Sorry it took so long, but Kendra and Bracken (Kracken? Do they have a ship name?) don't appear much in this squiggle/ randomness/ whatever you wanna call it.

Randomness #4

Seth felt sick. It was the Saturday after the dance, and he felt terrible. It was like he had something stuck in his throat and it wasn't going to come out until he threw up twelve—now thirteen—times in the toilet. It had started three hours after he had gone to bed. His stomach had gotten severely upset, and he'd been so ugh and muffled blurg that he'd had to go to the bathroom and throw up in the toilet at the same time. It hurt coming up, and half the time he thought what should be going out on the downside was going flipside and going out that way, which freaked him out even more… which may have been the thing that caused him to throw up the… now fourteenth time.

He was still in the bathroom, on the second floor. It was beginning to feel like he was going to flood the septic tank or the sewer or whatever they used.

Was that trash bag double-bagged? 'Cuz if it wasn't, he was going to claim it and wash it out in the morning.

Crap. It was starting to overflow. Do I put it in the trash outside or keep it in here? No, better put it outside. But what it the bag explodes? Put it in a bigger bag and make sure that one doesn't explode. It's not going to if its triple bagged. But it is overflowing. Put it in one of those big white trash bags, tie it up, and put that in a big black trash bag. There. That way nobody knows what it is. But then Mom's going to freak out because I'm wasting plastic.

Heh. Wasting plastic. That would be a first.

He threw up a fifteenth time, some more blood and dinner coming up—the red stuff tasted mysteriously like that gross punch that always tasted like rancid cherries mixed with lima beans or something. Was it blood or was it punch?

He'd seen so much brown and green and orange and red it didn't matter anymore. But his head was starting to hurt, and it was three-o-four in the morning, and he didn't want to do anything. He rested his head against the hard, cool counter, but his head was throbbing like mad and it just hurt to put it somewhere. Maybe the pillow would help.

After triple-bagging—or maybe five-bagging the gross stuff, he'd put it in a large white garbage bag, put that in an even large black grocery bag, put the kitchen garbage in that garbage along with the throw-up garbage bags, and dumped it in the large green garbage bin outside. The black bag had been so large and heavy it was like he was throwing away a human body. It felt more like he had cut out his own internal organs and were throwing them to the dogs, who ate them slowly, like they were some sort of fancy meal.

Plus the gross stuff was sticking out like some kind of head—he'd been so out of it after throwing up fifteen—or was it sixteen?—times that he'd made a face with the plastic and thrown it away.

Good riddance, grossness and garbage. Good riddance.

Seth was a tall guy, a sophomore, who was thin, on the junior soccer team, track team, and volleyball team, had the dark brown hair like his mom, and faint freckles like his dad—they were so faint and sparse that he didn't even consider them 'freckles,' but whatever, it was a parenting thing.

The most awkward thing about that whole event was that a pedestrian—a detective at the local police department—was looking for a man that lived alone, took his trash out late at night, and was tall and thin. Seth was a boy that looked like a man—he was rather tall, but he was still undergoing growth-spurt age-, all the lights in his house were off—sleepy time for everybody else—and he was tall and thin—most people would have to be some variation of that for track and field and soccer, wouldn't they?

I have the weirdest thoughts at night, the detective said to himself, not being one that really joined any clubs in high school (except for the 'Macho Club,' but that was completely made up and his friends had somehow gotten alcohol and drugged him with it, so it was a temporary condition; the hangover was the worst, though) except for… oh boy, what was it called again? Baseball. Yeah. Just… Baseball.

Looking left and right, he made a beeline for the trashcan, opened it, and pulled out the large black garbage can. Sniffing it, the man reeled in disgust. How could a man do this to another human being? Time to get the evidence.

But he couldn't do it here. It would make him look suspicious. Hopefully everyone was asleep in their houses. Night-night, everybody.

Carrying a large black plastic bag back to your tiny car and stuffing it in the trunk and trying not to look suspicious—especially it the bag looks like it contains a dead body and it even freaking smells like it—is really hard, especially when people's front-porch lights are still on and you can't help but trigger them and it's like "Oh, I'm an alarm and I'll just warn the people inside my house that it looks like a burglar is trying to rob somebody else's house" in the middle of the night is just freaking great.

The detective slammed the door shut, started his car, and sped off, trying to get back to the station as quickly as possible. He found his suspect, and he was going to break this case wide open. And then he realized that he didn't have the keys to the station. Plus it would be locked up and no janitorial staff was going to be there. Great. He had to take the body back to his house.

Jenny isn't there. She moved out a week ago. He'll be fine.

Unless another couple decides that they need to use his house for their little make-out sessions. Fire a few warning shots—no, that's a terrible idea. But it's a good purpose. Getting intruders to leave. Should he call the police, too? Would that be too overkill? Nah, he is the police, he should be able to take a few strangers out far and square, neat-o.

Not literally take them out, of course.

He still had to get home of course. He crossed a main street, turned on the first right, turned left at the next light, drove straight for a few blocks, stopped in the middle, and turned right, left, right again, and left into a cul-de-sac.

He pulled out the huge black bag, crunched his face into a look on disgust when he felt what he thought was a face (the five-bagged thing of puke), locked his car and closed the door with his foot, fumbled for his keys and tried holding the bag with one arm—which made that arm really tired really fast (it was his left arm, he opened his door with his right because the knob was on the left side)—turned the knob and let himself in with his foot. He heard kissing in the other room and sighed.

Yes, they had tried. What sort of neighborhood did he live in, the slums?

Too many true crime novels, Rick. Nobody needs this right now. Especially not me.

He set the bag down, when into the other room, flicked on the light, drew his gun and said with his normal authoritative voice, "What are you doing in my house?"

The couple—a skinny man wearing a wife beater, long thin hair covering one dead-fish-eye, dead jeans on his legs, and a lipstick smear on his right cheek. His right, not Ricks' right.

The gal smooching skin particulates off his face was smaller, plumper, and wore a tank top with a plunging neck line that looked like it had been cut with scissors—or maybe the man's fingernails. She had scars by her clavicle and bruises on her neck.

No, those weren't bruises. Those were some nasty hickeys.

Why, why, of all people, did people who wanted to have junk have to break into his house and do it there?

The thin-haired man spoke with a slur. "What do you want?" He had a southern accent, and he pronunciated everything. The woman looked up at Rick with Whiskey eyes, her smeared lipstick and playful manner making her a good playmate for someone who wanted to do naughty things and get away with whatever happened.

The woman would make a drug baby. Better put the case out of it's misery before it gets blown out of the water.

"Didn't I already say?" Rick spat. "I'm tired and I just got home from work and I don't feel like arguing with people who keep breaking into my house just to get aroused and have sex on my carpet. That's the fifth one this week!" Out of sheer anger and lack of sleep, Rick shot the rug, barely missing the little miss's feet by a centimeter, maybe less. The shock of the man actually using a real life gun got them both up and out of their stupor.

"You mean business, sugar, and we don't mean any trouble."

Rick squeezed the trigger and the bullet landed between her toes. Real close to that disgusting foot of hers. Almost took it off. Maybe getting home so late was a bad idea.

"Maybe I should get a dog so he can bite your ! #$% so I don't have to deal with you when I get home."

"What type of dog, a poodle?" the man asked.

"I have a bullet for your third eye, and it sounds real tempting right now."

"Real—"

The bullet grazed the man's head, sending a small river of blood down his face.

"You're serious." The man wiped his head and looked at his hand. "You're ******* serious." The man glanced at the black back in the kitchen. "What the heck is that? Is that a body? Are you a murderer?"

Rick gritted his teeth, anger getting the better of him. "I will be in a second if you don't get out of here."

Blondie-man and Pudge-Pudge left the room. Suddenly Blondie-Man turned back with a skillet and went to slap Rick over the head with it, but Rick was too fast. He shot Blondie square in the third eye and sighed, shoulders drooping. Pudge screamed, and Rick socked her in the temple, watching her crumple to the floor.

"Shut up," he whispered sharply. He walked over to the phone and started dialing. "I hate it when women scream."

After alerting the dispatcher about what had happened, Rick looked at the contents of the garbage back and was not excited to see the big bag of throw-up. But at least he knew that wasn't the person he was looking for.

The police came and picked up the dead body, got Rick's statement, and carted Pudge off to jail for breaking and entering and prolonged loitering.

Rick smacked his head against the cold table and let out a long sigh.

Tonight had been a long night.

Seth still couldn't sleep, and it wasn't because he had to throw up three more times before he was actually done. He had been confused at where on earth the big black garbage bag had gone, but wasn't going to question it. His head still hurt, and the soft pillows weren't helping. It was now somewhere around three-forty, but it felt like an eternity. He went down stairs were it was cooler, but that didn't help. He went and got some ice and put it on his head. He didn't feel like going back upstairs—his feet were sore—and there was a blanket on the couch, so he figured why not sleep down here tonight?

The firm couch and firm pillows actually helped him go to sleep. They were right in the middle of soft and firm. With his feet warm and his head feeling better, he drifted off to sleep.

Rick pulled off his tie, his collared shirt, his jacket, and his pants, shoes and socks, and lied on his bed, thinking about the third eye he gave Blondie. He might have nightmares, but he'd been so mad about it. He let out a sigh. And smacking Pudge. Had that really been the right thing to do? If he hadn't, she would have left.

He was still too warm, so he pulled off his tank.

Rubbing his face and yawning in the dark, he had one thought before he drifted off to sleep: I need to shave.

Sorry if you're one of those people that don't like the whole "substitute for swearing" thing, but I don't really swear, and these are supposed to be light-hearted, but it took a weird turn and I'm sorry if you aren't really a person for noir crime shows, but it's like this just turned into one. Sorry. Tell me what you think, any concerns… I suppose there would be a few concerns because most of you were asking about Kendra and Bracken with the last squiggly thing.

Well. It is late at night, and I bid you a good night, but… Sleepy…

Questions… concerns… madness… comments… Philosophical arguments about the dichotomy between good and evil… Any good books you've read recently… Any ideas, wants or needs… Is anyone excited for Dragonwatch? I think one person mentioned that…

Anything that you really want to see for this.

I don't know. Good night. Be good. And don't throw away your crap in big black garbage bags… I'm tired and I should go to bed…