TableSaw

[pheonix561 2080]

Back in July, Ganny and I both wrote short stories for Machine of Death 2, a book of short stories all centering around the same premise; there's a machine, you stick your finger in it, and it prints out a little slip of paper that tells whoever's finger it was how they're going to die. But it doesn't say where, it doesn't say when, and it's answer is always obnoxiously vague. But it's absolutely right, every single time. A provided example: If your card says old age, you could either live to be ninety, or be beaten to death by and angry old man. The existence of this machine in the story you write is the only requirement. Everything else is up to you.

Ganny posted his, and now I'm going to post mine. Mind you, where his was silly and nonsensical, mine actually has a more conventional plot. And is eleven thousand words to his something like just over a thousand.

I'm going to post some notes about what you read at the end of the story, but right now I'm just going to copy paste it all.

"Table Saw"

By Pheonix561, King of the Forums

"Why isn't this working?" The question had finally wormed itself onto Gus's consciousness, keeping him from denying its value any longer. Years ago it had birthed itself as a sliver of doubt, the kind all grand schemes are eventually met with, and, if left unchecked, grows to devastating power. Gus couldn't deny it any longer, that's for sure; His plan wasn't working.

He was vexed over how to solve this problem as he drove himself to work. A radio talk show was on, and its host praised Gus's name over the recent news. They were talking about him again. "But it doesn't make much of a difference what they've been selling- Just forget they make TV's and computers, okay? It doesn't change anything. They could sell guns and fireworks, and it wouldn't make a difference. Because their profits? Over half of it went to that new charity thing they did yesterday. Doesn't that mean anything?" Gus remembered this host. He was just as energetic in morning discussion as the rest of them, but this one used to forgo whatever topic they had on hand about the business he ran to talk on and on about how bad Gus was. Not as a business man, but as a person. Because he'd stopped attacking Gus at every opportunity and had suddenly begun to praise him, Gus saw him only as an example of how easily people could be bought.

He pensively ran his hand through his balding blonde hair as he drove through the country side, only watching the road, his attention held elsewhere. Living in a country club outside of the city was easy on him. There was nothing in the area but trees and more homes owned by people who had been tactful enough to gain fortune, and lucky enough to keep it. Because of this, there was rarely heavy traffic until he got to the highway. Lately, instead of speeding, he would take advantage of the fifteen minutes between leaving his house and merging into the highway to think about everything he'd been dealing with. As he passed over a bridge, he watched a young man step onto its guardrail.

Gus flinched. He jerked out of his trance, slammed his foot on the brake pedal and left his Pontiac blocking both lanes. He jumped out of the car and started running towards the kid. Gus could only think of two possibilities as to why anyone would attend a guardrail, and this guy didn't have any bungee jumping equipment.

"Wait!" Gus shouted. The young man shifted his legs. He was locked in concentration. "Hey, Wait!" Gus shouted again. The suicidal didn't move. "Don't jump, kid!" the young man looked up from whatever held his gaze to see a well dressed, clearly out of shape executive barreling towards him. Gus, without thinking it through, grabbed the man's shirt in both his hands and yanked him off the railing. They both fell backwards onto the pavement. His sigh of relief was camouflaged by all his panting and wheezing.

As they lay on the pavement side by side, himself moistening with sweat, he felt successful in his emergency endeavor. "This kid was about to kill himself! Holy shit, this kid was about to kill himself!" The frantic thoughts of graphic imagery in his mind were relieved as he rolled onto his side to observe his catch with the mindset of a police report. He was a black haired Caucasian male who couldn't have been any older than seventeen. He was breathing, but not heavily. He wasn't crying, or pale, or bleeding. He wasn't armed with guns, or knives, or pill bottles. He was, however, tense, as an involuntary response to being assaulted from behind by a stranger. The fact that Gus had been watching him for half a minute now wasn't relieving. He began to worry that he had erred, and that he had only interrupted a jogger out for a run who's eye was ensnared by whatever fanciful object below the bridge would tempt him to be careless.

As he moved into a sitting position, he had to ask. "Kid, what the hell were you doing up there? You could have been killed!" It reacted to Gus's voice by sitting up in kind. "Well, I was gonna jump off that bridge," he responded. Gus was right all along. He hadn't stopped sweating. "What? Why would a young man like you want anything to do with suicide?" His voice was tainted with worry. Silently, it turned to him and looked him in the eye. "Is it really any of your business?" he spoke. Gus shrank and broke their gaze. "Well, no, but it could be." He was still visibly shocked. It wasn't saying anything that could easily comfort him.

He realized he probably wasn't the one who needed comforting. But if there was anything Gus wanted from this kid, it was for him not to kill himself. "Whatever it is, is it really that bad that you can't deal with it anymore?" The young man looked away again. "I guess it is?" was his response. Gus took a second look at the kid. He was ready for tears, and screams, and weapons, and streamlined determination, but all the kid had was apathy. Gus furrowed his brow. This wasn't going to be easy.

Gus adopted an authoritative tone. "Well I'm not going to leave you here alone. Would you mind if I called the hospital and waited with you until they came?" The young man shifted from where he sat. "What would a hospital have to do with anything?" "Have you ever killed yourself before? Hospitals will try and stop you," He replied, choking back a chuckle. "I don't care," was all he got. Gus crossed his arms. "Well, what if I didn't call the hospital? Would you mind?"

"I don't care," the young man repeated. Gus sighed, uncrossed his arms and rubbed his brow. He began to pace, without taking his eyes off the kid. He was still sitting there, staring off into open air.

"Do you care at all what happens?" Gus asked. "I could ask you the same thing, you know," the young man echoed. Gus kept pacing, attempting to shed his anxiety. He wanted the best for this kid, but conversation wasn't getting him anywhere.

It was then that he realized he had no idea what the young man's name was. "What's your name, kid?" He inquired. "Samuel," was all he gave, with a crack in his voice. Gus liked that name. "Samuel, eh? Mind if I call you Sam?" He regretted asking that question as soon as the words left his mouth, because he knew exactly what he would get. Sure enough, all he heard was "I don't care."

Gus slowed his pace, with a hand in one pocket. His other hand was running through his hair again. At least he knew his name, now. Comforted with progress, he let his eyes wander off of Sam and onto his Pontiac, still running. He was reminded of his office and destination. His eyes wandered back to the kid. He was still watching the ledge. Just how long had he been watching that stupid rail for? How long was he there before Gus drove by? If Gus left him alone, how long would he be there for again? Ten minutes? An hour? Thirty seconds? Gus was already uncomforted again.

As he watched Sam, he compared and contrasted his young self with him. Eager for more distracting conversation, he indulged himself. "Samuel, what keeps you busy?" Sam looked up. Gus twitched; He wasn't expecting that. "What do you mean?" Thankfully, his eyes were looking at him, not past him. "Well, when I was your age, I was already an intern working under some salesmen in a food produce middle man business. I wanted to be in charge of that kind of thing." He coughed up an air of confidence. "I had a plan, see? I knew what I wanted to do, and I knew how to do it. So I did it. And now, I'm the head of one of America's largest corporations. Isn't there anything you want to do, too?" Sam looked away again, but only to think. After a moment, he said "No." Gus looked back at his car again, thankful that no other drivers had driven past yet. He began to consider what the repercussions would be for an impromptu "bring your son to work day," on the day after his big charity expo. Today they would be busy discussing how successful it was in improving the company's image, and what steps would be necessary to take accompanying whatever results they conclude. Compared to the intensity of the days before, today would be a slow day. Would anyone really mind anyone sitting in? And if they did, could they tell him no? After all, he was the chairman. No one could say no to him.

"Alright kid, I'll strike a deal with you." Sam looked up again. "Instead of calling the hospital and waiting for them to take you away, you'll spend the day with me. You can see what it's like to be successful, and how good you can have it if you try." Sam blinked a reply. "Look, If I can't convince you that staying alive is a good idea, we'll see what happens. It's either this or the hospital. What do you say?" Sam gulped back some saliva. He stood, neglecting to stretch himself after having been curled in a seated position. "Okay," he said. Gus led him back to his ever diligent vehicle, guarding the road from anyone who might claim it. Unfamiliar with the Pontiac, Same opted out of the back seat to ride shot gun. Gus turned up the air conditioning to clean up all the humidity leaving the door open had caused, and he was back on the road.

The two of them drove through the country side, onto the highway, and into the city. They arrived at the building late. Despite knowing his detour with Sam would set him back, Gus didn't drive faster. He wasn't the type to risk himself if he didn't feel like he really needed to, and he didn't have much planned for today.

He parked in his special labeled spot in the employee parking lot, second only to the handicapped. Unlike most of the employees, they didn't need to use the parking garage across the street. He walked in through the electric doors into a great lobby, decorated in all the industrial blacks and whites that the advertising department proved would appeal to buyers. Any color was blue and green, with their products. This was the public entrance; the most presentable room in the whole building, and as far as anyone got who didn't work there or wasn't on a field trip. He greeted and bypassed the same security guards he saw every day as he made his way through the lobby. Nobody questioned him, or the young man following him, or anyone he ever kept in his company. As leisurely as he strolled, he made it across the lobby and arrived at the elevator in thirty seconds.

Checking behind him to make sure Sam was still following, they entered the fortunately emptied elevator together. "So what do you think?" Gus asked, with all the pride and audacity of a benefactor. Sam turned around and look into the lobby, as the doors closed in front of them. He paused, just as Gus had come to expect from him before a reply. "It's big." Gus blinked. "That's all?" Sam kept watching the doors, as though they would open and offer a second look. "I wasn't paying attention."

The doors did open a minute later, to a different floor entirely. They walked into a small hallway, adorned every so many feet with another photograph or painting. These were the last stand for any colors that weren't blue or green, and compared the interior of rest of the building, it made these stand out to the point where they almost didn't belong. Gus knew this, so it came to no surprise when he caught Sam's eye lingering on them, hesitating to leave each painting for the next. He took note of his interest, and matched his pace until they were at the end of the hall. Gus was intent on staying by his side.

At the end of the hall, a desk sat in an open room not terribly far away from a glass wall, with a view of the city. At that desk sat the one woman Gus did not need to see every morning. Michelle was sitting at a blue and black computer, tying back her black hair at a leisurely pace when they met her. "Morning, Michelle," Gus said, greeting her with a straight face, pockets occupied. "Morning, Gus. Did you get my text?" Gus looked into her forehead and she looked into his stomach. "Did you text me? I was preoccupied this morning." She finished tying back her hair, and stared into her monitor. "Dillon e-mailed me about a high priority meeting he wanted to have this morning. I don't know what it's about, but he sent it at around five in the morning. I don't think he's slept since your charity expo yesterday." Gus furrowed his brow. He planned for today to be slow. Even after deciding to watch Sam for the day, he wanted to spend it in a way that focused on trying to figure out what to do about this kid. "This is Sam, by the way. He'll be accompanying me today." Sam, who had been distracted by the paintings, flinched at the mention of his name. He looked at Michelle and blushed, having been caught not paying attention to their conversation. Michelle held back a laugh. "Hi Sam, I'm Michelle, his secretary. Anyways, Gus, you'd better get in the conference room. I get the impression you don't want to keep them waiting." Gus started walking off along the glass wall towards the conference room, pockets still occupied. Sam followed.

They arrived at the room, which for the sake of privacy, was not surrounded by glass. Gus opened the door to see Dillon, along with several of their business partners sitting around a long table. None of them looked particularly pleased to be there. He stood back to hold the door open for Sam when he was interrupted by one of them. "Who's that kid, Gus?" Dillon asked. "He's just a friend of mine," he said, pulling his other hand out of his clothes to gesture. "His name is Sam. Mind if he sits in today?" The denizens of the conference room frowned, and exchanged glances. This wasn't a question.

"What's wrong?" he finally asked. "This isn't exactly a meeting you would want your friend to sit in on, Gus," answered Dillon, as nonchalantly as he could. Sam and Gus were still standing in the doorway. "Why not? What are we talking about?"

"Our benefactors," he gulped in reply. Gus froze. He looked at Sam, who held his stoic gaze as he mirrored him. As much as it bothered him, he was going to need to leave Sam alone for a while. "Yeah, Sam, this is an important, private meeting." Sam kept staring. Gus produced his wallet, and pulled out twenty dollars. "Go back Michelle. Tell her to stop what she's doing and help you get some breakfast. I'm probably going to be in here for a while, alright?" Sam took the money out of his hand and pocketed it. "Alright," he spoke. He turned and walked along the glass wall at the same pace they came. Watching him leave, held the door open with his foot and held a finger up to silence everyone who was about to ask him who he needed to text. He pulled out a phone and began typing on it. So as not to keep them waiting, he hurriedly wrote "Don't let him leave your sights. Keep me updated. Get Pancakes," and sent it to Michelle, before entering the room and finally closing the door behind him.

Sitting at the only available chair, both closest to him and at the head of the table, His demeanor quickly descended from friendly to threatened. Everyone sat quietly, watching everyone else. The nauseous ambience of the air conditioner betrayed what should have been a silent room, as they all waited for anything to happen. He finally broke the tension. "What happened?" he demanded. "It's the Borcherding family. Last night they asked for more money from us to keep everyone quiet," one of the blurted. "What? How hard is it to keep a small tribe quiet?" Gus's eye's darted from man to man. All of them were dressed up in fine tailored suits and red-faced. Had the room not been luxuriously cooled, they'd be sweating like the pigs they were to him.

Dillon interjected. "It's not as simple as just moving some of the locals. They were really devoted to that land. The situation almost got violent when we asked them to move, but how were we going to get safe farmland in a third world country without clearing some first?" He loosened his tie as he leaned into the table, supporting himself with his elbows as his hands became tools of demonstration. "Okay, but why do they want more money? We had a deal." "Gus, we asked them to handle a major operation in a foreign country. When you asked for farmland that was safe to be cultivated with first world tools and utilities, to be sold as high quality fair trade product for their profit, that was fine." Everyone was watching this one. "It was also fine that we could pay for and supply them as a PR stunt/tax exemption. But you can't just buy land in a country like that one. And after we moved them, how were we going to keep them quiet? What about the local politicians who actually have connections to other countries? What would everyone say if those politicians were talking about what we did to get that land? It costs money to keep them quiet, too. And furthermore--"

"That's enough." interrupted Gus. He hated being reminded of how his business partners had chosen to handle a charity. "The Borcherding family wants more money to handle it. Doing this means we're giving more money to the mafia. So what do we do?"

"Well it's obvious, isn't it? We give them money!" One of them blurted, his voice cracking. "I have a family to worry about, I don't want them getting involved with the mafia!" another said. "Well, where were your families when you wanted to recruit them?!" Gus emphasized knowing he would get nowhere in this argument. "How many times have I said we don't need anything to do with organized crime? We make plenty of profits selling what we sell, and it's always in demand! You know what would have happened if we didn't get the mafia to do things for us? It would have cost us more, and taken longer. That's all." He looked around the room. Some of them wore disgruntled faces for this discussion. Those were the ones that agreed with him. The others looked stressed. He could tell those were the ones who were far more personally involved with organized crime than he was.

"I, for one, would much rather not give the mafia more money. All they're going to do is ask us for more than what we bargained for every time we get their help."

"Gus, it's the Borcherding family! Do you really want to keep your money from them?" Dillon spouted. "We'll pay them. But we can't keep going to organizations like that when we're completely capable of handling a charity on our own." The room sighed, simultaneously. Some exhaled in relief, others in acceptance, and still others in denial. "They want fifty million. I'll write a check," said Dillon, rubbing his forehead. "Fine. is there anything else on our agenda today, or was that all?" "Nothing critical that needs to be addressed today. We could all probably take the day off and get away with it." Everyone could see Dillon wanted to sleep. "Alright, then let's adjourn. I'll contact all of you if I come across anything we need to discuss." Gus rose from the table, and was the first one out the door.

He stood at the glass wall, which was tinted to protect his eyes from the sun, and pulled out his phone. Everyone else in the room walked out and past him while he checked the messages sent to him during his brief meeting. Michelle had replied with a "Can do, boss." She had sent two messages since then. "We're at the restaurant across the street," and "He wants crepes, and I'm not going to stop him." He pocketed his phone again, and paced along the glass wall. On this side of this floor, it stretched all across the building. He began to pace along it while he texted her back. "I'm going to go into my office and sift through some paperwork. Find me when you're done."

He retreated to his office, which was on the same floor, near Michelle's desk. He couldn't pace as he was would in the corridors of the floor outside, but in here it was as quiet as it was private. He looked between his couch, his TV, and his desk, deciding where to relax. Ultimately he took off his jacket, reclined on his couch, and closed his eyes, waiting for himself to get up and work. Before he drifted off, his worm made itself known one last time. "Why isn't this working?"

Gus woke up to a knocking on his door. Rather than drifting off or savor the feeling of sleeping in, he sat up and put his legs off his couch. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stood himself up, and walked to the door. He opened it to see Michelle, who was sitting back down at her desk when she looked up to see him, and Sam, who was sitting on another couch near her desk for people waiting for an appointment with Gus.

"What time is it?" he murmured. "We got back about two hours ago. You didn't answer your door, so we talked for a while and I decided to give him a tour of the building," she replied. "What time is it?" he repeated, clearer now that he was awake." "It's eleven thirty." He looked to Sam, who was looking at him. "What did she show you?"

"Your mail room, Mr. August," He muttered. "It's big." Gus grinned at the mention of his last name. "It's loud too, isn't it? I don't go there too often. Did you see anything else?" Sam thought for a moment. "I noticed you didn't have a cafeteria." This surprised Gus. Not that they didn't have a cafeteria, but that Sam had taken notice. He didn't think it was weird that he didn't have a cafeteria, but he was both impressed and happy to hear Sam had been paying attention. He smiled. "Yeah, most employees here either bring their lunch or go out." He stretched. "Speaking of which, are you hungry yet? I could go for some lunch." Sam paused. "We can eat." Gus walked back through the doorway. "Alright, give me a moment, my computer was giving me trouble in here. Michelle, will you come help me out with this?"

Without saying a word, Michelle got up and followed him into his office. "We'll only be a minute, Sam," he assured. They left Sam by himself, and closed the door. Gus turned to Michelle, and spoke in a hushed voice, "How was he?" Michelle, for the first time that day, looked him in the eye. "Why is there a suicidal kid in your entourage today?" Gus expected her to pick up on Sam. "Was that your expert sleuthing skills that taught you that?"

"He told me he was going to kill himself before you abducted him. When I asked him why, he was very dodgy and quiet. Which isn't to say he wasn't quiet otherwise." Gus leaned against the wall they were talking against. "So what do you think?" Michelle mirrored him. "I don't think he really wants to kill himself. Or if he does, then he's not showing it, or he's not doing it for any typical reason." Gus pushed himself off the wall, in thought. He began to pace again.

Michelle decided to change the subject. "Was the meeting this morning about what I think it was about?" Gus kept his tempo. "Yeah," he replied. "Dillon wants us to pay them more money to keep everything quiet." Michelle was against the wall, arms crossed. "What did you do?" Gus chose his words carefully. "Same thing I always end up doing. Pay them to keep quiet, or to stop criticizing us, or to be generally agreeable." Gus's face was straight. "Nobody accepts anything other than money." Michelle grinned. "Maybe you shouldn't be so rich or they would look for alternatives." Gus kept pacing.

"Do you think this kid has anything to do with them?" She asked. Gus stopped pacing and looked at her, who was looking at him. "What do you mean?" She wasn't grinning anymore. "Well, on the same morning Dillon calls an emergency meeting, after having stayed up all night, some kid just happens to be on one of the bridges you drive over on your way to work, who you promptly decide to show your hospitality, on your way to said meeting? Maybe it's far-fetched, but these are the same people who are oppressing a population of a hundred or so people while convincing the government there, not to mention the rest of the world, it's not even happening." Gus chuckled. "I'm relying on the fact that that idea is so ridiculous, to keep me from believing you." Her arms were still crossed. "Maybe so, but you still need to be careful. After all, What will happen to my Christmas bonus?" She inquired, as innocently as she wanted to be. Gus glared at her from one eye, watching her keep her smile. It was nice having a secretary who was smart enough that he didn't need to lie to her, but he was really just keeping her around because it was cheaper. If he fired her for knowing too much, she would just black mail him, and he'd end up paying her salary as well as whatever secretary took her place.

"Is that what you think then? Well, I'm going to go take him for a walk, and try to get to know him better over lunch. We'll be back whenever." He walked out the door, and beckoned to Sam to follow him down the hallway. "We're gonna’ go get lunch somewhere," he told him. Sam walked down the hallway, as slow as he did the first time, to watch the paintings.

They left the building to join the traffic of a busy sidewalk, made even busier by the lunch rush. Blending in with a swarm of city folk, they started walking. "Can you think of anywhere you would want to get lunch?" Gus asked Sam. Sam looked off in thought. "Don't worry about the bill, I can tell you honestly that I can afford it."

"No, anywhere is fine," he said. It was difficult to hear him over the sound of people and cars everywhere. "Are you sure? Is there any kind of food you prefer?" "No, we can go wherever." Gus looked at him with distress. He was suspicious that he was annoying Sam, because Sam would have rather just killed himself that morning. But he wasn't just going to leave him there to do it. Maybe Sam really didn't care about what food he ate? He was difficult to read. "Maybe I'm just not good at reading young people anymore," he thought to himself. He spoke as they walked. "Well, there's a nice restaurant I go to often a couple blocks down this street. We can just go there." They continued walking.

After crossing an intersection they came across a crowd of people standing around something they obscured all possible view from. Gus looked at Sam, who was watching whatever was in the center. Pleased at his curiosity, he motioned for the two of them to venture into the cluster of people and see what was there. They weren't in a rush.

Inside the circle was a box comprised of colored cardboard, Plexiglas, and PVC poles stood about a foot higher than a refrigerator, and only so much wider. Inside of the box, stood a man in a full body spandex suit. His waist down was hidden, but everything above was visible from all angles. He was holding perfectly still. Written outside the box on some cardboard was "Insert Dollar, Receive Rave."

Everyone around the box was waiting for everyone else to put any bill inside to see what would happen. Gus didn't see any point in waiting, so he produced a five and handed it to Sam. Sam looked up at him, without a sense of direction. "Go insert that money, let's see what he does," Gus said. Sam looked at the box. The man was still holding perfectly still. Sam, without taking his gaze off the man, went to the box and put the dollar in, and the crowd all around them hushed. As automated as he could be, the man in the latex twitched his wrist and reached for a pair of sunglasses near his hand. He brought them up to his face, slowly. As soon as the sunglasses were on his head, lights started flashing on and off inside and outside the box, and speakers, hidden from view inside the lower half of the box started playing loud electronica. The crowd around them started applauding, and a few of the people in front started dancing. Sam got out as quickly as he could, to Gus, who was laughing.

While they stood watching in the crowd enjoying the show, someone addressed Gus. "Are you Gustav August?" asked a female voice, touching his arm. Gus turned around to see he had been approached by a young woman in a skirt, holding a pink leather purse to her side and more makeup on her face than she needed. Briefly, he considered denying his identity. He didn't want to be bothered by people today, not after dealing with that meeting, and especially not when he had Sam in his company. But Sam, ever absent, was holding his attention elsewhere. "Just an introduction and then we'll leave," he decided.

"Oh hello," he said out loud to her. She gasped. "I heard them talking about you on the radio today! They were talking about your charity!" He smiled. "Yeah, we had a lot of profits so we decided to help out in ways that would work." She giggled. "That's what they said, too! You really are Gustav August!" Gus got the impression she was easily impressed by celebrity. "Yup, that’s me," he replied, in a softened, cautioned monotone. He was conditioned to be wary around strangers who knew his name, even when they were harmless young women. "Yeah, it was a guy who was really happy you were doing charity! He used to hate you!" Gus would later call this woman ditzy. "Oh, did he? Well, maybe he had a change of heart," he said, through his teeth. "Well, I need to get going." He turned around to find Sam just where he left him when she grabbed his arm again. "Wanna’ go get lunch somewhere?" she asked, with another giggling inflection. Gus watched her smiling at him. Why wasn't he surprised? "No thanks, I have my own agenda to follow today. Let's go, Sam," he said. Sam stopped watching the impromptu dance party and joined Gus in turning and leaving the crowd, still lively from its exciting nucleus. "He's funny, right?" Gus chuckled. Sam was silent.

Gus and Sam kept along the sidewalk until they arrived at their destination. It was a hotel with a very nice semi outdoor restaurant. The smell of steak, marinara, and boiled noodles wafted through the air around them as they walked through the double wide doors to find two young waitresses, one standing at a podium and the other carrying menus. They squinted at the bright sidewalk, but as the tinted doors closed again they smiled. "Mr. August!" They both exclaimed. "Just two seats for my friend and I, on the patio," He told them. The one with the menus eagerly led them off through the room full of lunching patrons. "You're popular," stated Sam in an undertone, barely audible over the ambience of conversation surrounding them. "Not really, I just tip generously," Gus replied.

She led them to an elevated wooden patio balcony standing five feet over the hotel's courtyard on one side, and looking over the busy street to the other. Potted plants hung over them and sat around them. She cleared off a table at the edge of the patio, because she knew how watching people put Gus in a good mood. Gus knew she knew that, too, but didn't say anything as they took their seats and picked up their menus. He could feel her eyes on the back of his head, watching him carefully, treating him better than the other customers.

"Anything look good to you, Sam?" He asked. Sam was browsing. "They've got great steaks, you know," he had spoken like an advisor. Just then, a thought struck him. "You're not a vegetarian, are you?" He asked, feeling like a moron for not asking sooner. "No," was all he replied. "Order whatever you want, I'll foot the bill," he said. Gus sat holding the menu, trying to look convincing enough to Sam that he was actually reading it. In truth he was watching Sam, who, for all he knew, was watching him back. Sam held the menu in front of him, staring at it, if not completely through it. He turned its pages every couple of seconds, but his eyes barely moved.

All day, Sam had been like this. Gus had been sure to keep Sam safe all day, with only his best interests in mind, and Sam had been there, physically. But where was his mind? He supposed maybe this should have been expected of Sam. After all, he was staring expectant death in the face this morning until Gus violently tore him away from it. Maybe Sam was just in a very light state of shock.

"How are you feeling, Sam?" He inquired. Sam looked up from his menu. "I'm hungry," was all he said. Gus was about to go into more delicate subjects when he realized they hadn't ordered yet, and he didn't want to be interrupted. He perked his head up like a prairie dog over the plains to see if a waitress was around, knowing this would quickly signal his waitress over. Sure enough, she came by like a reflex. "Are you ready to order?" She perked. Gus nodded to Sam, who had acknowledged her presence by putting down the menu again. "I'll have the beef soup," he said, "With fries and water." She smiled as she wrote that down, then looked to Gus "The usual?" she confidently asked with the air of an old friend. "Spaghetti and meatballs, salad on the side, and a lemonade, Thanks," he said with a smile. "Alrighty then, I'll be by with your drinks soon!" she turned and pranced off towards the kitchen. Sam watched her go, and Gus waited for a moment before confronting him. "Sam, have you got any family?" Sam blinked. "No," he said. Gus was already out of questions.

"Why don't you tell me a little about yourself, before today," was the best he could muster. Sam, as usual, looked into space, in thought. Apparently, he didn't have an answer ready to describe himself. Gus inferred he hadn't planned on needing to introduce himself at all, but he still didn't know much about this kid, aside from "Caucasian male, aged seventeen." How was he going to convince him to choose life over death without information he needed? "I graduated high school a little while ago," he said. Gus noted that he was wrong about the young man's age. "Then I decided to kill myself, and now I'm here." Gus snorted back what should have been a chortle. "That's a bit of a transition you had there," he commented like a newscaster. "What was high school like?" Gus had picked up on Sam's pattern. When spoken to, specifically, when asked a question, he would stop, think, and answer. It was basic enough to ignore, but constant, and notable. Gus didn't see people who thought carefully about their words before they spoke often. "High school was fine. I had friends, we hung out a lot."

"Were you ever an athlete or anything? Join any extra curricular activities?" He was reaching blindly for information, anything he could use. This wasn't getting to know someone. This was an interrogation.

"I was a pretty good math student," he said, "And my teachers would have me tutor other kids sometimes."

"That's pretty impressive, isn't it? I was never good at math, so I can't really relate. It's why I'm always friendly to the people in the accounting department," he forced. He was having a difficult time responding to these without alluding to suicide, but he was managing. Just when he thought he'd ran out of things to say, Sam asked a question in the form of a statement. "You're popular," he observed.

"Are you talking about the waitress? They don't really care about me, they just want my money," He stated, cynically. "No, I meant the girl at the street rave. She recognized you." Gus thought back, briefly. "Girl at the rave" was very vague. "You mean the girl who came up to me and mentioned hearing about me on the radio?" He asked. "Yeah." "Well, that kind of thing is actually pretty uncommon for me. I may run a big business, and the workers in this restaurant can certainly recognize me, but we don't have lots of competition, so we don't need to go around doing commercials and stunts very often, to remind people why we're 'the best.'" Gus was using his hands to talk. "To be honest, I'm surprised she was able to pick me out of a crowd like that."

Sam responded faster this time, at practically the same interval two people would be using in a regular conversation. "Maybe she was a reporter, and wanted to talk to you about yesterday." He hadn't considered that. "Hey, maybe you're right? People were talking about the charity, I know that. Which is good, because it was done for the press, and to garner attention."

"I thought you guys didn't need to do publicity stunts?"

"Well, not often, but it's still good to do one every now and then. Besides, this is more than just a stunt. We're actually doing good things here." With the joyful fervor Gus was using to direct his hands for this subject, he almost knocked over his lemonade being handed to him. He hadn't noticed the waitress standing there, who had already handed Sam his water. Sam was sipping. Gus laughed with the waitress over his mistake, and anyone who didn't know better would have described the two of them as complacent. "Sorry, I just get excited when I talk about my charities." She just smiled and laughed using the kind of smile you give when you're getting paid to do it. "I'll be by with your food soon," she stated, and went back off, once again giving them priority.

"What did she say about the radio?" Sam inquired after gulping.

"When did the waitress mention a radio?" Gus asked, her purchased vigor still on his mind.

"No, the lady at the rave."

"Oh, that? Yeah, I heard him on the radio this morning, too. Sometimes people talk about me, despite the fact that I'm not a really big public figure." He clenched his leg muscles, as he spoke. "It was just another guy saying more good things about me after yesterday's charity expo. Don't worry about him." He was glad that he got Sam talking, but he needed to take a risk if he was going to get anything out of him.

Gus, illustrating signs of being a horrible conversationalist, abruptly changed their topic. "Sam, what are your parents like?" Gus, knowing full well that this would always be a sketchy topic with anyone he met that wanted to kill themselves. Sam, after holding his peace for a moment, coughed "I don't want to talk about it." Gus almost said "Why not," and would have, had the waitress not come by with their lunch. They both began to eat quietly as they lost eye contact, and the conversation grinded to a halt. But Gus had finally gained a foothold on information he had been trying to learn all day. As Gus watched Sam while he ate, he thought Sam might have interpreted this silence as awkward. But to Gus, it was a reward.

When Gus was pulling out his wallet to pay the bill, he checked his receipt. The money wasn't an object to him, but he caught himself calculating the actual tip of what he owed this woman. His usual tipping price came to a number almost triple the fifteen percent he was obligated to leave, and that was with Sam's added price. It wasn't news to him that he was greatly overtipping the waitresses, but he was comparing and contrasting the service he had received in relation to this money. She was working a good job that paid well, did she really need decent tips? Had she earned this money? Did she need this money? What if he just tipped her as much as everyone else would and be done with it? There was no law keeping him from doing otherwise. The only reason she wants this money is because she expects it. Does that mean she should get it? This occupied his mind while he watched his wallet in his hand.

Gus decided to pay her his regular tipping price. If he was going to stop paying money to everyone and find different ways to cope with life, today was not the day. Not when he needed to keep an eye on this kid. He left his money, and beckoned Sam to join him as they walked out the door. "Have a good day, mister August!" The girl at the podium chimed. He waved his had goodbye without turning around, noting she didn't even acknowledge Sam in her farewell, and they were off.

Gus, with the information he finally managed to derive from Sam, attempted to pry further as they walked, in the form of advice. "Sam, do you remember this morning when I mentioned a plan that I had?" Sam nodded. Gus was glad they were still communicating. "Well, did I ever mention what that was? I can't remember if I did or not." Sam reflected on the five or so hours they had known each other. "I don't think so." Thankful for his new topic, Gus indulged himself in advice. "I like charity, Sam. I'm the kind of person who wants to do charity. I really, really want to help the people who need help. I figured that out when I was your age." Sam was listening. "But I couldn't just do volunteer work at the local homeless shelter, you know? I needed to know I was making a difference. So I decided I needed to get enough money together to make sure that would happen. If there's anything I've learned, it's that paying people is one of the best ways to motivate them." Sam looked to Gus to ask a question, but if there was anything that could distract Gus from Sam's well-being, it was charity.

"So I worked hard and made a fortune, and now I spend it on people who need it. You know how we started a big PR expo yesterday to help with making high quality fair trade crops in Africa? Well, that was my idea, along with other charities I've been running back in the states, too. A single volunteer at a homeless shelter might not make a difference, but a chain of corporate sponsored shelters just might, right?" Sam spoke up. "Is money the best way to do it?"

This time, it was Gus who was quieted. This was just one of the many possible answers Gus had been exploring lately. The question, being "Why wasn't his plan working?" He had wanted to do charity for people who needed it, but it seemed like so much of the money he had earned wasn't even making it past his company. He looked to Sam, who expected an answer. "Well, if money isn't the best way to do it, I don't know what is," he said, forcing a smile.

While they sauntered down the street, Sam stopped Gus. "Isn't that the raver across the street?" Gus turned and watched the sidewalk. There was no music or flashing lights in the immediate vicinity. "In the diner, I mean." Gus corrected himself and peered through rush hour traffic into the most visible diner. He saw a man gripping a hamburger with two hands, vigorously watching it as he chewed. Nothing about him suggested he was the raver, or a street performer at all, until he noticed the sunglasses dangling from his shirt collar were the same the raver wore over his spandex covered head. He couldn't see the cardboard he was standing in, but there was a pile of something black on the table he was eating at, which he reasoned must have been the spandex suit. This was the Raver.

Gus watched him closely. The Raver was much older than he expected. He had wrinkles around his eyes, and his face was thin and covered in whiskers. He looked less like he was doing it for fun, and more like he was doing it because it was his only income, and what else did he know how to do? Gus would have done a double take if he wasn't watching so intently through the glass. Nothing about this man suggested he was a performer, or that he enjoyed doing what he did. Maybe he fit the profile, but could this really be the same guy?

They walked back to the building, with small talk. There wasn't much either of them could find to say. Sam rarely spoke unless spoken to, and Gus had his own concerns. They quietly walked back through the lobby, into the elevator, out of the elevator, and up to Michelle, slowing themselves once again to observe the paintings. Michelle didn't notice they had arrived until they got to her desk. "How was your meal?" she asked. "Mine was good. How about you, Sam?" he inquired, once again in an attempt to stimulate any conversation. "It was good," Sam replied.

"Listen, I've got a stack of paper work to look at, and all afternoon to look at it. Sam, do you want to sift through it with me?" As if Sam would say no. "Alright," he quietly replied, and the two of walked into his office again, trying to figure out how in the world a fresh high school graduate was supposed to help a wealthy businessman with paperwork.

The afternoon lulled by. Gus went through sheet after sheet, reading each one aloud to Sam and explain what each one was for: various papers displaying how much money they had made in the previous year, and suggestions to where profits should go next, and why. Sam paid attention for twenty minutes before getting bored and losing interest. Gus offered him a pen and notebook to occupy himself with while he continued to work. Every couple of minutes or so, Gus would mention something off hand, looking for another way to get more information about Sam, but he never made much progress.

He was beginning to wonder how tactful it was of him to actually believe he could talk someone out of suicide with tours, lunch, and paperwork when his eye caught the time at ten past five. Most of his employees would be leaving right about now, and Sam had filled up a decent number of pages in the notebook he’d been provided.

"So what have you been writing, Sam?" Sam was sincerely focused on what he was doing. "Sam?" He looked up. "Oh, what is it?" He asked "What have you been writing there?" He looked down at what he was doing, then closed the book and put the pen down. "It's nothing," he spoke. "Well, I'm not going to pry. You can keep that notebook if you want to." That was a lie. Gus wanted to pry more than anything, and knew he would end up doing it passively. But for now, Sam kept his privacy.

Gus put his jacket back on, filled his pockets with anything he needed to bring home with him, and they left his office together. Michelle was still sitting at her desk. She usually stayed as late as Gus did. When she saw Gus leaving through the door, she stood up, stretching. "Busy day?" She asked through a yawn. "Yeah," he replied. They stood for an awkward moment. "What are you planning on doing for the rest of the day?" She casually asked. "Well, I haven't quite figured that out yet. Sam hasn't told me anything about his family, so I don't know where he'll be spending the night other than a hospital." Sam perked up to this. "I need to go to the bathroom," he said, and quickly walked off towards the elevator. "You're going the wrong way; it's back past the conference room!" Michelle called to him. Sam turned around and walked past them, on his way to where ever the bathroom was. They waited until he was out of sight before they started talking.

"Dillon was in a car crash today," she hurriedly whispered. "What?!" he whispered back. "Shhh! He's fine, he wasn't hurt. But it was a hit and run, and he recognized one of the guys in the car. He had seen him before with one of the Borcherdings. Do you understand?" She was almost scolding him. Gus started to pale. "What?!" he repeated. Michelle gripped his arm, and squeezed. "They liked Dillon, Gus! Dillon worked with them! He was their friend, and they threatened him! You, you've been slandering their name and trying to break away from them for a while now! Don't you think you should be careful around people for a little while? Making sure not to keep strange people in your company, like, oh I don’t know, a suicidal kid you've never met who won't even give you a reason for why he wants to kill himself?" Gus felt lightheaded. "Why didn't you tell me about this sooner?!"

"I only just found out a couple minutes ago!" He looked down the direction Sam walked off to, expecting him to run around the corner at any moment with a gun. "Get some security up here. Don't tell them it's an emergency, but tell them to hurry. Warn the other guards to keep a look out for anything or anyone suspicious."

"I already did. I'm surprised they're not here yet," she retorted.

Just then, the elevator opened. Gus jumped and Michelle flinched, as though they were both about to die. Two security guards stepped out and power walked over to them, as they exhaled in relief. Gus was already sweating, still tense with the threat of an assassin just around the corner. "A friend of mine, Sam, is a white male who went off to the bathroom a couple minutes ago. One of you go get him and bring him back here. Then we'll talk." One of them took the initiative and walked off on his own. "What’s going on, sir?" The remaining guard asked. Gus pulled out a handkerchief and started wiping sweat off his face, as though to look calm when Sam returned. "What's your name?" "I'm Phil, and he's Tony," replied the guard, pointing off in the direction the other guard went. Gus took a moment to observe Phil. He was only a little shorter than Gus, and blonde. He was very thing, and apparently kept his uniform clean. He looked safe enough. Tony came back around the corner with Sam. Thankfully, he didn't have a hold on him or something. Sam did, however, wear a very worried face. "What's going on, Gus?" He asked, Tony still standing behind him.

Gus looked around himself for a moment. He considered escorting Sam into his office, but remembered the windows there. They were tinted windows, but how difficult would it be for anyone with the proper equipment to see through them? Gus wasn't a military man, and he didn't know anything about snipers, but he didn't want to take a risk. "Tony, you go off with Michelle and take her somewhere safe. Take the stairs. Phil, you, me, and Sam need to talk in the conference room." Tony complied quickly, still unsure of what was going on. "We'll take the stairs to the Lobby, and go from there to the Security lounge," Michelle muttered quickly. "Could you clue me in along the way?" He asked. They went into the stairwell, and out of sight.

"We're going into the conference room, over here," Gus stated, directing Phil and Sam in the direction of the room. Sam walked in first, followed by Phil. Sam took the liberty of sitting on one side of the table, and Phil stood at the other. Gus walked in last and closed the doors behind him, standing above where he sat that morning. "Sir, what's going on?" Phil asked, somewhat urgently. "I have reason to believe someone is going to try to kill me today," he said slowly. Phil and Sam looked to Gus, and then to each other. "Michelle will have already had Tony alert the rest of the security staff by now." Gus turned to Sam. "Sam," he began, with pause, "I need to know more about you before we can go anywhere." Sam froze. "Wh-wh" he stuttered, his breathing accelerating. "Why do you want to kill yourself, Sam?" Gus asked.

Phil did a double take. "He wants to do what?!" He demanded. Gus didn't take his eyes off Sam. "Tell me why you want to kill yourself, Sam," he repeated, sternly. Sam was beginning to break. "That's none of your business! Leave me alone!" He pleaded. Gus didn't move from his spot. He didn't wipe the sweat from his brow. "Tell me, Sam. Tell me now."

"What's going on?" Phil demanded. Sam's eyes were welling up in tears. "Leave me alone!" He was shaking, and balling himself up. "Tell me, Sam! Tell me why you want to die!"

"NO!" Sam hugged himself. Gus wasn't taking any risks. He hastily stole Phil's gun from his holster, and fumbled it between his sweaty hands until he got a grip on it. He aimed it at Sam's head. "TELL ME NOW, SAM!" He shouted.

"A BOX TOLD ME TO!" He screamed, bursting into tears.

Gus was caught off guard. He wasn't prepared for that. He looked to Phil, who was in shock that his gun had been stolen from him. He looked back to Sam, who was now holding his hands on his head and wailing. "What?" He asked, with less intensity. Sam sniffed and tried to speak through the mucus already dripping down his lip and the tears on his cheeks. "A b-box… A box my d-dad made, killed my dad, and told me to kill m-myself," he blubbered. Gus didn't lower his gun. "Give me the gun!" Phil demanded. "Explain!" Gus exclaimed, with renewed vigor. "My d-dad, he w-worked for a security company to m-make hardware, and he was," Sam stopped and gulped. "Keep talking!" Gus demanded. Sam panicked again. "H-HE H-HE WAS H-HE WAS T-T" he was hyperventilating himself. "Give me the gun, Mr. August," Phil spoke, this time sternly but calmly. Sam wailed louder.

Gus quietly handed the gun back to Phil. "Keep talking," he repeated. "T-t-t-he was t-t-talking about a machine to rec- to recognize people by their blood, because it was h-harder to - it was harder to trick, and he made one." Sam stated, calmer now that they were calming down. Gus leaned onto the table, hands first, and hung his head down. "Thank you, Sam. Please continue." "B-But whenever he tested his protot-t-type, it never said his name, it just said t-t-t…" Sam was stressing himself to speak. Gus, carefully asked "What did it say, Sam?" Sam looked up, squinting through tear soaked eyes at Gus "TABLE SAW!" he shrieked.

Gus was silent. He watched Sam continue to cry, now in a fetal position in his chair. Phil could only watch. "What happened to your father, Sam?" Sam was forcing himself to keep talking. He was shaking uncontrollably. "All the machine ever said was t-t-table saw, no matter how many times he changed it, and, and one night he came home, and he was really drunk, and, and…" Sam was tripping over his own words. "And he was yelling about the box and I saw him go into his workshop to break it and I heard the table saw turn on and he started screaming and I ran in and he was bleeding a whole lot and his hand was cut off and his forearm was in two pieces and I called an ambulance and they came, but he was dead!"

"Calm down, Sam, it's going to be okay," Gus assured him. "No its not!" Sam was suddenly very angry. "Why not?" Gus asked with the same voice. "Because he had me t-test it once, and it, it said…" He was shaking violently, "Suicide!"

"So the box is going to kill you?" Gus asked, now struggling to keep his relaxing tone. "Unless I kill myself, it's gonna’ kill me!" Sam retorted. "Calm down Sam, No one is going to let a box kill you," Gus had picked his head up, and was using his hands as he spoke again. "That's what they said at the hospital! So I have to kill myself!" Sam shouted. "Sam, you don't have to kill yourself because that thing told you to," Gus's voice was unwavering. "But if I don't, It's gonna kill me! It killed my dad on that table saw and it's gonna’ kill me!" Sam was angry. "Sam." Gus's face was stoic. "What?!" Sam looked up, expectantly. "Do you remember this morning, when I pulled you off the guardrail?"

"Yes," was his rapid-fire response. "Why did I do that?" Sam didn't stop to think. "I don't know," he said, practically accusing. "Remember how I mentioned I care about people?" He crossed his arms, and didn't take his eyes off Sam. "I pulled you off because I care about you, Sam. When I saw you on that guardrail, I didn't just see someone standing there. I saw someone who wanted help, and I reacted. When you said you didn't want to go to the hospital, did I leave you there?" Sam shook his head. "I took you with me, didn't I?" Sam nodded. His tears were slowing, and he was calming down. "So now that you told me why you want to kill yourself, what do you think I'm going to do?" Sam was silent. "I'm going to do something about it, that's what. Now, the only place I can imagine you staying tonight is back at the hospital, even if you don't want to go back there, because that's the only safe place I can think of for you right now. Phil will take you there in one of our company cars, and I'll follow in my Pontiac. You can do that right, Phil?" Phil nodded. "Good. Then let's all leave for the hospital, right now. You're not killing yourself because of some faulty prototype."

Sam got out of his chair. He kept his head hanging down. He paused. Without looking up, he walked towards Gus and wrapped his arms around him tightly. Gus felt two moist eye sockets dig into his side. He was okay with that.

The three of them left the conference room in a speed walk, opting to take the stairwell again. They were very high up, but none of them wanted to take any chances with an elevator. Halfway down, Gus had to ask. "What did you do with the box?"

"I threw it into a lake near my school." Gus grinned to himself. "I'll have it scoured. That box will be incinerated by the end of the week. I can even arrange for it to be recycled into beer cans, if you feel like adding insult to injury." Sam laughed the first laugh Gus had ever heard from him. "Go for it!"

They went into the parking lot, and Gus followed Sam and Phil to a company car. "Aren't you going to come with us in this car, Mr. August?" asked Phil. "I'll take my own car. I don't want to share a car with you guys if there's a hit out on me."

He watched them get inside, then walked off to his Pontiac. They drove past him to the edge of the parking lot while he climbed inside, and closed the door. Just as he was about to start his vehicle, he heard a clicking noise directly behind him.

Gus froze. Every sense, every instinct, every hair on the back of his neck told him not to turn around. "Turn around," said a voice. He turned around. There, sitting in the back seat with a gun held to his face, was the young gold digger from the rave earlier that day. "You're going to drive back to your house. You're not going anywhere else. Do I make myself clear?" Gus stared. Not at her, but past her. "Do I make myself clear?" Her voice was harsh. "Okay," he complied. He turned around, slowly, and started his car. He flinched.

The engine turned on, without a hitch. It wasn't rigged to blow. In hindsight that didn't make any sense, because the girl was in the car with him. He carefully pulled out of his spot, out of the parking lot, and in the direction of his house. Sam and Phil were already gone towards the hospital.

Gus was worried about Sam. He didn't think they were going to hurt him, would they? Just because he left the building with him? They probably wouldn't, what reason would they have? Just to add insult to injury? Was there some kind of message in that, just because he had convinced Sam not to kill himself only minutes before? Gus thought back. Sam was the first person He'd ever really helped without dirty money or red hands. He didn't pay anybody, and he didn't ask for any favors, and he didn't lie about it.

As he drove through his country club road, he found reason to stop worrying about the woman behind him. "Stop the car," she said. He obeyed, and stopped the car. He listened to her jingling around in the same purse she had that morning as he thought a question to himself. Did Sam count? Did Sam actually mean his plan to help people worked? Had he finally achieved the goal of his plan, he set for himself so many decades ago, in his youth? Was Gus finally succeeding? "Hold still," commanded the woman.

Just then, he felt a stinging pain go through his arm. It didn't hurt enough to be a bullet. He looked down to see a syringe, with some kind of fluid being injected into him. "Is this euthanasia?" he asked. "No, they would know it was the Borcherdings that did it if you had that in you. No, this is a heaping helping of heroine. Nobody is going to be surprised when a CEO as rich as yourself gets so shitfaced while he's driving he flips over a bridge. Especially not the day after his big charity expo, when everyone expects him to be doing nothing but partying." Of course they would be expecting that, wouldn't they? She didn't see Gus's smug smile. She didn't know about Phil, or Sam, or Michelle, or Tony, all of whom will have known exactly what took place here.

"You should be feeling the effects soon, so you sit tight while you drive off this cliff, alright?" Gus was already feeling the onset of his injection, and couldn't find the words to respond as she took a cinderblock out from the back seat and heaved it onto the gas pedal. His arms and legs were too heavy for him to intervene.

Maybe it was just the high, or maybe it was the adrenaline, or maybe it was just from Sam, but for some inexplicable reason, Gus felt great. After all his work, from the very day he swore to make the world a better place to the very moments before he was going to die, he had finally brought his plan into fruition. And Sam, sitting safely in a hospital, wondering where Gus was, was his living proof. These were his final thoughts as he careened through the guard rail and over the same cliff he visited that morning.

So here's what happened. But first of all, the namesakes of Sam and Gus:

I drew parallels between these two stories, except with the names inversed. Gus would be the owl and Sam would be the firefly. Thought it was appropriate for some reason.

The ending is funny. I figured it would be interesting to write a story where the machine of death isn't some kind of established pop culture icon or just being invented, and is just something someone made on accident, then destroyed, to be forgotten. I had Gus thinking he had just saved Samuel's life, but did he? The machine of death, Samuel's father built, told him he was going to commit suicide. Gus dies knowing nothing of the machine of death's real functions. Thinking he had just saved sam, Gus decides he had finally really helped someone who needed it, and died happy. But we, the reader, know Sam's real fate.

Also, the street performer was supposed to be an analogy for Gus. I really didn't want the comparison to be "Gus is this guy everyone knows and sees and appreciates, but he's just wearing a mask and really he's frustrated." I thought "Mask" was dumb. So I went with costume, I guess. It's not much of an improvement, but that's who the character is. I guess I didn't make that obvious enough.

I can't remember if there's anything else I need to cover.

Inb4 tl;dr

[Knuckle 484]

By Pheonix561, King of the Forums

Too sucky; didn't read :/

[Rika Code 29]

Liked the concept, it is interesting it is kinda like the whole genie granting wishes thing.

But you could work on the flow and maybe add a little more discription.

I think it would sound better in first person, but I only really got to like the third paragraph before I felt the need to say something

I am sorry :<

[2356 23]

I liked it. Especially the ending. I guess the happiness he's feeling (apart from being hiiiiigh as a kite) is kind of like one of those ignorance is bliss things.

[Chimetals 344]

read the whole thing, the ending was fun. "no one will ever know" "noap"

[pheonix561 2080]

This was basically a first draft. My parents decided they wanted to send me to do some volunteer disaster relief for two weeks, four weeks before the deadline. So I only had two weeks to write it from start to finish, and I didn't get to look back over it and get any review.

[2356 23]

I had a thought: wouldn't they find the cinderblock? It's kind of a little bit suspicious.

[pheonix561 2080]

Sure, probably. Like I said, I didn't have time to look over it. Holes like that were probably part of why it didn't get accepted.

[T1g 1503]

Donr have time to read right now but i will check it out later

i remember sam and the firefly. what happened to that book anyway

[Grandmaster Phoenix 26]

I thought this was going to be another new woodworker bitching about table saws.