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The timer on the microwave beeped after four minutes, precisely how Brian Lelland enjoyed his French pressed coffee. Two tablespoons of ground, water boiled in an electric kettle, then wait. If it gave a little resistance when he pushed down the plunger, he knew it'd be perfect. It was his measure of how the day would go, a little superstition in a life of cold reality: numbers, cash, meeting room deals.
Being a CFO wasn't easy, especially when the company you worked for had their hands full with a series of recalls on parts that turned your stalwart line of automobile models into rolling deathtraps of hellfire. But Brian never let things like that scare him. He could trust the numbers and the market trends, and he would lead them through the storm into clear skies soon enough.
The plunger of the press firmly sank into the muddy waters of the steaming hot coffee, and that was just the feeling he needed to start the day. Oatmilk creamer, a bagel with cream cheese and a bit of sliced salmon, a quick shower (shampoo the hair every other day, that was the efficient way) and a goodbye kiss for Ashley, his wife going on two years. "I think we should do that kayak tour this weekend, the sea lions are out," she suggested. "Wouldn't that be fun?" Brian smiled. "You gonna get seasick again?" She gave him a look. "Alright, alright. I'm leaving."
Dressed, phone, wallet, keys - Brian grasped the doorknob and
looked back at Ashley Sophia, her red brown hair falling over the back of the couch with a novel in hand, the sunlight filtering through the window to illuminate her. He reminded himself to be thankful to have her. Try to make things last for decades unlike his own parents.
Brian's smile faltered. "Ashley?" he asked, blurting it out without stopping himself. "Huh? Who?" Sophia asked, turning to look at him. "Uh, nothing. Bye honey." He left, driving his imported sports car out of the garage and out of the neighborhood, towards downtown. Why did he forget Sophia's name there? For a second he thought she dyed her hair, too. Dementia moment? God, he hoped not. His dad was starting to show signs, he didn't need that happening early. Not now.
He eventually forgot about the moment and made it to work on time - he had the route memorized and knew exactly when to leave and when he'd arrive to be slightly early, only SLIGHTLY. He'd have to pick up where he left off, checking the news feeds, the financial reports, how stocks were doing. As he made his way to the office, he passed by his assistant, Jeremy.
“Morning Brian Bill,” he said. “The Big Man wants investors wanna talk to you, about that court case coming up. The one with the lady whose husband burnt up in that highway accident? Yeah, she’s still on it.” The Big Man was their name for the CEO, (you know what forget the CFO stuff, saves me having to research economics)
Bill's easy smile faltered. His eyes glazed. "...Bill?" Jeremy asked again. "You good?" "Huh? Yeah...wait, did you say I have to do the sitdown? What about...what about..." He had a name and a face but it was gone, a lingering sense of loss left in its wake. "...Yeah, and, I gotta level with you, they're pissed. Pissed and scared. You gotta throw 'em a bone while Brian draws up his report."
"I'm...Bill," Bill said. Jeremy just stared at him. "Sorry, just, didn't get much sleep. I'll get, uh, I'll go meet with them." Bill entered the meeting room, where the old men railed at him for letting things get to this point, that the press was crucifying the company, that social media was ripping them a new one, etc. Bill tried to placate them, but the meeting ended with a dark cloud covering it all. He felt in a daze.
Something was wrong. He didn't feel like Bill, although intellectually he of course knew he was Bill Smith all along. But this wasn't just some identity crisis, he did NOT feel like a Bill Smith. Suddenly everything felt fake. He needed a drink, or a nap, or maybe fake his death and go live in the UK. All three sounded good, not necessarily in that order.
He stood and
(blocked on this corporate intrigue crap, need something simpler) Bill Smith, coach to the Seattle Grinders, knew he had to turn this team around, and fast - if they didn't go to the Super Bowl this year his career was over and they'd move the whole franchise to Portland. He stared down at the playbook as if he could will it to guarantee victory tonight by psychic force alone.
Bill looked around the locker room alarmed, dropping the playbook on the concrete floor and jerking backwards into the lockers with a clatter, chest heaving with rapid, panicked breaths as his wide eyes tried to make sense of his surroundings, like a cow brought into a slaughterhouse from a darkened truck trailer. "WHAT THE FUCK?!" he screamed.
Ash Lelland, the Grinder's hot new quarterback, rose from the bench and quickly moved to his coach's side. "Coach? Are you okay? Do I need to get the doc?" He was a good kid, that Ash. Red haired, focused on the game, naturally charismatic. Bill jerked his arm from the man's grip. "What...what....where. I'm...I'm Bill. I'm BILL!" he said, voice quavering. The other players exchanged worried looks. Coach looked lost. Ash motioned for one of them to grab doc, now convinced coach was having a stroke, or a heart attack. "Coach, it's okay, sit down - Trev, get some water, get some towels - sit down and stay calm."
"I don't know where I am, where's my office. This is...is this real? I'm a CEO at....at..." But the memory, if that's what it was, was fading. The sense of dread, the feeling of being ripped out of something, the animal terror - those did not. "Help me...I don't know...I don't know..." His face scrunched up as he began to sob out of fear, sinking against the lockers while surrounded by the red and white clad football players.
"Doc's coming, coach, don't worry," Ash Joey said, putting on his best comforting smile. Although the young quarterback was starting to feel terror of his own. That this would soon turn into a hasty ambulance trip and a devastating loss. The coach had done everything for this team, especially what he had done for Bobby's sick sister, and the Grinders (you know what Seattle sucks) Boston Spuckies losing him would be devastating.
Bill blinked and he was now looking at the fiery but good hearted quarterback known as Joey Verducci, surrounded by the blue and gold players of the underdog Spuckies. "Coach?" Joey asked. Bill screamed and scrambled away from them, running out in a delirious state to get away from whatever this was. Wherever, WHOever he was. "I'M BILL!" he screamed.
Brian Rogan pressed the plunger of his french press after precisely 5 minutes to let the coffee mingle with the hot water, turning his head as his beautiful fiancée Becca embraced him from behind. "Call in sick today. Let's go to the beach...maybe we'll see some dolphins," she said.
"Dolphins," Brian mumbled. His mind was a fog, panic melting to a pervasive numbness. Brian, yes, he was Brian. He's always been Brian. Becca has always been Becca. "Help," he said, turning to her. "Brian? What's wrong?" Becca asked in a concerned tone, putting a hand to his cheek. "He
Blue smoke curled out of the revolver's barrel, trailing up to the grimy yellow light of the streetlamp as Brian Bill Benson stared down at the still-warm body of the Irish thug, McKenzie. Boss Shultz thought he could get rid of him that easy, huh?
"HELP ME!" Benson screamed into the city night air, dropping his gun.
Sergeant Bill Shultz couldn't risk going for the fallen form of McKenzie while the snipers were still hidden on the roof. That's what they wanted. But the squad couldn't keep huddling behind the outer wall of the ruined manor like this, otherwise that gun-mounted Toyota will come back and tear them to pieces. "What's the move, Sarge?" Lelland whispered urgently.
Bill began to sob and curl into a ball as a part of the wall exploded, taking out a few of his boys with it.
Captain Brian McKenzie of the USS Fitz
Agent Benson Smith languidly ran a finger around the rim of his vermouth filled glass, the Saudi prince always in the corner of his
King Lelland surveyed the damage done by the dragon to his keep, grimly
(Fuck all this. That Ellison book was pretty good, might as well try.)
The pulsating mass of slick flesh and sinewy muscle that was known only as 'Brian', or at least that was what the scientists called him, writhed and twitched in his holding pen, a gruesome spectacle among the white, sterile furnishings of the laboratory. Chunks of him sloughed off and onto the floor where they would melt in seconds, while the missing parts regenerated.
The doors slid open. The main handler, his creator - though in his fractured cognizance he only knew her as the red-haired food provider - Ashley Lelland walked in holding a container of protein slurry. "Feeding time, Brian!" she said with a smile. One of his working eyes met her smile and he immediately slithered to the food dispenser.
The slurry, loaded into the dispenser, pressed a plunger down to squirt it into his dish. Ashley watched him lap it up with his remaining working proboscis. Their work here would revolutionize medicine as mankind knew it, but she sometimes pitied the creature. His sacrifice would be remembered.
She looked at the name they gave him. Maybe 'Bill' was punchier.
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