Six a.m. The clock taunts me from the night stand. The neon green letters seeming to laugh at my disposition. At least it's not the witching hour. Or demon hour. Or whatever the **** it is. I can't get back to sleep and I can't just lay here. My head pounds out an unknown rythym. I need my pills. Then maybe a walk. The kids will be up shortly and we are supposed to finally leave for that vacation. Fishing and camping and visiting family and friends. somehow it all just seems like a waste.

   I told myself that there was no room for self-pity. Apparantly I lied to myself. I hate this. **** dichotomy. What kind of a merciful father plants a demonic seed in the brain of one of his own children? I look to the heavens and raise my middle finger triumphantly.

   "**** you, God," I whisper aloud. "**** you and the horse you created."

   I remember walking into that church, full of reservations. I remember pouring my heart out to a wooden statue. I laughed in spite of myself. How stupid I was. **** god and **** this tumor that I was "blessed" with. I wish Clarke was here again. 

   As if he could read my thoughts, the window slowly slid open and Clarke's head popped up.

   "I couldn't just leave ya hangin like that. Conscience and all. I'm not taking 'no' for an answer."

   I smiled, "What do you have in mind?"

   "What else? Roadtrip."

   I thought about it for a few seconds. The past few days, a bunch of random, jumbled memories, streamed through my head. The headache started to pick up. I fumbled the top off of the pill bottle and choked down three of them, dry. One lodged itself in my sandy throat and caused me to choke and cough. Clarke shot across the floor and disappeared into the bathroom before I even knew what was happening. I heard the faucet turn on and in an instant he was at my side with a glass of water.

   "Thanks... man," I managed between gulps. The pill finally dislodged itself and made a slow course the rest of the way down my throat. It hurt like hell but I welcomed the pain. Pain anywhere but in my head was a welcome change. The pounding in my head subsided... a little.

   I dressed quickly and Clarke and I absconded through the window from which came his arrival. We raced to his car and jumped in. I felt bad about ditching Karen and the kids, yet again. My heart ached, but it always raced along side my head and the many possibilities of the day ahead of me. Day twelve. About eighteen left after this one. I had to make everything count. The may days of my youth spent with Clarke started to surface in my mind. 

   Cruisin the Strip. Cattin about, that's what Clarke called it.  The many nights spentat the rock quarry. The parties. The Roadtrips.

   "This is going to be one for the record books, Tony, my man," Clarke laughed as he dropped the rag-top. "The roadtrip to end all roadtrips." He turned his eyes to me with a pained expression as he realized what had come out of his mouth. "Sorry, dude."

   "Don't sweat it, bro. I don't want people tip-toeing around. I want things to be normal."

   "Full speed ahead, then, Cap'n," he laughed as he stomped the gas and spun the tires. We took off in a cloud of smoke.

*************************************************************************************

   Children screaming and laughing.

   I awoke in a haze. The past several hours were a blur. My head felt as if a giant ballo were being inflated inside and space was limited. I thrust my hand into my pocket. Instinct told me that relief would be there, but there was nothing. I sat up and surveyed my surroundings. Gulls. Sand. Waves lapping at rocks. 

   Would you care for another drink, sir? They are complimentary to first class passengers.

   Salty sea air. Warm breeze. Head pounding. Where the **** am I? The pain in my head is maddening.

   Jesus Christ, what the hell is going on? 

   I look around me again. I am obviously on a beach, but I have no idea how the hell I got here. I reach back to my wallet pocket. I withdraw a terribly worn brown wallet. The ID inside says my name is Clarke Jennings. Rings a bell, but it just doesn't sound right. Clarke? I pull myself to my feet and struggle to maintain balance. My head feels like it was the buffer between a wrecking ball and a brick wall. 

   The wind picks up and blows sand into my face. I can feel my shirt sticking to my skin. I look down to see dried blood crusted all over the front of me. My shirt, my jeans. Covered in the stuff. Without thinking, I bolt down the beach, my head screaming at the me the whole way, and dive into the waves. The salty water burns my eyes but it is enough to peel the material off my skin. What happened? How did I get covered in blood? Who's blood is it? The questions started another marching band pounding through my skull.

   "Ever been to Florida, Tony? It's great this time of year. **** the roadtrip, let's fly."

   Words echoing through my head as the waves continually crash against my body. 

   I spot the wallet lying in the sand as I emerge from the salty water. I pick it up again and mull over it. Clarke? Tony? ****! I'm not Clarke. I'm Tony. so where had Clarke gotten off to? I decided to comb the beach. He probably found a nice shady place to pass out in. Or maybe he was going for food. 

   A dock loomed ahead of me as I retraced my footsteps to where I had been lying. I decided to go check it out. Maybe Clarke was under there coming to terms or something. He was never one to let his emotions show to others.

   "Tony! What the **** are you doing? Put that away!"

   Screams. Terrified female screams.

   Blood flowing like rivers.

   My head pounded harder as I started to remember. Not just who I was, but also how I had gotten here. As Clarke's Corvair convertable barrelled down the road, wind playing hell on his finely groomed hair, he had suggested Florida. I had never been. I planned a stop there with Karen and the kids on our trip. Disney World. A place of dreams in a world where few dreams come true. The kids had taken the news harder than I had thought they would. Melissa cried herself to sleep last night. My heart ached for my wife and kids now. Why did I do such a hairbrained thing and run off to Florida with Clarke like some horny teenager at Spring Break?

   Legs protrude from behind a piling under the dock. Clarke is there all right. And from the looks of it, he has company. There are three pairs of legs. 

   "Hey girls! How bout hangin ut with a couple of studs for the day? My friend here is ill and dying and I wanna make sure at least one of his last days is nonstop fun."

   They must all be sleepin because there is no sound, no movement. Poor schmuck drank more than he could handle. As I enter the area under the dock, I am overtaken by an uneasy feeling. Something isn't right. There are three piles of clothing on the ground and I recognize my favorite jeans immediately. I look down at my own legs. Clarke's jeans. That explains why his wallet was in my pocket. I must have been so out of it that I grabbed his clothes instead of mine. Oh God! I cheated on Karen! Not that it would really matter in three weeks, but it would to her. It would kill her if she ever found out. I look at Clarke and the two women with him. Their bodies are mutilated. One of the girls is decapitated. The pain in my head is too much. I drop to my knees.

   Blackness.

****************************************************************************