This is another one of those dead stories...

 

Michel stirred slowly, and realized the room he was in was dark. Very dark. Now, you see, there are many kinds of darkness. There is gloomy, night, black, pitch black, and the apt “Oh my god where is my hand”. Right now Michel was in the “Oh my god where is my hand” darkness. Not that it mattered. It wasn’t the fact that he was in darkness that worried him. It was the fact that he was no longer sure of exactly where, or who for that matter, he was. The universe seemed to spin and whirl as he tried to figure out which way was down, and which way had the least possibility of him running into something. Not that he was even sure what there was to run into here. It was just black. With that, Michel tried to wipe his face and realized a very important fact he had failed to realize… that his eyes were closed.

 

Michel lived a much disoriented life, mostly revolving around a small wooden hut made of beach litter he had constructed some time ago. The workmanship of this hut was never a question in Michel’s mind, because in his mind, this was a palace. Now, this conclusion usually came to him after a case of beer and a good, long attempt at fishing. Now, Michel had never been a good fisherman. It had never dawned on him that taking up something, for example, hunting would be more beneficial. Michel was never the type to let anything dawn on him that may mean either more work or more work. Usually, that meant more work for him, but he never let this fact bother him.

 

Now, it would make sense for anyone else, upon waking up, to open their eyes. This, sadly, was yet another one of Michel’s failings. His common sense was that of someone who, sadly, would end up dying in a toilet seat accident. This, also, explained some of Michel’s failings in the environment of work. A simple task that would take someone with the common sense of a dipstick about an hour to do would puzzle Michel for a week. The only thing he had on his side was perseverance. Hence, the failed fishing.

 

Now, Michel survived on a lowly income derived from cashing in empty bottles found on the side of the nearby highway, selling “fresh fish” (Which was a danger to the health of everyone.), or just simply doing easy, manual labor. This usually gave him enough money to do one of two things. The first, quite simply, was to drink. The second was either to eat, which he did amazingly regularly for someone of his financial situation, or buy clothes, which resulted in many ugly two to three dollar deals. Looking at Michel’s wardrobe, one may assume that he had fallen off of the fashion train, which immediately hit sub-light speed and ventured off into a new millennium, leaving poor Michel to fend for himself.

 

Michel sat up in his small, Beachwood hut and looked around. A table haphazardly sat wedges against a wall, one leg broken and the other held by some strange, yellow tape Michel had found on one of his bottle searches. It never occurred to Michel that the table should have four legs, and this one should not be used, being that it only two semi-functional supports. Again, this was lost on Michel. Beside the table was a small fire pit with a semi-functional vent. Now, I say semi-functional in the meaning that if the door was left closed the smoke would eventually all waft out the strange slit in the roof.

 

Beside this sat a trunk containing all of Michel’s clothing, and, of course, his old spring mattress with two old army blankets to cover the decaying fabric and broken springs. On the opposite side of the room, wedged as to close off all light, was an old door, probably stolen from some long forgotten diner kitchen, makeshift jammed so that it would function to keep light and creatures bigger then a cat out.

 

Michel examined the door with a raised eyebrow, still in a stupor. “Mmmnft?” He asked, and, as expected, the door did not respond.

 

Now, Michel’s hut sat in the small sea cove of Sandrib Bay, a small cove in the province of Ontario. Sandrib bay was an out of the way little community of about two thousand residents, and was mostly a fishing community. Now, the small town of Sandrib had an achievement that most other small, Canadian towns lacked. The town hall had attracted a planer by the name of Malvin Robbs from the far away city of Toronto. Not that this really mattered to Michel. In his mind, there were three places that even mattered in Sandrib. They were, in order of importance, Marvin’s Bar and Liquor Store, Shamuses Market and Seafood, and Hal’s New and Used.

 

Not that Michel mattered to Robbs either. In fact, the only reason that Robbs new Michel even existed was a report about a vagrant holed up on the other side of the cove. “Mmfrknnt?!” Michel again questioned the door, who remained defiantly silent. He glared at the door, and it continued to stoically sit and block out the sun, silent as a sentinel covered in toilet paper. He would have kept glaring at it had he not noticed the sound of a vehicle. Puzzled, Michel walked up and tried to remove the defiant door from its silent vigil.

 

He fought with the door for a minute, the way only a person with a hangover can, and stumbled out into the sunlight. A vehicle sat parked in front of his small hut on the beach, and a young, red haired man stepped out and walked up to the now twitching occupant of this hovel.

 

“Michel Vargs? I have a notice of removal for you.” This young man wearing a patrol officer’s uniform said as he handed Michel a piece of White paper with blurry, black marks on it. “You have three months.”

 

“Mnkft?” Was all Michel could manage.

 

“Excuse me?” The young officer asked.

 

“mft fkr tr frhrg?!” Michel screamed.

 

“Three months. Good day sir.” The young man curtly said, deciding this vagrant wasn’t worth his time.

 

“MMFT! FTGRT! GRFFIG! FRRR! Frr… frr… frk.” Michel slurred as he crumpled up the note and entered his shack, tossing it over behind the trunk, and attempting to start a fire, burning himself three times. It never dawned on him to read the paper.

 

Chapter 2

 

About a mile from where Michel sat trying to start a simple fire, Malvin Robbs sat at his polished oak desk and continued to work on the proposal to the Council. He was quite proud of his proposal, and pictures of bonuses and honors gleamed in his head as he continued to write up statistical analysis and review ground stability reports. It never entered Robbs head that the land he had zoned for this project was under the proprietorship of one Michel Vargs, or that in fact at this very moment the notice that he had sent to this vagrant lay crumpled behind a pile of smelly, oddly colored clothing.

 

This proposal was big. Robbs had decided to invite some of the tourism industry into this quiet, secluded bay by zoning the building of a hotel, aptly named Grande de Sandrib. Ironically, the company who was purchasing this land was Panzerpede, a German multinational, but the humor was lost on the deficient imagination of Robbs. All Robbs could see was a two hundred dollar raise and some new office furniture, seeing as his chair was getting a little worn.

 

“Marvin? May I come in?”

 

Robbs let out a quiet sigh of frustration and looked up from his papers, into the eyes of Wendy Newchild, his secretary and treasurer of Sandrib Council. She was in her late twenties, and was by far one of the most beautiful and flamboyant girls that the town of Sandrib had ever produced, although Hal at the New and used tried to lead people to believe differently.

 

“That’s Mr.Robbs Wendy.” Marvin corrected her.

 

“I’m so sorry, Mr.Robbs. I forgot. It’s just that we’re not used to officially here…” Wendy said, trying to recover from the error.

 

“What do you want, Mrs. Newchild?”

 

“It’s about the vagrant, sir. That’s Michel Vargs, and he works for my Grandmother. I was just wondering why you sent the new guy to pester him like that.”

Robbs sat up and leaned back in his chair, eyeing the young secretary. Sadly, with the demise of his imagination and right brain, so did his love of beauty. To him, all she was a service worker, someone one used to get messages to other people and someone who had no right for any higher office, other then maybe waitress. But then again, Robbs often got slapped by women like this, so his anger and detestment was justified. Sadly enough, that was in the Big City, and ironically the Waitressing Job at The Silver Goose café paid more in tips then he made in a year. Unfortunately, this too was lost on Robbs calculating mind, or he would have become a waiter.

 

“Vargs? That’s that creature’s name? Well, we need him moved out of there. That land is for business usage, not some sad, lost hobo to live out his days.” With that, Vargs got up and paced to the window, which had a direct view of the other side of the bay, and of Michel, who was once again fighting with his mortal enemy, the front door.

 

“See that? He’s a drifter, a drunk. Probably never worked an honest day in his life. And look at that shack! It’s revolting!”

 

“Sir” Mrs. Newchild pointed out, “That vagrant does specific duties to keep this town afloat.”

 

Little did Mrs. Newchild know that Michel had won the fight with the door, and was now stuck inside his shack.

 

“He’s a bright, intelligent man. An asset to this community.”

 

Robbs sighed. He didn’t want to hear a pity speech today, of all days. This meant that his paperwork was most likely to get lost in the mail, knowing full well that he didn’t mail it anywhere, and it was Wendy misplacing it with all of the other bureaucratic junk Robbs threw her way just to keep her busy and out of his hair. This meant he would have to deliver it himself, which was a genuine pain.

 

“You have made your point; now please leave me to work. Goodbye Mrs. Newchild.”

 

With one last glance at Wendy as she left the room, mainly to make sure she was gone, Robbs gathered the necessary papers and placed them in a brown envelope, marked zoning. Opening the desk drawer and taking one quick draught from a hidden bottle, before pocketing it inside his finely cut sports coat, he grabbed the package from the desk, and immediately left the office, walked down the hall and opened the front door, his head full of ideas of how to spend his guaranteed two hundred dollars. Promptly three seconds after he stepped out the front door he was killed by a falling boat.

 

Chapter 3

 

Now, two explain this falling boat you need to know about two things. The first is the geography of Sandrib Cove. Sandrib cove is a small bay, surrounded by mountains. It is a peaceful place, and the town of Sandrib sits on the base of the mountain McDougal. Now, the town Hall sits on the outskirts of town, before a large forest that slopes up the mountain, to a set of train tracks about two hundred meters back.

 

The second thing one must know about is Hal McDougal. Hal, the proprietor of Hal’s New and Used, happens to be one of the eldest citizens in Sandrib, a whopping sixty-two years old. Unfortunately, in his Sixty-two years, Hal has discovered a taste for newfie screech. Another unfortunate thing is that Hal also owns a large quantity of dynamite, being one of the resident demolition experts.

 

Hal’s simple plan for hiding the screech was to keep in out back below the train tracks under an old boat. This worked until some mysteriously went missing, which sent Hal into a flurry of rage. In this anger, Hal figured out a complex system of traps consisting of wire, batteries, and about fifty pounds of dynamite.

Hal had been through his share of war, having served here and there for twenty years in the military, knew how to rig a explosive trap. Unfortunately, this idea came to him while slightly intoxicated. Amazingly, while setting his trap he did not blow himself up. However, about two days latter he discovered his trap was both foolproof and unstoppable. He had made it so good he could not get to his screech. So, being the loyal man he was, he abandoned the screech all together and forgot about it. All it took was a simple rock thrown from the rail line to set it off.

 

Ironically, all of this explosive had propelled the now airborne boat into the sky, which crashed with a deafening smash on top of the former city planner. Now the city had a plan, but it was a boat without a pilot, and that is always disastrous.

 

Now, the last ironic thing was this all happened in front of Betty Nathai. Betty was the town’s fanatical religious zealot, and had declared that Robbs would be the vehicle of his own destruction, and watching this, started kneeling in the middle of the street praying for salvation. Now, this would not be a source of concern, or worry, had it not stopped the flow of traffic from the Neighboring Twin Peaks city.

 

“Betty, get off the road.” A concerned citizen told her.

 

“Praise the Lord! Jesus Save us!”

 

“Betty, come on, get of the road.”

 

“Praise Jesus!”

 

Now, this would be no concern if it had not been for the fact that Michel had found that crinkled up letter and tried to read it. Being that his literacy was as sharp as a club, it is quite reasonable he failed. Drastically. Being that his mind could not comprehend this, he decided to get one of his old friends, Hal, to read it for him. What Michel didn’t know is that Hal had left for a short vacation, planned in the fifteen seconds after he heard the explosion.

 

Catching a ride in an old farm truck, Michel made his way to town. His mind was still quite delirious from the drink, but he was some what functional, and arrived in town roughly five minutes after this started, not realizing that he had missed the explosion entirely concentrating on getting a spoon to his mouth.

What met his eyes in town was one of the strangest sites a person could see, and, as predicted, it never really dawned on him the full meaning of this expose in front of him. Some old woman was in the street screaming, an ambulance from Twin Peaks had arrived, a boat lay in shambled peaces, and there was a big mess on the pavement. Now, it never really dawned on Michel, and never ended up dawning on him for that matter, the odd catastrophe of events that had almost been avoided.

 

“Thank yoush.” Michel said as he got out of the cab, and headed past the ruckus towards Hal’s. Seeing a closed sign, which was quite odd for a Tuesday, Michel decided a cup of coffee would do him good. The Silver Goose was on the other side of the town hall, so it was quite logical to head directly there to Michel, not realizing that could be a drastic mistake. Half way there he stumbled on a brown package with writing on it.

 

“Zsh… Zhsone… zshonning… What’s that… zshoning… maybe Marti will know…”

 

Marti was the cook at the Silver Goose, and she usually ended up reading things to Michel when no one else would, could, or wanted too. She liked him not only for the amount of coffee he drank to keep in a somewhat sensible mood, but also the fact that he tended to be a source of amusement. Completely ignoring the importance of the package under his arm, he entered the café, set it down, and promptly forgot about it in favor of his piece of crumpled paper. AfterMarti tried to clarify the mystery, Michel left, leaving the brown package in the seat that he had been sitting.