Friday, 4 April 2014

Fade To Black - 04 April 2014

Are you enjoying the story so far? It's time to delve into the second part of Act Three.  Beware of Queen's Court!  I won't say more!





Fade to Black

© 2008 CL Seamus


     With that little episode of domestic tranquility behind them, it was time for the ├╝ber-couple to get back to work. Rather than fuss, they tended to the Detective shoot while a moving crew transferred their lives to the brownstone. When they left home for the last time, they just pretended they’d be coming back later. At the end of the day they drove to the brownstone instead and tried to forget the house.

     Court had become a much more unified group over the years - not like in the old days when quieter people kept above while the animals took to ground. Those not into the spirit of the thing simply stopped coming. Those who did maintain a presence - a clutch of about twenty hardcores - tested to its limits the capacity of the brownstone to contain their gatherings without rankling the neighbours only metres away outside the front door. Unable to soundproof the entire house, Allan designated the basement the official home of the proceedings and padded it soundly. Outside, the street crowded with vehicles, but since no noise filtered out, it was simply assumed by the curtain-peekers that the new couple was having a housewarming.

     Meanwhile, in the basement, Allan perched in an armchair - he wore a thong and fishnet stockings, high-heeled stilettos, and a silk camisole. In his hand, a rubber dildo sceptre; in his lips, a smouldering hash pipe. Before him on bended knee - dog collar around his neck - waited Tim Wallace, naked as the day he was born.

     As guests watched, Allan tapped the dildo to his teeth. “Your task is to bring yourself to orgasm through masturbation. You have to come between three and five minutes of starting and must repeatedly recite, ‘I am an anal virgin’ to the crowd.”

     The guests applauded politely. Wallace’s face pained. He was awfully inebriated and not likely to be able to make it happen at all. He just looked down at his extremely uninterested dick. When Stuart pulled on his collar, he resisted. “Your Majesty, I fear I’m not up to the task.”

     From her vantage point on the sidelines, India laughed, but still worried her name would next be picked from the hat. She’d been designated a subject with four other people. Tim was the second name picked, so it was only a matter of time. Sometimes the game fizzled before they went through all five candidates, but it would be just her luck to be picked before that happened.

     She hated Queen’s Choice. They played this game many times in the bedroom and Allan was always so bloody deviant in his task assignments.

     “A man of excuses gets the sceptre,” scowled the queen as he waved the rubber device in Tim’s face. “A man who makes effort may earn reprieve in his failure.”

     Stuart tugged on the collar. “What position shall he assume, Your Highness?”

     Allan sucked the pipe and exhaled a curl of smoke. “An about-to-take-a-shit squat will do.”

     The crowd clapped as Tim assumed the pose and began. Everybody laughed when he shouted, “I am an anal virgin!”

     India leaned in for a better view. She looked at Allan, who winked and waggled an eyebrow. When Allan was stoned, Queen’s Choice could be nasty. The guy before Wallace had been Dave Rabelle, magazine columnist and Rennie’s new squeeze. Dave had been required to drink toilet water. Fortunately, he was too drunk to care. The look on Allan’s face said that if India was picked he’d have something very special in store.

     The queen patted his lips in a yawn. Stuart read his watch. “One minute,” he announced. The group laughed. Tim didn’t even have an erection yet. A wave of encouragement began to build. “Wall-ass! Wall-ass! Wall-ASS!”

     Allan scanned the room. “If anyone has an erection, he may show it to Mr. Wallace for motivation. You have two minutes until your sting-window, Mr. Wallace.”

     The guys murmured amongst themselves. Nobody stepped up.

     India moved closer to Allan as the second minute passed. She leaned close. “If you get my name, pretend it’s someone else. If I have to do anything, I will freak out, Allan.”

     He held the pipe to her lips. “Am I to be bribed then?”

     She dragged smoke. “What’ll it cost me?” Whatever he whispered in her ear made her back away in startled objection. “Forget it.”

     “Those are my conditions,” he shrugged. Then a thought. “If your name is picked, that will be your task anyway, except that it will have to be done in public.” He turned attention back to Tim. “You are now in your window, Mr. Wallace. I notice nobody came forward to assist you. Not only can you not achieve an erection, but apparently you motivate no one else to sexual excitation either. This does not surprise me, you useless old vampire.”

     “I’m drunk, Your Majesty,” Wallace grunted, his hand moving rapidly to try for a hardon.

     The queen eyed India, who watched Rennie across the room. This was so scary and she was so stoned. It wasn’t fair to make her choose when she was stoned. In her hazy logic, she saw she had only two choices: private or public. The word neither doesn't enter the mind of the wasted.

     Stuart spoke loudly. “Sixty seconds to go, Mr. Wallace. Why have you stopped reciting your mantra?”

     Tim grunted, “I am an anal virgin!” He finally dropped to his ass, unable to meet the demands. The crowd booed, threw beer cups, and dumped food on him.

     Allan motioned to Stuart. “Punishment shall be two minutes under an icy shower. Take him from my sight.”

     Tim complained. “I thought I got a reprieve if I tried!”

     Allan barked back, “That is your reprieve, Mr. Wallace. Be thankful you don’t get the sceptre!”

     As Stuart and two other men led the naked, sweating Wallace from the room, the crowd applauded and turned to watch as the hat of names was lifted for consideration. Allan looked at India one more time.

     If someone was to place odds on whether such a thing would ever happen, it’d be numbers on which few would lay good money. But it happened, and India blamed drugs. She chose private. In one of the small guest bedrooms on the second floor, Allan, Rennie, and India disappeared for an hour, where they indulged themselves with a steamy, full-out three-way encounter. Since neither Rennie nor India had much attraction for each other, Allan wound up getting the best of it. Perfectly all right by him. 

     India’s name never got called in the game of Queen’s Choice, and she traded for that security of her own free will. If she never spoke of it again it would be too soon. The last thing she would ever do is admit she had a good time. But she did. She and the boys were naked, sweating, and uninhibited. Rennie was strong and aggressive, and oddly enough, seemed to know a lot about what to do with a girl. India felt the sting like she hadn't in a long time. She let go - really let go.

     When it was done, the guys went back to the party with big unbreakable smiles on their faces, while India got shitface drunk and passed out on one of the basement couches. It kept her from remembering the rest of the night, which took a dangerous turn when Brian Holden showed up.

     As rumoured, Brian had been taking steroids and had an aggression level up to full bore. Already an enormous body-builder, he was even more pumped and ripped when he got out of his car to check the address of the brownstone against the scrap of paper in his hand. He’d originally gone to the old house, only to find it closed down, so had stopped by the studio sometime after supper. There he’d met Ted, whose remembrance of him from previous parties meant there were no concerns about giving the new address. 

     The twin black Jags in the drive told Brian he’d found the place so he went in without knocking. When he got downstairs, people waved and greeted him normally. No reason to think he wasn’t welcome. But truth be told, Allan had dropped him completely a long time ago. It wasn’t like Rennie, for whom he had feelings. Allan had merely been Brian’s boy-toy, and nothing more. The man was too often violent and aggressive, and on occasion had hit Allan to the point of leaving bruises.

     Queen’s Choice had long since broken up and the party slowed to dancing and drug-fed conversation. It was after two a.m. and the crowd had dwindled down to about ten people. Rennie was sitting cross-legged on the floor, talking with Stuart and his new girlfriend - a giggly blonde with over-packed breast implants and collagen-injected lips.

     Rennie stood to greet the agitated Brian. “Hey,” he offered. “You missed it. Things are just winding down.”

     “I missed it? I wasn’t invited.”

     Rennie faked. “Sure you were. Everybody was invited.”

     “I wasn’t. Where’s Allan?”

     “I think he’s gone for a shower. You want the tour?”

     “I want to talk to him.”

     “Let him finish his shower. Relax. Have a drink.”

     “He gets back from holidays and doesn't call? He moves to a new house and doesn't call? Some friend.”

     “He meant to call, baby. I gave him the message that you could use some work. They just moved in last week. It’s been very busy. Plus we got a film going.” He poured him a drink. “Here. Have this. You’ll feel better.”

     Brian gulped it. “I have no money. They’re throwing me out of my apartment and you don’t even bother to invite me to a party.”

     “I told you. I thought he invited you. I’m sure it’s just an oversight.” He led him to sit, then snuggled beside him. “That Bingham’s a prick, eh? Reneging on the deal?”

     Brian fumed but let the alcohol do its job. “He was supposed to let me do two more films. Did you ask Allan about getting me a part in a picture?”

     “Yes, but we've barely had a chance to talk. If you come by Monday, we can discuss it. Did I mention that after this film we’re gonna take a break and do a couple of Goth pieces he wrote some years ago? There’s room for you, I’m sure. But you gotta be cool, honey.”

     Allan came downstairs. He’d showered and changed from his Queenwear to something more casual. He saw India face down on the couch, snoring like a hobo. That made him smile. When he saw Rennie desperately trying to calm down a big scary Brian Holden, the smile disappeared.

     Holden stood. “What the fuck, Allan? You move and don’t tell me?” He smashed his glass to the wall.

     Allan stopped dead in his tracks. “I meant to call you. We just moved in and things--”

     “Yeah, I know. Busy. I’ve been calling for weeks.”

     Allan folded his arms. “Believe me, this is the first quiet moment I’ve had since getting back.”

     “You don’t even invite me to these things anymore?”

     “Okay, look. I’m not going to fight with you. The evening’s winding down and I think you should go. If you want to talk about a job, come by Monday to the Box and we’ll have a conversation when you’re not so fired up angry.”

     Rennie put his hands to Brian’s massive chest. “Come on, big boy. Let’s not do anything we’ll regret.”

     “What’s that supposed to mean?” He pushed Rennie aside. “Allan? You won’t even talk to me anymore?”

     The small man backed away. “I want you to leave.”

     Stuart and Tim stood. “Brian,” Tim warned. “Go, okay?”

     Brian made a violent grab for Allan’s arm and yanked him off his feet. As he twisted, Allan yelped at the snap of pain that shot up his forearm. Brian got in several hard blows to his face before the others pulled him to safety.

     Tim held Allan with protective arms. “Jesus! You broke his arm! I could hear it from here!”

     Stuart grabbed the phone. “You want me to call the cops? With all this dope here? We’ll all go to jail! Holden, you asshole!”

    Rennie held up a metal bookend. “Get out now, or I’ll crack your fucking head open!”

     Brian kicked over the coffee table, punched two holes in the wall, and stormed from the basement. Outside, he roared off with enough squalling tire noise to light bedroom windows in the neighbouring homes.

     Downstairs, Rennie tended to Allan’s face with wet cloths. “Dope or no dope, I want that idiot arrested. Stuart, you guys start cleaning up first. Party’s over, ladies.”

     Allan babied his arm in a hug as the others helped him up the stairs. “Indie?” he mumbled through swollen mouth.

     Rennie supported him. “She’s out. Didn't even wake up. She’ll be fine.” He looked back at Tim. “Go outside and make sure that maniac’s not waiting.”


     Two things came as a result of the basement Court fiasco. One was that India stopped hating Rennie. It was the first time she’d seen the guys being sexual with each other, and it had killed a lot of the mystique. They were just friends who got each other off once in a while. What they do is not like boy-girl sex. And anyway, if I wanted to, I could have them both again in an instant. She worked it out in a way she could handle. It made her feel worldly, more grown up. More a part of the circle instead of always on the periphery. They all banged and fucked and sucked with each other anyway, and up until that night, she’d always been an outsider. Was this what it meant to be in?

     The second thing was that Brian Holden was convicted of assault. He got slapped with jail and a restraining order.

     Sometime after Detective was into editing, Allan confessed he’d planned the Rennie-threesome as motivation to give India’s eyes some extra maturity. The film’s romantic scenes had to depict a woman who’d made love with more than just one man. And it needed to be a man of more masculine tendencies. Rennie fit the bill and was close to her world. It would be something done with affection. And he himself would be right there with her so she wouldn’t have to face it alone. Despite its outwardly kinky overtones, it had a very subtle purpose.

Think of it as practice

     In all ways, Allan was a man of manipulation. He did it in his personal relationships, when he wrote, and was now learning to do it as director. He didn’t just tell stories - he made his audience take the trip with him. And India Bowman was the tool by which he accomplished his goal. She’d once referred to herself as the sacrifice, once said she was willing to sell herself. It seemed she was hip deep in both. As a child, her innocence had been sacrificed to her father’s perversions. In adulthood, she repeatedly sold herself to Allan’s version of redemption. Inside festered unshakable guilt about the abortion. The sacrifice she’d made the baby pay. How could I ever raise a child? How could I ever protect another person from the monsters in this world? I’m just a dirty little shit who gets thrown down and fucked in the ass. I’m nobody’s protector. Nobody’s mother. For a choice made in panic, she would spend the rest of her days punishing herself. And Allan Baird was the tool by which she accomplished her goal.

     Allan’s physician was long-time family friend, Lee Bartone. As a teen, Master Baird had a terrible crush on the man. When he’d pen short stories, many a heroic machismo would be named Dirk Bartone or Trent Bartone. Lee always kept a polite and professional distance. He loved the kid since childhood, but the infatuation he saw in Allan’s eyes made it all the more important to discourage him. Or at least do nothing to encourage him. In later years the crush, of course, faded away. To a thirteen-year-old, a thirty-five-year-old is dreamy and studly and suave. When you’re in your thirties, you can probably do better than a fifty-something grandfather. They did, however, remain friends.

     Allan sat in a chair by the paper-covered table, his arm extended for the nurse who clipped and cut away his Holden-induced arm cast. He watched her distractedly as he yapped on the desk phone with Rennie about the day’s schedule. As the cast came apart, the first thing he noticed was that his normally smooth skin was layered over with dark hair. “You should see my arm,” he snickered down the phone. “If I was to jerk off right now, it would seem like someone else.”

     The nurse frowned and tried not to listen. Allan continued. “Maybe I’ll leave one arm hairy for those special nights when I can’t find a friend.” He checked the nurse for reaction. “This could be a whole new trend for me. One side smooth and clean, the other all furry and ape-like. Sort of a Victor-Victoria thing, to the Nth degree. I could have one ball cut out, one breast implanted. On alternating sides of course - for balance - so I don’t... fall over or something.”

     The nurse hurried to complete her task. “Dr. Bartone will be right in to talk to you,” she nodded on her way out.

     “That the nurse?” Rennie chuckled.

     “Someone didn’t get any cream filling in her Twinkie this morning.” He examined his chalky arm with its dark hair.

     Rennie laughed. “I’d better get moving, Mary. Work.”

     “Does Syd have the Arri 35, or you don’t know... ?”

     “His secretary said he has it. Said she saw it in his storage. I’m going to call, then Gail and I are going. If Syd can’t come, we’ll rummage around.”

     “Call me if you find this thing.”

     Lee Bartone stood six feet even. Olive skin and wavy, grey locks. His hooked nose, so distinctive in younger days, seemed more bulbous with each passing year. Once chiseled features had settled into creases and jowls. Though distinguished and elegant, he wasn’t the fine physical specimen who’d intrigued Allan’s passions in youth. Now he was simply Dr. Bartone.

     When he collected Allan’s file and went into the exam room, he found the patient lying naked on the exam table. “Rats,” Allan sniffed. “I was hoping it would be the nurse.”

     Dr. Bartone laughed. “Get dressed, Allan. Come sit here and we’ll look at your arm. How are you feeling? Your face looks a lot better. It says here you took the stitches out yourself.”

     “My friend Tim did, actually. I was supposed to come for a follow-up--”

     “I know. You cancelled.”

     “I had to. I’m in the middle of a picture.” He pulled on his undies and trousers, but left off the shirt as he resumed his seat at the examination table. “Look at my hairiness.”

     Bartone slid on his glasses. “It’s a whole new look for you.”

     “That’s what I was saying to your nurse. Kind of a half-and-half thing. She didn’t seem to appreciate the angle.”

     “You’re a bully, Allan. You deliberately get all offensive just to watch people get upset.”

     “Break my heart.”

     “Am I wrong?”

     Allan leaned his chin in his hand and watched Bartone feel and poke about on his arm. “People need to be shaken up once in a while.”

     “What shakes you up?”

     A sly grin. “You do.”

     Bartone tried to keep from smiling. “Before you go, I want to grab some x-rays of the arm.”


     “And talk about your test results.”


     “I want you to stop snorting coke. Right now.”


     “And I want you to come in for some more tests. The pains are getting worse, aren't they?”

     “Not worse. Just... more frequent.”

     “Well, coke is eventually going to make it worse. You amp yourself up, then bring yourself down with sedatives. You can’t do that, Allan.”

      “I can do anything I want.”

     “And you’ll be dead in five years. Maybe less.”

     “Then I’d better get back to work. I have films to make. Did I mention I’m thinking of changing one of the character’s names in ‘Night’s Lesson’ to ‘Bartone’?”

     “Are you trying to commit suicide?”

     He took a measured pause. “When I first met Indie, she never used to talk to me. I talked all the time. Told her everything there was to know about me. Thought it would bring her out of her shell. She didn’t want to come out. It was quiet and safe, and everything was neatly held together with barbed wire. Basically, I forced her into it. I appealed to her youth. Her trust. I made myself available and safe. So I learned a lot about her past. Stuff you couldn’t imagine.
     "You know, Mondo and Lisa are good people. They love me and have always protected me. I’d come home from school and cry because I got called a fag for doing something... girly. Home was a refuge from the bullies. Mondo and Lisa made sure home was a safe place, where cruelty could be pushed aside.
     "India would get teased - she was a bit of a tomboy. But when she got home, she’d get the shit kicked out of her. Then she’d get you-know-what in the ass. Or in the face. She was ten years old, Lee. Who would put their dick in the mouth of a ten-year-old girl? She had no sanctuary. I became one, but it was a terrible thing I unleashed, because--” He stopped and wiped his teary eyes. “I can’t fix it. We can talk, and I can hold her and tell her it’ll be okay, but that’s all. Not enough, not by a long shot. So... maybe I did the wrong thing by making her give me her past.”

     “Are you saying you take drugs to numb yourself from the feelings of guilt?”

     “You said I’d be dead in five years if I didn’t stop. If I am dead, maybe it’s a kind of... justice.” 

     “You don’t have to be dead at all. Not if we get you proper treatment. And anyway, even if you were dead in five years, let it be from something other than self-inflicted punishment. There’s a difference between a man who dies from heart disease as a result of physiology, and one who dies as a result of drug use. That’s not justice. It’s suicide.”

     Allan scratched his unshaven arm. “Dead is dead. As long as the job is done.”

22 MARCH 2003

MH: Allan, you made films in college.

AB: I mostly wrote, but we did some
    low-grade student films, too.
    Somewhere in the world are the prints
    of some pretty strange work. It’s
    part and parcel of my Goth following.
    Some of them aren't too keen on the
    new work - they’re fans from back in the
    old days. I have some deep underground
    stuff from college. They used to show
    my films in the theatre Friday nights.
    It was always packed. I did a total of
    four. “Bury Me,” “Price of Souls,”
    “Hammer,” and “Wretched.”

MH: Nice titles.

IB: Those were his bedtime stories
    as a boy.

MH: No doubt. Have you seen them?

IB: I’ve seen “Price of Souls” and
    “Hammer.” He’s still trying to get
    hold of the other two. He never kept
    them. He’s been trying to get in
    touch with some of his old friends.
    See if anybody has them.

AB: Any of you see this, I want my films.
    I’ll pay.

MH: What did you think of them?

IB: Very terrifying.

MH: Did you want to be a writer or a

AB: A writer. Films came later as an
    interest to me.

MH: How old are you?

AB: Almost thirty-four. I started
    writing in earnest when I was about
    sixteen. I did a lot of stuff before
    then, but it’s when I first started
    making submissions.

MH: India? Didn't you come out of the

IB: The Avalon.

MH: Did you always want to be an actress?

IB: Nope. I wanted to be a painter. I had
    art classes, and if I hadn't been
    sidetracked by acting, I’d have tried
    to get into college.

MH: How old are you?

IB: Twenty-two.

MH: Twenty-two? You can still go to college,
    sweetheart. You’re absolutely adorable.
    We don’t read much in your Vampire Life
    interviews about your family.

IB: This is my family. This guy here.
    That’s enough.

MH: No Mum and Dad?

IB: My parents are dead. I adopted Allan’s

MH: Oh. Allan, is she the daughter they
    never had?

AB: Truly.

MH: Do either of you have any brothers
    or sisters?

AB: I’m an only child. India lost her
    brother in a car accident. That
    was a long time ago. Not really
    a place she likes to revisit.

MH: I understand. I lost a sister when I was
    twelve. It can be so hard on you when
    you’re young. Are there any plans for
    some little Bairds?

AB: I’d like kids. That seems odd
    considering I’m a child myself,
    but I’d love to have a little one.
    A daughter. I got to baby-sit the
    kids of my film’s producer. He has
    a daughter. That was pretty nice.

MH: India? Going to start knitting

IB: What? I don’t know.

MH: That’s it?

IB: I’m not really... um, like Allan
    says, it’s hard to imagine being
    a parent when you’re a child yourself.

MH: Where do you come up with the
    ideas for your movies?

AB: Dreams. That and I’m a big
    “what if” person.

MH: I first met you back in 1997, I
    think. You were with that vampire
    crowd. Are you a vampire yourself?

AB: Not me. I just have some friends
    who are vampires.

MH: Are they real vampires? Or is
    it just--

AB: They have their own definition
    of “vampire”. It’s not Dracula.
    Vampires are creatures of time.
    They feed off society. Not like
    those you kill with stakes through
    the heart. Vampires are just those
    who suck energy from others.

MH: So compared to your friends,
    you’re the tame one.

IB: Him? Tame? I don’t think so.

MH: So give us the dirt. How weird is
    he? There’s a lot of chatter
    that he’s a freak in bed.

IB: Where did you hear that?

MH: A girl hears things.

IB: Well it would have to be very
    old news. From the old days
    or something.

MH: You’re a good boy, Allan?

AB: I’m still waiting to hear who
    you've been talking to.

MH: Instead of that, just tell me.
    India? Is he?

IB: Define freak.

MH: Well, you know. Whips, chains.
    Handcuffs and leather.

IB: Wow. Then half the people in this
    country are freaks.

MH: Are you ready for Madge Hart’s
    Ten Important Questions?

AB: Fire away.

MH: You must answer. You know that.

IB: He agreed. Not me. If I don’t
    like it, you’ll have to have his
    answer only. I didn’t agree to
    answer everything. I always keep
    the exit door open.

MH: Fair enough. Here we go. Ten
    important questions. Number one:
    If you were stranded on a desert
    island, who’s the one person you’d
    pick to be with? Other than
    each other.

AB: Ingrid Bergman.

IB: I can’t--

AB: I’ll answer for her. Someone
    named Perry. A dear friend in

MH: India?

IB: ...yeah.

MH: Okay, question number two: How old
    were you when you lost your virginity?

AB: I’ll answer for both. Me, I was
    probably fourteen. With Indie, she
    was seventeen and it was with me.

MH: Three: Tell us something nobody
    knows about the other.

IB: I can answer that. He pees
    sitting down.

MH: That’s wonderful. The world needs
    to know that. Allan?

AB: She farts in her sleep. And she

IB: Hey! That’s two things. He farts
    in his sleep, too, by the way.
    And here’s something else. He plays
    with toys in the bathtub.

MH: Aren't you two just the prettiest
    picture of domestic bliss?
    Do you live together?

IB: Yes. We bought a new house.

MH: Question four: What makes you cry?

AB: Cry out of sadness or happiness?

MH: You decide.

AB: Out of sadness, I cry over, um,

IB: He cries during arguments.
    He hates fighting. If tempers
    get high, he cries.

MH: What about you?

IB: I cry over movies. Any striking
    visual picture.

MH: Allan? When do you happy-cry?

AB: Hmm. Uh, sometimes I cry during

MH: Oh, my.

AB: It’s more like watering eyes.
    And it’s not always.

MH: Just when it’s a real zinger?

AB: Absolutely.

MH: Keeping on the sexual theme.
    Question five: How often do you
    do the horizontal mambo?

AB: Horizontal? How positively

MH: The vertical va-voom? The

AB: Now you’re talking.

MH: Just looking at you, I’d wager
    five times a day.

IB: Ha ha! Wait. Does it have to
    be intercourse?

MH: Whoa! Sounds like she’s the
    kinky one.

AB: We’re sexual with each other
    all the time. We've known each
    other about five years. Sex
    between us isn't defined through
    penetration. It’s a vibe.

MH: That’s so touching I could cry.
    How about a straight answer?
    How often do you hit the sheets?

AB: A few times a week. I’m old,
    dammit. Besides, it’s never as
    often during a film.

MH: Question number six: Favourite

IB: Pizza.

AB: Chinese.

MH: Simple enough. Seven: Do you believe
    in God?

AB: Yes.

IB: No. Okay, maybe. I’m not

MH: Do you follow any particular

AB: Not me. The universe belongs
    to God. It’s not up to me to make
    judgements. I just go about my
    business and assume it’s part of
    some plan or I wouldn’t be
    who I am.

IB: I don’t follow a religion either.
    I guess I believe what he does.

MH: Eight: What happens when you die?

IB: Reincarnation.

AB: Yes.

MH: As a human or as a different
    life form?

AB: Anything at all. Anything that’s
    part of living energy.

MH: Number nine: Favourite topic
    for pillow talk?

AB: Um... Indie first.

IB: Um, Feelings. Dreams. Ambitions.
    Fears. We talk about everything.
    He’s absolutely the best communicator
    in the world. He talks about everything.
    He has to unload his mind at the end
    of every day. And he got me into it,
    too. I never used to be that way.
    And believe me, I still don’t feel
    right talking with just anybody. But
    with him, it’s part of my routine now.

AB: I have nothing to add. She
    said it all.

MH: Good for the soul, I’d say.

AB: Truly. It’s also good because if
    it’s with the same person, you
    don’t have to go back to the
    beginning all the time. You just
    pick up where you left off.

MH: Last question is the hardest.
    Do you have any secrets from
    each other?

AB: I don’t think so. Not after
    five years.

IB: He was raised differently. He and
    his parents talked all the time.
    I wasn’t like that.

MH: A woman of mystery.

IB: Like you, I think.

MH: I just want to close by saying
    thank you. You two are a lot of
    fun to talk to. Come back?

AB: Sure.

IB: Me, too. It was fun.


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