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Alabay by Sarah CrookSUMMARY: So, check it out. If you like comic books, or tales in which the bad guy gets the ever-loving crap beaten out of him, this may be up your alley. He's big, and strong, and hasn't put on the costume. Yet. Ladies and Gentleman. Meet Evan Ryan.
The official world record for sleep deprivation is two hundred and sixty four hours, twelve minutes. Back in the sixties, some kid named Randy Gardner stayed up for eleven days straight, clearly proving that he had nothing better to do with his time. Another kid managed eight. Amateurs.
I haven't slept in twenty-nine days. Make that seven hundred and twelve hours and forty-five minutes. Of course, this isn't the first time I've been on the wrong side of the natural order, so even though I should probably be dead, or at the very least, in a coma, it's so far, so good.
I'm between jobs right now, but I'm supposed to start at a new place next week. It's called Amorphous. I have to wear a suit and tie even though I'm just a bouncer. I quit my last gig at Bar None after my buddy Zeke's death. Yeah, Bar None. I don't ever want to stop smacking the guy that came up with that one. Keith, the manager, told me not to blame myself, but I do. I always will. So now,
I can't sleep.
I cannot sleep.
Seven hundred sixty hours, and eighteen minutes. Forty-three seconds. I've started to count seconds now, as I press my hand to the bullet hole in my chest. Luckily, the bullet passed through me, so I didn't have to stop and dig it out. The bleeding is slowing down now that I've stopped running. Guns don't kill people. Crazy bastards with poor impulse control kill people.
Poor girl. Hopefully, this little incident will teach her not to walk alone through the Riverfront at night. He had his pants down around his ankles by the time I got there. Nothing like hairy man-ass to clear my vision.
Oh, my God, it itches like a bastard. I hesitate, and then dig at it with my nails. It feels heavenly for a little while, until I really start to go at it. Shit. Tore the wound open. Haven't done that in a few years. I don't bother to apply pressure this time. The sun will be up in another hour, so it's time to head home. I stand up too quickly on purpose, hoping for a head rush or better yet, a fainting spell. Nothing. My blood is all over the sidewalk, and down the front and back of my shirt, but I'm not even dizzy. I can't sleep. Seven hundred sixty hours, and twenty-two minutes. Five seconds. Sirens. Can't hurt to check, even if it is morning. People die during the day, too.
Seven hundred ninety five hours, and thirty-five minutes. The opening of Amorphous has been pushed back a few days. Something about a building code. Reminds me. I have to buy a tie.
I'm keeping a low profile. My antics over the last couple of days have garnered some attention. I've had to avoid news crews more than once. Arlington's Action News would love to get me on film. That girl on the Waterfront, I think she saw my face. In case you're wondering, masks make my face sweat.
Eight hundred twenty four hours and thirteen minutes. Still can't sleep. Been prowling straight through for the past twenty-four. I got into a fight with a pair of gang bangers in Olympia Park and put them both in the hospital.