Chapter 1: The Son of Destiny

The story begins, not in a sleepy little town as so many stories love to begin, but in a bustling city. Not sleepy, but bustling. Not LA bustling because that's a little more than bustling. That's like hustling and bustling all at once. So anyway, deep in the heart of this robust and intricate city there was a family owned convenience store. You know the kind: the one that sells absolutely everything from homemade caligraphy pens to Bigfoot foot castings. Deep in the heart - actually it's more near the front door - sat a boy. Close to a man, but not yet. His sixteen year old face covered with pimples, his greasy hair covered with an old baseball cap. He's typical.

He works at Petersen's Convenience Emporium. It might as well be known as the Local Emporium of Suck. Their motto should be, "If the smell doesn't kill you, it's likely that something in the neighborhood will." Yeah, the neighborhood sucks too. And it was this "suckage" that was getting to this young boy named Jimmy Petersen. His feet were propped up on the counter and his nose was buried deep in a video game magazine. Not even the pictures of Halo 3 could keep his head from nodding down to his chest attempting to fall asleep on him.

It wouldn't be long before the quiet would turn to not quiet and then the not quiet would turn to loud. You see, Jimmy was about to be shot at. Jimmy was quite unaware of this fact. I guess most people are. This shot came as a surprise to Jimmy. And it should come as a surprise to you, faithful reader. Unfortunately, this shot, although it will be loud, will not surprise you. Do you know why this is? It's because in almost every movie you watch and book you read, there is a gunshot.

Then again, did I say it was a gunshot? Perhaps dear Jimmy gets shot with a bow and arrow. It's not so out of the question. Maybe a tribal feud down the street got out of hand and an errant arrow found it's way through the window. Who knows? Well actually, I know. I know that this shot does in fact come from a gun. And I wish you people could fathom how alarming that actually is. But you have become numb. You see this all the time and so it fails to shock. It really makes my job all the more difficult. But I have not come to rant, so back to the story.

I would love to describe Jimmy more completely, but I have a feeling he may not be in the story much longer. Don't feel like I'm copping out. I may soon be describing him as a bloody mess with bullet holes for eyes. It's funny how unaware he is. I can see him now. He's just counting the seconds until that clock reaches closing time so he can go home and fill his mind with useless junk. He has no idea that a big box full of pandemonium is about to open right in front of him. A customer walks in and head to the Slurpee machine, yet his sleep eyes ignore him. A second walks in and goes for the Doritos, yet Jimmy gives her no greeting. And then I walked in.

I'm sure you were beginning to think that Jimmy may have a larger role in the story (at least until he said he may die young)? Why else would an author want to write so much about a minor character. Ask the writer of North Country. He or she (I'm not looking it up) knows all about miner characters. Maybe the writer of this story just wanted to screw with you. It has been known to happen. Anyway, I walked into this not-so-busy convenience store with one thing on my mind. Some people come in with cheese or coffee or even mentos, the freshmaker, on their mind. But not I. No siree. I came in hoping to quell the burning desire I felt deep in the pit of my stomach.

Have you ever been addicted to anything? Cigarettes, weed, maybe a little booger sugar? (Kids stay in school) If you have you know that when that longing hits, it's hits you like a semi (truck, not sweet chocolate chips). You've just got to have it. And that is why I entered that stupid Petersen's Suckfest. I was looking for a flippin' Destiny's Child CD. Now before you laugh and stop reading saying, "I ain't readin' no book about some fag," just listen for a second. I'm not gay. I don't even like Destiny's Child. It's not like that. I have a disease. Well, they call it a disorder. Anyway, I have obsessive compulsive disorder.

It's actually not that bad. I don't have to check the oven a hundred times or a say a color every time I see it, but there is one thing that really grinds my gears. If I get the urge, I quite simply must buy an item. But not just any item. I know you're going to say this is ridiculous, but when I get that feeling, I need, not sexual healing, but an item that has four words in it's title. Wait, there's more. The first and last word must start with the same letter, just as the two middle words must start with the same letter. Does that even make any sense? I hate trying to tell people what I have! When I tell some people they just put their hand on my shoulder and say, "How long do you have?"

Now can you see why I bought a Destiny's Child Compact Disc? It doesn't happen that often, but when it does I can't even function let alone do anything productive until I get an item that meets that description. Once I was Christmas shopping for my mom and I was getting her the stereotypical present. I know I'm lame, but I was getting her some pyjamas. Suddenly my OCD kicked in and whammy, I wrapped a pair of Polly Pocket Pyjama Pants later that evening. She thought they were for my little sister. It's a nuisance, but I live with it and I will one day die with it.

I am not a desperate man. I don't budge people in Starbucks to get my coffee. I don't settle for Hot Pockets when I want a Pizza Pop. I am patient and willing to wait for what I really want. That's exactly why I react with such contrast to that when my disorder says, "Hey I wanna mess wit' yo' mind, brother." (My disorder lives in the ghetto.) I panic and bad stuff happens. Usually it's not so bad that I can't weasel my way out of it, but on that fateful...wow, that's cliche. I've got to switch that up. On that day that I will one day look back on and say, "Crap, that screwed up my entire life," I made a choice that was so bad it was right up there between Paris Hilton's parent's decision to have children and that guy reaching out and snagging the ball right out of the Chicago player's mitt.

I entered that convenience store with good intentions. Illogical, but good nonetheless. I was going to find myself that CD, pay for it, and walk out feeling good about my good intentions that turned into a good reward. And so I did just that. Yep, I walked in and got out. Didn't walk out, but I got out. I got myself a CD with Beyonce on the cover. I know I left out the middle part; the part between the walking in and the getting out. That's because I'm not proud of that part. That, my friends, is where the shot happened. Yeah, I'm dancing around the issue like the do-see-doers dance around the dance floor, but that's because I know you're all judgemental. Remember earlier when I said I wouldn't judge you. Well, don't judge me.

Here's the middle. I hope it's a better middle than the gross white jelly in the centre of some donuts. I went up to the cashier with the name Jimmy and pulled my wallet out of my side pocket. See, I don't put my wallet in my back pocket because when I sit down it's uncomfortable. Also, I think it's safer from pickpockets for obvious reasons. I opened up my brown leather wallet and went to pull out my credit card, but alas, all I could see was my HBC rewards card. The Visa was missing! And this is where I panicked. This is also where I put the nicked in panicked.

Jimmy Petersen gave me an odd look as I smiled nervously up at him. Who was he, so high and mighty, to prevent me from witnessing the awesomeness that was Destiny's Child? This zit faced kid was not about to prevent me from getting my reward. I threw caution and reason to the wind. When most people throw these thing to the wind they normally don't throw them very far. They usually even keep a little bit back. If a person had already decided to steal, they would most likely just run, but not me. I saved the running for later. Instead I hopped the counter with child or monkey or ninja-like agility and grabbed the kid by the collar. It was pretty sweaty. I didn't have anything to say so I just stared at him, madness glowing in my eyes. Imagine Jack Nicholson on the cover of The Shining, only younger.

And then out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the gun. What kind, I could not say. It was then that the madness in my eyes intensified and took over. The gun was calling me. Not literally as this isn't science fiction; at least not yet. I was drawn to the gun. It was so shiny and nice. At that moment, it must have seemed as though I was a mass murderer in a past life. I just wanted to hold that gun. I wished it was a silver PP7.

I lunged for it, pulling Jimmy down to the ground by his shirt. It was not a PP7, but a shotgun. I ripped the gun from beneath the counter with both hands and turned to face the cowering boy lying on the floor surrounded by wrappers and old gum (Double Bubble, I think). I wanted to have some catch phrase. Something cool that I could depart with. I racked my brain, but my inspiration did not come from within. I squinted my eyes to somewhere between Asian and Clint Eastwood before saying in as deep a voice as I could muster, "The Son of Destiny strikes again."

Now I understand how ridiculous I must have sounded, but it's not everyday that you get an opportunity to bust out with a new name and catch phrase. Something had to be said so I said the first thing that came to mind. I saw the CD, so I spewed out what I saw. Had I looked outside and seen the Subway across the street, I probably would have said, "Eat fresh, sucka!" or something to that degree. I turned to leave, thrusting the gun to the ground. Now you're thinking, "What? I thought you were gonna shoot him!" Wait for it. I took one step and heard an eardrum damagin bang. Yep, there it is. Oddly enough my first instinct was to put my hands up.

It took me a second to realize that the cops were not outside. I lowered my hands and my face turned red, flushed with embarrassment. There were two other people who still had their eyes fixed firmly on me. I felt like an actor who had forgotten his lines onstage. Then it slowly dawned on me. My embarrassment quickly turned to the kind of fear a person feels when Jean Claude Van Damme comes crashing through the front door. Actually that's not accurate. That's more of a sudden fear. This fear was more like I could see Jean Claude coming from ten to twenty feet away. It's pretty much the worst kind of fear.

I now knew what the bang was. The gun had gone off. Whether or not a bullet had come out was yet to be determined. I didn't really want to look over the counter for of post traumatic stress. It reminded me of myself as a kid, afraid to look under the bed to see if there were any monsters. I caught sight of a hand. It was definitely moving. But was it convulsing and thrashing in its final moments of life? I couldn't tell. Then I saw hair. No, not on his hand. He wasn't a hairy palms kind of guy. I saw the top of his head and like someone who has just finished using the toilet, I was glad to not see any red.

I wish I had told you at the beginning of the story whether the shot had hit because all this suspense is killing me. Is it killing you? Or is it killing Jimmy? Of course, it wouldn't be the suspense that killed Jimmy. It would be the bullet or spread of bullets. I don't know enough about firearms to tell whether it was a slug or not. Again I want to describe Jimmy more to you. I want to tell you how his right arm had been blown across the room, and while it headed towards becoming a wall mount, it knocked over the iced cappuccino machine, which then, in a cruel domino effect, landed on Doritos girl, crushing her skull in a sea of bloody frozen coffee (talk about a brain freeze).

I want to tell you how I could see the empty shoulder socket and how the boy screamed in agony as he bled out on the floor while the Slurpee guy just stared, transfixed in a state where his brain refused to allow an intelligent thought process. Why do I want to do that? Because the news people have told me that you like violence. But I cannot tell you that. I cannot tell you much. I know what happened, but I'm going to save it for when I actually find out in the story. This is why at the time I did not know what had transpired.

I heard the squeak of the door and felt the humid, putridness of the outside air create a near deadly mixture with the soiled, rotten inside air. A deep growl of a voice came from behind me.

"I'm gonna get me some beef jerk...what the heck?"

Beef Jerky man surveyed the situation, his brain almost overloaded with too much input. He saw Slurpee man point at me, and decided that it was time for me to become Tylenol man. I didn't normally go to sleep at 1:30 in the afternoon.

Introduction

It's tough being a narrator. I mean, first off if my grammar is wrong, I'll be told. What are the chances that everyone would just let me off the hook? There's always one guy. He's the guy that heckles the comic. He writes to the editor. He Youtubes a presidential speech because the most powerful man in the world says that Nelson Mandela is dead when he isn't. Okay, that last one's not too bad. But my point is that I have a lot of pressure to deal with. I mean I've got alliterations and analogies to worry about? What do you have to worry about?

You see, there is a point in every story where the narrator must get to the story part of the story. And while that part has not come, it's looming. But where we are now is a really great place to be. At this point I can say what ever I want and you're not going to question whether it fits into the story. I can say that it turns out that Jimmy was a woman and you're not going to say, "But you said he peed standing up!" Actually, I don't know you, so you may say that on a regular basis anyway. Don't worry, I won't judge.

And what have I done so far to keep you reading? Have you cried yet? Have you laughed? Or maybe you just have to write a book report for your English teacher (or if you're out of school, maybe you just like book reports a lot) and this was the prettiest colored one on the list. I wish you could send me a letter telling me what you want to read about, but for now I'm starting with a list of words: romance, comedy, suspense and a bunch of other ones I'm too lazy to talk about. I have a story in mind that just might fit all the criteria for such a legendary tale.

I will burst into the story like a construction worker bursts into a room that needs bursting into in just a second (it's random and there's nothing you can do about it), but first I just figured I would let you know how this is going down. Some stories the narrator just sits on the sidelines and tells what's going on. I have done this. I began to write a novel where I mostly let the characters propel the story. Guess what I found out: characters suck at a lot of stuff. Not to mention that most of them aren't real. I don't want to put that much responsibility on something that may or may not be real. Look what they did to Spiderman.

I found in my first book that I wanted to sneak in little tidbits (don't confuse those for Timbits) where the narrator talked directly to the reader and in the way I was weaving that little yarn, it simply didn't work. I sucked like a vacuum...as did that joke. So you know how in our new age, we have these discs with holes in them called ditigal video devices or something. Well they sometimes have a commentary. Imagine my little narrator bits as a commentary for what the stupid little characters are doing.

This time I don't want to be on the sidelines. I told the coach I'm ready and he's putting me in. Don't worry; I'll try not to screw things up...hopefully. I mean I hopefully won't screw up, not hopefully I'll TRY not to screw things up. I just knew someone would say something about that. Whatever.