War/Peace. Matthew Vandenberg

      PART I: 2011

      An alternate history of late 2011.

       This is a work of fiction and the author does not intend to offend anyone. Furthermore, please do not act on any advice offered by this book without first consulting a professional and conducting your own thorough research. Creative license is employed regularly. Just because the author cites scholarly articles and the like does NOT make this story scholarly itself.

       Celebrities mentioned herein were not consulted and the associated events did not really happen. Please don't sue me.

       Further, many of the links provided are no longer accessible but are kept in the lists as evidence that I was indeed referring to sources back in 2011.

      JACKSON CURTIS - 10:30am - December 30 - 2011

      My feet hit the ground, like fingers the keys of a grand piano, and from a crouch I rise slowly.

      ‘You turn to see the window fall. Sure, she slams it, but you hear only the pitter-patter of rain on metal, applause. You’ve taken your bow and you now exit the scene stage left.

      ‘My name’s Jackson Curtis, BTW. And, yeah, I talk to the camera. I know none of my mates do this but I’m a little different to them. Um...’ – I scratch my head – ‘I’ve always been a bit of a loner, hence this solo performance. And when I speak it will usually be in soliloquy. You don’t really care though, do you? You just wanna know what’ – I point a thumb back – ‘all that was about.

      ‘Ok, see my hand? See what’s in it? They call ‘em dead presidents in America. I’ll give it to charity when I get the chance. I’ll hop on the train to Central station soon and once I get to Sydney I’ll probably hand it all to a guy selling The Big Issue. But the day’s still young so I’ll probably walk around here for a bit. I’ve gotta fill you in on my life first anyway.

      ‘So, the money ain’t stolen. It’s my payment. Yeah, nightwalker. That’s what they call it, right? I’d say I do more running than walking but . . . never mind.

      ‘I’m the guy behind the scenes, the guy whose job it is to remain invisible, the guy who’ – My cell rings and I flip it open as though it’s a c@#$t – “Hey babe, cum again?” “Tomorrow night, same time same place?” – I nod and flip the cell shut. – ‘Where was I? Yeah. I was telling you about where I was, right? It’s best I start from the beginning:

      ‘Now picture this, if you will, reader, viewer, and prospective director. She’s a beautiful girl, her name Isabella. You might have read about her in Adrian’s and Jamie’s stories. She’s pretty damn fine. Fine dining is when I’m sipping the sweet wine from the cup between her thighs, know what I’m saying? So, anyway, I was in the passenger seat of her car when she first told me she loved me. She didn’t say it, per se, just as Adrian doesn’t really ever say this to Shelly, but she didn’t have to; with her lips alone she was drawing me into her life; her radiance was fine, bright and a spectacle, the colors – of her face, eyes, lashes; a brush so fine that lines the lips of her eyes like coke – all right and perfect and if romance is an art form and the artist is immersed in her work you don’t disturb her. And once life begins to imitate art you don’t need to be an artist to produce art.

      ‘Such was the preface to this act of adultery. The location was a dull, grey station wagon: she sat to my right, hair a fine veil over her creamy face, the tinted window her eyelashes were wiping. And I wanted to kiss her lips right then but knew I had to wait just a little longer. The girl’s boyfriend was no stranger to me. I’d known him almost as long as I’d known her. She had known him for around 15 months and told me – only now – that her palms no longer became wet when they fucked. Ok: basically what she said was that he was no longer novel. We’re taking a low skin conductance – are you getting the picture? A dry scene. So immediately I picked up a pen and began to write. For I suspected I was the novel stimulus. Ha ha. She could have drawn the front line, I’m sure, on the battlefield with her gaze at this point in time. I know I smiled. The sky cried, then the boyfriend climbed into the car and she pressed one cool, calm, and dry heel against the accelerator, as though her foot was a body slumping against a wall, bored, sad, and apathetic. She spoke with a fine, raspy voice – one which could be a figure running a marathon, out of breath but sexy nonetheless – when she told this guy her breasts were fine. I agreed; performing, metaphorically, a first lunge at this guy, my new nemesis. I liked him though, still do. But the girl is a babe – did you see her just now?, behind the pane, behind the fine veil of glass, a face even more enigmatic when clothed in glass. So all warning signs were present. A break-up was imminent. So I decided I would make a move: I decided I would speak fluently, I decided I would attempt to convince this girl that I was the real object of her affection, if she was not already convinced. But the knowledgeable adulterer will only move slowly and only when no one but the object of his affection is watching, and even then only when she is about to make a move herself. You never make the first move, simple and plain. You do not choose who you fuck, she – or he, perhaps - chooses you. Sometimes you get lucky, and other times you still feel proud. With Isabella I was definitely lucky. And I knew she would eventually make a move. And she did.’

      I shrug – ‘That’s how I play. It’s a beautiful game. This is an art form no doubt. Speaking metaphorically, to summarize the situation, you skate on thin ice, along her slippery body, until you fall in. Then you just gotta hold your breath for as long as you can, remain silent while she and her boyfriend argue over who she gave head to first . . . I mean . . . while she and her boyfriend argue over this and that, and remain silent, resisting the urge to write about your plight and post it up on the face of a social network. Ha ha. Say, do you ever check out the relationship status of your friends on the FB? Of course you do, who doesn’t? Ever wonder how many will remain married? If 50% of marriages end in divorce then, no doubt, many more high school couples split. Think about that for a second. Adultery ain’t a crime when you’re young, no way. It’s an experience every teen should have. And ever wonder why the 50% of women who are still married don’t file for divorce? – for we all know true love is a myth, don’t we? I like to think I’m the reason: a nightwalker that runs into your life just when you’re lost and alone, just when you need someone to listen to, just when you want someone to love you for who you are and expect nothing from you in return. I’m not the bad guy, girls. They are ;D

      ‘Did I ever tell you the story about my history teacher in the ninth grade? Oh, another day I guess. ‘Til next time, my name’s Jackson Curtis and I’m here when you need me. XXX.”

      ******

      References

      1 Just A Little – Liberty X

      2 Love Today – Mika

      3 Double Vision – 3Oh!3

      4 Sex And Candy – Marcy Playground

      5 Work It – Missy Elliot

      6 Time Of My Life – Black Eyed Peas

      7 We R Who We R – Ke$ha

      8 Hot Tottie – Usher and Jay-Z

      9 Heartbeat – Enrique Iglesias and Nicole Scherzinger

      JACKSON CURTIS - 11:00am - December 1 - 2011

      'I hate this.' - I look around and then shrug – 'Not really. I feel good. But I also feel like an arrogant prick. I'll praise someone and people will think I'm being sarcastic: I'll call someone else a prick and they'll take me seriously. I'm yet to master the art of communicating to fellow students. But I'm a bright spark and my bling speaks volumes.' - I flick a gold chain with a naked nail, then I slide the nail down the chain as though it's a pick and my bling the strings of a sexy guitar: the nail the sexy, smooth body of a femme fatale. Needless to say the sound is music to my ears. - 'So, yeah, I'm a little dressed up. Yeah, I'm wearing my brass knuckles, gold chains, and necklaces, more bling than Fiddy. And, yeah, this is a little over the top for a fuckin' class at high school, but I play ball like Bieber and it's game on.

      'I don't know.' - I shake my head – 'It's hard to describe the vibe I get when I step into the room and their eyes are wet, it's like I make