Friday, November 4th 11:30 a.m.

    Time passed in agonizing increments. Paul mused at the cruelty of the passing of time, whenever you wanted something or were excited, time seemed to slow down and delay gratification as long as humanly possible. Whereas the moments worth living, passed by in brief and intense bursts, leaving the recipient pseudo-satisfied and wanting more. A sense of enjoyment was fleeting, slipping through eager hands like dust on the wind. People plodded along like the horse with the carrot eager for their next unfulfilling fix not realizing their life was passing them by while they waited instead of enjoying the moment at hand. The only alternative is to make nothing matter and to attach no significance to individual events. That's what Paul did until that fateful evening. Time was either too short, his date with Cade, or too long, waiting for his date with Diego.

    Paul's mother turned in early. That may have had something to do with some allergy medicine being crushed up and slipped into her cream of wheat and brown sugar. Paul waited in front of the television anticipation mounting. His leg would've been tapping violently if it were able.

    The only thing keeping him from enjoying the brisk, night air was the Jeach. He knew it was still waiting for him to make a mistake. All Paul needed was his time with Diego, and he would be able to handle anything. He'd feel Diego's soul leave this plane of existence, and Paul would swell with power, another one of his oppressors banished from his realm. Tonight was the night Paul would assert himself, making sure The Beings, the Jeach, and Diego Sandoval all would know that you don't mess with Paul Neiman.

Not anymore.

    Throughout the day, Paul's lack of sleep started to wear on his mind. When the television wasn't blaring, Paul swore he could hear laughter drifting on the wind. He turned up the TV louder. He drifted in and out of consciousness, but it was far from rest. His lapses took him to a faraway place that he only ever traveled to in dreams. The South Hills.

The laughter was louder here. Trees surrounded him on all sides, the scent of pine was cloying, and his heavy panting breathes weren't bringing enough oxygen to his lungs. Laughter danced between the trees, hidden by an interminable fog. He saw a fleeting glimpse of blonde hair in the distance vanish behind a copse of trees and headed towards it. She brought him here. She always brought him here. Paul followed her deeper into the woods. She would help him; she said she loved him. She never laughed at him. Something tickled in the back of Paul's mind. Deja-vu like he'd been here before, but that was silly. He hated the woods.

Laughter hemmed him in. It cavorted around him on all sides but one. Paul stumbled forward, registering somewhere that a blister the size of a golf ball had just popped, but it was too late to turn back. The laughter wouldn't let him.

Her voice drifted through the fog, "Just a little bit farther Paul."

He could make it a little bit farther, anything for her. Another smell added itself to the mix, gasoline. Paul catalogued that as an artifact of campers that had been here previously. That had nothing to do with him.

Paul stepped on something. It closed around him like a glove and lifted him into the air. He still didn't understand what was happening as the hemp dug into his flesh, leaving irregular diamond imprints in the folds of his fat. The smell of gasoline was much stronger here, and the laughter was right on top of him. Another laugh had joined the choir, and it was as beautiful as it was cold. He'd heard that laugh before, but never with that undertone of cruelty.

Three wraiths materialized from the mist. Wraiths he recognized. He knew them from another life, a life where he hadn't transcended, a life where he was the butt of all jokes. The last form to arrive from the mist wasn't a wraith, she was a Siren, pulled from legend to lure Paul to his doom. Her sweet song promised Paul love, and somehow she knew that was all he wanted. Paul realized how foolish he'd been to think anyone could love him.

His tormentors exchanged words, but Paul couldn't make sense of them. He struggled to comprehend what was happening to him, and he could feel the rope starting to burn. His enormous weight put unnecessary strain on his bindings, causing them to bite back.

    One of the wraiths wearing a jacket with a giant "L" stitched into the fabric pulled something from one the garment. He approached where Paul hung suspended. He smiled a crooked, broken smile. Wind whistled through his teeth as the wraith spoke something to Paul. He still couldn't understand what the wraith said, but Paul did understand the flame now flickering in front of his face. The flame gleamed illuminating the shadows of the wraith's gaunt face before he he tossed the lighter into a spot just beneath Paul.
    Heat blossomed.

He could feel it hungrily waiting for Paul as the four figures danced around Paul laughing all the while chanting "Pork." Paul was a safe distance above the fire's embrace, but he could feel how bad it wanted him. It crackled and popped, gobbling up the food that the wraiths had fed it, soon it would be ready for Paul.

His tormentors laughed at his feeble attempts to escape his bindings. It looked like they had never experienced such glee, feeding on his anguish like psychic parasites. Paul's struggles elicited a strained, snapping noise. A fiber holding the rope came loose. The fire answered with a roar.

The wraith's merriment turned to wide-eyed fear. When another rope snapped, they scattered into the mist leaving Paul to his fate.

The final rope snapped and the fire had its meal. Paul felt the skin on his face bubble and pop. He tried to get up, but his legs didn't respond to his commands. The fire consumed Paul.

    Paul returned from his journey drenched in sweat with his scars burning with a white-hot cleansing pain. Each foray into unconsciousness brought him back to that night, and Paul knew the dreams wouldn't stop until he'd enacted his revenge.

    He performed a series of mental exercises to prepare himself. He discovered with enough focus he could conjure another tendril. The thought of having more to play with excited him for a little while until the circular train of thoughts revolved back to his original distress.

    Unable to stand the wait any longer, Paul put the quilt over his body and left the house. He absently noticed the crack in the sliding glass doors to his backyard. It felt like years had passed since that fateful evening when the bird had died against the glass. Paul tried to ignore the horrible symmetry he felt as he passed the threshold. That night had been a beginning.

This night feels like an ending.

    Paul dispelled the notion. Symbolism was for fools that attached meaningless significance to random events. The cool night air washed over Paul's face, but he didn't derive any enjoyment from it. Tonight was more business than pleasure. Paul couldn't help but toss glances behind him to assure himself he was free of the Jeach's inexorable pursuit.

The fucking Beings have ruined everything. I can't even enjoy such a glorious night.

    Lancet Falls lay spread out before him. The calm of his domain had been disturbed. Vibrations trembled along his web. An abnormal amount of people were out this evening, each of them in a great rush to be somewhere. This late in the evening Paul had no guesses where that may be. The fact people were running on all fours was a trivial fact that didn't particularly concern him. A few of them tracked his path in the air. He knew they could not see him so high up in the air, but the effect was still unnerving. Paul associated being watched with being mocked, and it took all his control not to eliminate them for their insolence.

Tonight is my night.

    Of the Beings and the masked idiot, there was no sign, and that suited Paul just fine. He did not need them interfering into his matters until he had slaked his thirst.

    In a small housing development tangential to Lancet Falls, a fire bloomed brightly. Its ravenous hunger seemed to taunt Paul as if it were telling him that it was coming for Paul next. He couldn't tell if it was real or a product of his fragile mental state. Either way, that was somebody else's problem. A series of red and white flashing lights weaved back and forth across the road, no doubt trying to avoid the gawkers out in the middle of the road.

    Nestled in the midst of the chaos was Diego Sandoval, like a pearl in the middle of an oyster.

    Paul expected to be able to sneak up on the man, whisking him into the air where they could have some privacy. Diego watched Paul's approach with a tilt to his head. A mane of dark hair framed the man's face instead of his standard ponytail. He wore baggy sweatpants and a baggy sweatshirt, like an amorphous amoeba, and really that's what he was to Paul.  A lower organism.

Tendrils encircled the Diego's wrists and ankles pulling him to Paul's level. If the circumstances scared him, he betrayed no sign of it. He watched Paul with no discernible expression on his face as if he hadn't decided on how to react. Paul pulled him close.

    "The time of your reckoning is upon you, and you will pay for your sins," Paul said, his flare for melodrama overtaking him.

    Diego bared his teeth at Paul. The gap in his teeth gave his face a sinister effect that was aided by the wind whistling through it. The fire in distance outlined Diego, and thoughts of symmetry intruded in Paul's mind.

    "I want to see you beg Sandoval. If you beg, I promise to make this quick, squash you like the cockroach you are," Paul lied.

    A low growl emanated from somewhere deep in Diego's throat. That didn't sound like begging to Paul. He tore off the man's thumb. A cartilaginous pop, followed by a tearing sound.

    Paul expected crying, a squeal of fear, or maybe even a string of angry expletives, but the growl just intensified.

    "Let's see how if you're growling after this!" Paul shrieked, a hysterical edge creeping into his voice.

    He let go of the tendrils holding Diego's legs and imagined their tips becoming sharpened points. In perfect synchronicity, Paul plunged them into Diego's ears, piercing the man's eardrums. Dark, viscous blood trickled down the sides of the man's face, but he did not react at all.

    This time he didn't even intensify his growl.

    "It looks like you've lost your vocal cord privileges."

    Paul shoved a violet tendril down Diego's throat and snipped the tissue with as much precision as he could manage. He didn't need Diego passing out or dying just yet.

    The growling mercifully ceased, but Diego started clicking his teeth against each other. His unblinking eyes stared at Paul. It was like they were defying him. The way Diego clicked intermingled with the high-pitched whistle simply wouldn't do. Paul ripped out Diego's teeth. Blooded dribbled down the man's face. It looked like he was salivating for a taste of Paul's blood.

    The fear Paul needed was nowhere to be found. Paul decided to end his defiance once and for all. He ripped open Diego's abdomen like a zipper, and put Diego's head inside of it. Paul did so without any sense of emotional catharsis. In fact, he felt emptier than he had before.

    The people of Lancet Falls scuttled through the streets like ants, and Paul decided their fear would have to do. When they begged and pleaded, Paul would feel better, power wrested back into his control. No one else would dare act with such insolence towards him again. Once he struck fear into all their hearts, the remaining two recipients of his revenge would die of fright long before Paul got to them.

    A man running through the streets pinged something in the back of his mind. Paul recognized the man's spectacles, but that didn't matter. He'd make a fine target. With the man's advanced years, Paul decided he was doing the man a favor, releasing him from life's burdens.

    Paul groped for the man with his tendrils.

A cold, slick feeling sent shudders down Paul's spine. A slender appendage traveled through the sleeve of Paul's shirtsleeve onto his chest. It planted itself in the warmth of Paul's opposite armpit. A gelatinous mass followed the appendage and plopped onto Paul's chest. 

The Jeach.   

 He reacted with gut instinct flailing at the creature with his flabby arms. His feeble strikes glanced off the creature's slippery skin, like it had been lathered in popcorn grease. Paul's tendrils dissipated into the air. He couldn't keep them active with his concentration broken.     

Paul watched the rest of the Jeach's tentacles encircle him and start to burrow into his flesh. They treated his clothes as if the barrier they provided was a mere suggestion as they pierced the fabric, and Paul assumed his skin. He didn't feel their probing, but that didn't matter if the tentacles came equipped with a natural anesthetic.     

The violet appendages turned the deep purple of a sunset as crimson life blood flowed through tentacles into the main body of the Jeach. It swelled in size at it engorged itself in the feast that was Paul.     

The creature showed no signs of stopping and it was everything he could do to hold onto consciousness let alone keep the Relaxzen Rocker afloat. The Beings said they wanted Paul alive, but he didn't think the Jeach got the memo. Despite his tremendous size, Paul felt as he were shriveling into nothing.     

He pondered how easy it would be to let the Jeach finish its job. The pain of this world would cease to exist, and Paul would finally get to rest. No longer would he have to deal with the atrocities he witnessed all around him: the pedophiles, the liars, the cheaters, the rapists, and the murderers. Lurking unseen in the shadows, Paul had forced himself to watch these horrors unblinkingly, because he refused to buy into the delusion that the world was a good and happy place. Paul wouldn't have been born if the world were a good place.     

Paul's eyes started to droop. The Rocker sunk a couple of feet in the air. He felt so tired; he was born tired. It had been foolish of him to think that life would have ever handed him a gift with no strings attached. His powers had been given to him as a brief mirage in the midst of a deep desert to keep him plodding along. His life was as meaningless and empty now as it was before.    

He drifted closer to the ground and unconsciousness.    

Paul heard the musical, tinkling of laughter on the wind. He recognized the sound but couldn't remember from where.   

 Merciful sleep was swiftly approaching. He needed a good night's sleep.    

The scent of evergreen and Old Spice filled his nostrils.     

NO! Wake up you damn fool. If you don't finish the job, they'll torment you in death. Wake up you fat fuck. Finish what you started, or they win.    

Paul's eyes jolted open. 

With a surge of energy, he climbed into the air. He gained as much altitude as he could muster.     

Paul let go.     

He plummeted towards the Earth with his eyes closed.    

He half-expected for his life to flash before his eyes, but impact happened moments later. Something splat underneath Paul's chest. Paul had once stepped on a Hobo Spider with his bare foot, that was the closest thing it resembled.     

Gelatinous fluid intermingled with Paul's blood leaked out from under him. A rabid, feral part of his mind felt like spreading the fluid on a piece of toast and eating it, to display his victory over the Jeach.     

Paul's innate sense for impending danger flagged in his mind. The ants scuttling around town and the fire that quested for Paul suddenly concerned him. The hunger in Diego's eyes concerned Paul. If the rest of the residents of Lancet Falls were in the same state, Paul didn't want to be unconscious on the ground.   

 He pulled the scattered remnants of his focus and energy to call upon the tendrils. They responded, but they felt sluggish. Paul's loss of blood was taking its toll. The oxygen necessary for conscious thought was not reaching his brain.     

I just need to get home and wait out the storm.     

The tendrils caressed his Relaxzen Rocker, but when they pulled it towards Paul it collapsed into four distinct pieces, none of which were of any use to him. He briefly pondered trying to pull himself across the ground into the nearest building. Ironically, that appeared to be O'Connell's pub, but Paul didn't think he was going to make it that far. He wouldn't have been able to make it at full strength.     

With his limited field of vision, Paul scanned his surroundings for anything he could use as an advantage. He had a sinking feeling the tendrils would not be able to save him if a pack of humans happened upon him.     

The solution was painfully obvious.     

He could use the tendrils to move his girth across the ground. He doubted they would be able to lift him into the air, but they may be able to drag him somewhere safe.     

An enormous black truck that had been souped up by a man that had been desperately trying to compensate for his lack in the downstairs department. The owner had jacked up its suspension, so its chassis was higher off the ground than a normal vehicle. It was the perfect cover to keep him from line of sight of any potential predators. They would be able to crawl under and get to him, but he may have enough energy to fend them off with his tendrils.     

The lag time between Paul's commands and the tendrils had increased. They felt large and ungainly without the Relaxzen Rocker like they'd all fallen asleep, and he was lifting someone else's limbs.     

Paul's soft belly, unaccustomed to the rigors of the outdoors, scraped against the pavement with every push. He could feel the thin layer of skin being rubbed away to the capillaries below. The pain made it even harder to focus on his violet appendages, but he didn't have a choice. He heard the slapping of bare feet against pavement.    

Paul expended a Herculean push, his newly exposed flesh flaring in pain with the movement.    

The footfalls sounded louder.     The last push sent waves of blackness at Paul's mind trying to force his head underneath the tides of unconsciousness, he clung to his revenge like a life preserver. Death was going to have to wait.     

Paul craned his neck trying to locate the source of the scampering feet, and saw a little girl no older than six years old running towards him. She wore purple, My Little Pony pajamas that probably would have made all the soccer moms out there squeal with delight. Paul imagined himself squealing, but in a completely different context, sharp, little teeth digging into the ample meat of his thigh while he was forced to watch.     

Her little legs could only cover so much ground, so she dropped to all fours and proceeded in a half walk, half loping stride. Paul extended a tendril and wrapped it around her little ankle and pulled. The girl tumbled to the ground, but Paul had only bought himself a couple of seconds.    

Paul inched towards the safety of the truck at a snail's pace, slowed even further by his efforts to trip up My Little Hellion. The sanctuary of the truck was a mere hair's width away, and Paul edged under it lengthwise.     

The left half of his body started to disappear beneath its bulk by the time the little girl arrived. She grabbed Paul's arm and yanked with a strength that belied her diminutive form. Paul wrapped a tendril around a cylindrical tank underneath the truck and yanked back, but the girl was stronger.     

With Paul's face exposed to the open air, the girl dug her bony knees in the crook of Paul's arm and leaned over his face. She opened her mouth, and black, squiggly shapes peeked out of the corner of her mouth like they wanted a front row seat for the feast.     

They look like spaghetti noodles.     

A morbid part of Paul's mind imagined the dogs in Lady and the Tramp slurping up these noodles and meeting for a kiss.     

The girl's face edged closer to Paul's, but she didn't seem like she wanted to take a bite. She came in for a big ol' fat slobbery kiss. Paul stuck a tendril down the girls throat, trying to ignore the throng of wriggling shapes that lined her esophagus. Paul expelled the last of his energy grabbing hold of her stomach with a tendril and yanking it back up the way the tendril had come.     

Paul turned away as the girl upended the contents of her stomach, a bucket of stomach acids, and hundreds of tiny worm like figures that squirmed on Paul's skin. He went to work playing a game of whack a mole squishing them as they made their way towards his face. He didn't want to know what happened if they found a hole to crawl into.     

When Paul was convinced he had extinguished all forms of life around him, he covered himself by the sweet underside of the truck. The guts of a truck had never looked so satisfying.     

Although that's not a fair comparison, because it's the first time I've seen the underside of a truck.     

Those were the last delirious thoughts Paul had before succumbing to unconsciousness.