To Whom It May Concern: by M.J. Garrett (books to get back into reading .TXT) 📕

name, sweetheart?” Mr. Franklin aka Calvin asked the woman.

“My name is Lisa.” She said as she began to pour coffee into his cup.

“Lisa, you say? That’s a pretty name. Let me show you how we make the coffee around here.” Mr. Franklin led Lisa down the hallway and then opened up the break room door.

“After you.” He said with a smile on his face as he let her walk through the door. He is such a gentleman. Closing the door behind him, he pushes the lock on the door without her noticing. “Here, let me show you how to make a proper cup of black coffee.”

Grabbing her by her small frail throat, he pushes her against the wall. Her hands grasp his wrist as he starts pushing her up the wall until she is on her tip toes. Putting his other hand on her thigh, he starts lifting her skirt.

“I can’t breathe!” she said as her eyes started to water, pushing tears down her red suffocating face.

“Bitch, shut your mouth!” His hand slides between her legs and he pulls her cotton panties to one side. He began to spread her innocence with his strong fingers as he searched for her wet opening. Finding it, he uses his knee to pry her legs open until one leg is resting on his hip as her shoe falls to the floor.

“Don’t do this! Please, please…don’t do this!!” she cried as her face started to become a darker shade of red. Her blue eyes watered as she held on to his wrist trying to hold herself up.

“Don’t do what?” he asked as he forced two fingers inside of her. Pushing and pulling his fingers in and out of her, she cried. She started to cough as she began to lose strength and air. Pulling his fingers out of her not-so-innocence, he rubbed her dry tight backdoor. He then bit his bottom lip as he shoved one finger in her tight backside and the other in her wet not-so-innocent innocence.

In and out, in and out. One finger in each, then two in each…I could go on, but that just seems inappropriate.

Lisa, crying, choking, gasping, legs flailing and slipping with her head pinned to the cork board filled with different colored thumb tacks. Spit starting to coagulate in the corners of her mouth as the whites of her eyes start to turn red. Pinned, Frozen, gasping, smiling. Smiling as she began to orgasm. She covered his hand with her wet juices and he lowered her to the ground. “Not yet! Don’t stop….not yet!” She said, as she pulsed juice down her thigh and calf. Squeezing his waist with her other leg, she could feel the juice filling her black plastic one inch heel as she started to finally cum to an end.

Yes, pun intended.

Panting, leaning up against the wall, her toes were slippery from her big finish. “Not bad, Calvin.” she said as her face started to turn back to its normal shade of pale off-white. “Next time, don’t be so easy on the choking.”

“Cathy, you are one sick bitch. You know that?” he said as he laughed and washed his hands.

“Easy…My name is Lisa today. Cathy is what my husband calls me.” She smiled as she straightened her skirt and dried off her thighs. Taking her shoe off and stuffing a napkin inside the toe of it to dry up the mess, she looks at him and says, “Besides, Tomorrow I’m Hillary. You know what that means.”

Everyone had secrets.

Smiling back at her, he unlocked the door. He was excited about tomorrow. Hillary loved getting her butt plugged by his rock hard tool until he was about to finish, then she would turn around as quickly as possible, drop to her knees, and suck him off. She could take every ounce of his salty load and keep sucking until he went limp in her mouth.

As he opened the door and walked out, one of the producers walked in. “Hey, Lisa!” he heard the producer say, “Let me show you how we make coffee around here.”

“Not right now, Adam. Give me a couple of minutes and come back. Okay?” Adam then exits the door and stands guard keeping a close eye on his watch.

It’s kind of funny how this made Mr. Franklin jealous. I guess not everyone is as special as they think.

To Whom It May Concern:
Is there not one person in this town that can shoot straight? Yes, pun intended.

*
Still sitting in his trailer, looking in the mirror at this perfect picture of a perfect man, he smiles when he thinks of how far he had come. From the cheesy smile interviewing small time shop owners with three legged dogs to covering the apocalypse, he made it big. No more pot smoking van jobs. No more begging for raises so he could put food in Cathy’s and their newborn’s mouth. He hit the big time, the Jackpot. No more begging for anything.

“Please leave and send in that boy with his school paper interview.” He told his make-up artist.

“Hey, you.” He smiled at the boy. You know why I brought you here.

“Money first.” He said with his squeaky feminine voice.

No one had secrets.


CHAPTER 25

Louisiana. Michigan. Ontario. Denver. Mexico City. Pandemonium is ripping through the news like an out of control twister through a trailer park. Austin. New Guinea. Bismarck. India. South Africa. Just think hurricane Katrina, but on a much grander scale.

Fear gripping the hearts and minds of the citizens. Prayers are being lifted from the mouths of Godly and ungodly alike. Cheaters. Liars. Thieves. Murderers. False Prophets.

To Whom It May Concern:
Prophets…false prophets…profits none the less?


I feel her here. I feel her there. Carla, this angel of death; full of rage and anger, flashing from one place to another, dealing her punishment as people are dying with no disease.

I close my eyes and flick the cigarette butt into the quiet street. Feeling her heart beat, feeling her twisted innocent soul, I walk down the middle of the street while the world is at pause. Not from me and not from her, but from fear. People huddled in their houses, their domains, their refuge praying for salvation and protection.

God and his gambling addictions, laughing and sliding his chips across the felt, he sits back and engulfs the prayers like a porn addict watching young women getting banged rotisserie style at a college frat house.

Even the dogs have found a way to stay off the street. They are probably curled up under some cocaine infested vacant with their tail curled up under their testicles praying for salvation.

Here I am, walking down the middle of this abandoned street with only the flashing yellow and red street lights to keep me company. Stores are closed; their lights are off and the homeless bums gone from the street corners and bridges. Its 3 p.m. on a Tuesday, doesn’t anyone work anymore? People cuddled up with their fat ignorant faces glued to the TV watching Mr. Franklin’s smug smile staring back at them while he shuffles papers around at his desk.

Joseph Banks, running backwards with his face bouncing on the TV monitors, yelling into his microphone with his finger stuck to his ear. National Guard tanks are posted around the outer parts of the cities, trying to contain whatever illness is pillaging its way through this vulnerable world. They are trying to stifle Carla and her rage, her calling, her purpose.

God, give me the courage.
God, give me the strength.
God, give me wisdom.
God, give me Carla.
God, give me purpose.
God, give me hope.
God, give me power.
God, give me Carla.
God, give me time.
God, give me peace.
God, give me power.
God, give me Carla.

Funny thing about prayer, it only seems to work when you least need it. I guess that’s how it’s supposed to work? I need money and I get nothing. I don’t need money and then a refund check is sent to my house. I need comfort I get nothing. I don’t need anyone and the house is full of friends and guest with the police asking me to turn the music down.

Maybe saving the world isn’t my calling. Maybe saving me from all of my horrible dreams isn’t for me. Maybe I’m not supposed to save anyone from Carla. Suppose all the flashing around and frozen experiences are just ways for me to see the world for what it really is. It’s a world full of pathetic sadistic masochists with nothing better to do than bleed from self-mutilation and self-indulgence. Maybe the world isn’t worth saving. Maybe I’m wasting my time and energy trying to change the unchangeable, save the unsaveable, salvage the unsalvageable. Maybe I’m supposed to save Carla from the world. Maybe I’m supposed to save Carla from Carla. Her Savior, her mentor, her friend.

I’m gone; flashing through time at the speed of nothing. The world paused. Flashing from here to there, watching people fall to the ground as limp as Miss Margaret. Flashing from now to yesterday; yesterday to tomorrow; tomorrow to today; in and out of time like a ghost searching for the one who needs me most. Searching for Carla.

Just as my searching becomes so monotonous and tedious, there she is. The muzzle flashing as the world is standing still. Carla, in all her rage, in all her anger, in all her beauty, she’s reaping the souls of her new purpose.

Dancing in our graceful and timeless pause, we meet each other filled with power and aggression. There we are, falling to the ground in our struggle to save something. Carla, mounted on top of me with her shiny leather pants and stilettos, reaches back and thrust her smoking sword towards my face. Turning my face toward the pavement, her muzzle hits the ground as the heat from the metal warms my face.

Her eyes black and glazed, her hair pulled back