I have noticed that a large number of people on this site (unsurprisingly, since it seems to run rampant among the creative) are either anxious, depressed, ocd, hypersensitive, or suffering some other form of mental illness or personality disorder. No shame. I have several of these.

Anyway. I have been having a hard time with dissociating lately. My writing has suffered because of it, and being as that is usually my outlet for my emotional instability it makes me dissociate more. A catch 22 cycle.

I just wanted to offer up a suggestion to everyone to something that has helped me stabilize in times like this. I rarely suggest books to people, but I have many times just mentally or physically referred to “first, we make the beast beautiful” by Sarah Wilson. It is great for not only reminding yourself that you’re not alone, but all of the great things that come from whatever diagnosis has been plaguing you. Because if I’m being honest, sometimes my emotional issues make me feel ill equipped for life (which can make life hopeless) until I look outward at the pros that come from it that emotionally “normal” people do not seem to have or experience. It’s also filled with many different coping methods, some focusing from the inside out and others from the outside in so that I can apply them situationally based. Anyway. If you haven’t read it, this is the one book I would recommend to every person. It’s great at helping you accept yourself and work on yourself in a healthy way, but it is also great for people who do not have these issues and may need some help understanding their partners or friends. Even if you feel like you’ve accepted yourself it can give you the words you may need to explain to the people around you why/how they can better accept you.

P.S. currently rereading this book myself and feeling all emotionally helpful. If anyone wants to talk, I’m always here for you.

The light from a tear slowly rolling down her right cheek refracted through her almost empty wine glass, catching my eye from two tables over.  Sitting across from this perfect, natural blonde with her form-fitting little black dress was her strikingly handsome boyfriend?  Husband? I couldn't catch a glimpse of her left hand, but it didn't matter.  

He leaned in and spoke in a whisper through perfectly aligned, white gritted teeth. I wish I could hear what this guy had to say.  Then again, the discomfort she was feeling was evident and I instantly felt selfish relief that I couldn't.  She sat frozen, as if trying to scream and run, but caught in a nightmare in which she could only stare into the face of her abuser and take yet another tongue lashing while trying to numb the pain with fermented grapes.  

I continued to ignore my co-workers and their stories about the day's successes.  I didn't care right now how much their clients made, and in turn how much they profited on commissions.  Instead, I took my business card out and stood up.

I excused myself from the table while slowly gathering the courage to do what I knew I had to.  Slowly, I walked over to her table and hovered above the centerpiece as both of them hardly noticed my arrival.  

"Excuse me, sir?" I said, hoping my interruption would come at just the right time. "Sorry to bother you during dinner, but I always live by this silly rule of mine when I'm on a business trip.  You happen to be wearing the suit that most of my clients choose to have in their wardrobe.  When I see it on a stranger, I know they must have good taste; and thus, know they need to be with me."  

The muscular, mid-thirties male species who I decided must have been a model stood up and wrinkled his brow.  "What the fuck did you say?"  

I maintained my confident demeanor and reiterated, "I said that you need to call me, you just didn't know it. See, I work with multi-million dollar clients, which I just assume you are.  The reason I make my clients money in the market is that I know a good thing when I see it." I said the last part carefully, glimpsing to my left, catching the eye of the most beautiful face I've ever laid eyes on. 

He looked at my business card.  Robert F. Wellingston, Certified Financial Planner.  With his attention now on the small advertisement, my eyes remained locked with the angel across the table and said the next words to her, albeit with her companion thinking they were for him.  "See, you deserve better."  I nodded slightly.  

Holding her wine glass in a way she thought would shield her smile, she nodded back and another tear rolled down her left cheek.  I turned back to the man holding my card. "Again, sorry to bother you, but I couldn't leave here tonight without coming over."

I returned to my table, knowing I did all I could for the night.  As I sat down, I saw the two of them stand up, him quickly followed by her, hesitantly.  I read his lips, "I'm gettin' the car, meet me outside."  He left my card, as anticipated.  Her eyes followed him away from the table, out the door.  Once he was out of sight, she snatched my card off the table and held it like a drowning swimmer holding a life ring. She looked over her shoulder, slightly back to the right.  "Thank you," she mouthed, as the remaining moisture left her eyes and she hurried towards the door. 

I feel the need to abbreviate My Life (ML) as it seems as if it's made up of too many acronyms already.

ML consists of working for the DSS, a bureau within the DOS, where I write ROIs, MOIs and frequently view BOLOs published by the FBI, DEA, and other agencies and PDs.  I work my PF or VF cases with the AUSA.  I cover the EDMO, WDMO, DKS, and SIL. After an arrest, I bring the SUBJ to the USMS office. Sometimes I get assigned to PRS where I have to put on all of my SPE and act as either the AIC, SHFL, LD, RR, LR, or L/ADV.  Afterwards I have to write reports in IMS after searching LEXNEX for my UNSUB.  Trips with SD are the best to KL or AUS.  AFG, not so much. 

What's your 20?  ETA? 10-4. Get here ASAP.  After all, I'm the lead SA for this detail, according to my SUP, the SSA in the office.  Sorry, I can't make it in today.  I'm taking AL for a few days.  Not feeling good?  Take some SL.  Or maybe it's time to drill with my reserve unit in the USNR.  I'm a LCDR.  So, I need to take MIL/L for two weeks.  

Shifting gears, I need to report to the CO, who defers to the XO.  Get with LOGS and see if he needs any help.  ROG that, sir. Two weeks, done.  Back to STL. 

September rolls around and it's time for the UNGA in NYC.  Good times.  Fancy RON for a week. At least I am on per diem.  

If you didn't get all of that, it's OK. :)

Chapter 1

The Drop

It was beyond cold.

“This can’t be good for me,” Jon thought, as the 737-700 started its descent into Long Island’s MacArthur airport. That thought was immediately followed by an “I got this,” albeit to himself. No one else would be crazy enough to go along with this idea, even if he had proposed it to his small circle of friends, which he wouldn’t since he only worked with one other person.

He had heard of people stowing away in wheel wells of jets before and, although he knew the dangers involved – hypothermia, asphyxia, et cetera, he was certain he would survive the trip. He wasn’t quite sure how he knew; after all, he wasn’t super-human. But he was prepared, at least in his mind. Jon had weighed the pros and cons of this method of transportation and made a quick determination that the good outweighed the bad. Good: get to Long Island from St. Louis in about two hours. Bad: get caught, get arrested, die; or worse, let word get back to his father, mother, and step-mother. Can someone say grounded? Not to mention the pointing and laughing he would inevitably get from his sister when she found out that her big brother was restricted to his room. So, yes, of course shorter transit time over hitch-hiking was way more beneficial than the downside of death. But the thought of being in trouble at home, ugh.

The roar of the next-generation CFM56-7 turbofan engines was deafening, even while the wheels were up. He had a pair of earplugs in, but they were barely doing their job. Even the custom form-fit foam noise reduction earplugs he had opted for had only been slightly more beneficial than the ones they give out to everyone inside the cabin, he guessed. The noise was getting more tolerable as the pilot pulled back on the throttle to initiate their decrease in altitude. It was getting warmer too, even though warmer was a relative term. Going from below freezing to the temperature of a thawed out chicken breast was of little comfort. By curling up in the fetal position within the one square foot area into which he had contorted his body, along with the insulation blanket he brought along from his father’s first-aid kit, allowed Jon to maintain just enough body heat to survive. That, along with his self-taught meditation process, of course.

The landing gear rotated out of the wells in the aircraft’s belly and in an instant Jon was looking down at the terra below. He managed to brace himself between the hydraulics and the bulkhead for the remainder of the drop. Matchbox sized cars started growing exponentially and before he knew it, a loud screech of rubber on concrete accompanied a much more tolerable air temperature. He could breathe much easier than he did above 10,000 feet too. Luckily his oxygen system worked during the harrowing flight. He had utilized his invention once before while evading rent-a-cops back in Missouri while hiding in a retention pond. It worked so well they had no idea they were looking right down at him. He figured his rebreathing system led them to believe that lack of bubbles meant he was either not there or dead. But for $7.50 per hour, they didn’t really care.

Before the free ride came to a stop, Jon ensured he had his running shoes laced up and his motorcycle apparel covering all of the places on his body that he didn’t want grated like cheese. 

Most twelve-year-olds didn’t have a set of riding leathers, but Jonathan David Thorper wasn’t like most kids his age. He loved to ride on the back of his Dad’s 2015 Harley-Davidson Street Glide, along with other adrenaline-inducing activities. The open road, the rushing air, and the Mountain Dews at the biker bars were part of what gave his body a super-charge. He couldn’t wait until he could get one of his own and ride next to his old man. But for now he’d have to settle for stowing away on a one-way Southwest red and blue painted 737. The Wright brothers were smiling down on him, no doubt.

After the initial jolt of the jetliner hitting the runway, Jon waited until just after the cloud of rubber-burnt smoke cleared and the crew started to deviate from their heading onto the taxiway. Then he made his move. In one perfectly choreographed push off of the landing gear’s shaft, Jon flipped his torso 180 degrees to position the back panel of his armored jacket flush to the hard surface below. Like a turtle sliding and spinning down the highway whirled from an SUV flying by while trying to cross the road, Jon rode out the rest of his own landing. Before coming completely to rest, he managed to get one of his legs into the same position he took to slide into second base. Using his knee like a pole vaulter would stick their pole into the planting box, he maintained enough momentum to seamlessly get to his feet and start a dead sprint towards the barbed wire.

He encountered the six-foot chain link and sprang over it like a gold-medal gymnast, although he had never even taken an introductory class at his local gym. Once he was safely over the perimeter’s security fence, Jon found a cluster of bushes in which to hide, making sure no big vehicles labeled “Homeland Security” or “Airport Police” were speeding his way. Then he took inventory: head, check. Arms, check. Legs, check. So far, so good. There were some other things he needed to make sure he didn’t drop, break or forget. His Samsung Galaxy S3 was securely in his jacket pocket.

He extracted the device, opened up the back panel, and inserted the battery. To his delight, it fired up immediately. He was mad at himself when it played the nice little Samsung tone letting him know it was operational, but since no one was within earshot, he forgave himself for that oversight. While he didn’t think his radio signal would cause interference with any of the cockpit’s instruments before takeoff and landing, he knew that anyone looking to track him could only do so with the battery inserted. Despite his self-written encryption program that was installed on his old device, he took no chances. The ability to remove the battery on the old model was part of the reason he didn’t upgrade to an S7 – or heck –an S4, 5, or 6, for that matter. But he knew that his phone, with all of the things he did to it, was a better piece of hardware than anything his peers were having their parents get them from Best Buy. Next he felt down his leg for the cargo pocket in which he kept some handcuffs and an expanding baton. The ASP could be a rather lethal weapon if he ever had to defend himself to the extreme of deadly force; although, he hoped it never came to that. He didn’t keep a key for the ’cuffs since most of the people onto whom he applied them had to wait for the locals to find them. By that time, they earned a free ride to the clink and an extra set of ankle bracelets.

Jon dialed the 636 area code that was pre-programmed in his S3.

“Yo,” greeted Jon with the excitement of paint drying. 

“Casey? It’s me. I’m here. I’m alive.”

“Duh.”

“Shut up, Casey,” Jon shot back.

“Bro, did you really think I saw your number and thought, ‘oh damn, maybe he’s dead and this is a baggage handler calling to tell me’?”

“Whatever. Listen, get online, fire up the crypto and call me back.”

Casey took a dramatic pause, waiting for his best friend to panic just a tad. “Already done, brother.”

“Do you have the new keys loaded onto the KG?”

“Yup. Uploaded them today. But dude, we gotta talk. It’s getting harder to get into the NSA’s database every day. It’s like they’re starting to hire people who actually know what they’re doing.”

“Fine, we’ll talk about that later. For now, make sure the encryption codes you borrowed from them aren’t being traced back to us.”

“Jonny, dude, I know you’re the ‘brains’ of this operation and I’m just your super-awesome, not to mention good with the ladies sidekick, but I swear if you don’t stop questioning my abilities…”

“Ok, I get it. My bad. You da’ man. Better?”

“Yup," Casey smirked to himself.

“Alright. So, like I was saying… since you are ‘da’ man,’ and since we’re good to go, go ahead and send those NGA images of the place.”

“Cool.”

“See ya," Jon said, not fazed in the least, as he was used to his buddy's shenanigans.

“K-C, Out.”

The National Geo-spacial Agency, otherwise known as the NGA, was the only reliable source of the most up-to-date imagery with which Jon would work. Yeah, Google was pretty good, and they were getting better every day. But Jon knew nothing beat an NGA satellite image when he needed to get into and around a place. Heck, sometimes he would get lucky and depending on the time the birds shot their photos, he could get a good idea of assets on the ground and adjust his plan of attack.

In this case, the target, Real Gaming Technologies (RGT), was the biggest place he’d ever encountered. He knew with the popularity of the biggest video game creator it wouldn’t be an easy task getting in. Finding the schmuck who was responsible for the leak would be even harder.  But Jon was up for the task.  He was the best, and his clients paid well for his bite-sized services, making his six-figure fee a drop in usually a multi-billion dollar bucket.

Power

Play

Commercial

Switch channel

Or stay

Remote dismay

Let me hold

The remote undisturbed

I just wanted to call you and say "hi"

But every time I hear your voice, all

I can think about is your smile

I'm laying here in bed, thinking about 

the last time we were together and

I have so much more on my mind than "hi"

Like I want to run my hands all over 

you again, feel the curve of your body

and taste the sweetness of your skin

Lift your breasts to my mouth and 

bring your nipples to my lips

I want to work my way to your navel 

and tickle it with my sweet nothings

I want to feel you breath heavier when 

my cheeks slide between your thighs

and you feel my tongue and breath 

on your lips, parting them, tasting 

your sex as your hands reach for my head

guiding me, urging me on, till you cum

I want flip you over and let my 

fingers work down your back as my

cock rests between your ass cheeks

and you feel me throbbing against you

as I reach around your stomach and lift you up 

and take you from behind

All of these things I think about, just from 

picking up the phone but I can't

stop myself from thinking about you

I can't stop touching myself when I hear

your voice and looking at your picture

So much for the late night call...