The Builder 1

           He liked what she was wearing today. A blue and white marina-styled baby doll dress with fluorescent orange heels. She could not have possibly known that it was a perfect mismatch. Jet black, blazing hair, unruly and messy. She could not have possibly known that her cascading mane was painfully sexy. Her almost skinny forearms covered in bright, chunky orange bangles which dwarfed her hands drew his attention. She had painted her nails marine blue today. Must be an occasion.


           He spent a few more minutes studying her, completely oblivious to the other people around him at the neighbourhood coffee bar. She came in every morning, without fail, and ordered the same drink - a cafe latte, with one extra shot of espresso, skinny milk, easy on the foam. It really must be a special occasion. He watched her sharp face as she turned to thank the waiter for bringing her extra napkins. All the waiters were watching her, he knew that much. She was a sight, alright. She could not have been any taller than his 6'3", but she'd give him a run for his money. He had her pegged at 5'11", weighing a healthy 140 pounds. She wasn't light, though she looked it, he knew.

           Everything about her was sharp. Her eyes, her nose, her jaw. When she turned to smile at the now ecstatic waiter, he felt the room move. He looked around and saw that everyone had turned to stare at her. She picked up her teaspoon and the whole room waited for her customary stir-lick-lick. She could not have known how much the men in the room suffered when she did that. She lifts the teaspoon, places it in her cup, stirs for approximately three seconds and the world stops. Time stops.

          Even women stop to watch. Men hold their breaths. Children stop screaming and running around. Almost as though she is the most amazing thing on the planet, the world stops turning, birds stop flying, so they could watch her tongue dart out past her perfect lips and lick both sides of the spoon. How he wished he could destroy that spoon. How he wished he was that spoon. There was nothing sexy or seductive about the way she did it, he knew that much. It was not an intentional act or ploy to gain attention. She did it because she just felt like doing so, every morning of everyday. It was a habit. There were days when the waiters intentionally put foam in her drink, just so she would have to spoon bits of foam into her perfect mouth. He knew they did it, he had overheard them talking.

          She was exceptionally beautiful today. Like a deity, she looked happier than usual. She hadn't the slightest clue of how beautiful she was - she couldn't have. No one knew who she was, what she did for a living, where she lived, whether or not she was single. It was as though people had a God-like reverence for her. No one dared talk to her, walk up to her or even so much as grab her and kiss her silly. When she smiled, people smiled. One of the female waitresses had found out her name, it was Jo. Was that even a name?

          She had never frowned at anyone, always let the screaming kids run around her without even so much as batting an eye. He had watched her every day for two months now. He remembered being only mildly interested by this colourful, shockingly beautiful woman. On the weekends, she came in with her lap top. He had once walked behind her, feigning interest in the books on the shelves placed at the back of the coffee shop so he could get a glance of who she really was. He saw the funniest thing, she was playing solitaire, with a seriousness that would have scared people. She was concentrating hard and he had quelled the urge to point out a seemingly obvious move.

           He knew he should just walk up to her, put his hand out and say, “Hi. I’m Jake.”

           He doubted he’d be able to form a sentence if she smiled at him. He reached out for his cup as he watched her from behind his newspaper only to realize that it was empty. He huffed and looked at his watched, it was ten past nine. He was late already, but it was worth it. He moves to stand and his chair made an awful sound – of what could only seem to be flatulence. He did not just fart. She obviously heard it. He was going to smash the chair into a million pieces.

           “Awwww, dude! Gross!” Chip, the waiter roared. The few remaining customers burst into laughter, some people clapped. Everyone knew it was the chair, but they had to rib him for it.

           “Guys, come on. You know...” he said, red-faced. He was mortified. He had never, not once in life been embarrassed about “gas”. He didn’t dare look over to her table to see if she had any response to the whole situation.

          The people around him still laughing, slowly recovering from the whole debacle, some wiping away tears of laughter, some kids making fart-like sounds, still finding the whole incident hilarious.

         “You know, caffeine does stimulate the gut. You should check to see if you sharted.”

          She had said something to him. He could not believe it.

         “You know, fart plus shit makes shart?” she quipped, smiling at him. Even her eyes knew how to smile. He was dumbfounded. Shell-shocked.

          “Maybe you had a suprise-a-poo-pee?” she continued. Chip, who was stunned at her completely uncharacteristic eruption, trip over a chair and spilled whatever it was he was carrying.

           The kids in the cafe burst into laughter again and then she moved. She laughed so heartily it was as though he had made her day. He was frozen. He still could not believe she had spoken to him and that he, the most serious, quiet person in the whole county, had made her laugh like that. He used to think she was beautiful, he obviously had not seen her laugh. She was exquisite.

           “I, uh, know what shart means,” he said with was supposed to be a light-hearted tone. It sounded more like a growl.

            He attempted to smile, but it came out as an angry frown. She smiled, sincerely and said, “I’ve offended you. I apologise. I was just...”

           Now she was apologizing to him. Could this day get even worse? Did her eyes just dim a little? He looked at her pretty face and realised that she sincerely felt bad for opening her mouth.

          “No. No... I, uh,” he swallowed. He must have looked like a royal idiot. He called himself ten different kinds of fool.

           He made her feel bad. He felt awful. He felt like he had stolen candy from a baby. He felt like a villain. Knowing there was nothing he could do, he moved to make his exit. Chip, who now saw no humour in the whole situation, moved to clear his table.

           “Jake, dude, relax man. The little lady was just kidding” Chip said to him.

           “She’s not little,” he snapped. Knowing he had messed up only made things worse, and saying what he had just said made things even worse. Before he said something else that was absolutely stupid he dashed out of the cafe, feeling the warmth of her stare on his back. He wouldn’t be able to forget how she laughed, the sound of her voice. He knew she was not laughing at him. He knew she was just trying to be friendly, but he had turned into a complete monster.

             As he crossed the street to his hardware shop, he kicked himself mentally.

           “Get over it, Foster,” he muttered.

             He was grumpy all day after that embarrassing event. He should have said something funny, he should have been able to come back at her with something smart, witty. He should have been charming. He felt like an angry ogre. Burly.

            The few neighbourhood customers that came into the shop throughout the day made small talk with him. They all liked him, some even loved him and treated him like he was family. Yet, he always distanced himself. He always turned down dinner invitations from the Smiths, ate the God-awful pecan pie made by old lady Percy without complaint, he just lived his life, as he had for the past five years.

            This Jo, this strange woman, threw him off balance. She made him feel alive. As he closed up his shop later that evening, he was determined to make it up to her. He would make her laugh again, and this time he would introduce himself. Time for change.

Scottie Knows Something We Don't

(01/09/2009)


As she swiped her pass card and moved along with the crowd towards the train, she ran the day through her head. Her pockets filled with her hands, her feet taking her where she needed to go, it was almost as if nothing could draw her out of her ruminations.

Like a space occupying lesion, anger gave her a headache. She chewed her gum harder, almost wishing she could chew and pulverize the emotion as easily as she could the gum. As the train started to move, she asked herself how this day could get any worse, how much more trouble she could get into, how much more she is supposed to endure before crumbling to the floor and dying. She felt sorry for herself. Despondent and in despair, she twiddled her thumbs in her seat. She scanned the gut of the train, stopping at an advertisement on the wall, "Should you see a person sleeping, do not wake him, for he may be dreaming of liberty." The line from Kahlil Gibran made her laugh.

"Liberty is just that - a dream", she mutters to herself, earning a glare from the malodorous man seated next to her. Perhaps her music was a little too loud; perhaps she had said it out loud. The sharp, shrill yelp from a malnourished dog that was being pushed to sit by his homeless owner interrupted her flow of thought. She looked at the dog, now sitting on the floor and smiling pathetically at her and repeated, "Liberty is a dream."

As though in agreement, the canine thumped its tail. She thought about the dog, considered it and drew the conclusion that they were more alike than one would have thought. She commiserated with him. Would the dog have been happier out on his own, without his homeless owner? Would he still have mange? Would he be able to run through a field of grass? Does he care about the make-shift leash made of string? Does he feel trapped? Would he live freely, raiding garbage cans around the neighbourhood? Would he travel with a pack of dogs, or even perhaps run his own crew?

Would she have been happier out on her own, without the constraints that surround a family, work, taxes and the train? Would she still be so angry? Would she be able to lie in a field of grass without a care? Does she care about the chain attached to her very existence and the weight of the ball that anchored her? Does she feel trapped? Would she know how to live freely, surviving in this world? Would she communicate with other people, or even perhaps forge true friendships?

She was still staring at the dog, which did not seem unhappy but looked in need of a serious bath. The homeless man reaches out to scratch the dog under its chin and calls his name, "Scottie boy, oh, Scottie boy." He reaches into his plastic bag and pulls out part of what she figured was a loaf of bread. He breaks it into half and gives Scottie Boy a big chunk. Scottie boy wolfs it down and smiles at him, his tail wagging, his eyes shining. He moves in to snuggle his owner and a single tear falls down her cheek. She understood.

Scottie boy would not be happier out on his own. Scottie Boy would probably still have mange, but he probably enjoyed running around town collecting cans as much as he would running in a field of grass. Scottie knows the only string that is keeping him leashed is made out of love. Scottie knows not that he is trapped, he knows no better and if he did, he has learnt to make do. If he lived freely, Scottie knows he would not be able to share with Mr. Homeless and while travelling with a pack of dogs may give him a sense of belonging, he may be lonely.

The malodorous man next to her looked about ready to spit when the tears flowed freely and she slowly started to smile, a true smile of happiness, for now she understood. Liberty is a dream and love is its enabler. We dream for liberty with love, and in the end, it is love that brings true liberty. Scottie is free as long as he is loved, loves and knows happiness.

The train doors slide open and she moves towards the exit, her heart swelled as she politely smiles at Mr. Homeless. Her tear-streaked eyes proof that she was moved by this revelation. "Thank you, Kahlil Gibran, the person who stuck this poster to the wall. Thank you, Scottie." she thinks and walks out of the train. She smiles and walks away with purpose known only to her.

Epic

          He crouches behind a blue sedan. With the stealth of a Marine he rolls and ducks behind a stationary truck. He makes a dash for a telephone booth with only a few more metres to the school entrance. Dressed in jeans and a bomber jacket, he pulls his baseball cap lower to cover his eyes.

          “Epic.” he thinks to himself. He zips up his jacket, its cold this time of the year.

          In an instant, he moves from the telephone booth, climbs the stairs and reaches the large wooden doors to the school. With a heave of conviction he shoves the doors open and walks right in. Knowing exactly where to go, having floated through the corridors a million times before, having suffered in silence throughout his adolescent life; knowing the sight, scent and taste of the acrid lockers.

          Nothing had changed, not the design of the yellow urine stains on the urinals, the peeling, chapped paint of the corridor walls. Recalling every nuance, mapping his way through the corridors with high ceilings, he kept walking - literally floating again. He had brought himself back here again. He was going to do it.

          Absolute silence, save for the sound of mean, archaic teachers slapping their blackboard dusters on the tables of sleeping students. Some children were milling in the play yard. There was a little boy at the end of the corridor that stopped him in his tracks. It was like looking into the past and seeing himself. Hurt, crying, not quite fitting in.

          The boy had seen him too. He could not have been more than 7 years old, yet his eyes spoke of centuries of wisdom. It was as if the little boy knew why he had come. The awkward, skinny boy with spectacles covered in white tape and knees covered in mud lifted a hand to wave.

          “Epic,” he thinks to himself again.

          “Eh, boy, run away. I am the bogey man,” he rasps, attempting to sound as evil as possible.

          The boy shoots him a quizzical look and turns to run into the play yard, not out of fear, but mostly because the little boy understood what was about to happen. He watches the little boy disappear into the yard. He rubs his nose with his thumb, reaches into his jacket and feels the weight and cool metal of his destiny, flicking aside a crumpled receipt.

           “This is it. Time to show them what we’re made of,” he says out loud.

           He approaches his old science classroom. The wooden door had a little window in it. He peeked through it, noting that Mrs Ang is still a whore, still strict and mean. She was too busy shaming a little girl with pig tails, probably for not having pretty enough handwriting.

          Knowing what to do, he makes his move. Grasping the door handle with one hand, brandishing his destiny with the other, he gently opens the door and calmly walks into the classroom.

         Stunned children stare at him, Mrs Ang appears shocked. Within seconds she recognizes him, her mouth forming an “oh” as he felled her with a single, painless slash to her neck. As she realizes that life is leaving her body, her blood sprays onto the blackboard. A drop or two hitting him in the face. He felt the warmth of it, heard the shrill screams of the little children and propelled himself towards them. One by one, methodically, he slashes life out of them. Not stopping to breath, spurred on by the sheer emancipation each gash brought him.

         He ignores the sound of screaming children outside the classroom, the banging of the door, continuing his mission. Banishing the evils of these poor children, releasing them from their cages, he continues slashing and stabbing and ripping the life out of the children until no one is left standing in the classroom.

         His jacket is covered with blood, his boots leaving bloody prints as he moved. Satisfied with his effort, he moves towards the window, which had been left open. He knew it would be open, since the centralized heating made classrooms unbearably hot and muggy. He deftly places his destiny back into his pocket, whispering sweet nothings to it, telling it how wonderful it was, saying how beautifully it did its job.

         Climbing out of the window and lifting himself onto the ground just below it, he hears the sound of crunching gravel, knowing he will make it to the safe house without complication. He feels deliverance; he has saved those children from tyranny, oppression.

          “Epic,” he thinks to himself as he slowly walks away from the chaos he started in the school. He feels proud. He has been successful, and he can only do better. Armed with only his destiny, he tugs his jacket closer and disappears into the suburbs surrounding the school. He hears sirens wailing, screaming children, agonized shouts and feels comforted.

          Another day will come tomorrow. This was just the first mission of many. It takes a true warrior to cleanse the children of China.

For the poor children and their families in China, I can only imagine the terror and pain you feel. I’m sorry I wrote it this way, but this was how it came to me and I can only write for you this way. This is the first flash fiction piece I’ve written in almost half a year. Much love.

Russian Silence

A pregnant 19 year-old girl goes into labour. Surrounded by a midwife, an obstetrician and a group of unknown students, contractions coming and going. Not a sound comes from her. She doesn't cry, she doesn't wail, she says nothing. The medical staff watch her in silence. She's young, it's her first time and she's all alone. No one waiting outside for her, no partner to hold her hand, no mother fussing about her. There is no chaos surrounding her, the medical staff quietly joke and laugh, occasionally petting her or touching her rounded stomach. They quietly ask her questions about herself, all the while watching and waiting for something to happen. Another contraction comes and the obstetrician decides it's time. Still no sound comes from the tiny waif of a girl.


Students stand around and try to figure this little girl out. Something must be wrong, no? She pushes; the baby's head becomes visible. It hurts, but she still says nothing. The obstetrician, at least 60 years old, casually leans on her inner thigh, still smiling with ungloved hands, holding the scissors, ready to do the epiostomy. The midwives quietly tell the little girl that she's magnificent, that she's a good girl, stroking her hair, petting her. Still not a peep from the girl. The only sign that she's in pain is seen in her eyes.

The doctor tells her to push, but it's not a command. It's a gentle request, telling her to try. She pushes, he makes the epiostome, out comes the baby’s head, but still the room is quiet, the only sound that can be heard is the movement coming from the midwives as they prepare bedding for the baby. "One more time, little girl." She pushes, out comes a small baby, with its umbilical cord wrapped around her neck, one small hand grasping it, trying to save itself. Still, it's all quiet. The doctor, uncoils the cord, nudges the baby's hand away from it.

A midwife comes along, sticking the suction tube into the baby's mouth. Still no sound, why is everyone so calm? So relaxed? Meanwhile, another nurse tells the new mother that she has a baby girl. She tells her that she did well, tells her that she was great, tells her that she was strong. They clamp the cord, they cut it. The sucking sound from the tube is far from comforting. Still no sound from the mother. The doctor takes out a mobile phone from his pocket and asks the 19 year old something, so quietly.

Then, as if it were a movie, the baby's scream shatters whatever silence there was. They take the baby, wipe her down a little and show her to her mother. She smiles, she's happy but she's still so quiet. The mother lays her hand on the baby, and looks as though all the pain in world was worth it. The baby is silently moved away, the doctor passes the phone to the little 19 year old. Calmly, she speaks into it, "Mother, it's a girl. It's a girl."

The doctor decides it's time for the placenta to come out, the little girl is weak, but she tries, not complaining, not whining, not crying, and not shouting. Someone from behind the students says "Oi, put on a pair of gloves, man." He moves to wash his hands and put on gloves. He comes back and starts tugging on the cord. Midwives start pressing her abdomen and coaxing the placenta out, she pushes, but it really is difficult. The doctor tugs harder, the midwife presses down on the abdomen harder, out comes the placenta, though it tears on the way out. The placenta is then placed on a plate to be inspected. The 19year-old is told once again that she did well, that she is good, that she was strong. The students are called out; the nurses tend to the baby.

There was never a moment of chaos, never a moment of surprise. The students later go through the case history. The mother had a cardiac septal defect; it was supposed to be a complicated pregnancy, a complicated birth.

This is how it's done in Russia. This is how the Russians handle things. No mistakes, no yelling or screaming, no complications. The silence was deafening, the calmness of such a situation discomforting. They were right; the little girl was truly magnificent.

Clubland Agony

It is dark in the club, save for strobe lights and sudden cracks of what looks like lightning. The drinks are flowing, she has had just the right amount to dispel inhibition, quell rational thought, and drown anxiety. She seems ready. Laughing, happy and moving about, she mingles with the crowd she came with, never once leaving her partner's side. She finds humour in all jokes; she feels ten feet tall, she is sure of herself.


The clubbers think they are so cool, most of them regulars, most of them know or at least recognize each other. She is foreign to them and she is oblivious to their intrigued stares. She moves slightly, not really dancing, not really swaying - but moves to some internal beat somewhere. She laughs, she pats the boys on the chest, she blows kisses to the girls, she swirls her drink around - she stops dead in her tracks when someone shouts in her ear, "Your crush is here, LOOK!!"

Shock, horror and awe are quickly replaced by uneasy smiles. She is trying to maintain form; she is trying to go back to that special place she was in. No amount of alcohol could save her from this new onslaught of anxiety. He smiles and mouths a "Hi". She waves like a five year-old school girl with pig tails. He walks away. Just like that, as though she had been struck, she inches away from the drinks table, and clings on to her partner.

She tries to forget that he is there. Not quite knowing what to do, she feigns intoxication, hoping she would never see him ever again, hoping he would never know what he stirs within her. She notices that the group and her partner are moving closer towards the main entrance, everyone is leaving! She could not believe it; she checks the time and sees that it is almost closing time. The first question that pops into her head; why did he come so late? She stands tall and scans the entire expanse of the club for him. She can't see him, all the while trying to concentrate on trying to seem totally carefree. No one seems to notice her anxiety and she breathes a sigh of relief.

"I thought I'd come over and say hi - properly," she heard. She turns to see him standing there. Not reaching for a hug, or even a handshake, keeping a polite distance until he leans forward to shout over the music, "How are you?!"

Keeping her excitement banked, "I'm good! You?!"

"I'm good. I have to say, you've grown...tall, I mean."

Jumping at her cue to a lame statement, "Oh? Nawww, it's just heels." It was the truth anyway; no one carries off a pair of four inch heels better than she does. Taking advantage of her new found confidence, she opens her mouth to say something and he cuts her off by saying, "It's really good to see you. Really. You're very... tall. I didn't get the chance to check you out properly earlier"

"Don't worry, I didn't get fat, but, uhh, umm, thanks?" He goes on to shout at how much she has grown and how he is happy to see her. She attempts to comfort him by giving him the perfunctory pat-pat on the chest. He looks flustered and asks, "You're here with?"

"Ohh! I'm here with my best friend! You remember her? Yeah, it's my first time here and it's quite a nice place," she babbles incessantly and he turns away from her abruptly, instantly going to chat up her best friend. She hides her complete disappointment by turning to her partner and cuddling into him. "Thank God he's here. I'd have flung myself at him if I were alone," she thought to herself.

She holds her partners hand, all the while not realizing that she is staring at this awful man who knows not how she suffers. Saved from the stare by a big, burly DJ who comes to tell her how she should stop wearing t-shirts, how he would love to see her in a dress, how his sister and him are so close, while he playfully disturbs her partner. The angry looking giant is actually very sweet. Could he sense her discomfort? He moves in to block her view of the little man who sends her libido into overdrive. Her partner snakes an arm around her, and leans towards the burly DJ to hear his ramblings better.

Meanwhile, her best friend is completely oblivious and is revelling in the attention she is getting from this awesomely attractive, tiny man, not once glancing over to her. They chat for what seems like an eternity and when that was done, he walks away happily. She stares at his back, willing him to look at her, but to no avail. He disappears into the crowd.

Her best friend says to her, "Ready to go?"

Feigning nonchalance she says, "Yeps! Let's go!"

She walks out of the club with her partner and best friend, pretending she was not absolutely hurt by his cold behaviour. She wants him to want her. She wants him to suffer the way she does. She would never hurt her partner, but this man was around well before her partner came into the picture, and he sets her on fire. She hopes she never sees him ever again. She secretly hopes she bumps into him again. She hopes he falls off the face of the planet, she hopes he would call her.

Under the pretence of intoxication, she says she is sleepy and tired. She gets into the car and the three of them drive away. She hopes she never sees him ever again...

The Urban Goddess

As she lit her cigarette and stared into the darkness, she realised she was, quite simply, not in love with him. A heavy, possessive hand stretched out across her waist, enveloping her protectively. The room smelled like sex and cigarettes. His breathing became slower and deeper, and she realised he was falling into deep sleep before he whispered, “I love you”. He did not know he said that, had not realised it fell out of his mouth before drifting off into an undisturbed, satisfied slumber as a million thoughts ran through her mind.


Here she was, 32, successful, good looking and still trying to find the one, willing herself to fall in love and failing desperately. They had been dating for two months now, introduced to each other by a mutual friend who thought she desperately needed to meet someone. Obviously, being single was a sin.

Cynically, she thought that he was nice enough, made enough money – although there was the distinct possibility that she made more than him. He seemed to be able to carry on a decent enough conversation and he did not bore her to death. A chartered accountant; somewhat successful, with his own apartment and mortgage. He came from good stock, she had been told. Of course he did, everyone around here came from good stock.

He was merely a means to an end, as far as she was concerned. He existed only to scratch an itch she had – sexual satisfaction. She had gone through so many men over the past two years that she could no longer remember their names, let alone their faces. As she tried to shift under the weight of his hand, she stared at his handsome face, willing him to wake up and face her rejection. He did not make her blood boil. He did not fill her with passion; he did not push her buttons. He was safe, easy to deal with. There was no way he could outwit her, no way could he deal with her sophistication, his mind incapable of fathoming her inner workings. Though, to his credit, this one lasted longer than most, if only because she allowed it.

Her married friends told her she was not putting herself out there, kept claiming that she was not giving as much as she was taking. They called her selfish. They felt she did not understand the meaning of commitment. They found her dishonest, unable to accept the reality of her situation. They saw through her and made no attempt to help her. She was fast becoming one those women men feared. The kind that attracted the best ones, got them to fall in love with while she works out “what she really wants” only to dump them when they have fallen hard. She was, proverbially, the new-age man-eater.

Sexy, gorgeous, financially fortunate, articulate, intelligent and worst of all, confused – a recipe for disaster. A walking cliché, she is perfectly manicured and well-read. The epitome of perfection, yet annoyingly dependant on everyone else. She looked to her married friends for advice and turned to her single friends for absolving speeches. She claimed she was looking for love, yet everyone who knew her understood that she only wanted to satisfy physical needs. She claimed that she tried hard, yet the world did not seem to understand her.



As he slept, she attempted to untangle herself from his spent body. He grunted a little, and began to snore softly in response to the movement. She crept quietly away from the bed, picking up her shoes and clothes and moved to the kitchen. There, she dressed and found a scrap of paper and a pen. She scribbled out, “I’m sorry. It’s over.” She signed off and headed for the door.

She was not sorry it was over. Relieved, the imaginary 300-pound wrestler in her head screamed, “NEXT!” She walked away, not quite caring if he was going to be hurt by her curt farewell.

As she waited for the lift to reach his penthouse, she began to curse herself for being a right royal idiot. Where was she going with all this? She did not question how many men she had left in her wake of self-destruction. Feeling rather sorry for herself, she decided she would go home and dive into a quart of expensive ice cream. In the morning she would call her single friends, and they will gather to swap murder-stories. They will trash out their exploits, find faults with the men they were supposed to be seeing, make excuses for themselves and absolve each other’s sins over a cup of coffee and breakfast. Secretly unhappy, openly jubilant, constantly whining about her hunt for happiness and then celebrating the single women of the world, fighting the tyranny of normality.

Such is the life of the urban goddess. Another man’s woes are pale in comparison to her plight. Perhaps we should feel sorry for her. Perhaps she should not exist. We can all sleep sound tonight.