A cherry-red light drifts down the dark, locker-lined hallway. Ian materializes from the black, wearing a beat-up cowboy hat and smoking the stumpy remains of a stale stogie. He's holding something behind his back menacingly, but then his leathery hands present a bottle of Scotch.

"Dear Mr. Vernon, you see us in the simplest terms. The most convenient definitions. But what we found out is that each one of us," Ian claps David on the shoulder, "is a brain..."

"An athlete..." He walks his fingers in front of one the card-playing men, who snaps at them with bared teeth. "Oooh, a basket case!"

Ian turns and winks at Heather, "A princess..."

He finishes, pivoting to face the group with a bow. "And a criminal. Sincerely yours, the Apocalypse Club."

"Misunderstandings, huh? Yeah, I was hoping this place was a bar," he chuckles. "Or at least the Betty Ford. Turns out the Princ-O-Pal's office was where they were hiding the VIP."

Ian props himself against a wall and slumps to a seated position. "Wonder how many misunderstandings this little piece of glass has been privy to. Burnouts and helicopter moms, eh? Teenage mistakes fueling stem-cell research." He dips his head low, face invisible beneath the shaped brim.

"I had a twin brother. Someone took him and raised him after all of this happened." He gestures in front of himself, to nothing particular. "Left me behind. Guess they 'misunderstood' I wasn't dead. They say The Man took him, but no one knows this guy's name. They just call him The Man."

Ian mimics in a derisive tone of worship, "Are you that boy who knows The Man? Have you heard about The Man? The Man saved us all!" Then, solemnly, "And at his feet they'll cast their golden crown, when The Man comes around."

The cowboy hat lifts to reveal a mischievous grin. "But that's a story for another time. If there's ever enough time to tell it. A misunderstanding can be mortifying. But in the right kind of story, it could also be kismet."

RARE LOVE

By @IanRCooper

The steel of the gun barrel feels cold on my lips. Well, it might feel cold. If I could feel anything. I just like to say things like that attention-grabber of an opening line. Sure, it could be less dramatic, but how would you relate? I mean, there's still a gun in my mouth, and I might totally go through with it. You don't know.

Oh, the not feeling thing? Yeah, it was that or the gun that got your attention. Fifty-fifty shot. Pun intended. It's called congenital analgesia, which translates to "condition from birth inability to feel pain". Technically, my disorder isn't congenital analgesia. Those people can still feel pressures and other minor touch-related sensations. Mine is hereditary sensory and automatic neuropathy type IV, but for Christ's sake, did you really think I was gonna follow such a sweet opener with that cluster-fuck of a phrase? I'd call it Cantfeelshit-itis, given the taxonomic choice. But I'm not the naming rare diseases guy. I'm the guy with heredi-blahblahblah.

Now I know what you're thinking, "Holy shit! You're a superhero! Or at least you could make a killing as a boxer." Sadly, that couldn't be farther from the truth. See, the thing is, people with – ahem – congenital analgesia are in constant life threatening danger from not knowing when we're in pain. Something as small as a cut on your foot could lead to infection if ignored. This of course becomes an amputation, or worse, death. Imagine if I were actively pushing the physical limits of pain. I'd literally be dead before I knew it. So, no ring girls or stopping bank heists for me. There's barely trips to the grocery store for me.

So why the gun, you may ask? Because living in constant fear of death sucks. There's no sense in making long term plans when the guys with eight-year diplomas say statistically, you'll be lucky to make it to your thirties. I'm defying science and God by breathing right now. Just because I can't feel physical sensation doesn't mean I can't feel emotional ones. Disappointment, dread, depression. These are things that I feel. And if I can get up the nerve to actually pull the trigger, I can stop feeling those too.

There's not too many who would mourn my passing, either. A handful of tinny voices and pixelated avatars from the online games I play might take pause, but they could hold a little in-game funeral to deal with their digital grief. Maybe the developers could sell me a little ornate coffin and headstone for $2.99 as part of their In Memorium DLC. Not many chances at developing real-life relationships with my condition. What are we gonna do, go bike riding?

And don't even get me started on romantic relationships. I'll never know a soft caress or a passionate kiss. There have been some attempts at intimacy with a few girls in high-school, but you know that age old question, "Are you ready to take things to the next level?"

Nope. There is no next level for me. Cindy in Freshman year said kissing me was like kissing a corpse. Not my fault I didn't know what to do. In tenth grade I tried again with a girl named Beth, whose face I evidently tried suck clean off her skull. Call it overcompensation. By Senior prom, I had figured out how to fake enough to finally get to pants-off time, and there it was. Amy Lankford and I tried to "take things to the next level". It was then that I discovered the one thing I couldn't fake. And yes, I have since tried every little blue, purple, white, double-dipped, rainbow fuck-colored pill under the sun. Drugs just work funny on me. Extreme delayed response, or sometimes not at all. I'll let you guess which ones the dick pills were.

Oh, right. The gun. So maybe it seems really shallow that I'm on the precipice of suicide just because I can't get my hog juiced, but it's not just that. It's all of the things that come with romance. Love, affection, basic companionship. I can't ask a woman to spend the rest of her life with me if I can't offer her physical intimacy. It wouldn't be fair.

Can't get a dog either. I don't have anyone close enough to pawn one off onto in case I bite it. Maybe they could get a few free meals from me before I start to smell enough that the neighbors call the cops, and the little bugger gets taken to the pound.

As you can tell, I've given this quite a bit of thought. Or maybe not. I'm tired of thinking. Tired of the questions. Questioning myself and my purpose, trying to find that one ray of sunshine that makes it worth carrying on to the next day. One sleek little piece of metal fired out of a bigger piece of metal and there's no more questions. Wondering about purposes or people. Or women. But what I wouldn't give to feel the hope of romance one last time. Even if it wasn't real. One simple date, before it all starts going downhill and we have to ask ourselves if we're "ready to take things to the next level."

I'm deep in this fanciful reverie when it catches my attention from the table I had decided to leave my decomposing body leaned up against. The morning paper. It's been folded over, leaving open the Lonely Hearts section. In bold print it says:

Desperate To Find A Connection?

Not having any luck with big city dating? Feel awkward out on the town?

At the end of your rope and ready to give up on love once and for all?

Petite brunette, new in town and not really used to the social scene.

I'm a bit of a homebody, but a great cook and conversationalist.

Come over to my place and let me have you for dinner!

555-6296

I pull the cold steel barrel out from between my teeth.

***

I'm at Danielle's door with a half-dozen roses in my hands. I had the florist carefully de-thorn them, on account that I may squeeze them too hard out of nervousness. Nothing left to do but ring the doorbell.

I'm not quite sure what I was expecting, but it sure as hell wasn't love at first sight. She's average height, early thirties, average looking, brown eyes and hair, normal waistline, normal-sized tits. But there's something about the way she bounced on her tiptoes when she opened the door for me. Her eyes sparkled and nose crinkled when she smiled to say hello. Like we were long lost friends. Like we were... soulmates.

I bet I look like the biggest slack-jawed hillbilly on Earth when I introduce myself. "Hey, I'm Ron." Oh, my name is Ron, by the way. I may have forgotten simple manners in the beginning, what with the self-pity party and the gun and all.

Her lips part as her smile grows before she replies, "Well, like I said on the phone, I'm Danielle. But you can call me Dani, if you want." Her voice is silk and Southern honey. If a Georgia peach could talk, it would sound like Dani. She ushers me in with a wave, "Come on in." Even her walk is hypnotizing as I follow her through the house. A tomboyish gait with a slight lilt, as if she's about to start skipping at any moment. I can picture her as a child in overalls, on her way to go play next to a creek or some rural shit. Haybales. That would be perfect.

She seats me at a short circular table that has been perfectly set for two. The roses I brought are clipped short and placed into a tiny circular vase, then set as a centerpiece. The whole thing feels like a quaint Parisian outdoor café, or at least how I'd imagine it. Like I've done a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle of one with the Eiffel tower in the background before.

"Wine?" She asks before pulling a pair of goblets from an overhead cupboard.

"Sure. So, I like your accent. Where are you from?"

"Waxahachie," Dani says, pouring the drinks from behind a marble-topped island bar. "It's in Texas, near Dallas. You've probably heard of that city."

"Yeah, Friday night lights and all that."

"Oh, my God! It's life down there! If you ain't playin', you're cheerin'."

Despite never being a football guy, I chuckle. "Nice. What else is there to do in a town with a name like Waxahachie besides toss the pigskin?"

"Well, there's a drive-in theater about fifteen miles away, which is practically next door in Texas," she says with a playful, half-grin. "That small town stuff is why I had to move away. It's like one of those TV dramas down there, where everyone knows who's screwin' who. Only with more meth. And sometimes they're cousins," she arches an eyebrow, but the conspiratorial smile stays in place.

I genuinely laugh out loud at her last quip. "I saw in your ad that you're new in town. How long have you been here in Chicago?"

"Been here nigh on two months. How about you?"

"I've been here nigh on a coon's age." I grin, attempting to replicate her twang.

"Oh, my gawd," she drawls the last bit out, coyly. "Are you makin' fun of me?" Her eyes go wide in mock surprise, still sparkling.

The banter goes back and forth for the rest of evening, moving between bouts of teasing and genuine getting to know each other. It's an effortless verbal waltz. She tells me of her family and childhood in Waxahachie, as well as her career as a surgical tech. Of course, I've been more cagey about my history due to my... condition. Somewhere in the middle of our discussion, she's handed me a plate of chicken and cheese spaghetti, which I've gnawed halfway through.

"Is your food okay?" Dani asks.

Everything about me wants to tell that little white lie. The ones we tell to save people's feelings, like the food is great, or you've been doing just fine, or that those jeans don't make their ass look fat. But the truth comes spilling out of me. It must be the delayed effect of five glasses of wine. "Honestly, I can't taste anything. It's not your fault, I have a condition where I can't sense things. It's called hereditary sensory and auto-"

"-matic neuropathy type IV." She finishes the sentence along with me. Again, her wide eyes shine. This time out of curiosity. "I've only ever heard of that. Wow! You're -"

"A freak?" I cut her off, trying not to let my grimace show through.

"I was going to say unique. I mean, I know that it's a huge issue for health. I just never thought I'd meet someone like you. You're perfect for tonight!"

"Perfect for...?" I trail away. It's right around this time that I notice she has no plate in front of her. Why hasn't she been eating?

"So wait, you're telling me you're not...?" Dani mimics putting a finger gun to her head and clicks her tongue.

"How did you know that?" I ask, stunned.

"Well it is the Lonely Hearts section you got my number from. Nobody who answers those are in a good place. I even used all of the key phrases, like end of your rope, give up," she drags out her last line as if it explains everything. "Have you for dinner?"

Holy. Shit

"It's not exactly like I can come out and advertise for it. It worked for that guy in Rotenburg. And it's not as bad as leavin' this world alone. You could be a part of somethin' special. A part of me. Forever. I know you felt somethin' here."

"Nononono. Listen," I say once I've fully grasped the situation. "I'm not fully opposed to what you're proposing. You're right. It is, uhmm.... Interesting. Me not being able to feel anything. You being... what you are. What are the odds the two of us would find each other," I pause to collect my thoughts. "It's gotta be destiny."

The confusion and disappointment dissipate from Dani's eyes. "I'm so glad you're on board with all of this," she giggles in relief. "And your condition explains a lot. I was wonderin' when the drugs were gonna kick in, but it turns out you don't need them at all!"

"The drugs?" I say, before my face hits the half-full plate of spaghetti.

Goddamn it. My eyes were still open and everything.

***

Hssssk-chnkchnkchnkchnk

The table setting tonight is worthy of a Michelin star. A candelabra sits atop linen cloth, beside simple but elegant bone china. Low light from the flames could come across as ominous, but in this scene, are more romantic. The silverware is a different story. It looks like it would be less at home in a dining room than it would a surgical theater.

Chnkchnkchnkchnk-hssssk

The first night she made the soleus and gastrocnemius, better known as the calf muscles, smoked and pulled with sautéed Vidalia onions and chipotle peppers. This is an extremely hard cut, as you have to take care for the peroneal and not one, but two tibial arteries. They must be clamped, tied off, shortened and re-routed. Dani is more than capable of each of these delicate procedures.

Hssssk-chnkchnkchnkchnk

Night after night, I've grown shorter, losing bits of body mass to my beloved's adventurous palate. The last meal was braised ribs, the intercostals seasoned with paprika, chili powder, brown sugar, and kosher salt. This was served with a side of roasted rosemary new potatoes. I wonder if I'll make an interesting head cheese.

Chnkchnkchnkchnk-hssssk

It's amazing to watch Dani work. And on top of being surgically proficient, especially for a tech, it turns out she's a bit of a mechanical engineer. A biphasic cuirass ventilator wraps around my open chest. That's where the hissing sound comes from. After every aspiration, the dialysis machine kicks on with its series of clicks, bathing the exposed organs in my blood and sucking it back in before the next artificial exhalation. The two machines integrated through pure Southern girl genius.

Hssssk-chnkchnkchnkchnk

The clear plastic shell of the cuirass allows me to see me own ballooning lungs with every breath drawn. I can't observe the heart directly, it's protected by a sac called the pericardium. Dani taught me that. But I can see the membrane quiver with the lub-dub motion of the heart before it disappears under the wash of cleansed blood.

Chnkchnkchnkchnk-hssssk

I swear I'm not crazy. The conclusion was inevitable, but being able to choose is just so empowering. Especially when I choose to give everything I am for love. I never thought I'd end up this way, but I never imagined I'd find someone worthy of this level of commitment. This ultimate and entire commitment. So, you ask if I'm ready to take things to the next level? You bet I am. I'd better be.

Hssssk-chnkchnkchnkchnk

Because tonight we do the sweetbreads.

During the course of the story, Ian has made his way to the back of the classroom. He has an arm around a plaster biology course skeleton. Someone has dressed it in one of those shirts with Adonis-type abs printed on.

"Happy endings all around!" Ian raises the bottle and toasts the fake bones. He takes a long pull before letting it hit the tile floor with a solemn echo.