5 A.M.

I am oh so bitterly honest with absolutely no one, not even myself.

What an uplifting way to start a poem, wouldn't you agree?

Now trust me when I say this doesn't reek of self-loathing for ill intent,

It's just something that needs to be said for the better part of me.

It takes the loss of sanity and the clear vision of a horrid tomorrow

To allow myself to become brutally honest and reflect true light upon who I am.

It takes a million fucking thoughts of a million fucking happenings

In order to finally accept the whys and whats and comprehend.

Now with all smarm aside, let's accept that I miss what I've lost,

And I punish myself every day for the things I can't forgive.

Let's accept the shitty personality and the way things all went,

I still can't help but want to make things better and reminisce.

Now this isn't one of my better poems, it barely passes as one in my eyes.

But it's as necessary as the others for basic human appreciation of the soul.

Oh come on, shut up, don't act so damn important:

You deserved it all, you deserve all the things you've been told.

And if we want to access the situation, if we want to see things for what they are,

Let's be real and accept this as another necessary event of life.

Everybody is falling apart, save for the ones that you want to fall apart;

Everybody also goes through these "worst of times".

Now me and you, the person not reading this poem, this absolute person of interest,

The person whom this is all about (but will never give my art the time of day again),

Let's just miss each other at the same time, for a small amount of time,

I think that's all we'd need for this forgiveness and resolve to begin.

It's 5 A.M. in the fucking morning, and I'm two strong beers deep,

I haven't eaten since 8 this night, save for a bite here and there.

And all of these fucking thoughts need to see the light of day, get out of my damn head,

I need to see in front of my face how little you actually do care.

Because as different as night is from day, good is from evil,

And all those cliches get the chance to combine,

So too have you become, from the more pure, deep, honest, innocent person I've ever known,

To this repugnant mess that I've created through negligence over time.

It's never going to get better, because it's never going to be so innocent and honest again,

This I've just realized tonight,

So how do you look forward to each day after day,

When you know that the best, more appreciated things are no longer in your life?

Once again, I am sorry for this sounding so bleak, it really was not my intent.

I just wanted to get things off of my chest, some things I've truly come to lament.

Call it a fucking diary, or a cry for help, call it something that we both know it's not.

These words had to be said in some fashion or form, and every single word I have meant.

The future scares me, because I don't know how someone can trip and fall so hard,

And just walk it all off and smile as if he didn't rip his favorite pair of jeans.

How are you going to replace those jeans?

There's never going to be another pair that fit quite like that one again, good sir,

That's going to hold that place as your favorite for the same unsullied reasons.

You're always just going to end up trying to replace that pair of jeans.

"It's A Hoax! All Of It!"

Go ahead and take a ride in the backseat

Of this insatiable chariot named Youth!

Squander all the glory and praised you've gathered

Over the past four years into a catacomb!

"We can see the compunction on your face

Gathering dust upon the creases, and

Nobody is gonna wipe it off without

Getting some of it on their self."

Everybody I know wears a mask;

They wear their ex loves upon their face.

Everybody that I know is just the result

Of bad intentions from bad decisions.

And yet here I am, wiping my own slate clean to try and really break the cycle.

Here I am again, except there are no masks left to put on.

I see myself collapsing under heartache, again and again.

I can see myself getting used to the idea of failure.

Well here's the chance of self-acknowledgement:

The fire that's lit to break the cycle,

But here I am tripping over my own two feet and falling face-first into the past,

And everyone is enjoying a good laugh, everybody loves slapstick.

Until you pick yourself up and see that you're not a naive boy anymore.

No, not at all: you're a headstrong man who's foolishly avoided learning his lesson.

Well, lesson learned.

"We can all point the fingers backwards, but there'll be none left

To catch yourself when you fall."

So say your sorry's, mourn and cry and drink and lust and punish and hate and realize and love.

Repeat as necessary, not necessarily in that order.

Except now, this is your time to shine, kid.

It was a hoax, all of it was; you fooled yourself into something you're not.

You made yourself into something you never wanted to be.

You gave up on life, and it gave you up in return.

Have you learned all your lessons yet? Are you ready to practice?

"Was it all lies? Was it all in your head?

Who exactly can you blame for being so misled?

Was it all love or was it all she knows?

Was it all worth it to watch it slowly go?"

And I say, "No."

Even if you try to look back and find some connection to previous lessons, you can't.

Even as you fall face-first as you try to progress, you can't feel sorry for yourself.

You want to change? Good! Then prepare to suffer.

Nothing recedes like progress, and you're living proof.

So progress.

Air

I feel you here, with me.

I feel you from a hundred miles away, you would rather be in the embrace of a complete stranger

Than that of a tortured memory, than that of a defeated man

That you yourself had defeated.

I am your breath, I am your pretty little voice

Dancing callously on the end of your indifferent tongue.

The tongue I would taste every night before resting my swollen head

Down to repeat the pattern of safety that I had presumed would reside forever in you.

Your perfect imperfections, your talent dancing quietly,

Controlled within every action as you stare into a mirror,

You know exactly who you are and what you have at this point,

And as I watch from the comfort of our bed, I see you as the woman you are now.

The girl who has come back to me as a woman,

With soft edges ruffled and rounded, displayed proudly like a peahen,

With independence yet a solemn promise to stay by my side.

As my queen, my goddess, my lover, my escape.

I get the chills when I think about your magnificence,

When I think about the goddess that God has silently put in my path,

Like a beautiful gem in the middle of the road

That gathers attention as the marvel that it is.

I get the chills when I think about how easy it is to love you,

How brilliantly you shine without provocation or applause,

Without the need for an outside to approve of your colors.

You are the most glamourous shade of You there is.

I will not give up this fight that I have been preparing for my entire lifetime.

I am a lover, hiding in the body of a narcissistic coward.

I am a proud devoted warrior, now blessed with the gift of sight,

Now carrying a torch for all those dead thoughts I once threw to the side.

I will not only speak to you, I will shout towards you.

I will not only reach out for you, I will clutch you tight and make us both gasp for air.

For my embrace is a neverending thing, an event only understood by those in it.

You are my air, and I am gasping for breath.

You are a goddess, and God is love.

Love is a choice, therefore you are my choice.

Look past these faults of a man on display, look past these faults of a man ashamed.

Look past these neverending rivers of blood, up towards my mountains of love neverending,

and Climb.

Make me your choice, make me your temptation.

Make me your deepest, dirtiest thought only masked by the restrictions of air.

I am here waiting. I am here, forgiving.

I am here begging for forgiveness, I am waiting for the air.

Let us go back to resting and dreaming these dreams together,

and preparing a life of fulfillment in these un-uttered words.

You know what you are:

My queen, my goddess, my air.

An Afterthought That Matters More

We are beyond what our bodies tell us what we are.

Janice Doesn't Come Around Here Any More

"Janice doesn't come around here any more."
A blanket of death-white moons collapse upon my brittle body,
Made sober by the past week's revelations.
I remember the distinct smells, underneath these sheets,
Lighted by the ghost of your breath.

Remember all the somber tunes we attempted to share?
I gasped for breath, you gasped out of laughter; where were our thoughts?
You can silence the words exchanged, but you can't revoke our shared breaths.
I can hear you weeping underneath these same sheets, two stagnant thoughts away.
We are but a single changed thought away from happiness.

Tasting the frothing lips that come asunder, quivering like a bloodied bee
Eyelashes made out of everything I love, thoughts as seductive as only primates must know.
Yet, you don't come around here no more.

Consider this a ballad,
A weeping wandering soul evoking reminiscent fancies like a gasping fish,
Emotional masturbation, at it's finest.

I am exactly the bashful carnivore that you assume I am,
I am everything you believe me to be.

So many stagnant nights spent staring at this...digital catacomb,
Why waste another blanketed moon?
Why don't we stop turning these hours into weeks, and just make the impossible happen?
Since it's all so possible.
I am but a single excused thought away from happiness.

Call me your worst mistake, call me a fluke:
I'd rather be the best than the worst; I'd rather be the worst than nothing at all.

Put me in that bed, tuck me in and suffocate me with the sweet smell of your anger,
Shock me with your unpredictable wrath, I am your volatile volt of classic chaos.
Turn and hide.
Run and quiver.
Turn and hide, run and quiver, turn and hide, run and make me your ghost.

I'd rather be on the tip of your blasphemous tongue than swallowed down whole.

Frosty fingertips gliding down the celestial mouth guilted into loving another.
Don't deny me this gift from God, don't spit it back to frolic within the realms of teenage fuckups.
Relinquish this bastardized mother that I suckle onto, give me back your gift.

All of these words come from the goddess, under these blankets made of moons.
She's a rude phantasm; she knows how empty she leaves these halls,
Where she walked, where she yelled, where she lay passionate.
She's too cruel: she knows exactly how hollow she's left this shell of a home.
Hell quivers at the thought of accepting her; Heaven turns it's head and accepts no call.
Where will we go now? What chapter lies riddled in this pungent mess of a man?
I am but one excuse away from fulfillment.
Janice.

Janice used to live here. Not in this home, but in these thoughts.
Janice doesn't understand the idea of home ownership.
We will miss you, but you are never gone.
You will miss me, but I am never gone.
Don't ever shun the solace that you can find within a moment's peace.
Just accept every twist and turn as an overpopulated modernity.
We are smarter than this; we are better than this.
We are but one phonecall away from sleeping well at night.


But you don't come around here no more.

Hurrah Song (final lyrics)

When you're sitting lonely upon some party's kitchen countertop

Holding a well-known drink you hope that no one sees, but I see you.

I'm so tired of nothing, some bland excuse to not allow some love.

I want to feel like my dreams are not fancy, but a preview.

Let's be reckless, and

Fervently honest, because

This fire's always burning, our hopeless hearts are yearning

For something that's worthy of passion.

So wrap your arm around mine, from hazy nights/new skylines,

This life's just waiting for us to begin.

With your head resting on my shoulder, all I hear are the best sounds.

An orchestrated choir of chaos and class, and art in your chest.

This town imprisons us with confectionery, ordinary.

Let's break out and find solace. A place to sleep, but never rest.

This fire's always burning, our hopeless hearts are yearning

For something that's worthy of passion.

So wrap your arm around mine, from hazy nights/new skylines,

This life's just waiting for us to begin.

WFEYSE (final lyrics)

Do you recall our past lives?

Do you resent our great lines?

Contorting maps in our minds.

Where do our vibrant souls go?

Where do these rapid pulses go?

They ride electrified bones.

Tonight let's become what we're meant to be,

But I've been dead for years.

Hollowed head, but void of vacancy,

Riddled with mute fears.

There's fervor in this testimony,

"We are all like balloons".

Hands are partnered in matrimony,

To cacophony...

On we march through clumsy love,

Out of sync with native drums

For future promise's hum

To make us whole.

Remember when we were cockatiels?

We drank on rooftops at night.

I chewed on my lips in honest nervousness.

I chewed on my lips in honest nervousness.

Remember when we stole our Glow? (I chewed on my lips in honest nervousness.)

We let our hair down as blinds. (I chewed on my lips in honest nervousness.)

Remember when we pronounced blood oaths? (I chewed on my lips in honest nervousness.)

We cemented them in lights. (I chewed on my lips in honest nervousness.)

Now we're no more than Vulgar Skulls.

Do you recall our past lives?

Do you resent our great lines?

Contorting maps in our minds.

Where do our vibrant souls go?

Where do these rapid pulses go?

They ride electrified bones.

One silhouetted ship begins to fall from Heaven.

Sails made from your anointed sheets do beat.

Two mechanical hearts beat out of time in the stern,

Set like cogs breaking down to different beats.

And three crewmates will orchestrate

Just how the S.S. Carnality will be shipwrecked.

One silhouetted ship begins to fall from Heaven.

Sails made from your anointed sheets do beat.

Two mechanical hearts beat out of time in the stern,

Set like cogs breaking down to different beats.

And three crewmates will orchestrate

Just how the S.S. Carnality will go down, down, down...

"All hands on deck! This is the captain of your ship!

Take down the masts! Say your goodbyes with Hospital Hands!

Remove the sails! Replace with nooses to free yourselves!

My condolences, To all who carried torches for our ship."

We're going down, we're shipwrecked.

Please tell me if this is worth trying,

Sailing these static seas.

Please tell me if this is worth trying.

Gutting these flawless dreams.

Please tell me if this is worth trying,

Blaring testimonies.

All in all, we're more than this,

We are all like balloons.

Ex Wives (Steal My Girlfriends) [final lyrics]

Teenage romance exhales such sweet sincerity

And allows us to rob each other of expectancy.

Vengeance is sweeter when the lover's bitter.

The fruit gets softer and peels with time.

An open heart makes for an easy target,

A thousand misdeeds' wrath will reign upon us.

Forgiveness is a carrot in the face of a stupid horse.

I stack shit highest, shovel shit fastest, feed me more punishment.

This joke of modern love, has taken a hard look in the mirror.

If breaking hearts is wrong, why don't you do it right?

This violent act guised as love, let it breeze through, don't open your eyes.

Let's keeping honing wrong until we get it right.

New York Bomb Appraisal (final lyrics)

Awake after all these missed fates

A lifetime in monotone caught on tape.

Tonight let's become what we're meant to, we're meant to be.

Disguised as poetry,

Too honest for you to notice me.

Tonight let's become what we're meant to, we're meant to be.

So breathe a heavy sigh of relief, and

Burn! Burn New York! Feel remorse

As these black clouds fill your lungs!

Come, Blood Foxes! Radical Wolves!

Come take back these songs you haven't sung!

So many clever responses,

Shut down mid-word by the Skull-less

(Come on and drag the coast, rob blind and make a toast!

I've got so many questions, punctuated by guns)

Is this what I've come to expect?

Applause from this callous mess?

Oh, brilliant knives! Fumigate this life!

Make good of this attempt at bashful violence.

Let there be no mistake: our lives are worth less than what we take.

For power, for mercy, for vengeance, for rivalry.

For all of those pretty things we saw you had but could never be.

Oh, we focused on execution, but not the outcome.

Glow (final lyrics)

Settle down, and rest your weary bones.

What solemn stories do you know?

Let that fountain pour out of your head,

Over your lips, and out the bed.

Where is your real home? Oh, how I wish I’d know.

Despite pseudo bloodlines, you can’t deny your glow.

Ambivalence, from both parents,

Stretched out to far lands, holding out careless hands

You hold, like grabbing hollow limbs of

Ghosts, vindictive and forgetful.

And we’ll just pacify with carnal carriages, cuz

They’re not coming to get you, no, no one’s coming for you.

And we’ll just pacify with carnal carriages, cuz

They’re not coming to get you, no, no one’s coming for you.

Don’t rotten acts make for good laughs?

And everyone believes the ones left smiling.

Where is your real home? Oh, how I wish I’d know.

Despite pseudo bloodlines, you can’t deny your glow.

Ambivalence, from both parents,

Stretched out to far lands, holding out careless hands.

But I’m a dangerous man, I just need a spark.

Oh, I’m a careless man, just give me a start.

The fires keep lapping, keep living.

With thoughts wired, we’re left to ask ourselves:

Where now? Just keep glowing.

Where now? Just glow.

Luxe: Chapter Two

Quite possibly the most peculiar room of the house was the den. Located in the sub-basement, below the cavernous garage that seemed to mingle with an infinite horizon, down a winding serpentine staircase that collides into a distant narrowing hallway. The walls of this hallway are greeted by the kiss of real mahogany, lining the entire way; decorating either wall are portraits of famous dead celebrities, made magnificent by their own individual brilliant lamp embracing each one from above, all shown in their prime. Below each portrait are personalized plaques made from real gold, upon each were the full name of the accompanying celebrity depicted, in all capital letters. Below the names were their real names, in quotation marks, capitalized correctly; and below that was the name of a particular color, for some seemingly unknown reason. For example:

MARILYN MONROE

"Norma Jean"

Pearl

or:

FRANK SINATRA

"Francis Albert Sinatra"

Turquoise

What made each portrait even more peculiar, albeit undoubtedly more unique, was that each person was shown entirely in the nude. Showing no sign of shame or reluctance, they each posed beautifully, with a sense of pride and even content breathing from each semblance of reality. Each was not unlike a great painting made by some renowned artist, though these could be from a modern brush.

These portraits seemed to go on well into forever, accompanied by an explosive red shag carpeting, paving the way to the abrupt end of the hall; where to the immediate right, a grand, ominously placed maple door could be seen behind yet another small flight of stairs leading down. It was at the foot of these steps Mr. Blue stood, gazing at the door's Victorian-era handle, preoccupied in though of what could lay before him inside. Many times he had been in this position before, at least once a week to be precise; however, it had been a long while since he had been to Mr. Black's den on bitter terms beforehand. Above his head was the daunting, exaggerated knocker that was bolted on to the door at about six feet above the ground, which added to his discomforting feeling of insignificance. He grabbed onto it and gave three quick knocks to the door, the resulting reverberations of the door echoing throughout the hallway. As Mr. Blue waiting for some sort of answer, his eyes wandered towards the final portrait in the long hallway, closest to the door. Unlike every other portrait on the walls, Mr. Blue could not recognize who the celebrity was on this one. It depicted a stern looking gentleman, which immediately contrasted the continuity of every other portrait, with short black hair and a slight grey undertone. He wasn't necessarily a terrific-looking man, and he did not have the most overly masculine physique, but his overpowering indiscernible scowl more than compensated for any other traits that could be assumed from a mere glance. He looked cold, cunning, charming, clever, and above all else, powerful. His accompanying plaque read:

BRODY BLILIE

"Broderick Andretti"

Grey

As soon as he had read that final word, the handle clicked and swerved open the door, revealing the petite figure of the live-in maid that resided in there.

"You're early," she said, in a mundane, somewhat disturbed voice. "You've got another two minutes before he wants to see you."

"Just let me in, Cherie," Mr. Blue sighed. "I just want this done and over with. I know he doesn't have anyone else in there right now." He then proceeded to try and let himself through the door, but was blocked by Cherie's arm grabbing onto the frame.

"Actually, he's busy with a very special client, booking a fall fashion show in New York, so if you just wouldn't mind waiting outsi-"

"I'll just wait at the bar, then."

Mr. Blue then pushed his head under her arm and proceeded directly towards the illuminated liquor cases. As Cherie stood, glaring at him with disbelief, he made himself a White Russian almost instantaneously, consumed its contents with one swig, and slammed it onto the polished granite countertop.

"Pig," Cherie muttered. "You filthy pig. I hope he gives you hell."

As Mr. Blue enjoyed a handful of cashews from a nearby bowl which he chewed with a vapid open mouth, he looked back at her, smiled, and winked.

"I'm an animal, baby! Come and ride me."

Mr. Blue's anxiety from earlier before had completely escaped him, replaced with a confident swagger that he boasted to his surface. However, curiosity for what lay ahead of him with Mr. Black was insatiable.

"Seriously, Cherie, when are you gonna let me take you out and make an honest woman out of you? You've been here for over two years now, and you're the only ass I haven't tapped yet!"

"Won't be the case for long," Cherie sighed under her breath.

"What was that? Do my ears deceive me?"

"That doesn't mean what you think it does, asshole," she snarled while squinting at Mr. Blue. "You're about to find out soon enough."

Mr. Blue laughed and leaned his elbows onto the counter, staring at the ice in his empty glass. He then saw the reflection of a human figure grow within it, taking shape against the ice until becoming decipherable. It was Mr. Black, leaning against the door frame to his den in a burgundy robe. Mr. Blue jumped up at once and cleared his dry throat.

"Mr. Black! I'm here for the, uh...I'm ready for our meeting, sir."

"Cut the shit, Blue. You've wasted enough of everybody's time by pretending to be some sort of playboy. Get your ass in my den, now." Mr. Black then turned back into the room with Mr. Blue hurriedly following after him.

The den was dimly lit by a row of chandeliers hanging overhead, bringing to life the intricacies of each trophy and memoir of a confessed dilettante. A thousand eyes glared back at Mr. Blue from behind picture frames smothering each of the four walls, all belonging to the world's most renowned and recognized individuals. Deep, knowing eyes that bounce off of the achievements and commemorations, the gleaming trophies and plaques that rest upon deep mahogany displays. This was the meeting place of a refined individual, an obvious mover-and-shaker, but of what purpose?

"Think to yourself, Blue: why do you think you're in my den, speaking to me, right now? Take your time." As they both took their respective seats, Mr. Blue did his best to subside his fear by scouring his mind for a response. He became relieved at the immediacy of having found one: "It's time for my weekly assessment, evaluation, and assignment, sir." Mr. Black laughed to himself and poured himself a drink. "Whiskey, Blue?"

"No thank you, sir."

"Blue, your performance is the same as usual. You do the same damn job every week now. How much longer is post-production for that movie, anyway? This sitcom business in the meantime is bullshit."

"You don't like The Freshman, sir?"

"I'm just saying it's below you, is all. Red is winning games and getting new endorsements each week. Miss Magenta is releasing a new album in less than a month and is currently on tour in the United Kingdom. And Miss Green? Your costar on this little show? She just signed up to star in a new superhero movie directed by George Lucas that starts shooting in two weeks! This sitcom limbo you're in is killing you, which in turn is killing me. So what are you going to do about it?"

"I'll talk to Tarantino about it first thing on Monday, sir."

"I bet you will," Mr. Black leaned back in his chair and took another drink. "I bet you will. And now, on to more pressing matters." He picked up the phone on his desk and spoke somewhat loudly into the receiver. "Cherie, you can let them in now."

Mr. Blue had a feeling of what was going to happen next. He had been anticipating this moment for weeks now, feeling his excitement come to a boil as he walked down the hallway earlier, and reaching its breaking point as he sat in front of Mr. Black in sustained silence, waiting for him to bring up the subject so that he did not seem so eager. "What's going on, Mr. Black?"

He snickered. "You mean Mr. Fisher.:

"What are you talking about?"

"My name is Andrew Fisher, Blue. My real name. God, it's been so long since I've heard it, it feels like. I hardly even say it."

Mr. Blue's heart skipped a beat and sunk inside of his chest.

"Why are you telling me this?"

Just as Mr. Blue asked the question, an older, yet elegant looking woman walked into the room, accompanied by a younger, zealous, yet stern looking man. The woman had milk-white skin, auburn hair, and a slender figure that greatly complimented the attire she had on. Mr. Blue recognized her right away as Mrs. White, Mr. Black's wife. The man, on the other hand, caught his attention; he had never met him before, but he recognized him as well from someplace, somewhere. And recently, at that! It was the look on his face, and the short black hair that Mr. Blue could not connect to a name...until he thought back to the hallway. The plaques. The final one before the door. He was the unknown celebrity.

Mr. Blue shook himself from his fixation and got up to greet the guests. He took Mrs. White's hand into his and kissed it, then shook the celebrity's.

"Blue, meet the man who will be known to the world soon enough as Brody Blilie."

Brody continued to shake Mr. Blue's hand, never letting his gaze escape his sight. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Blue."

"Can we all take a seat now?" Mrs. White finally broke her silence. Mr. Blue and Brody took a seat at one side of the desk, while Mrs. White sat beside her husband. "We have some very important business to discuss."

"Blue, are you're very much aware of, at the next house meeting in two weeks we are having the annual Rank Revisions. And we're all very much aware that you have had your heart set upon one day moving up to the ranks of the Achromatics. Well, I wanna fill you in on a little secret that does not leave this room: Mrs. White and I are resigning at the Rank Revisions."

The sudden silence that then fell upon the room choked the words right out of Mr. Blue's throat, causing him to exude merely a slight yelp in response. He looked over towards Mrs. White, who was caressing her husband's hand, looking down toward the desk. Brody sat with arms folded, staring directly t0wards Mr. Black. Mr. Blue assumed that since he had no affiliation, he simply could not understand the gravity of such news. After a few seconds, Mr. Black held up his hand and continued.

"Blue, I've worked closely with your for twelve years, shaping you from a child celebrity doing commercials to the cultural icon that I needed you to be. I've treated you like my own son, and shared with you everything that I've owned. But we both know that this is a business that we're in, and we must do what's best or entire generations and cultures! We can't just trust that power to anyone, especially someone who doesn't understand the importance of what we do. I've done all I can in my position; as we Mrs. White feels she has, too. That's why we feel it's time to retire. I feel comfortable enough and confident enough in my decisions that I can tell you my real name; my wife can, too."

Mrs. White looked at Mr. Blue with caring eyes, smiled, and began to speak.

"Betty Fisher."

Mr. Black continued. "Which leads me to my next bit of information that is not meant to leave this room. Blue, my boy, the Rank Revisions have been made, and our replacement has been decided. He sits right before us now."

Mr. Blue could barely conceal his tears of joy and began to take deep exaggerated breaths. "Mr. Black, it would be an honor to inherit your title and to become one of the Achromatics. I had been waiting for this opportunity since I came into this house, and I know I won't let you down!"

Mr. Black stared silent for a second, smiled, then began to laugh boisterously, almost mockingly at Mr. Blue's self-confidence. Mr. Blue's ecstatic smirk began to wane, and a sudden wave uncertainty began to swell and fester inside of him. He swallowed the limp in his throat and nervously attempted to remain smiling.

"I'm glad I could make our dreams come true, my boy. I'm sure you won't let me down. But there are going to be some changes around here, especially in regards to the title of Black."

"And what's that, sir?" That swelling feeling began to grow exponentially within him.

"Blue, Brody sitting next to you is my son. My actual, flesh-and-bone, born in the blood son. And he is taking over the house as Mr. Grey."

Mr. Blue's stomach instantly turned over and he felt as if he were sinking lower and lower into himself.

"What do you mean." He could hardly whimper the words.

"Grey inherits the power of both White and Black, effective immediately after the Rank Revisions. He-"

"But what about me?" Mr. Blue's voice had risen significantly. "What's the point of becoming Black then?"

"You'll serve as second in command to Grey."

Meanwhile, Grey still had the same poise and composition as earlier, never moving in the slightest.

"So I'll be in the same position that I am now? So what was the point? What was the point of any of this?"

"You know what the position of Black entails, Blue. Grey just overrides it."

"Bullshit! Fucking bullshit! I've worked my ass off trying to make you happy, doing what I can to shape the world as you see fit. I've talked how you want me to talk, worn what you told me to wear, done all the things you wanted me to do, I've done every little insignificant detail perfectly. And look at what the world is now because of ti! Because of me! I've changed the face of this culture with just a few movies and a handful of photos, don't I deserve more credit? And who the fuck is this guy anyway? I've dedicated my life to this organization, and this no-name shows up and takes everything from under me. Doe he even know what we do? Does he even know how important we are? He has no-"

"Now listen here, you little shit," Mr. Black interjected, red in the face and restricting his temper as much as possible. "You would be a fucking nobody if it weren't for me, I own you. Zero, nothing! If I didn't take the time to pick you out for myself, from among the heap of other shitbags from whatever the name was of that hick town you were spawned in, you would still be there bagging groceries.I made you! And now you're questioning whether or not I"m making a right decision? And what exactly would you do that wasn't in your best interest? Just trust me in that although Grey has never lived in this house, he is more capable of leading this organization into the brighter future that it deserves than every current member combined, current company included. Now if you can't respect that decision, then you know of the options that you can take. Meeting dismissed. Get out of my office."

The room stood perfectly still, each person completely frozen in place. Mr. Blue's eyes moved wildly against it, looking upon each face for some sort of sympathy, something to reassure him that someone was on his side, but to no avail. He was all alone. He would have to pick his own gaping jaw up and swallow his own pride down. Nobody would lift his body up and let him out the door but his own will and shame, and that evident lack of support was eating through him like a widening hole that's frail to the touch. By the time he had reached the door, he had acknowledged this hole within him, and opted to fill it with something that would blind him of the desires of others and of his own responsibility. A blinding fury, a new found feeling of righteousness overtook him as he grabbed the handle. He tightened his grip upon it, clenched his eyes and teeth, and let out a deep sigh. Facing the door, Mr. Blue spoke.

"I just think that you should give credit where credit is due. I feel like I had this a long time coming. I don't appreciate being robbed."

He turned back to Mr. Black, gave him a final sneer, opened the door and headed out. Mr. Blue left a lasting scathing presence that found it's way up his spine and resided in there, chilling and stirring away. Mr. Grey scoffed and did nothing more. Mr. Blue passed Cherie's desk; she was busy painting her nails, yet she looked up at him and became concerned when he didn't take the time to share a few words with her before he left.

"Something the matter, Blue?"

Mr. Blue proceeded forward without even so much as glancing at her, keeping a snarl on his face the entire time. He opened a door that led back into the hallway, and was met immediately by Mr. Grey's portrait. He paused for a moment to take it in, to really scan and memorize every detail of his face, his body, his hair, every physical aspect that he thought would be of importance to him in the near future. His rage began to conjure up within him, and before he could find another outlet, he took all that rage into his hands, balled up into a fist, and struck the wall next to the painting. Over and over again, fist bleeding into the cracks that he was creating, parts of drywall flying into the air, splinters getting caught between his knuckles. He continued until he couldn't hear his own shouts of agony in his own ears anymore; instead replaced by a piercing high-pitched whine. When he opened his eyes, what barely resembled a fist was pressing against the crated he had devastated into the wall. Tears began dripping onto his unclenching hand, throbbing with pain, taking any bloodstains along it's path with it as they fell into the floor. He knew he was sobbing, his convulsing chest proved this so. He exhaled one final defeated breath, fogging up the plaque in front of him, lifted his head, and walked back down the hallway.