fuck. You\u2019re not getting anything from me\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWe had a deal,\u201d said McKinley, coughing. He searched his pockets for any more of the white pills, but he\u2019d used them all.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ve already given you more than any President deserves,\u201d said Fielding.<\/p>\n Fielding turned back to his paperwork. McKinley lunged at him, to kill him if he could, but waves of nausea flooded him and he crumpled to the carpet. Doctor Fielding never looked up from his paperwork, even as McKinley struggled to rise. He stumbled and crawled from the room, the world spinning, running the white halls away from the doctor. McKinley gagged, and a stream of cold fluids poured from his mouth and nostrils.<\/p>\n \u201cChrist,\u201d he said. \u201cFucking Christ.\u201d But further down the hallway he vomited again\u2014more blood and the soggy remains of organs. He made his way back through the Galleria, the flashing adverts hazy through his bloody tears. McKinley swayed and staggered, the storefronts again layering adverts for his attention. He passed Gap, the models in bikinis, healthy and clean, all climbing into a hot tub together at the Kingfisher resort and spas, looking out into the starry vista of the Haitian night.<\/p>\n McKinley stumbled outside, gasped for air\u2014but the rain damped in his lungs and he choked, spitting watery blood. His skin flaked before fissuring, covering him with snowy dandruff. Blood ran into his eyes from fissures opening over his scalp and stung him. He wandered vaguely towards his car, but forgot where he had parked.<\/p>\n Sirens, but what did it matter. The rainwater leaking through his boots eroded his feet to clumps and McKinley fell to his knees. Instinct. He crawled, whimpering. He found a hedgerow and slid between the branches, burying his head in his arms. He squirmed from his clothes, naked like a pale worm in the mud. His skin melted in the rain and rinsed to the gutters. He was a smooth white lump, featureless except for the more resistant bones\u2014elbows, knees\u2014jagged and poking through the membrane.<\/p>\n The torchlight funeral for Ockley crashed through the night like a rolling scream of prayer and gunfire. McKinley\u2019s eyes floated wide in his bald face, unable to blink and staring at the procession as it passed. It flowed like a poisoned river, threatening property violence to the manicured lawns of Shadyside. Scared citizens watched from dim upstairs windows, hiding their Presidents in basements or garages until the unpleasantness might pass.<\/p>\n Traffic patrol discovered McKinley\u2019s Ford Focus when they ran the plates for the hydrant violation. Police searched for him, hoping to find him intact for the papers, but they were far too late. When they found what little remained of McKinley, he looked like a bloated white worm, dried and sun blanched. The police let a Reagan take photographs for the morning broadcasts and copied the images for their internal paperwork. Officially, Doctors at the UPMC recommended further studies into what might have blocked the nausea response to violence in this particular McKinley. Assaults, sex crimes, and murder charges committed by Presidents were spiking slightly this year, but were still very low against general statistics for a population of this size.<\/p>\n Once Homicide gathered the evidence they needed from the hedgerow, they called in a group of apprentice McKinleys for cleanup. As the McKinleys, a half dozen young men in Municipality of Pittsburgh coveralls, shoveled away the body and sprayed down his deathbed with chemicant, McKinley\u2019s brain ticked through its final programmed stages\u2014constitutionally mandated thoughts and reveries meant to appease the consciences of the legislators who had dreamed up or supported the President Program. McKinley remembered his mother, sweet Nancy, serving him Apple Pie on the Fourth of July. He remembered growing old with the ravishing Ida Saxton, and remembered the jewel-colored feathers of the parrot he\u2019d named Washington Post, his favorite. As McKinley\u2019s brain jellified, he thanked the Lord Jesus Christ for the salvation of his eternal soul, and terminated with an image of the American Flag rippling in the sunlit wind, unfurled over waves of autumn grain and the purple mountains, which were painted in majesty.<\/p>\n Copyright \u00a9 2012 by Thomas Carl Sweterlitsch
\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/somethingwicked.co.za\/magazine\/wp-content\/uploads\/2011\/07\/blackline1-300x7.jpg\" "\\"blackline\\"") <\/h5>\n\n\n\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/somethingwicked.co.za\/magazine\/wp-content\/uploads\/2011\/07\/PurchaseButton.png\" "\\"PurchaseButton\\"") <\/a><\/td>\n | ![\"\"](\"https:\/\/somethingwicked.co.za\/magazine\/wp-content\/uploads\/2011\/07\/SubsBuyButton.png\" "\\"SubsBuyButton\\"") <\/a><\/td>\n<\/tr>\n<\/tbody>\n<\/table>\n[hana-code-insert name=’ArticleBlockOpen’ \/]<\/p>\n ![\"\"](\"https:\/\/somethingwicked.co.za\/magazine\/wp-content\/uploads\/2012\/02\/ThomasSweterlitasch-150x150.jpg\" "\\"ThomasSweterlitasch\\"") <\/em><\/p>\nThomas Carl Sweterlitsch<\/em> lives in the Greenfield neighborhood of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, with his wife, Sonja, and daughter, Genevieve. He studied creative writing, English and history at Carnegie Mellon University, earning an MA in literary and cultural theory. For the past ten years, he\u2019s worked at the Carnegie Library for the Blind and Physically Handicapped.<\/p>\n[hana-code-insert name=’ArticleBlockClose’ \/]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" by Thomas Carl Sweterlitsch
\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/somethingwicked.co.za\/magazine\/wp-content\/uploads\/2011\/06\/TitleUnderline.jpg\" "\\"TitleUnderline\\"") <\/h3>\n\n\n\n| \n Ashen drizzle. Black sky. Christ, thought McKinley – nothing like the fucking rain. It collected in muddy drifts. It pooled at the curbs. Already the streets were slicked with wet soot. McKinley lifted his boot from the accelerator and hit the emergency flashers. The bald tires of his Ford Focus fishtailed. It was bad enough on clear days when the ash was like fucking snow, but when it rained everything just turned greasy.<\/p>\n<\/td>\n | ![\"\"](\"https:\/\/somethingwicked.co.za\/magazine\/wp-content\/uploads\/2012\/01\/CoverIssue18Kindle-225x300.jpg\" "\\"CoverIssue18Kindle\\"") <\/a>
\nIssue 18 (Feb 2012)<\/span><\/a><\/td>\n<\/tr>\n\n| <\/td>\n | <\/a><\/a><\/td>\n<\/tr>\n<\/tbody>\n<\/table>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[4],"tags":[226,163,177,165],"class_list":["post-1904","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction","tag-fiction","tag-issue-18","tag-sf","tag-thomas-carl-sweterlitsch"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/somethingwicked.co.za\/magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1904","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/somethingwicked.co.za\/magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/somethingwicked.co.za\/magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/somethingwicked.co.za\/magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/somethingwicked.co.za\/magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1904"}],"version-history":[{"count":6,"href":"https:\/\/somethingwicked.co.za\/magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1904\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1979,"href":"https:\/\/somethingwicked.co.za\/magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1904\/revisions\/1979"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/somethingwicked.co.za\/magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1904"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/somethingwicked.co.za\/magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1904"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/somethingwicked.co.za\/magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1904"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}} | |
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![\"\"](\"https:\/\/somethingwicked.co.za\/magazine\/wp-content\/uploads\/2012\/02\/disposable.jpg\" "\\"disposable\\"")