Dr. W. A. Frost's Ides of Revolution

Waiting outside the door on the weathered, splintering porch, Robert took a deep breath. He was ignoring the various this and thats which littered the old veranda now covered in snow. A well to do gentleman like himself, college educated and next in line for partnership in his father’s property development firm, he couldn’t help but stifle the immediate gut reaction to the working class accommodations he was surrounded by. When he’d met Penelope, she was just some bartender at a local haunt. He never expected for things to escalate between them past a simple one night thing. Four months later, and countless late night calls to her, he found himself preparing to have dinner with her and her father. While he certainly could have anticipated the socioeconomic level which she resided in based upon the caliber of bar she worked at, as well as the countless hours she needed to work to merely break even, it was still a culture shock which he was neither prepared nor interested to foray into. ...

  Ted looked down at his watch, of course the flight was delayed. It’s not as if he were on a time crunch anyway, a few weeks off in Miami and Key West would be exactly the right way to spend his hard earned vacation time. He’d always been a workhorse, barely eating, barely sleeping, just going hard every day for the last nine months until he was a zombie: skin and bones. All those hours added up, and thank god he’d been able to use them against his boss-all in all he’d accumulated 14 days of vacation days, and it was finally time to cash in. It seemed, however, that Delta had different plans. The flight was now delayed almost an hour thanks to “difficulties” in Atlanta and Ted was then left to occupy himself in the terminal for the next 45-50 minutes. He sighed, the thought of the white sandy beaches and rolling turquoise waves was beckoning to him from the vast beyond. He’d be there soon enough. Pulling out his phone, he did what any self-respecting 20 something year old twink wo...

  He was lost. Newark wasn’t where he wanted be. One wrong turn from the highway and it was the wrong side of the tracks: the best place for his car to break down. Shabby houses with no streetlights, weeds littered the yards, and disgusting shoes hung from the powerlines. It was a definite sign of a neighborhood to avoid. So, Brendan had to be quick. He popped the hood, and began tinkering quietly to find the problem. Shockingly, he was terrified to see that the smell of gasoline pungently lingered. Immediately realizing the situation he was in, as he stared at the punctured gas tank, dread set in. It was then that he felt the point of a switchblade against his back. “Alright, kid. Here’s what’s gonna happen: you’re gonna turn around slowly and face me. Don’t get any stupid ideas.” Brendan did as he was told, and turned to see his harasser. He had a black leather jacket on, with a black tee shirt and cuffed jeans. Big motorcycle boots and a cigar finished off his clearly “bad influ...