*dropped off the edge again, down in Juarez...i don't think you even know what you think you just said...*

     Tori Amos on the jukebox, wailing and whining and reminding Todd Manning in some ugly way of nobody so much as his long-gone "victim" Marty Saybrooke--big hair, piano-playing, self-righteous ire. Confirming yet again how it really is like there's just one of everything here in dear ol' Llanview, Pennsylvania: One church, one courthouse, one restaurant, one hotel, one police station, one bar. And everybody has to go there and only there, no matter for what or why. You want luxury, you check into Renee's place--want surgery, go down the street and check into the E.R. Go to jail and you end up in Statesville, like Todd's old L.U. frat buddy Zach, who's probably just over halfway through doing the same whack of time Todd himself should still be doing on rape/assault and conspiracy to obstruct; go crazy and you end up in the only bin around, like Todd's big sis Vicki, or his ex-wife Blair's mother, or Todd's *other* frat buddy Powell. Like Todd himself could've, he'd played the bullshit Multiple Personality Disorder card out to its illogical conclusion, way back--when? Two years ago, maybe three?

     If that.

     History piled on history everywhere you look, knotted-squirming like an upended bag of snakes. Like layers of dirt and scratch on a bar-room glass--doesn't matter what you pour in on top of it, 'cause the marks don't ever go away. And when you drink down far enough to be able to see 'em again, then...

     ...well, that's when it's *definitely* time to yell out for another round.

     And: "How'd you get the scar?" That foxy-faced, green-eyed guy on the other side of him picks this exact time to ask. He's down the end of the bar, playing with his beer-glass like if he studies it long enough, it's gonna fill up again all by itself; Todd gives him the two-kinds-of-suspicious narrowed glare that keeps most people away--far away, like far as they can get without running. But buddy here just keeps on waiting, 'till Todd finally tells him--

     "Chick hit me. With a piece of pipe."

     "That happen a lot, around here?"

     Todd shrugs. "Sorta..."

     Adding, at the same time, inside his head:

     ...but mainly if you're me.

     Looking at himself in the bar's equally grimy mirror, now: His fucked-up face with its fucked-up scar across one cheek, thin and white like wire, from where that freaky witch-bitch Luna Moody whammed him over the side of the head to stop him putting the boots to Marty one more time. Back when he was still arrogant with old football star privilege, sloppy beer- and puppy-fat over steroid-pumped quarterback muscle, hair to his shoulders and a fresh new tribal tat on his arm. Back when he was nobody but Peter Manning's disappointing one and only son, packed off to the back of butt-fuck nowhere for not being much good at anything but getting ripped and throwing games, already well on his way to being elected Frat Boy Rapist #1 for the rest of his natural life.

     Nothing at ALL like the slick mother he seems like now, with his Armani suits and his "hip" jaw-stubble. Town demon Victor Lord's lost kid. Tabloid editor. Uncaught cyber-terrorist. Resident alien.

     Him and Blair used to laugh about it, once upon a whatever. Play pariah games: My angst is bigger than your angst, baby. Commiserate, make lists--who I'm gonna "get", in order of importance. One to infinity.

     That year he was down so far he had to *steal* a Christmas tree off the garbage heap, and Blair came to see him in that crappy no-heat, roach-ridden motel room. When they made Starr together, and Todd had his first good sleep since Marty--kind of sleep he'd never had before, and sure hasn't had since.

     Back when, back when, back when.

     'Course, Blair's been on that list herself, since then. A couple times, in actual fact.

     *but no angel came...*

     And here's that same guy, again. Asking:

     "So--there an end to that story, or what?"

     "'Scuse me?"

     "The chick, with the pipe. She still around?"

     Todd takes a fresh swig, finishes the glass, snaps his fingers at the bar-droid for another. Gets 'tude in return, and turns his scowl into the world's least convincing grin: Puh-LEEZE, O dispenser of beer and disapproval? Pretty please, with a big fat hundred-buck bill on top?

     *Thank* you.

     "Nope," Todd tells the guy. "She got something, died. Her ex married mine."
     "*That* happen a lot?"

     "Getting married, or getting dead?"

     "The 'dead' part."

     Todd frowns. "Around here? Kinda, yeah."

     Come to think.

     Freaky Luna, plus that just-as-freaky other chick whose name Todd can't even recall anymore, considering he almost went back to jail--strapping dynamite to his body, racking up three hundred years'-worth of kidnapping charges, screwing hisa lready-screwed rep beyond any hope of resurrection--over trying to prove he wasn't her murderer. Plus Blair's aunt Dorian's guy Mel. Plus Todd's neice Jessica's baby. Plus Marty's older-than-old boyfriend, long before she took up with that dude Patrick from Ireland: Suede Pruitt, with his stupid name and his crappy aim, taking a punch from Todd only to fall backwards, hit his head on something and *die* right there in the church basement while Marty screamed over his body that she'd see Todd punished if it took her the rest of her life...

     People dying, people leaving town. Todd's bible-thumping little Eurasian first "girlfriend" Rebecca, his hotsy-totsy Hispanic lawyer turned second wife Tea. Marty herself, so long-gone now it was like she'd never been here at all, except for that lingering stink Todd still carried around with him every fuckin' place he went--inside of Llanview, or out--

     What he'd done to Marty. What he was capable of. Or...

     ...*not*. Capable of.

     But anyway: They died, and they left, and that was basically pretty much THAT. 'Cause once they weren't around anymore, everybody just--kinda--

     --forgot all about 'em.

     As so often happens, here in lovely downtown Llanview--home to Lords and Buchanans and Kramers alike, untapped treasure of the Hex-Sign State. Selective amnesia central.

     And: "Alex," the guy says, like he's finally got tired of waiting for Todd to ask. "That'd be me. Which would make you--?"

     Todd snorts. "Like you don't already know."

     "I don't."

     The glare again, even narrower. Then: "You're kidding, right?"

     *and no angel came...no angel CAME...*

     Oh, and *fuck* Tori Amos, anyway, is all Todd can think, not even vaguely meaning it literally--never does, these days, about almost anybody. Blair, sometimes, even after everything: Fragile Blair, much too thin and muscle-y and strained for that weird buzzcut 'do she started sporting sometime during the last time Todd spent "away", fretting herself to a thin white rope over Max not-exactly-Buchanan and his wall-eyed hooker Skye. Always throwing painful eyes at Todd, shrewd and sad at the same time, like she's trying to figure out his next play before he has time to figure it himself, let alone make it.

     Like nothing's ever gonna be enough to break that plexiglass shield between them, not any more. Not hacking Llanview into a blackout, not setting off fireworks, not even Starr jumping on the bed and crowing over the two of them at total top volume--

     *Mommy and Daddy are getting back together, Mommy and Daddy, Daddy, Daddy...*

     Stepdaddy Max in the hospital, shot through the chest. "Auntie" Skye in jail for the crime of passion in question, or close as Todd could wangle it on sheer improv and short, short notice. But Star could give a damn about any of *that*, man--pure Manning/Lord tunnel-vision under that curly mop, times at least five to ten.

     And that's cool. Todd'd be kinda more weirded if she *didn't* come with her very own pre-school hidden agenda attached, considering. Chip off the old whatever.

     Sometimes, though, he feels it so hard he can't even stand to be near her. When she looks at him with Blair's canny-crazy Kramer gaze, and he feels the raw space where he always heard his heart should be fill up, go sore. Pump out all these awful hallucinations about karma, or some crap: Voices he doesn't even have to make up whispering about retribution visited even unto the last generation. How Sam and Nora's little baby is gonna grow up and do Starr just like Todd did Marty, or worse. How *he*'s gonna do--something--

     Peter Manning's bad example. Victor Lord's blood. Genetics, man. *Logic.*

     But: No. Never. Not EVER. 'Nuff said.

     That's the fear, though, or what Todd thinks must *be* "fear". Along with the simple fact that none of any of them can ever seem to let anything GO, ever, not for one single fucking second. That the one thing that everybody in Llanview always remembers, no matter how everything else slips away, is how Todd Manning has to pay and pay and pay. And then die, and go to Hell, so he can pay and pay and pay some more. Forever and Ever. A-fucking-men.

     Hell, where it's no doubt gonna be Dad-not-Dad Peter himself holding Todd's hand to the stove 24/7, with no time off for begging, screaming, pleading, crying. While Dad-yes-Dad Victor Lord gets to stand around and laugh over how he managed to fuck Todd up so royally without even knowing he existed, screw him so long and hard from the very moment of conception on. Quite the feat, 'specially for some dead dude.

     Nothing ever ceases to amaze Todd, even now. Tries to take it all in stride, but it just ends up making him double-take on his double-takes, mostly without even knowing he's doing it. Drifting through life with a brow continually cocked, that wrinkle between his eyes deep enough to hide change in. Like: You're kidding, right? Say *what*? 'Scuse ME?

     Or don't.

     And because he's far drunker and more completely fed up than ever with Llanview's crap in general, Todd suddenly finds himself blurting out most of the above--at *length*--to Mr Green-eyed Handsome Man at the end of the bar, in his leather jacket with the one sleeve hanging slack. "Left my left back home," buddy says, off-hand (ha, ha), like he expects Todd to be *shocked*, or something; prob'ly thinks he's got it pretty harsh in general, no doubt.

     Though, as Todd's quick to point out, in the harsh realm--so to speak--Todd's own personal bag of glitches still rate a lot harsher than most.

     "So, what do you hicks do for fun 'round here, anyway?" The guy asks, idly.

     "Threw a party once where I strapped dynamite to my chest."

     "Co-ol."

     "Yeah, whatever."

     "You mess around?" The guy inquires, appropos of nothing much. Dark arched brow over glass-green eye-flick, smooth and cool and not exactly *engaged* enough to take it personal if Todd tells him to shove off instead.

     Todd takes a swig, swallows, growls. "With who?"

     "Anybody." A pause. "Me, for example."

     *Oh, like I couldn't see *that* one coming.*

     But still.

     Casting him the usual cold, appraising look, from which buddy--unlike most--doesn't even start to shrink. And thinking how this guy's probably played a few pariah games too, in his time. What with him being some gimp, some drifter freak, some gear-loose out-of-town fag on the prowl for rough trade in a burg so unbelievably Daytime Broadcasting Standards-clean it practically squeaks when you walk around, let alone when you do...anything else...

     "I raped somebody. You heard about that, right?"

     "No, I hadn't heard about that."

     "I'm a--convicted--rapist. And I lie. And I make lists of people I'm gonna get. And I'm really rich, and I never sleep. And I'm still in love with my--"

     (first)

     "--wife."

     Crazy Blair, high-strung like that horse he gave her for their first anniversary. Crazy Starr, already keeping lists of her own. Crazy Rebecca, crazy Tea, crazy Marty.

     Crazy, crazy Todd.

     The guy shrugs. And says: "Yeah, well--I used to be in the FBI, and I'm a Russian double agent, and I got my arm hacked off with a dull fucking knife knife. And aliens exist. And there's a secret war going on. And I think *I*'m probably in love with this guy who hits me in face every time I see him..."

    "Like 'love' even means anything, anyway."

    "Exactly."

    Todd looks at him, looks away. Looks back. Finishes his shot. Gives a shrug of his own.

    "Sounds fair enough to me," he says. Adding, in his mind: If you even believe in "fair", to begin with.

     Which Todd--

     *and you know that i can breathe...even when i cheat...should, should've been over for me...*

     --doesn't.
 

THE END