Frank left the cash on top of the kitchen counter – he’d figure it would be enough to cover the books and the damage. By this time, he had perfected the “craft” to a tee – being fully aware of the response time of the Newburgh Police Department. It was his twelfth hit in the area and, still, the police were “baffled” as one local newspaper boasted. Frank didn’t care much for his new-found “fame”. What mattered most to him were the books. Hit the books! Frank’s wonderful fascination with books materialized at the age of eight years young. At the time, it was not so much a fascination, but rather an appeasement to an authorative entity known as Dad- who was the equivalent to God to Frank.

As far as Frank could remember, he was always a good student, bringing home straight “A’s”. Yet, somehow, Dad never seemed to be completely satisfied. “Keep hitting the books,” he would say as if Frank would come home with “F’s” rather than “A’s”. But, nevertheless, he read and read, hoping to make Dad happy and satisfied, hoping to make him proud. He was always afraid of disappointing him. Like most things in life, not reading would mean having to suffer the consequences- consequences that would remind Frank of Jerry “Jerry Curl” Johnson.

Jerry “Jerry Curl” Johnson, as the kids liked to call him, was an old classmate of Frank’s back in the eighth grade. He sat a Knight’s length away from Frank – two seats ahead and two seats to the right. His alias came from the most obvious source of the name-calling – his hair, which was curled all around his scalp, drooping over his eyes which must have distorted some, if not most, of his vision. Which way did he go? Which way did he go? Frank always thought to himself with a small sense of guilt and humor entwined. Regardless, it gave him a sly smirk on his face looking at the old Loony Tunes shaggy-dog look-alike. Frank also couldn’t help but wonder just how he got his curls to get so stiff and defined and, well, curled. They didn’t move much either, only when Jerry would snap his head to either side of him. Frank and company would always get a kick out of watching the whip-crack-like movements of the curls that hung below his eyes and the back of his neck. He would imagine what it would be like to be The Incredible Shrinking Man and have to go through that mess on Jerry’s head. Frank would imagine just how tight of a grip he would have to have to hold on to one of the greasy, slithering tentacles as Jerry snapped his head to the side. A daydreamer, Frank was…imag­inative. He has been, after all, reading a lot.

Frank had nothing personal against Jerry, it was just the nature of childhood – taunt that which is different, or as some would say, unique. He was not very fond of the name-calling and the cruel remarks, but the wonderful woes of peer pressure always got the best of him. He had to admit, though, some of the jokes were pretty funny and he would find himself chuckling at a prank pulled on Jerry a week prior. Still, he felt sorry for the kid. Jerry had once asked to sit down with Frank during lunch one afternoon.

Why me? Why’d you have to ask me?

Frank argued momentarily in his mind. He wanted to say, “Yes” or “sure, why not?” But, he knew the other kids would not approve. For a brief moment all eyes were on him; a moment that seemed to stretch the length of a mini-series. He looked at the other kids, hoping, wishing that the other kids would give an OK, but they just stared with a blank expression on their faces. Frank knew this could be his moment of triumph or his downfall had he let Jerry sit with him. It was the perfect moment to embarrass him, the perfect moment to give him a big fuck you. Yes, it was the perfect moment for him to shine, for all to adore him, love him, praise him - they would talk about it for days, weeks, months, maybe even years. It would become a legendary moment in Newburgh High history. They would love him, everyone, even Jer... no, not Jerry. He would hate him, wish he were dead. Maybe his moment of glory will be overshadowed by Jerry finally standing up for himself and beating the shit out of Frank. Still, it would be a moment to cherish.

Jerry stood over Frank, holding his tray close to his chest, and waited patiently for an answer. Frank could not see his eyes, but he knew that they were full of hopes that he would be allowed to sit with one of the popular kids. It was hard to tell whether he was even looking at Frank.

The moment of truth crept up on Frank. He couldn’t quite understand why he was so nervous - his palms dense with sweat. He held a firm grip on his half-pint container of milk and looked up at Jerry. He thought he even saw Jerry smile, as if he’d known what the answer would be. Frank looked at his friends, trying to build up the balls to tell his friends to go fuck themselves, to tell Jerry to have a seat and not to worry because he would protect him from now on. But the courage quickly shrunk, as if his balls were dipped into a bowl of ice, and Frank responded as nicely and politely as he could, “Get the fuck out of here.”

Almost robotic, Jerry simply turned his body and walked away as if he were programmed to comprehend rejection and cruelty without the slightest implication of emotion. There was a loud roar that echoed throughout the cafeteria as, what seemed to be, the entire student body cheered and applauded. There was this sense of heroism that trickled through Frank’s body. It was unnerving, yet undeniably exciting. He really couldn’t tell if they applauded his response or if it was just the sight of seeing a poor kid walk away shamed. He wished he lived in another place and time at the moment.

Why’d you have to ask me?

Everyone hates being put in a tough situation- but Frank reacted the way anyone else would have, or so he thought. There were a few kids who looked at him, unbelieving of what he had just done. And he knew what he had done; he crushed this kid’s hopes, his esteem and confidence. Jerry’s manhood was diminished to noth­ing, and if he never had one, hopes for one were totally destroyed. Frank felt even smaller. As expected, he became even more popular after that- girls flocked to him, complimenting him on how brave he was. Brave? The nerve of some people. Cruelty was in the hearts of many, but not Frank and certainly not Jerry. Frank was just foolish, falling into the trap that so many kids fall victim too. In time, regret would come knocking and for Frank regret came like a sudden slap to the face. In the weeks that followed, Frank came to realize just how cruel kids can be - but adults can be just as bad.

Weeks prior to graduating from Newburgh High, Jerry "Jerry Curl" Johnson stopped coming to class. There was a curious swelling inside of Frank on the verge of exploding. But he resisted inquisi­tion as to what had happened to Jerry with the fear of being ridi­culed, so he let it go. He often wondered if he had something to do with it. After the incident in the cafeteria, Jerry would walk aim­lessly with no sense of direction and the implications of a nervous breakdown were apparent - of course Frank would be the only one to notice. Frank was partially at fault. He wished he had given the kid a break, but the other kids, what would they have thought? As the days went by, he tried his best to ignore the problem, to ignore Jerry, to ignore everyone around him, to ignore the pats on the back. There was only one solution to avoiding everything, one solution for escape. The books. The books were his answer. And so Frank buried his nose deep into books, studying, reading for pleasure and reading just to escape. It didn't matter what he read, as long as it provided him the safe haven of not having to deal with what was in the real world that surrounded him.

It wasn't until after graduation that Frank found out what had happened to Jerry; it was the slap to the face. News of Jerry came via the Newburgh Press, the local newspaper. The article became a burden to Frank, a burden that will later hang, framed, over his bed; a reminder of the atrocity and the cruelty that Frank poised as a young man. The article read, in a small section on the bottom of page eleven:

BOY MURDERED, FATHER CLAIMS RESPONSIBILTY

Newburgh. Jeremy Johnson, a 17 year-old boy, was found dead yesterday morning, his disfigured body appeared to be forced into the inside of a washing machine in the basement of the family home. Detectives speculate that his body had been moved and placed inside of the washing machine as a means of temporarily concealing the body from wife, Margaret Johnson, 38. William Johnson, 41, origi­nally of Ulster County, has been placed under arrest for the murder of his son. He admitted to police to locking the boy in the base­ment closet for almost a month for receiving a "B" letter grade on his math exam. "It was a well deserved punishment," boasted the 41 year-old man as he was led away by detectives past a swarm of reporters early yesterday morning. The body of the 17 year-old was discovered by his mother as she prepared to do the laundry. She was away on business during the month and had no prior knowledge of her husband's activities. The young boy was first starved to death…

He couldn't read any further. Here was the boy he so unpleas­antly ridiculed, and now the little son-of-a-bitch was dead… because of a grade? What a waste! But, Frank came to realize where Jerry had failed. He had let his father down. Frank would be deter­mined not to make the same mistake… and so he read.

Hit the books, boy!

Frank's consequences weren't nearly as drastic as Jerry's. Still, he would sometimes feel that a father’s disappointment was far worse than a beating or sever punishment. Dad never raised an arm, never yelled, and never bitched to mom. He would just look at Frank straight in the face with that look- that look of disappointment that spoke a thousand words. He would shake his head and look to the ground, not wanting to see this person who was his son, this person who had let him down. It made Frank feel like shit. He wanted to make his dad proud- he wanted it more than anything in the world.

Make me proud son.

*   *   *

“Why burglarize a home if you’re still paying for the books, not to mention the cost of damages,” Frank often asked himself forgetting that he had already answered that question many time previous. Having read a book entitled How to Rob a Home and Not Get Caught, Frank wanted to volunteer his newly acquired skill and put it to the test. He’s picked up on a lot of new skills with the likes of chemistry, biology, astrophysics and even forensic science. His mind is a knowledge database, downloading information with each turn of the page- programmed just as Jerry had been; programmed to exist in a world of his own- alone in his one bedroom apartment equivalent to the size of a Pinto; it was small.

During the day, he would spend most of his time doing odd jobs: Maintenance at the local public schools, wait­ing tables over at the New Windsor Coach, an inconspicuous diner in the neighboring town of New Windsor just a few minutes away from his apartment or, he would stock books at the local library, where he would, more often than not, read instead of stock shelves. Somehow he had to make a living. Besides, books weren’t free either. Leaving money on the kitchen counter was something that threw off the authorities; they didn’t know whether to call it a burglary or a purchase, considering the only things missing were a few books. It made Frank wonder if he was crazy... but usually it just made him smile.

He had high hopes for tonight. The Velacio Mansion, a family known for their vast collection of rare and out-of-print books, would be the targeted home. It would, perhaps, be the heist of a lifetime, by Frank’s standards. Getting in would prove to be easy once he’s made his way up the iron-wrought gate and up to the second floor balcony via the large trellises that sported the side of the mansion all the way to the top of the fourth floor. The Velacio’s were old-fashioned people who, Frank assumed, didn’t care much for the vast array of modern technology that can provide safety and security to their beloved mansion and its treasures that reside behind the bricked walls. It was the biggest assumption Frank would ever make yet he still felt compelled to go unnoticed and manage to avoid detection, just as the aforementioned book had promised.

He watched the vintage Rolls Royce drive through the iron gate and he could just make out the two figures sitting in the front of the vehicle. He clearly saw that old man Velacio sat behind the wheel, but on the passenger seat sat a woman, his wife perhaps, or it could even be his mistress. He didn’t care. He was sure that the house was now vacant. Frank looked around, on edge, with caution. He dashed across the Old Century Road pavement, still wet from the morning’s rain­fall. He moved with great speed and stealth alongside the wall, making sure to keep noise level at a minimum, in spite of the fact that the nearest house was nearly a mile away. Regardless of the fact, he made his best efforts to move quietly. Tonight, he would be a ninja, which he had learned little about while reading The Art of Ninjitsu.

His fingers wrapped around the cold metal of the iron-wrought gate and made his way up and over it, losing his footing and fall­ing to the pavement below with a thud. Luckily, he had read Judo: Self-Defense and knew how to fall on the ground without hurting himself. He stood up and cleared away some of the dirt on his clothes, all the while surveying the perimeter, making sure the coast was clear... and it was. He got down to the floor on his belly and crawled his way to the trellis, just in case. The trellis was full of dead roses whose stems twirled themselves around the structure and crumpled into ashes with the slightest touch. He began to wonder if the Velacio’s got their money’s worth with their gardener. The grass around him looked as if they went through a few seasons without getting a haircut, not so much as a good trimming.

Frank pulled out a pair of tight rubber gloves, so that he wouldn’t leave any fingerprints behind, and began to climb the trellis. He recoiled with the crunching sound of roses that perished under the weight of his feet and fell to the ground like ashes from a burning roof. He climbed- up, up he climbed just like Spiderman had climbed, sleek and smooth. He had read every issue of every Spiderman comic and knew that bending his knee to a ninety-degree angle would give him more leverage when he pulled himself up and that keeping his body close to the wall would diminish the amount of gravity- of course, this was all bullshit. Hit those books, son. Make me proud. I will dad, I will. His father’s haunting voice echoed in his head, bouncing from one side to the other- the words repeating themselves like a broken record. It’s been a few years since the sudden disappearance of Frank’s father, but he still strived to satisfy him, to appease him, to make him proud.

The climb to the top was a long one, even though it was only a two-story ascent. He felt like King Kong climbing to the top of the Empire State Building and after what seemed like an hour later, he made it to the top- two-minutes after his initial ascent. He looked over the balcony and felt like Hitler addressing the Nazi Party Congress in Nuremburg. He turned around to face the double-glassed doors and reached for the knob. Locked. Shit. The Velacio’s may not have been savvy on technology, but they still had a common sense of insecurity. Who can blame them? Frank had no choice but to break the glass and unlock the doors from the inside. He looked around on the balcony for something to penetrate the glass, but there was nothing. There was only dirt and a few scattered leaves. He was left with no choice but to use his fist. Frank took a deep breath, bringing his right arm back to cata­pult it to the glass. He closed his eyes and meditated for a moment, having read about it in Meditation: The Key to Tranquility. He pushed forward his arm, moving at what seemed like slow-motion. The gap closed between his fist and the glass- five inches, four, three, two inches, one... Stop! Suddenly, there was awareness- he can seriously injure himself, not to mention the blood he would leave behind for crime scene investigators to claim. Now there’s an idea, he would use the heel of his shoes to pene­trate the glass- that would work. And it did. The glass shattered and fell on to what appeared to be a rather costly oriental carpet inside the room behind the double-glassed doors. The hole he made was just large enough to fit his hand in and unlock the door from the inside. And just like that, presto! He was in.

The door creaked, revealing its old age. Glass crunched beneath his feet, as he stepped on the seemingly expensive carpet, making that noise that glass tends to make under the weight of feet. He entered what seemed to be the study- a large room that reeked of cigars blended with the aroma of incense, a poor attempt of ridding the room of the cigar scent. To the far right of the room, a large portrait of Mr. Velacio hung over a grand fireplace that showed evidence of recent use. The portrait was haunting. The eyes seemed to move along with Frank as he moved across the room- typical. A fur-coated area rug lay sprawled near in front of the fireplace- surely a place of many midnight excur­sions and erotic episodes. The wood in the fireplace snapped, crackled and popped. There was a harsh silence in the room that prompted a ringing in Frank’s ears. He strained his ears with the anticipation of hearing something... anything. But the only sounds were that of the snap, crackle and popping of the charred wood. With the silence came the engulfed darkness. He tried as hard as he could to see through the dark, but his eyes failed to pierce through it.

To the left, Velacio’s vast collections of books were disguised by shadows, only a few select sections were lit by streaks of moon­light. The excitement was overwhelming, his heart pounded against his chest, the beat pulsating in his ears. The books! There they were. His mouth watered, fueled with anticipation. He searched frantically for a light switch- he had to see, he had to read. It took him a few moments to find the row of switches by the entrance of the room. He turned on one but it lit up what looked like an antique African tribal mask that hung on the far wall across from where he stood. It didn’t peak his interest very much. Another switch lit up a curio filled with base­ball memorabilia and autographed baseballs sporting names with the likes of Joe DiMaggio, Yogi Berra and Jackie Robinson, just to name a few.

It was the last switch that illuminated the library. The sight of the books in plain view almost made Frank wet his pants. He ran to the library and looked at the various titles- so many out-of-prints, so many rarities, so many to choose from. So many of the authors were unheard of, some didn’t even brand the name of the author on its cover. Many of the titles were odd, such as: Invocating the Spirit, Dance with the Devil, He does not Exist, Genocide of the Human Race and so on. Mr. Velacio proved to be an avid follower of the occult. But there was one book in particular that caught Frank’s attention, perhaps it was the uniquely knit binding of the book with its blue-leather texture and gold borders. It was something he had never seen before. The book’s title was simple, yet effective somehow. It was entitled, Me. The pages were still crisp, the leather and binding per­fectly in tact as if the book itself had never been opened. It was, perhaps, a more recent addition to the collection that Velacio had yet to look over. The author’s name was as simple as the book’s title- Mr. F. His interest peaked and he fiddled through the pages. He noticed that some of the pages near the end were blank. The last line of the book read:

He did not know what to think, he simply stared, anticipating what would happen next...

Frank sat down on top of the Oriental carpet and crossed his legs on top of one another, not once taking his eyes off of the book. He turned to the first page and read:

He was born on a Friday, June 10th 1972 to be exact...

That’s my birthday, Frank thought. He flipped through some more pages:

He was a good kid, although he had succumbed to the cruelties that our world was based on. His heart could not bare the brutal torture that his father had instilled on him since his early years of life- and so the anger was repressed, only unleashing itself on those who he saw as an equal, a less unfortunate human being. He blamed himself to what had happened to the young boy, yet deep down inside of his soul, he was glad that he did not suffer the same fate...

A work of fiction, Frank thought, but there were striking resemblances to... he read on further:

A frightened child he was, afraid of being mocked, ridiculed and afraid of failure. He would succumb to anything but successful in his later years, but will not live to regret nothing; all except for one incident that he keeps buried within himself, a secret of all secrets...

He skipped a few pages:

He climbed atop to the second floor balcony, unaware of the new security system the household members had installed, prompted to do so after many attempts of breaking in to the house. He smashed the window with the heel of shoe, triggering a silent alarm. Unaware, he stepped into the house and prowled, stepping over the priceless antique carpet...

Frank looked down and felt the texture of the carpet. Could this be the same carpet? Mr. Velacio must have tried his hands on writing a book, a work of fiction that involved his mansion but never got around to finishing it. He pressed on, nearing the last page, only this time there were a new slew of words, lines, sen­tences, paragraphs and pages.

He sat on the carpet and read- on and on he read just as he had been instructed too. So caught up was he in this book, this book that penetrated his mind, that he did not hear the front door being kicked in as a swarm of police officers scurried through the arch­way, guns drawn and hurriedly searched the premises...

It began to sound familiar to Frank. But it couldn’t be. How can it be possible? Anything’s possible, but this? No, my imagina­tion has gone too far, I’m allowing myself to escape into the words of the book too much. He turned the page.

The police officers rushed the room, nearly giving him a heart attack. They yelled for him to put his hands up, but he could not comprehend the situation. The light began to flicker and the offic­ers mistake the book on his hands for a weapon. His sudden movement frightens the officers and they open fire, plummeting rounds of bullets into his body. His body jerks backward with each penetration until, eventually, it is pinned against the library behind him...

No!

His body, lifeless, drops to the ground. His life is no more. It isn’t until identifying the body that the police search his apartment, only to find the lifeless body of his father mangled inside of an unused washing machine. He had killed his father, afraid of the consequences, afraid of what his father might have done to him had he not acted first...

This can’t be! He screamed inside his mind. But he soon came to realize that it was happening, the book, the carpet, the broken window, Jerry, his father. It was all true. It was the story of Me...Mr. F… Frank! A hoard of police officers swarmed through the door, nearly giving Frank a heart attack. They were yelling, all at once making it hard for Frank to comprehend the multitude of words. His heart raced, he panicked. One of the officers backed into the light switch and the light in the room flickered.

“Get your fucking hands up, get up,” one officer yelled.

And as quickly as he could, he rose to his feet. The room was dark, then bright again, then dark- it was chaos. He can see fear in the eyes of some of the cops, some of whom were drawing their guns for the very first time. He raised his arms into the air, the book still clasped in his hand.

“Gun!”

“No, wait!”

But it was too late. Gunfire lit the room; and then there was light. Frank’s body danced backward, pinning him against the library of rare and out-of-print books. He looked down at his wounds, then to the book that he held with a firm grip. Then in an instant, he stopped breathing. His body dropped to the floor. An officer approached, still pointing his gun at the dead body on the expensive carpet. He reached down and felt for a pulse- there was none. He managed to pry loose the book that Frank clutched so dearly to his chest and showed it to his fellow officers. They shook their heads as they realized that they had just shot a man armed with a book. The officer read the title of the book and chuckled. He opened to the first page and read aloud.

“The officer read the title of the book and chuckled”

The rest of the book was blank.