The police arrived in the morning,
their faces in disbelief.
They were unaware
he was one of theirs
and the firemen called the chief.

the shadows received their warning;
the troupes embraced their grief.
However, an heir
with his type of flair
would wear a colorful motif.

This is the way.
This is his sway.


The end.




Conceived, Written, & Produced by

Miguel noVoa

"Welcome home," Vogue said inside, "Glad my hard work paid off."

Rolling his eyes, Milano removed his shoes and pressed his back against the locked door. He walked toward the stereo, turned it on, and disrobed to shower. "I cannot hear youuuuu," he remarked in his inebriation.

"I said, 'I'm glad my hard work paid off!'"

Refusing to take notice, Milano showered. The Devil's Lettuce and strong chemicals from the core continued permeating through the vents. Upon scrubbing his scalp, Milano realized his fingernails were quite long. The intoxicating fumes consumed the steam as he washed. The shower shut off and the curtain swiped open.

"Do you want a towel?"

Looking the other way, Milano nabbed the rack to dry himself.

"Don'tcha wanna know where your phone is, if you're gonna ignore me?

Milano gazed at the mirror. He brushed his teeth after lotioning-up in the steamy bathroom.

"You."

Milano answered confusedly, "You who?"

Silence. He turned toward the bathtub. He would witness a drowning owl in a now water-filled tub. Its fast, splashing wings vigorously flapped as it struggled to breathe.

"You."

Holding his breath, Milano looked away from the fowl, reaching for the nail clippers in the medicine cabinet.

"Look at me."

Milano flipped the nail file outward in a sweaty drip, avoiding the mirror.

"Look at me," Vogue demanded.

Gripping the steel, Milano quickly turned around in a commanding stance.


No one was there.
Nothing was there.


Milano shifted his gaze into the mirror once more. He dropped the nail clippers in the sink.

"You."

Milano stared at a now dead owl in the bathtub. Tiredly, he said, "I can't do this anymore."

"Very well," Vogue announced.

Vogue grabbed the clippers' nail file from the sink and aimed for Milano's throat.

"Please help me."

Vogue rushed and, six times over, violently stabbed Milano's neck.

And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.

And again.



Vogue murdered him that night.



The 911 operator asked, "Is there a problem?"

Vogue breathlessly spoke, "Yes...

...and it ...it is darkness ...in the shadows."

He walked.

"Swipe your FOB-ulousness, beeyatch."

The grown 300lb women wore swimsuit-like negligees, purposely revealing their girth in the hallway of the government-owned complex. What's more, anyone walking through the corridors could hear parents beating their young, crying children - door after door, floor after floor, day after day.

And the fragrances to cover the drug use.

My God.

These were the days of the shadow people, riddled everywhere, inside and hidden from their delusional greatness, documented many times over in Coward County.

These disgusting flocks would congregate as their hypocrisy repeatedly formed implosive teams.

Out of desperation, as usual, Milano finally inserted the key to his door and walked in.

(In the ensuing quadrennium...)

Milano heeded Vogue's narcissistic instructions and had subscribed to every puppet theatre in the local area. Milano was front and center at each venue and his name was known amongst the many. Milano - through his sources back home - would promote every puppet. The bewitching popularity was exactly what he had desired. Flosso endorsed him by responding with adoration, comps, and nepotism. Every exchange came with a cost; he even experimented with Buddhism. It was all becoming sadistic and perverse.

Wintertime provided The Tandem of The Camera, his favorite show, so he viewed it again. The intermission sprung an echo when he sat to enjoy the caviar and cheese - gratis, naturally.

"Hey stranger! Haven't seen you in ages!"

Milano continued eating, disregarding the voice.

"It is amazing to see you, buddy!", the table visitor exclaimed. "I love that thing you're doing with the dots! Oh, and our Dave L. has a new boyfriend, that old slut."

Disregarded again. Nevertheless, the visitor sat itself, imposing on his space.

"What do you want?" Milano reluctantly asked.

"It's me! Eidolon! Oh, come on," Eidolon emphasized, helping himself to caviar. "I was teaching you those exercises, between the brow. Duh. We sat right here, eating dinner together."

In a sarcastic, jubilant shift, Milano smiled, "Of course I do." He returned to his unwelcoming scowl.

"Thanks for helping us. We have gained SO much. The troupes will never say this but did you know Flosso is opening another puppet theatre, because of you? Some are adding extra shows. How are you doing this?"

Silence.

Looking past Eidolon, Milano saw the bar's highlighted house specials. He knew the waiter, Wight, and flagged him to the table for a refresher. Wight would serve a few rounds this evening.

"Vogue? What an incredible sight. Fascinating," Wight said with curiosity. "So, who is with you today?"

Eidolon continued to ramble. Hours passed.

The more Eidolon spake, the more Milano flagged Wight.

Standing up, Milano abruptly interrupted the meandering. "Excuse me."

"Where ya goin' pal? Eidolon continued, "If you run to the restroom like last time..."

Once again, Milano ignored him as he ran to the urinal. He saw the eye-leved advertisements of the troupes when he emptied his bladder. He sat himself down at the table afterwards, finally paying attention to Eidolon.

"You don't want me here, do you, buddy?"

"Not really," Milano answered.

Eidolon stood, tucking the chair. "Go back to those shitty apartments. And don't forget those forehead exercises!"

Wight swung by once more and asked, "Do you want anything else? We're about to close."

Sly and serpentine, Eidolon whispered in Milano's ear, "Psst. He's asking if you want anything else."

Eidolon left.

"No," Milano said to Wight, "Nothing else. But I would like to get out of here."

Returning with the check, Wight voiced, "I cannot help you with that, Vogue. You are always welcome here. Make sure he knows."



They knew.

He had split.



Milano (or so he believed) was en route to that disturbed building.

"You were with the puppets. What does that make you?"

Milano turned around, stood with a blank stare, then reversed his stance at the door.

Vogue continued once inside the apartment, "Are you a puppeteer?"

Again, Milano ignored him.

"Should I go?"

Milano threw his keys on the coffee table, sat down, and massaged his temples. The puppets chose to imbibe that night and he had indulged.

"Why are you in here?" Milano asked.

"Well," Vogue said, "I saw the procession in Wilting Pampers last week. Edgy. Sick. Locals are concerned about that shit."

"And?"

"Aaaand I happen to know the puppets are..."

"Hey. Can you just, like, leave?"

"But did you see them last week?"

"No."

"Thousands. Practically chanting 'Hail Satan!', right here in Flosso."

"Get out. NOW."

Sly and serpentine, Vogue whispered in Milano's ear, "You are new here. You will lift them up and spit them out. They will have no clue what hit them 7 years from today."

Milano screamed.


This was 13 years ago.

The demands are disputably low. Having learnt this moreso after the recent life-altering incident, I chose to settle into a new building that, when upon completion, would not pass several county inspections. Relocation into this unit was done solely for the affordability. Many of my dark and desolate neighbors would have little respect for the county's approved lease.

So much umbra. So much favourability.

The shade of it all.

Inside the building, the core favored these shadow people due to the resembling integument. the core could be seen and heard, gleefully associating with them from their [orifice], giggling and whatnot. And if anyone's colour, culture, or language was indifferent to an extreme incomprehensible to the core, those were most likely ignored, given unnecessary notice, forced to move, and/or evicted on the spot. Worse yet, the core would suffocate and kill.

But who would care? After all, this nonsense was dignified with a budget.

And who cared when they didn't answer their phones?

Why would the city care? The mayor is gay and has her own problems:

Ms. Dave L. O'Peer supports the division.

Milano was in awe after seeing the marionettes. It was his first year in Flosso and he wanted more.

Upon leaving The Work of Mammon (the world's stupidest puppets), Milano ordered his taxi. The driver reeked of brevity.

"Hoo yoo?" the driver asked.

Milano was silent. He fastened his seat belt, choosing to absorb the once familiar stench than talk.

"Hoo yoo?" the officer asked again.

"Drive," Milano answered.

Milano ignored the driver's questions until he arrived home.

"You oblique," the taxi driver said while Milano exited the vehicle.

The rider left the driver.

Heaven-sent.

But the taxi driver ran to Milano as he opened his apartment door.

"You left your phone."

Confused, Milano asked, "Where is your accent?"

Handling the keys to his door, the driver replied, "What phone?"

This is how he met Vogue.

Today I realized Freckles passed to keep our friendship together.

You will not remember - in fact, you do not remember much anymore. Whilst recalling fond memories, you forcefully recant, inserting your irrelevant mixture.

Yet my truths cannot conquer your defiance.

I tell myself that it must be the abuse you are doing to your body. It's the sugar consumption.

You called me some time ago to say, "Miguel, I think we should end it. Let's just be friends."

You are not my girlfriend. You are like a mother figure, a best friend. I had noticed the clinginess over the years then. That confidence in your strut when we were in public spoke volumes. My ignore button was pushed.

"What the hell are you talking about? End what?"

The conversation was over. The phones disconnected.

He fell ill that night, unable to pass his stool. Not having a car, I called you. You answered after the 13th ring.

"Devin? Freckles. He's doing that thing again. Please pick me up. He has to go to Carven Cove. Please."

Though in a huff, you picked us up and we went to the hospital.

His diagnosis was fatal but he could temporarily be saved with $3K, which I didn't have. I told the hospital to put him to sleep.

I left Freckles, my son, in the hands of the doctor. My baby's confused eyebrows remain etched in my head as the veterinarian carefully flung him over his shoulders.

I didn't stay with him for the euthanasia.

But you drove me home. We whimpered, separately, in the car on the ride back to my apartment.

"Thank you, Devin," I said exiting your car.

"He was a good boy. I'll miss him," you said, and then added, "Miguel, ya wanna get some cookies?"

I went along, pushing my ignore button even harder.

A public figure, Vogue was fly-by-night - something Milano always wanted to be due to his previous idolatry. Vogue could sense this longing in him and, without asking, helped Milano burst into the scene at Flosso.

Flosso was young and full of potential then; Milano's innocence helped catapult the creative scene in the town. Because of Vogue, Milano's artistic influence in Flosso could not be disputed, regardless of the town's ignorance.

Before long, many of the Bohemians' inventiveness in Flosso quietly fell in the throes of Milano's inspired touch, though their pride would never admit it. These artisans found themselves admiring someone brought about by Vogue. They would ask themselves...

Who is this Milano character?

Why did Vogue bring him here?

But worse...

How can we destroy him?


Disruption was inevitable and only one side would win.

The fall was long.

Winter was short. It came as no surprise.

The Home Depot boxes were secured, filled with anticipation and useless junk. The planning rose to this moment, the moment when all would be shat - and with the cleanest departure - en route to Flosso.

Leaving would not have been possible without his friend, his other half, his crux.

Flosso would prove to be the rise and fallacy of the man. At its height, Milano made his proper introduction and unforgettable imprint there. To this day, Milano is welcomed and loved, yet feared. He is a martyr, a myth.

Milano remains visible only to those who believe.

It has been 13 years.

Disdained.

Disgusted.

Demoralized and oblique.

Dinner had finished.

Seated, the bar highlighted house specials.

The restroom visit could not have come sooner.

Inside, the magazines featured their titles.

So, he split.