Why does it always have to be the same thing? I’m trying to help and all they do is hang up. Maybe I should look for another job, or maybe I could become a gigolo—as if any woman wants me.
These assholes told me I was going to be able to make a living doing this. I’ve been making three hundred calls a day, every day, for the past month. No sales, no appointments, nothing but rude old bastards with an attitude.
Maybe this isn’t for me. Maybe I should find something else, but this job market sucks. It’s always the same. Another job that I suck at. I also suck at being a husband but that’s fine—Wanda sucks as a wife. Thank God we don’t have any kids.
I don’t even want kids, I never did. Honestly, I hate my life, I hate my wife, I hate my job, I hate being alive. They say the alternative is worse, but how can death be worse?
“Hello, is this Tim?”
“Who is this?”
“My name is Franklin Koval, and I’m your senior licensed life insurance advisor with Legacy Shield. What type of life insurance do you currently have in place?”
“Buddy, I’ve told you people a thousand times. I’m not interested in whatever scam bullshit you have. I hope you die, prick.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr. Tim, I’m here to help, I’m not here to hurt you in any way.”
“Fuck you buddy, I hope you die.”
“Hello, Tim? Hello? Hello?”
Okay, fuck this, I’m done. I can’t do this anymore. This is torture of the soul, psyche, and my fragile ego. I’m a failure, I’m a loser.
“Hello, is this Sandra?”
Franklin Koval, born in rural Michigan to second generation Ukranian migrants. His life was spiraling out of control—a bad job and a bad marriage were the least of his concerns. Franklin was hiding something, something deep, something that alluded his senses. He could feel it in his soul, but he couldn’t perceive it. Because he couldn’t perceive it he couldn’t deal with it.
Three hundred calls a day to crabby, rude, uninterested people—day in, day out—wore him down like an over-honed blade. Racing thoughts plagued him between calls and dominated him in non-working hours. If he could just take a break, a brief respite, he would be fine, but there is no respite, no break for the working poor. Being on the verge of eviction, repossession, and bankruptcy tends to strip away your peace.
“Who’s this?”
“This is Franklin Koval, I’m your senior licensed life advisor here at Legacy Shield—”
“Let me stop you right there Frank, I’m not buying anything you’re selling.”
“Well, that’s good to hear Sandra, and I’m not selling anything. What we do—”
“I don’t care what you do Frank, stop calling me.”
Another hang up, another shitty conversation. And I’m not Frank, I’m Franklin. Maybe I should go drive a truck. I don’t have a license, but I have a license to steal. I’ll drive over to Reed City and rob the liquor store. Liquor, liquor, liquor—lick her in the front, poker in the rear. Man, I need to get laid.
“Hello, is this Mr. Davis?”
“What are you selling?”
“Well Mr. Davis, my name is Franklin—”
“Uh, Franklin. I’m not interested.”
“I hate telemarketers as much as you do Mr. Davis, but I’m really not trying to sell you anything.”
“Yeah, yeah, until you are—and I’m not buying.”
“We offer a comprehensive policy review of your current policy with Gold Standard Life. This policy review will uncover—”
“Save the speech man, I don’t care about Gold Standard, I cancelled that policy a year ago.”
“Understandable, and what are you doing for life insurance now.”
“Goodbye.”
I need this day to be over, what time is it. Time, ain’t on my side—no it’s not. Fuck, only three fifteen, another two hours forty-five minutes, I’ll never make it. Never, ever make it. Hmmm, never make it. That sums up my life right there.
I’ve been trying and trying. I beat my head against the wall. I work, I take shit all day. Then I go home and take more shit from Wanda. Then sleep on that shitty mattress. Damn, I’m tired.
What if I could just sleep for, for like a week or something. Yeah, just a nice long nap, disconnected from the world for a while. That would be nice. How? Nah, that’s not feasible. Short of some kind of hospital stay, and that doesn’t sound good.
But, maybe, if it is not too serious, maybe if it is like, I don’t know, a broken leg. Pain isn’t worth it. Not to mention, with managed care, they would have me in and out in a day.
Suffer, buddy, that is what you are here for—suffering. Sufferin’ succotash, isn’t that what some cartoon duck always says? What the hell is succotash other than a stupid word. Stupid to think I could get some kind of vacation. But, there is a way. I could shoot myself in the head.
Yeah, yeah, I won’t kill myself, I’ll just shoot me in the head a little. Yeah, I’ll angle the gun so that the bullet exits out the back of my jaw. Reconstruction surgery, extended stay for the suicide attempt, recovery time. This is the ticket.
Franklin headed home after work, excited about his new plan. Recently, he considered pawning his SIG Sauer 1911 .45 caliber pistol, but it was a gift from his now deceased grandfather. He kept the pistol in his sock drawer next to his bed. Wanda hated guns and wanted it out of the house—one bone out of a skeleton of bones of contention.
Wanda wasn’t home when Franklin unlocked the door. He rushed to the bedroom, retrieved his pistol, and looked at it for a long time.
This is going to work. All I need to do is stick it far enough into my mouth to make sure I hit jaw and—not brain.
Blackness.
Franklin could hear the alarm going off and try as he might he couldn’t snooze it. Not only was his alarm going off, but a car alarm, the microwave, and something else he couldn’t quite recognize. He squeezed his eyes open, just a slice. Blinding light rushed into the slight aperture and ended that adventure.
Noises were becoming more familiar. He could smell gunpowder and iron. It was strong—overwhelming. He blinked a few times and tried to shake his head, but it was immobilized. He reached for his face, but found he couldn’t move his arms either.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, I must have hit brain. Fucked it up as usual Franklin, you can’t even kill yourself right. Wait, I wasn’t trying to kill myself—was I? Yes, you were trying to kill yourself, remember. You wanted a break, a vacation—remember?
That’s right, I wanted a week of sleep. I’m still alive, paralyzed but alive. At least now, I’m a shoe in for a disability check.
“On my count, and be easy with him. One, two, three.”
Franklin managed to pry his eyes open to witness his transfer from ambulance gurney to operating table.
“Mr. Koval, do you know where you are?”
“I thought I was in bed, who are you?”
“I’m doctor Benrubi, you have been shot, and it appears self-inflicted. Were you trying to harm yourself Mr. Koval?”
“No, no, I would never do that, I just needed a break.”
“I’m sorry, a break? What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing, I mean I was cleaning my gun and it went off.”
“Get a psych consult.” Dr. Benrubi said to the nurse. “Mr. Koval, we need to get a few x-rays of your head. We are going to take good care of you Frank.”
“Don’t call me Frank. Frank’s a drunken loser, an unsophisticated lout. Do I look unsophisticated to you?”
It was his go-to line. Sometimes he delivered it with a wink. Usually, it just landed flat, like most of his personality. The name Franklin, was the only thing remarkable about Mr. Koval. That, and the secret he hid—even from himself.
In less than eight hours of his self-inflicted gunshot wound, Franklin Koval was completely healed. It was as if he had never been shot.
The x-rays showed a shattered left mandible and there was extensive damage to the jaw muscles. The bullet exited the base of his neck and severed his spinal cord. Franklin Koval should have been dead on arrival.
Instead, he was up and walking with no surgery, and minimal repair work done on his wounds. After a three day hold, courtesy of Mecosta County Sheriff’s department, Franklin was released on his own recognizance.
Wanda had not come to see him in the hospital. Wanda wasn’t home when he returned. Wanda was gone—Franklin was glad.
. . .
No Wanda, no worries. I’m glad I shot myself. I feel better. Honestly, it wasn’t as bad as I expected. I might try it again. This time, you know, for shits and giggles, I’m going brain.
This thought manifested in a half sprint from the front door to the bedroom. A delicious smile swept across his face as he whipped open his sock drawer. During his three days in the psych ward he thought of nothing else but this moment. He hadn’t qualified how he was going to shoot himself, but as he stepped through his front door, the inspiration exploded in his mind.
He stared at the gunless sock drawer and then remembered he had shot himself. The gun wouldn’t be in the drawer, it would be—with the police.
Damn it all to the darkest, deepest hell. And I pawned the other one, the, um, the, oh what’s it called. The, the. FUCK! Whatever. Okay, okay, no gun. BOOMSTICK! I pawned the boomstick. Boomstick, that’s not quite it, but boomstick. Think Franklin, what can I do?
I wonder what it’s like to be hanged. I could do that, but I have to do it right. No Carradine job. Not accidental. I want the real deal—a snap, not a slip. Yeah, from the tree in the front yard. That old maple has the perfect branch. I’ll have to measure it. Yeah, I can climb the tree, stand on the branch—put the noose around my neck and jump.
It was the middle of July in the sleepy Michigan town of Mecosta, Michigan. Nothing much happened in Mecosta. Yes, there was meth—there is always meth—but it was a county problem, not a city problem. Mecosta was middle American gold.
That gold was dreadfully marred by the sight of Franklin Koval hanging dead in his front yard maple tree. He committed this heinous act just as the kids were heading to school. Had he thought about it—he would have waited until after, but he was in a hurry.
The ambulance backed into the bay and Franklin was unloaded. A paramedic was administering CPR, but Franklin was a lost cause—dead on arrival. His wish come true.
“Time of death, 9:04 a.m. Looks like you’re a Frank after all aren’t you—stupid bastard.” Dr. Benrubi said.
“Do you want us to call that preacher?”
“For what, the guy is dead.”
“Last rites or something.”
“Are you talking about Pastor Klein over to the Faith Baptist Church?”
“I don’t know, I’m talking about that guy that is up here all the time.”
“That’s Alex Klein, Pastor Klein. No, Baptists don’t do last rites. I don’t even know if Frank here went to church.”
Four hours later, tucked away in a drawer, in the morgue, Franklin’s lungs filled with air.
. . .
Franklin felt an urgent need to scratch his underarm. It was almost painful and needed instant relief. All through his life, Franklin had indiscriminate itching throughout his body. Wanda would often tease him. Sit still. You’re worse than a whore in church. Stop squirming, you worm. Damn it Frank, stop scratching your balls, that’s disgusting. Oh, do we have a wittle itchy witchy.
As he reached for his left underarm with his right hand he heard Wanda’s voice. He didn’t imagine it, he heard it. You sick bastard, you can’t even kill yourself right. Or, maybe, you’re just not motivated.
“Shut up Wanda, you’re gone. Leave me alone.”
“I’m not gone Frank, I’m never leaving. You’re stuck with me, loser.”
“Wanda, just leave me alone. I don’t love you, you don’t love me. Just go away.”
“No Frank, you said till death do us part, and you are too stupid to die so you’re stuck with me.”
“I told you, don’t call me Frank. Frank’s a drunken loser, an unsophisticated lout. Do I look unsophisticated to you?”
“You’re in a body bag, in a drawer in a morgue—Frank. Yeah, you look pretty unsophisticated.”
“SHUT UP WANDA, YOU SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH. I HATE YOU. I HATE YOU WANDA KOVAL. GIVE ME BACK MY NAME YOU BITCH. GO BACK TO WANDA SPENCER, YOU’RE NOT A KOVAL AT ALL. Stupid bitch, I’m not Frank. Frank’s a drunken loser. I don’t drink, I’m Franklin. Frank is unsophisticated, that’s why his name is Frank. I’m Franklin. I’m Franklin. I’m Franklin. I’m Franklin. I’m Franklin. I’m Franklin. I’m Franklin. I’m Franklin.”
. . .
If you work in a morgue, you don’t get scared easily. If you are Bertha Madrigal, you don’t get scared at all. Bertha started working at the hospital morgue as a senior in high school. Twenty years and two marriages later, she was now the director of the morgue.
When Bertha heard a voice coming from the drawers she immediately assumed someone had left a phone or tablet in with a body. She conducted her investigation systematically. The drawers were numbered one thru twelve. Bertha couldn’t remember a time when they were all full, but she knew drawers two thru nine were occupied today.
Drawer two contained a seventy-nine year old man dead from pneumonia. She opened and rummaged through the body bag and found nothing. She repeated the process with drawers three, four, five, and six. When she opened drawer seven—for the first time, she was scared. The body bag started to move, then thrashing, then a voice.
“Hey, do you mind giving me a hand here?”
Bertha yelped and ran out of the room, out of the reception area, out of the building, to her car, and drove straight home and called 911.
When the ambulance arrived at the morgue, Franklin was comfortably sleeping in his own private cave. Or at least that is how he imagined it. He felt safe and secure in the body bag. His movements were restricted, but he could move a bit. It was dark, but he enjoyed the dark. He was alone, never lonely. Solitude was his invited guest.
The stark influx of light seemed to physically assault Franklin. Chattering voices and rapid foot beats chased solitude away. Franklin objected.
“ZIP IT BACK UP, PUT ME BACK IN.” He screamed over and over again.
The paramedics gave him a tranquilizer and loaded him on the gurney. This was his third ambulance ride in a week.
“Mr. Volkov, nice to have you back.”
“Koval, I’m not a fucking Russian.”
“Sorry Mr. Koval, I apologize. We pronounced you dead this morning Mr. Koval, apparently we were wrong. Mr. Koval, why did you hang yourself?”
“Well, it didn’t go as planned. I was pruning that tree, and the rope was there for safety. I must have slipped on the branch and fell. The rope caught me by the neck, and here we are.”
Dr. Benrubi and the nurses were checking vitals, reflexes, and drawing blood as Franklin explained.
“Pressure is one twenty over eighty, pulse is sixty palp. Temp is ninety-eight point six. Pupils reactive and normal, airway clear, no signs of trauma.”
“Sorry nurse, say that last part again.”
“Pupils reactive—”
“No, you said no signs of trauma.”
“Yes Dr. Benrubi, do you see any?”
“No ligature marks, no deformity from the broken neck. Will you excuse us Mr. Koval, we’ll be right back.”
When they were out of earshot Dr. Benrubi asked: “Did I miss something? Isn’t this the guy that shot himself, was released and hung himself. That’s this guy right?”
“Yes Jerry, it is. I don’t know what’s going on here. Is this some elaborate practical joke? I know you were friends with that Dr. LaSalle up in Traverse City. Could he be screwing with us?”
“Look, that would be a bridge too far. Dr. LaSalle wouldn’t do that. Think of the resources, ambulance, life saving measures involving our skills and equipment, single use items that are now in the trash and this guy looks like an elite athlete.”
“But none of this makes sense. He was dead just a few hours ago.”
“I must have been mistaken.”
“Look Jerry, we’ve worked together a long time. You don’t make mistakes like that. You make paperwork mistakes, not medical mistakes. That guy came in here—no pulse, no bp, unresponsive to pain, pupils fixed and dilated, and his neck looked like a crumpled piece of paper.”
“This shit doesn’t happen. I’m not going to find any direction in a textbook or the journals. I don’t know how to treat someone who is perfectly healthy.”
“Maybe something will show up in the bloodwork.”
“Go sit on the lab, and Tina, call Bill.”
“Hargrave or Singh?”
“I hadn’t thought about Singh. Yeah, call them both. I’m going to check on our patient.”
Dr. Singh was the chair of the neurology department and Dr. Hargrave was the chair of the psychology department. Dr. Gerald Benrubi respected and trusted both men. He just didn’t know which way to go, was this neurological, or psychological.
“Mr. Koval, how are we feeling?”
“I feel just capital doc. When can I go home?”
“Why are you in a hurry to get home after such a traumatic experience?”
“I’m working on a project. Do you like projects? I love projects. Even craft projects when I was a kid. Macaroni portraits. Ooh, macaroni, I’m hungry. You got anything to eat in this place?”
“I’m sure we can find you something Mr. Koval. What project are you working on?”
“It’s complicated—lot’s of moving parts.” Franklin said.
“I’m a doctor, I think I can keep up. I’m intrigued.”
“No, no, not yet, it’s. Well, it’s, it’s a secret, it’s private. You’ll see soon enough, the whole town will see. All of Mecosta County will see.”
“I see. Mr. Koval, I’m going to have my colleague pay you a visit. His name is Dr. Hargrave. I’m also going to have Dr. Singh, come see you.”
“Well, hurry up, I’m hungry and I need to get home. You think we can take these restraints off, I have a really bad itch under my arm.”
“Let me get the nurse, and we will get you something to eat.”
“Ok, thanks doc.”
“Why’d you tell him about your project? Now they’ll never let you leave Frank.”
“Wanda, I’m telling you for the last time. Franklin, Frank’s a drunken loser, an unsophisticated lout. Do I look unsophisticated to you?”
“Ok Frank, whatever. Franklin wouldn’t hang himself. Franklin wouldn’t shoot himself. Franklin doesn’t do projects. You are Frank.”
“NO, NO I’M FRANKLIN, I’M FRANKLIN, I’M FRANKLIN, I’M FRANKLIN, I’M FRANKLIN.”
Dr. Benrubi heard the screaming and ran to Franklin’s bedside. He ordered the nurse to administer another dose of tranquilizer. Blackness engulfed Franklin once again.
. . .
Franklin Koval’s life was improving. With help from Dr. Hargrave Franklin was making a remarkable mental health recovery. The initial diagnosis as bi-polar schizophrenic seemed like a practical joke. The man now standing before Dr. Benrubi was not the suicidal madman he first met. Franklin was coherent, focused, and down right likable.
The odd time is how Franklin thought of his recent experience. The racing thoughts, conversations with Wanda and the mysterious project were dreamlike and fading remembrances. The odd time was over, Franklin was ready to meet the world.
He called his old boss and explained the situation. He was allowed to keep his job, but had to go through training again. Last time he went through training he didn’t take it seriously, he didn’t practice, and he didn’t apply himself—to be successful in sales you must do all three. This time, Franklin was going to commit himself to doing all three.
Months later Franklin Koval was a household name—at least amongst the Legacy Shield employees. He was the top producer in the nation. His metrics were envied by the most seasoned life insurance agents, and his bank account grew almost geometrically.
Franklin had become the Franklin he always wanted to be. Life was good—pleasant, enjoyable and Wanda-free. Wanda never visited the hospital, never called, and had no contact with Franklin since she left and Franklin—never looked for her.
On a bright mid February Monday morning, Franklin walked into the office to cheers of his name. Frank-lin Frank-lin Frank-lin, and saw his co-workers pumping their fists. His boss was leading the cheer and walking towards Franklin pumping his fist to the beat of the chant. When he was about a foot away from Franklin he threw his hands up to stop the cheering.
“Franklin Koval ladies and gentlemen.” He said as the crowd erupted again.
“Franklin, you have done it again. The numbers are in for January, and you have just been named the agent of the month for the fifth consecutive month.” Cheers again.
“Now, Franklin, that is not local office, state, or regional, that is national buddy, national agent of the month five months running, incredible. Address your eager fans.” The boss said as he placed a little plastic trophy in Franklin’s hand. He held it up for everyone to see and cheers rained down again.
“Wowee! Wowee! Yeah, this is great! Oh, man, six, seven, months ago, I was coming out of what I call an odd time. But with the training and support from my Legacy Shield family, I have overcome that odd time. This award means a great deal to me. We all work hard everyday and recognition is great, but this company—this company is great.” he croaked out at the end, wiping tears.
“I want you to know, I am privileged to work here and so are you. You newbies, you can do exactly what I’ve done if you do what you’re told and apply yourselves. Study that script, roleplay with each other and you will improve. I’m waiting for the day one of you surpasses what I’ve done here. Thanks boss, and thank you Legacy Shield.”
There was cake replete with sparkling candles and more cheering. Cheering, cake, then the phones. A typical telesales agent is doing well if they make one sale a day. Two sales a day is a true professional—three sales, expert. Franklin was averaging seven sales per day. He was never the first one in, but always the last to leave.
This February Monday was an exception. Franklin received twelve transfers and sold twelve policies. Unprecedented at Legacy Shield. The boys invited him out for a celebratory cocktail and Franklin obliged. Franklin was a teetotaler. He never drank. Iced tea was the strongest beverage that breached his lips.
He stayed and encouraged the troops for a couple rounds and headed home. Since the odd time he moved to a new house. Dr. Hargrave suggested it to help Franklin avoid any triggers that might harm his mental health. A huge trigger was sitting on his front steps when he returned home—Wanda was back.
. . .
“Hi Franklin.” Wanda said casually.
“Just leave Wanda, I don’t want you here.”
“Can’t we talk?”
“Talk about what? You left, and I’m glad you did. What’s there to talk about? Let’s just make it official and get divorced.”
“Franklin, I do love you, I was scared, that’s all, and foolish. Can you forgive me?”
“There is nothing to forgive, it’s just over. Now, please get off my property.”
“Franklin, don’t do this. Think about what we had. You did love me, in the beginning you did. I don’t know what happened, but I want this to work. I need you Franklin, I love you and I’m asking you to take me back.”
Franklin shook his head, puffed air out of his mouth, walked past her, unlocked his door, walked in and locked the door behind him. He tossed his keys on the kitchen counter and went to the fridge for a pop.
He twisted off the cap and headed for the living room, sat in his favorite spot and turned on the T.V.
“Can you turn that down babe?”
When he heard this he bolted out of his chair and looked for the source. Wanda didn’t have a key, but she was damn sure in the house.
“Wanda, get out of my house.”
“I’m not in your house, I can hear that all the way out here. Do you mind turning it down?”
Fucking bitch, why is she here. I’m going to put an end to this right now. My life is going too well to deal with this shit. I’m going to go out there and tell her to fuck off. If she doesn’t leave I’m calling the cops. I’ve worked too hard and come too far to be sidetracked by this crazy bitch.
Franklin calmly walked to the front door, opened it, and was about to give Wanda a piece of his mind—but she was gone.
For the better. Maybe she got the hint. The last thing I need is her bullshit clouding my mind. I’m Franklin, I’m Franklin. I don’t need this Frank shit around me. Frank is a drunken loser, an unsophisticated lout. Do I look unsophisticated to you?
Franklin began to feel nauseous and he knew he was going to puke. He almost made it to the kitchen trash can before he spewed.
Fucking shit. What now? he thought just before vomiting again.
“Franklin, honey, are you okay?”
“GET OUT BITCH!” Franklin said as he spun around and threw a punch at nothing. “GET OUT, GET OUT, I’M FRANKLIN, I’M FRANKLIN, I’M FRANKLIN. No, no, not again, I can’t do this now. No. I’M FRANKLIN, I’M FRANKLIN, I’M FRANKLIN, I’M FRANKLIN, I’M FRANKLIN.”
He suddenly stopped his mania and grabbed his phone. He hit the button to speed dial Dr. Hargrave.
“It’s happening again, I can recognize it, it’s coming back, the demon is coming back.”
“Franklin? Franklin, I need you to take a deep breath for me. That’s it, again, ok, and one more Franklin. Good. Now, calm your mind. Remember the palm trees and the Jamaican beaches you love so much. Easy, slow, calm, and breathe. Now, tell me what happened.”
“I’m Franklin, I’m Franklin, I’m Franklin.”
“STOP IT Franklin. Now, tell me what happened. Take another deep breath before you speak and calm your mind.”
“She found me.”
“Wanda?”
“Yes. She was sitting on my stoop when I got home. She wants to get back together. She said she loves me.”
“How did that make you feel, Franklin?”
“Sick.”
“What do you mean sick?”
“I don’t know. I vomited.”
“Do you have a fever?”
“I don’t know, I’ve never had one in my life.”
“Never, not even when you were a kid?”
“No, never. I don’t know what it feels like. I don’t think I have a fever.”
“Okay good. Most likely the shock of seeing Wanda again made you ill.”
“Maybe, please don’t say her name. I’m Franklin.”
“Franklin, you are doing it again. Stop saying I’m Franklin. When you start that you spiral. Who controls your mouth?”
“Franklin controls it.”
“No, the proper answer is I control it. Let’s try again. Who controls your mouth?”
“Fra—no, I control it.”
“There you go, that’s good Franklin.”
They talked for another hour and Dr. Hargrave helped tremendously. Franklin was calm and in his right mind. He could feel himself slipping, but more importantly he knew he could feel it. He took two magnesium pills and went to bed. As he drifted off he heard something.
He swung his feet onto the floor and into his slippers. He flipped the light on and in the corner he saw her. Standing there with a butcher knife, naked and drenched in sweat.
“I brought you something Frank.”
“NO, NO, YOU GET OUT, YOU GET OUT, GET OUT.”
“I’m not going anywhere Frank, I’m your wife, you owe me, you’re mine.”
“Don’t call me Frank. Frank’s a drunken loser, an unsophisticated lout. Do I look unsophisticated to you?”
The question remained unanswered. She simply smiled and walked towards Franklin.
. . .
The two fire trucks blocked both ends of Franklin’s street. The fight was hopeless. Nevertheless, the firefighters engaged. If anyone was left alive it would be a miracle—even the basement was on fire.
As the day dawned on the grim scene, all hope was lost, but Franklin’s remains were found. He was mostly a skeleton, and what flesh remained was charred. The remains were deposited into a body bag and sent to the coroner’s office for identification.
“Put the bag on the exam table, I can’t get to it until the morning, but you can leave him over there.” The coroner informed the paramedics.
Franklin began to wonder what happened. He was burning, there was a fire—but how did it start? Now, he was decidedly cold, colder than he could ever remember. He couldn’t see anything, and he couldn’t feel anything, but he was cold.
Am I dead? Has it finally happened? Did I do it? Fire, that was cool, and so pretty. Why did you start the fire Franklin? It was her, she did it. She had a knife, she was going to kill me. I don’t know why. She told me, she told me she loved me. Was it a lie? I wish I was on fire right now. I’m so damn cold.
Oh, I remember now. She had the knife. She was going to kill me with the knife. It was a butcher knife from my kitchen. Yeah, and she had it. In her, in her. She had it, the, the, knife. She was going to kill me. I had to. I had to do it.
I went to the garage and grabbed the gas can. I remember that. Then what? I had the gas can, it was in my hand. I was in, I was in the living room. Yeah, yeah, and I poured it everywhere. Then I went to the kitchen and disconnected the gas from the stove, and the dryer. Yes, it was glorious. Then to the basement.
Oh, the basement, lovely dark hole in the ground. All that paint, solvents, yes. I remember now. I pulled the gas line to the furnace too. All that paint, all that solvent, woosh! I barely made it back upstairs. I wanted to see the look on her face as she burned. And the smell of her burning flesh, oh, I needed that so much.
Where am I now? I don’t know. I can’t feel a thing, I can’t see, and I’m so tired, so tired. And I’m Franklin. Yes, I’m Franklin, I’m Franklin, I’m Franklin, I’m Franklin, I’m Franklin.”
. . .
The coroner was late to work, an hour and a half late. He was the boss so there was no one to chastise him. Dr. Calvin Hickman was born and raised in Mecosta. He went to Ann Arbor for college but returned to his hometown to make a name.
His attention to detail and speculative assessments were world class. His skills were far beyond small town Michigan, he should have been running a metropolitan department, Grand Rapids, Detroit, Chicago, anywhere but dinky, tired, boring, Mecosta County.
He put the Keurig in the slot on the coffee maker and brewed his morning cup. He then flipped the screen on his lap top, sat behind his desk and started catching up on paperwork. His self imposed schedule had him examining the remains of the crispy critter in the next room after his ritual morning shit—for which he needed the coffee.
His deep concentration on his paperwork shielded him from the noise coming from the exam room. When it registered with him he called out for his assistant Jan, but there was no reply. Jan wasn’t scheduled today, but sometimes she would stop by if she was in the area.
Next he heard a muffled voice. He called out for Jan again, no response. He let out a sigh and a curse and hauled himself from behind his desk.
“Jan is that you, who are you talking to.” He yelled as he entered the exam room.
As he opened the door and looked around, he saw the body bag containing the bones and charred flesh of Franklin Koval, sitting upright on the exam table.
“Since when did you develop a sense of humor Jan?” He called out.
“I’m Franklin, I’m Franklin, not Jan, I’m Franklin.”
“Oh shit Jan, you are the master, I bow to your superior intellect and skills.” He said as he reached for the zipper on the body bag. “Ok buddy, now just who the hell are you?”
As Dr. Hickman unzipped the body bag, Franklin threw his arms around him and kissed him on the lips.
“Oh thank you—thank you, I’ve been in there for hours.”
“Well, that’ll teach you not to do stupid things for Jan. How did she get you to agree to this stunt anyway? And JAN, JAN, get in here and enjoy our gloating.”
“I’m Franklin, I’m Franklin, not Jan, I’m Franklin.”
“Yeah, ok pal, you’ve earned whatever she promised. You can cut the shit now. Franklin Koval is nothing but dust and bones.”
Franklin scooted himself to the edge of the exam table and stood up. He wiggled out of the body bag. He was naked and covered in ashes and soot.
“I’m Franklin, I’m Franklin, I’m Franklin, I’M FRANKLIN, I’M FRANKLIN!” He said as he lunged at Dr. Hickman.
Dr. Hickman no longer needed the coffee for his morning shit.
. . .
Dr. Hickman called the police, after changing into scrubs and throwing his soiled pants and underwear in the trash. Franklin was given a shower and clean scrubs. There were bagels, and Dr. Hickman fixed Franklin a cup of coffee.
“I had the DMV email your driver’s license. You sure as hell look like him, but pal, he was brought in here last night.”
“No Franklin is me. I’m Franklin. Franklin was brought in last night, he is me. Do you understand?”
“I hear you, but you were a skeleton, how do you explain this? I mean, you don’t have a scratch on you.”
The conversation went on like this until the police arrived. Dr. Hickman trying to make sense of this, and Franklin saying I’m Franklin.
The police arrived and took Franklin into custody. At Dr. Hickman’s suggestion they did not cuff his hands. Dr. Hickman told the police he did not believe this was Franklin Koval, but this man, whoever he was, was not mentally stable. Handcuffs would exacerbate the circumstances. He also suggested a psychologist be present during questioning if they wanted real answers.
Franklin was placed in the interview room and was told the detective would be with him soon. He looked around the room and felt safe. The room was utilitarian, a table, four chairs, and a lamp from the 1950s, dim, drab, nearly useless.
“Mr. Koval, I’m Detective Lewis. You are not under arrest, we just have some questions for you. My partner is bringing you some coffee and a donut.”
“Cops eat donuts. I’m not a cop. I could be a cop, but mom won’t let me.”
“Um, anyone can eat donuts sir. Mr. Koval, what do you prefer I call you?”
This was a can of worms Detective Lewis did not want to open. The first I’m Franklin seemed like a revelation. The fifty-first time Detective Lewis called in the county psychologist.
“Yeah doc, he has been sitting there shaking his head saying I’m Franklin for like an hour. He won’t stop. This shit is freaking me out. When can you get here?”
“I’m on my way. It’s best if you limit your interaction with him, and don’t agitate him.”
“What’s he going to do, this building is full of cops.”
“I wouldn’t call what, twelve people, full of cops. Just keep him on ice. I called Dr. Hargrave at county hospital. He’s better equipped to handle this guy.”
“Sounds good, I will keep an eye out for him.”
The county psychologist and Dr. Hargrave arrived at the Mecosta county sheriff’s department simultaneously. The old friends chatted amicably on the walk to the door. As they entered the lobby, they heard screams.
“SHOOT THAT FUCKER, SHOOT HIM, SHOOT!”
“HE’S OVER HERE, NO, THE OTHER WAY, LOOK OUT!”
“OH MY GOD, STEVE, FUCK, HE HAS A SHOTGUN!”
“THIS IS MY BOOMSTICK, I’M FRANKLIN, BOOMSTICK, I’M FRANKLIN!”
Franklin fired the shotgun indiscriminately towards the police. Fortunately the shotgun had bean bag rounds. Three officers were down as a result of the bean bags, another four were down as the result of hand to hand combat. In later interviews the damaged officers recounted strange tales.
He was everywhere all at once.
Mike got punched in the throat, and before I knew it, he was throwing me across the room.
I never got a good look at him, it was like a damn kung fu movie. Guys would rush in and get thrown right back out.
He broke my nose, and kicked me in the jimmies before I knew what was going on. He was like Bruce Li or something.
I had him dead to rights. Then he was gone. Then somehow, he got behind me, and suddenly my shotgun was in his hands.
As the chaos registered in Dr. Hargrave’s mind—he knew exactly what must be done.
“FRANKLIN STOP THIS INSTANT!” the Doc yelled.
Franklin leveled the shotgun at Dr. Hargrave’s head and pulled the trigger. The loud click indicated the chamber did not contain a usable shell. Franklin worked the pump.
All knowing and conscious ears understood the shotgun was now loaded. Typically the police will load seven non lethal rounds and one lethal. The idea of increasing threat theory states that the perps who do not respond favorably to the non lethal rounds, will respond to the lethal round.
“FRANKLIN, FRANKLIN!”
Franklin leveled the gun at Dr. Hargraves head again. With the next trigger pull, Franklin would become a murderer.
“Franklin, stop this now. Who controls you?”
“Franklin controls me.”
“Franklin, we have been over this, the proper response is I control myself. Who controls you?”
“I control Franklin.”
“Good, good, that’s good Franklin. Now, can you do me a favor and lower the gun.”
Franklin obliged—but leveled the gun at his crotch instead.
“That’s better Franklin, but you’re still pointing the gun at me. Now Franklin. I want you to concentrate on my voice. Take a deep breath and hold it. Good, now exhale. Good. Another breath and hold. Good, now exhale. Good Franklin. Now, tell me who controls you.”
“Not you.” Franklin said and pulled the trigger.
. . .
Dr. Benrubi and the E.R. staff were able to save Dr. Hargrave’s life, but not his dignity. In place of his penis and testicles, Dr. Hargrave would endure some jerry-rigged plumbing for months until a failed reconstruction attempt. Three years later the esteemed Chief of Psychology took his own life.
Dr. Benrubi and Dr. Hargrave both confirmed the identity of Franklin Koval. The surveillance footage from the Sheriff’s office was astounding. It did indeed look like a Kung Fu movie, but more vicious.
The speed and strength Franklin displayed were ethereal. His fighting skill appeared to be gained over decades of discipline and practice, yet Franklin had just celebrated his twenty-fourth birthday.
Martial arts experts viewed the tape, to a man and to a discipline all said that was the finest display of martial arts they had ever witnessed. The prevailing opinion was that Franklin had studied numerous disciplines for numerous decades. No one could reconcile what they had seen.
Franklin was on the run. His profound break with reality drove him. He ran through the mid-Michigan woods like a wild beast. Catching and eating small game at first, Franklin found this unsatisfactory. He began to stalk and kill larger game. Deer, wild hogs, even bear, hunted, stalked, and killed with his bare hands.
Sightings poured in across the county. Mecosta buzzed constantly with Franklin news.. The local denizens renamed Franklin: Boomstick. TheMecostaFiles.com provided some interesting headlines. Boomstick Flies? Terror on the Northside—BOOMSTICK. Boomstick Souvenirs On Sale at Menards. Meet Franklin Koval, the BOOMSTICK.
Mecosta, and Mecosta County became a tourist hot spot. People from as far south as Louisville, Kentucky, and as far north as Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada, came to camp in the woods for a chance to see Boomstick.
Detective Lewis tried—and—failed to enlist the help of the National Guard. The governor’s office conducted an investigation and found that Boomstick did not exist. Therefore, the National Guard would not be called up.
This did not deter Det. Lewis. He proceeded with his investigation. He decided to treat it like a cold case. With cold cases the only place to begin is the beginning. Det. Lewis pulled up all known addresses. This is where he would begin his investigation.
Franklin Koval’s parents’ house was the first place Lewis went. The Kovals sold the house years before and left no forwarding address—a dead end. As were his first and second apartments. Det. Lewis then checked his previous address, where he lived with Wanda.
The house was vacant but the landlord agreed to meet Det. Lewis and let him search the property.
“So you guys think this Boomstick fella is Franklin Koval? Is that right?”
“Governor Thomas says Boomstick is a fairy tale.”
“He ain’t no fairy tale, I can sure’s hell tell you that. I seen the bastard. Nekkid as a jay bird, flyin’ around the woods like some kinda gol-dern phantom. Sonofabitch, scared my chickens.”
“Well, stories mixed with anxiety and hope of seeing the supernatural spark strange, and may I say silly, visions in our minds. Franklin Koval wasn’t flying through the woods.”
“You guys are always fuckin’ with us regular people. You got yer dirty little secrets don’t ya. Yeah, you guys only come clean when shit blows up in your face. Boomstick is out there, he does fly, and he scared my fucking chickens. They haven’t laid an egg in weeks. I’m going to have to cull the whole fucking flock.”
“Well, let me in so I can have a look see.”
“Not much to see, he moved out—place is empty.”
“Yeah, let’s just take a look.”
The landlord opened the door and they walked in. The place was empty, and there was a strange almost familiar smell to Det. Lewis. He knew what it was, he could almost taste the smell. The name of the smell escaped him, but he was closing in on the origin.
“You smell that right?”
“Smell what? It smells like empty house to me.”
“No, no, it’s not that. It’s very faint. Let me walk around.”
“Knock yerself out.”
Det. Lewis searched each of the five rooms on the main floor. Dining, kitchen, living, and two bedrooms all came up empty. Nothing to point him in any direction. It had been more than six months since Franklin lived in this house. Chances were slim, but Det. Lewis felt something was here. Something was going to break this case open, and it was in this house.
“How do we access the basement?”
“Oh, yeah, the basement is outside behind the house. It’s an old house, quality craftsmanship, but the basement stairs are out back.”
“Let’s go.”
“Oh, no pal, not me. I don’t do basements. In fact, I don’t do stairs at all. Bad knees.”
“Is it locked, is there a key.”
“You betcha. Here’s the key, right around back. You done in here?”
“Probably, but keep it unlocked just in case. I won’t take up too much more of your time. I really appreciate this.”
Det. Lewis used the flashlight on his phone to look around. There was the quintessential bare hanging bulb with a pull string, which provided additional lumen support. The smell was much stronger and clearer in the basement. It creeped through his brain touching obscure memories and rebounding into thoughts.
“That’s a fucking dead body. That is a fucking body. This fucker killed someone and stashed them here.”
He searched the basement and found a locked steel door on the north side of the cinder block wall. It was especially curious because the room behind the door would be outside the footprint of the house. The smell near the door was unmistakable. The body was in there. As he approached he heard a familiar thrumming sound.
The door opened into the basement but the door was locked. Det. Lewis smirked as he thought to himself: this dude fancies himself a Hanibal Lecter type, but he left the door hinges on the outside. Not smart Boomstick.
He found a claw hammer and pried the door nails out of the hinges. He lifted the door off the hinges and the smell overwhelmed him. A hardened Detroit or Chicago detective wouldn’t have flinched, but this was Mecosta County Michigan. Backwater, backwoods, back to the good old days, tranquil country living. Murder wasn’t rare, it was unheard of, the last murder happened in the 1980s.
After wiping the vomitus from his mouth and nose he pulled out his phone and called for the crime scene unit and backup. The room was quite small, it felt concentrated. The walls were covered in dried blood, tissue, and offal. The body was situated like the Vitruvian man. Arms and legs stretched out but her head drooped onto her chest. She was suspended in mid air using high-tension cables anchored to the walls.
There were two box fans running, ostensibly to dissipate the smells. The body was badly decayed and all manner of vermin had or still were doing their thing. In some places, there was only bone.
The coroner’s report indicated she died several months prior but certainly not a year. The report indicated she was tortured for days before death. The blood and tissue on the walls belonged to the unidentified victim as well. Post mortem, she was eviscerated.
“Coroner’s office.” The receptionist said.
“Hey Jan, it’s Mark Lewis. Is the doc around?”
“Dr. Hickman just stepped out for lunch. Something I can help you with, honey?”
“I’m waiting on the ID of that Jane Doe we brought in a few days ago.”
“Oh yeah, honey, Dr. Hickman told me you might call. Sorry, honey, I forgot, gettin’ old ya know.”
“Stop it Jan, last time I saw you, you looked just like springtime.”
“Oh, now, Mark, you stop it. Enough of this flirting. Your Jane Doe’s name is Wanda Koval.”
“Yeah, that’s what I figured. Did he nail down a time of death?”
“Yeah, yeah, let me see here. She died between nine and noon on the seventeenth of July last year.”
“Okay Jan, thanks. And Jan?”
“Yes Mark?”
“Let me know when you want to schedule some sexy time.”
“You sly fox Mark Lewis! I’m going to tell your wife when I see her later at Euchre.”
. . .
The investigation was coming together and charges were ready to be filed. Franklin Koval was about to become a fugitive from justice. The only thing keeping the hammer from falling was motivation.
Since the viral news stories about Boomstick smashed through social media, Mecosta had become a boomtown. Food trucks on every corner, new construction around town, a new hotel in the works.
Restaurants and bars packed every night, campsites, R.V. parks and hotels filled to capacity. Mecosta was becoming a vibrant city with a vibrant nightlife. Boomstick drove corporate, county, and mom and pop revenue. He was the greatest economic improvement Mecosta County had ever seen.
The district attorney’s office was being pressured by the mayor, chamber of commerce, and county commissioners to hold off on filing charges. When the D.A. pushed back and bandied about the words justice, and victims rights, the mayor, et. al. pushed back harder. The real breaking point happened when the Mecosta County Clergy Association told the D.A. that prosecution of Franklin Koval would hurt church attendance.
The case was at a standstill. Det. Lewis didn’t mind—he saw it as an opportunity to strengthen his case and find more evidence. Franklin’s guilt wasn’t a possibility or theory, his prints were everywhere. The words I’m Franklin were written in the victim’s blood, and Franklin’s handwriting.
Other than motivation, the biggest problem with the case was the timeline. This is where the defense had a gargantuan advantage. At the time of death, Franklin Koval was in a bodybag, tucked into a drawer at the hospital morgue. Fingerprints be damned, handwriting analysis be damned, all physical evidence be damned. Franklin couldn’t have killed her, because Franklin was already dead.
. . .
The sightings in Mecosta county were growing. Sightings were also reported by residents in Montcalm, Isabella, Newaygo, Lake, Osceola, and Clare counties. Pop-up tee-shirt and souvenir businesses dotted the corners and byways of mid-Michigan. The Boomstick craze was surging to new heights.
The counties were now trying to out-Boomstick each other. Newaygo declared September 1st as Boomstick Day. Some towns in Lake county held festivals, and the city of Mecosta planned a week long Boomstick Carnival, complete with rides, cotton candy, and carnies.
The Boomstick Carnival was sponsored by the Mecosta County Chamber of Commerce and the Mecosta County Clergy Association. Local businesses jumped at the chance to sponsor booth’s and rides at the carnival.
Don’s Diner started serving Boomstick pancakes, Aesop’s Steakhouse served up a Boomstick filet and Boomstick loaded potato. The local McDonalds franchise owner changed the Big Mac meal into the Boomstick Meal.
You couldn’t walk down the streets of Mecosta without seeing a fashion show of Boomstick tee-shirts, caps, hoodies, and even jeans—yes Boomstick jeans.
Det. Lewis was beyond frustrated. He didn’t join the force to sit on evidence or wait until the latest craze blew over before prosecuting the criminal behind it. A lady was dead. Not just dead, but tortured, dehumanized, humiliated, and mutilated. Wanda Koval deserved dignity. The dignity of the capture of her killer, and the dignity of his incarceration for life.
. . .
The Boomstick Carnival would begin with a parade in the late afternoon, followed by a Boomstick look-alike contest at nine that evening. Since Mecosta County didn’t have a large police presence, surrounding counties provided support. Over one hundred seventy cops would be on hand during the week. Crowds of over two hundred thousand were expected and many thought that estimate was low.
Neither the city nor the county had resources or infrastructure to effectively manage the anticipated crowds. From a staging and logistics standpoint, this event never should have happened.. The potential for severe problems was high. Then again, everything could go off without a hitch.
The parade route was short. Main St. was closed between Webber St. and Gilbert St. This would also serve as the carnival grounds. Main St. would be open during the day, but closed every afternoon at 5:30 p.m.
The atmosphere was not unlike a U of M football game. There were people with banners, facepaint, shirtless men with letters to spell Boomstick—drunks everywhere you turn. If the Mecosta County Clergy Association was given the job of renaming the event they would have called it Sodom and Gomorrah Fest.
The town was infected with Boomstick fever, and the scene was a fever dream. It was Mardi Gras mixed with spring break, add two cups of soap opera, a pinch of televangelism, and a healthy slice of pro wrestling.
Topless women begged for beads, men were no longer trying to hide their pissing activities. Liquor and weed flowed freely—even minors were scoring booze without too much trouble. Fights were happening everywhere, people were trampled, dozens injured and two fatalities, and the Boomstick Carnival wasn’t even two hours old.
The highlight of the opening ceremonies was the Boomstick look-alike contest. The organizers had to stop accepting participants, there were literally thousands of men, women, boys, girls, and babies dressed as Boomstick.
Estimates put the crowd size at just over three hundred thousand people. There was not a vacancy in a hotel for a hundred miles in any direction. The music, drugs, alcohol, bare breasts, and Boomstick fever, whipped the crowd to a frenzy. Disaster seemed imminent.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, the moment is here. It’s time for BOOOOOOOMMMMMMSTICK!”
Upon hearing this the crowd erupted into a BOOMSTICK chant for over five minutes. When the MC finally regained control he called out the first contestant. A panel of Mecosta dignitaries would serve as judges for the contest. The winner would take home a top prize of five thousand dollars. The stakes were high, this was serious business.
“Alright, contestant number one, give us your best BOOOOOOMMMMMSTICK!”
Contestant number one pranced around the stage like Tiny Tim Tiptoeing Through the Tulips, which the crowd loved. Cheers and applause ensued. Each contestant was given scant seconds to prove their superior Boomstickery. The contest dragged on and many onlookers lost interest. They began to resume their previous activities and things were getting wild.
“Okay, the contest is over and we have a unanimous winner! The winner of the first annual Boomstick look-alike contest and check for five thousand dollars is. Drum roll please. Todd Strickland, from Baltimore Maryland, Todd bring your Boomstick self on up here!”
Todd Strickland was engaged elsewhere, but another man stepped forward. He was also a contestant, but he was not Todd Strickland, and he didn’t win. The man was naked except for a leather loincloth and had dirt and soot rubbed in streaks all over his body. He approached the MC and grabbed for the mic.
“Hey buddy, you aren’t Boomstick, we’re looking for Toooooooddddddd STIRCKLAND, Come on down! COME ON TODD YOU WON, LET’S GOOOOO!.”
The MC was playing the crowd and never saw it coming. The Boomstick imitator swung his right arm towards the neck of the man. As his fingers made contact with the neck-flesh, blood sprayed everywhere. The last thing the MC saw was his headless standing body, and the man grabbing the microphone from his dead hand.
“I’M FRANKLIN, I’M FRANKLIN, I’M FRANKLIN!” He said and dropped the microphone.
Upon seeing this the remaining crowd began changing BOOMSTICK, BOOMSTICK.
Franklin stage dove into the more than willing crowd. As soon as he felt their hands on the back of his body, he flipped himself around and quickly killed three of the people who were touching him. He then began to go through the crowd lopping off heads with his bare hands. Many in the crowd cheered him on, and many of those cheering became the next victim.
In a large crowd communication is local. Something can happen over there, and you will never know—because you are over here. You only concentrate on your immediate surroundings in a large crowd. This worked to Franklin’s advantage. The slaughter was happening here, but over there—they had no idea.
After several minutes word began to spread through the crowd that the real Boomstick was there, and he was killing people with his bare hands. This should have started a panic, instead it started a pilgrimage. A quest to lay eyes on the real Boomstick.
The police were alerted and were closing on Boomstick’s position. Franklin had already encountered two small town officers and killed them quickly. The other small town cops were encountering resistance from the crowd. They finally pushed their way through and began to shout orders.
Guns drawn and leveled, more than sixty cops had Boomstick in their sights. No less than fourteen cops were shouting conflicting orders at Franklin.
“Get on your knees”
“Turn around and approach slowly.”
“Don’t Move, you’re under arrest.”
“Stop.”
“Come here”
“On you’re belly.”
Franklin stood fully erect almost at military attention, and stared at the police. He didn’t stare at a particular officer, he stared at all of them. Later, in the aftermath, several officers claimed he was staring at them, and them alone. Onlookers would say he was staring into space and seemed zoned out, just before it happened.
Franklin bent at the waist and drew in a great breath. He shook violently, whipping his head and flailing his arms, screaming, “I’m Franklin!”—then he charged.
All sixty officers opened fire the instant he moved. Despite the fusillade of lead, Franklin advanced with shocking speed. He was hit dozens of times, but the bullet holes closed almost as fast as they appeared.
Franklin did not enjoy this new sensation, so he stopped running and started flying—yes, Boomstick flies—directly into the police force. Within seconds, all sixty cops were dead. Franklin moved through the crowd, slaughtering to a soundtrack of cheers
The next morning, downtown Mecosta looked like a war zone. Detroit, Kalamazoo, Grand Rapids, and Traverse City sent police to help with the aftermath and to search for Boomstick. The bloom was off the rose—Boomstick Fever was dead. The Governor called out the National Guard and the search was on.
Some aficionados posted video clips and stills of the carnage in Mecosta, and die-hard fans still wore Boomstick tee-shirts to sleep in, but nobody would wear Boomstick merch in public. The death toll stood at thirty-eight thousand four hundred sixteen—and counting.
Boomstick sightings began pouring into police stations across the country. Within two months, Boomstick sightings were catalogued throughout Europe, Asia, and Australia. The world was gripped by fear—and Boomstick was still out there.
Epilogue
Franklin ran from the Boomstick Carnival until he couldn’t run anymore. He collapsed in the woods two hundred eighty miles south of Mecosta. He would never know it, but he was now in Indiana.
He lay on the forest floor and stared up through the trees. He could hear the birds. Squirrels were frolicking. The soft wind caressed his nearly naked body. A large smile crossed his face. He was at peace. She was gone. Last night, in Mecosta, he killed all memories of her.
“I’m Franklin? I’m Franklin?” he asked.
“I’M BOOMSTICK!”
thecrownunited.com 