The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S15E23

Episode Date: February 14, 2021

It’s Episode 23 of Season 15. Our lost highway journey shows us the dark side of love.“The Roadkill Diaries” written by Charlie Williams (Story starts around 00:02:10)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Mike DelGaudio, Melba – Nikolle Doolin, Harry – David Cummings, Dirty-Faced Man – Peter Lewis“Customer Service” written by Lex Noteboom (Story starts around 00:09:45)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Chantal – Wafiyyah White, Melany – Jessica McEvoy, Female Dispatch – Nikolle Doolin, Phone System Voice – Dan Zappulla“Ten-Year Photo” written by Brandon McNulty (Story starts around 00:25:50)Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Ash – Erin Lillis, Tony – Kyle Akers, Shane – Matthew Bradford“The Price of Sand” written by S. Francis Chamberlain (Story starts around 00:58:15)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Nichole Goodnight, Ellie from Security – Sarah Olivia, Steven – Graham Rowat“Spacegirl” written by Ryan Peacock (Story starts around 01:12:15) TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Jane – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Sasha – Mary Murphy, Tanya – Wafiyyah White, Megan/Spacegirl – Jessica McEvoy, Mrs. Daniels – Nikolle Doolin, Brian – Kyle Akers Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about Lex NoteboomClick here to learn more about Brandon McNultyClick here to learn more about S. Francis ChamberlainExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“Spacegirl” illustration courtesy of Naomi RonkeAudio program ©2021 – Creative Reason Media Inc. – All Rights Reserved – No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.  Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

For the No Sleep Podcast. In 2015, episode 23 of the No Sleep Podcast. I'm David Cummings. Eve Valentine's Day. This episode is being released on the day we celebrate love. Those red hearts full of that warm, sticky blood that runs down our chin when we tear lustfully into the warm flesh of... I mean, red hearts, chocolates, flowers, and all that other... lovey-dovey inane sentimentality.

Our tales this week all speak of love and the dark things that happen as a result of it. So whether you're alone or have your sweetheart by your side, settle in and enjoy the love we put into bringing these tales to life for you.

And now, let's begin our journey down this lost highway. In our first tale, we meet a couple who have been in love for decades, but With age comes the struggles of body and mind failing. As we learn in this tale from author Charlie Williams,

the couple plays road games on their travels, a fun way of keeping their minds sharp. I join Mike Delgado, Nicole Doolin, and Peter Lewis in performing this tale. So keep on the lookout and keep score in the Roadkill Diaries. Look, Harry. There's a raccoon. That's a 20-pointer. Melba reached for the leatherbound diary and pen in the plastic pocket of the passenger side door. 25. Of course, 25. My goodness, I'm getting so forgetful.

Harry's eyes left the road and looks lovingly at his wife of 48 years as she recorded the score in her journal. He knew something was wrong when she put her laptop in the refrigerator three years ago. Melba's condition was not an unexpected guest. Both of her parents had begun to show signs of dementia in their late 70s. He was a fresh one. Poor fellow was probably out looking for a hot date. The Roadkill Diaries were inspired by a morbid game Harry and Melba played during long road trips. The retired couple enjoyed the scenic pleasures of traveling by car.

spending the better part of the last 10 years driving all over the United States. They preferred destinations off the beaten path and often found themselves on the back roads of rural America. They encountered every type of roadkill imaginable. It was Melba's idea to keep track of their sightings and assign point values based on the rarity of the creature. Every trip was documented with descriptions of mangled animals and a point tally. The journal was also a catalyst for Melba's dissoning.

disappearing memory, helping her recall that Pears' adventures over the past decade. What was that thing we just saw? Melba's struggles with short-term memory had worsened in the last month. It was a raccoon, honey, the one with the bandits' mask. Harry's wife nodded and smiled, writing the name down quickly before she forgot. Harry piloted the Mercedes through the Sierra Nevada foothills, cruising at 10 miles below the speed limit. He had made reservations at a bed and breakfast nestled in the shadows of the Stanislaus National Forest. It was only a three-hour drive from their home in Murphy's landing.

Melba, are you getting hungry? How about dinner at that little Mexican restaurant in Colombia you like so much? There's a black and white thing. Lord, it stinks. Melba pointed excitedly at the flattened remains of a skunk on her side of the road. How many points for that? It's a skunk, dear. They're pretty common, so it's just worth ten points.

Harry turned off the main highway and drove to the small Gold Rush town. He parked in a gravel lot behind the city hotel and helped Melba, still clutching her diary, get out of the car. Gonna be a beautiful night, ain't it? The sun was starting to disappear beneath the oak trees bordering the west side of the parking area. Harry shielded him. his eyes from the glare. A man with a dirt-smudged face and uneven teeth sat in a dented Chevy pickup, smiling and resting his arm on the open driver's window. Another man sat stoically beside him.

Good evening. Yes, I think it will be. Harry took his wife's arm and guided her around the Mercedes. Melba twisted away from his grasp like a petulant child. Do I know him? No, Melba. He's just someone making polite conversation. Let's go get something to eat, okay? Maybe we should see what he wants. He's just being nice, hon. Harry gently took his wife's hand. The man spoke from the pickup. Nice car. Something wrong with the lady? Just a little confused. Harry and Melba moved past the truck and walked across the street. He turned and glanced over his shoulder as they entered the patio of the restaurant, realizing how vulnerable they appeared. Harry was relieved to see the men gone after dinner.

He unlocked the car from Melba and walked to the back to open the trunk. He removed the 357 Smith and Wesson he always carried on their trips and tucked it into the console between the front seats. Something about the men in the pickup made him feel uneasy, and he still had a few more miles to drive. A dear! Melba pointed as Harry turned down the pitch black road, which led to the bed and breakfast.

The headlights of the Mercedes found the bloated carcass of a dough that had been dragged off the road, its right legs pointing rigidly into the night. I know this one. One hundred points. Harry felt the car suddenly veered to the left, noticing the orange tire pressure light for the first time.

The Mercedes shuddered, steering erratically as the indicator light changed to red and the dashboard alarm sounded. He eased the car. onto the road's shoulder. What's happening? I think it's just a flat tire, honey. Wait here while I check it out, okay?

He grabbed a flashlight from the glove compartment and inspected the tire. He heard a faint hissing sound and found a small slash in the sidewall just below the tread. He rushed to the driver's side, reaching the door handle just as a pair of high beams blinded him from behind. He flung the door open and reached for the console. Stay right there. grams, thought that damn tire was never going to go flat. The man with the dirty face walked towards Harry, pointing a shotgun. His partner followed casually behind him.

Harry stepped away from the car and held his empty hands out at his sides. Oh, we just want your wallet. The old lady's purse will be on our way. The 357 Smith & Wesson flashed twice from the passenger side of the Mercedes, the gunshots echoing through the forest canopy. The two men crumpled to the ground and lay still. Harry ran to the open car door. Melvis sat with a diary already in her lap.

The gun wafting smoke beside her. Oh, Harry, Dave got to be worth at least 2,000 points. When you have a faulty appliance, the first step is usually to call the company helpline, right? That's what Chantal did. And as we learn from author Lex Noteboom, The service rep is very thorough with her questions, a little too thorough and unsettlingly personal. Performing this tale are Wafia White, Jessica McAvoy, Nicole Doolin, and Dan Zapula.

So don't let anyone tell you you need a man to fix things. You'll get the help you need with some good customer service. We hope you are having a great day. Here at B. We are famous for our 100% customer satisfaction rate. If there's anything we can help you with, please choose the option most applicable to you. And we'll connect you with one of our talented customer service managers. Press 1 if you have questions about your order's arrival date. Press 2 if you want to return a product.

Press 3 if you would like to compliment a company representative on our outstanding lifetime customer service. Press 4 for all other questions or comments. A very good evening. This is Melanie calling you from the K-GForders. What is it I can help you with this beautiful evening? Jesus. Sorry.

That was very fast. Thank you. You are one of our valued customers now, Chantal. When someone is a customer, they are a customer for life. And one of the many lifetime perks of being a customer is that you'll never have to wait a single minute for customer service again. The moment you need us, we'll be right at your doorstep, day or night. Okay, that's great.

Um, so I'm calling about the dishwasher I bought last week. Yes, I can see that here. You bought a beautiful dishwasher. An excellent choice if you're forced to keep an eye on your budget. It's one of the more economic, models, but it will get those dishes nice and clean for you. Well, actually, it hasn't been doing that yet. It's...

Are you telling me that your dishwasher isn't working properly, Chantel? I'm afraid so. I've been trying to get it to start, but it won't. And I think the problem is that the door doesn't close all the way. If the door isn't closed all the way, Chantal, the dishwasher won't initiate a program. But that's a good thing if you ask me. I wouldn't want water and soap spraying all over my kitchen floor. No, I agree. No one wants that.

But what I'm trying to say is that it won't close all the way no matter how hard you push it in. All right, Chantal, so do you need us to send someone to help you push the door? What? No, of course not. I should be able to close a dishwasher myself. Yes, it would be best if you were able to close the door yourself. But if you want us to send over a strong man to help you close that door, it would be no problem. I would like you to send over someone that can fix the door. I think the door wasn't put on the machine the right way. The latch isn't aligned to the lock.

Gotcha, Chantal. I'm just going to need some additional information from you so I can complete your profile. That way I can send someone out to your neck of the woods right away. Okay, that'd be great. Also, I'm sorry for interrupting you right there, Shantel. but I would just like to let you know that this service will be completely free of charge. Okay, yeah, that's good. So, just to be clear, you will be paying zero American dollars for us sending someone over there to fix whatever problem is you are having this beautiful evening.

Great. It doesn't matter what the problem is. We will fix it for you. Yes, that's amazing. Thank you very much. The problem here is that the dishwasher door needs to be fixed. Please help me do that. Yes, it needs to be closed properly so the dishes can get washed.

I understand. So let's take a looksy here at what we've got here, Chantal. That sounds amazing, Melanie. Let's see here. You are Chantal, born in the small town of... That's me. What's life like over there, Chantal?

Do you like Small Town America? Or would you consider yourself? stuck. Well, I don't mean to be rude, but I am not sure why you would ask me that. Could we please focus on getting the dishwasher fixed? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable there. And, of course, helping you is what we are completely focused on.

Let's see. You're paying for your dishwasher through a monthly payment plan. That's absolutely fine, of course. You chose the bigger unit, probably because you're not living on your own. So you're going to have to do a lot of dishes for the rest of your family, I presume. Is that a question? Yes, that's why I chose the bigger model. I have a family.

How long is this going to take? Not long. It says here that you have two children, Chantal. Is that right? What? How do you even know that? It says so right here on your online profile. I just read what it says on my screen, Chantal.

I'm not sure how they know these things. Two boys, Derek and Jonathan. Derek is nine, and Jonathan is only three. Is that right? How do you know this, and why is this relevant? I don't understand why. Oh, my God. Aren't these two cute?

Look at those bright little blue eyes on little Jonathan. Are you looking at pictures of my children right now? Oh, my God, Chantal. What? It says here you lost your husband just over a year ago. I'm sorry, but I'm going to hang up the phone now. You're obviously crazy. It says here that he drove himself into a tree.

What is this? Who are you? I am Melanie. My husband had a horrible car accident. He died after losing control and crashing into a tree. So you are a single mom. Yes, I'm a single mom, and I'm hanging up. Right now.

That's good to know, Chantal. That completes your profile. You had to enter into my profile that I lost my husband because of a car accident? Well, let's put it this way. In our experience, women aren't usually the ones that troubleshoot appliances in the household. Men are usually the ones to figure out how technical stuff works. The ones who dare to give the old TV just the right smack without being afraid to break it. It's usually men who shove the dishwasher door into the right angle with one simple pull.

This kind of information about you helps us put your problem into perspective. It helps us figure out the best way to help you. Are you saying that the problem isn't the dishwasher, but that they're not being a man in this house right now? Is that what you're saying? Well, let's be honest with each other, Chantal. If there were a man in your house, you probably probably. wouldn't have to call me. I can't believe it.

But that's not a problem at all. Because we have plenty of men here at who are more than willing to come over and help you out. That's why I've dispatched Mark, one of our top guys. Mark is real big. You wouldn't believe it. He can get any kind of door back into the latch.

Hell, I'd love for him to check my latch. If you catch my drift. What do you mean you already sent someone out? What time is it? Oh, I've sent him out a while back. He should be... Let me check. Yes, he's at the house right now.

He's upstairs, actually. Upstairs? Yes, I imagine he's checking on the boys. What? Mark will get that dishwasher door closed, no problem. He's just upstairs first, making sure the boys are okay. That way you don't have to worry. Hello?

Is anyone there? I'm calling the cops. One, what is your emergency? Yes, there's someone in my house. Did someone break in? Yes, they're inside right now. Where are you, ma'am? I'm downstairs, but he's upstairs with my kids.

Someone is upstairs with your kids? Yes, I need help right now. I'm all alone. You don't have a husband, ma'am? No, I don't. Well, not anymore. Did your husband kill himself because of you, ma'am? What?

Did your husband get so tired of you not being able to get anything done around the house without asking for help? That he drove himself right into a tree. What is this? Just kidding, Chantal. Don't worry. It was just me, Melanie, from... I think we got disconnected there for a second. But I managed to trace your phone number.

number just in time, so we're all good. What? I tell your guy to come down and leave my kids alone. It would be best if you could please stay on the line, Chantal. That way we can get your problem fixed as fast as possible. Tell your guy to come down right now. Stay on the fucking line, Chantal. Do you hear me?

If you hang up on me one more time, I will have Mark rip off one of little josephs. Jonathan's arms and I'll have him tell Derek to try and stick it back on again before his brother bleeds to death. Do you understand me? Okay, okay, please. I... We have a 100% customer satisfaction rate and I'm not going to be the first customer happiness manager to fuck that up. So there are two options here. One, we are going to fix this problem you have in your life. Two, we are going to end your life altogether. Got it?

Yes. So what will it be? Let's please fix the problem. Great. Now Mark will come down to have a look at your dishwasher while we go ahead and complete that profile of yours. Okay, he's so big. He can't even stand up straight in here.

Yes, like I said, Mark is one of our biggest guys, Perfect for a case like yours. Please. Please go away. Please leave. What's wrong, Shantal? Where are his eyes?

He doesn't have eyes. He's so big. I please go upstairs to check on my boys. Your boys will be fine, Shantal. Don't worry about them. Come on. Don't do that, Chantal. Come on.

I'll stop. I'm sorry. Make him stop. We agreed to solve this problem together, remember? So let's do that. I'm looking forward to getting you back to 100% satisfied. Yes, okay. So let's do that.

Let's fix the dishwasher. Like I said, Chantal, if I take a look at your profile, I don't think the problem is that you aren't strong enough to get the door back into the latch. I think the problem is that you don't have a man in your life. Have you been on any dates since your husband died? Yes, I did. One date was some asshole trying to get laid as fast as possible. That was Billy...

Yes. I see. Billy wouldn't be a suitable partner, I'm afraid. What else have you been trying to do to find a new man? Nothing. I don't have time. I work and I have the boys. I completely understand, Chantal.

But don't you think you would be a better mom to your children if there was a man in your life? Of course! So, what we could do here is just go ahead and find you a suitable man. That way we solve all your current problems. You can't do that. That's impossible. Impossible is a word we don't use over here at... We always find a solution to our customers' problems, no matter how difficult.

Robert was perfect. Robert was the perfect man, but he drove right into a fucking tree, so there's nothing left of him. There's nothing there anymore. Where he used to be, there's nothing. It's just emptiness. I see, Chantal. Of course, thinking the one partner you had in your life was the only perfect companion out of all the people on this planet is a ridiculous notion.

It's just a self-deluding construct. A shield created by your subconscious to protect you from the terrifying prospect of being vulnerable enough again. To be able to truly connect with another human being, completely revealing yourself and thus having to face who you are right now. That's scary. It's easier to pretend true love is lost forever. You pick long, throbbing sadness over short, stinking pain.

You don't understand. He was the only one. Am I correct to assume that you live with the misguided but nonetheless strong conviction that there is only one way to fill the void in your house and your soul? And that is to be reunited with Robert? No one could ever replace him. All right. Then I think we should go ahead and reunite the two of you.

What? Chantal, I would like to thank you very much for calling to... And it was my honor and privilege to help you today. I'm going to leave you in the capable hands of Mark, who's going to reunite you with Ruff. Robert. Since we arrived at only one possible solution to your problem, I'm going to go ahead and complete your profile with a five-star rating. Mark will take it from here. Thank you for calling where we strive for nothing short of 100% customer satisfaction. Please note that this call may have

been recorded for educational or monitoring purposes. You probably know about those photo apps which will alter a portrait to show what you look like when you're older. Usually just harmless fun, right? Well, as we discover in this tale, shared with us by author Brandon McNulty, a group of friends in a band decide to try an aging app only to discover that it's disturbingly accurate. Performing this tale are Aaron Lillis,

Kyle Acres, and Matthew Bradford. So don't let aging apps mess with your head. You'll be fine. if you don't concern yourself with a 10-year photo. Never should have clicked on 10-year photo. We first came across it a decade ago back in 2009 when I shared a ratty college apartment with my bandmates Tony and Shane. I was head bitch of our metal group,

and while Tony was a reliable bassist, Shane usually ignored his drums and hit computer keys instead. Big mistake. The habit led him to 10-year photo and its simple three-step concept. Upload a photo, click submit, and see your future. If you had one. Our first upload was Tony's ex-girlfriend.

She was your typical pre-law babe, wrapped up in preppy clothes and drenched in sunny blonde highlights, heavy makeup, lots of jewelry, the type that scrunched her nose at my white girl dreadlocks, my tattoos, my Megadeth Tank Tops. Shane and I couldn't stand her, so we found a picture of her and hit upload. Then we waited. The yellow loading bar inched across the screen.

Beneath it was a logo. It depicted a man's head with two faces looking in opposite directions. Next to it were the words powered by Janus. It's going to take all night. Shane's room always gave me a headache for one reason or another. Tonight it was the smell of burnt popcorn in the trash and the neon-green blaze of the rolling rock sign hanging above his computer.

That plus the fact that he didn't have his gear ready for rehearsal. Little patience, okay? Sorry, none left. At least not for this goddamn joke site. It's not a joke, Ash. You weren't listening. Shane swiveled in his chair, sending his tie into a pendulum-like swing across his shirt. He was fresh off a job interview, which he bombed, and his unruly red hair was gelled down hard.

He drummed his fingers over a briefcase in his lap. This site is deep web shit. Supposedly it takes any photo and shows what the personal look like in 10 years, with spot-on accuracy. I groaned. Admitted, Ash, you want to see what 2019 holds for you. Maybe your music career will finally rise from the shitter. You want to eat your keyboard? He yelled for Tony.

His loading bar hit 100%. For a moment, the screen froze. Then, up popped a picture of Tony's ex. Only this time her flawless face was a tug-of-war battle between wrinkles and laugh lines. Recognize her Tony. Tony hunched forward and squinted. His long rocker hair swishing over his cheeks. His smooth face was more boy band than metal band.

but one look at the screen had his eyes burning like black fire. That's supposed to be Lindsay? Seriously? Piss off Shane. Shane explained the site's concept to him. Come on, don't you guys think Lindsay'll look like this in 2019? I mean, she burns through like 60 camel lights a day. And plus.

Tony laughed. He didn't want to hear it and blame him. Shane, grab your drums and quit acting like a fucking 12-year-old. There's an idea, Ash. Give me a picture of yourself when you were 12. Then we can test it. I slammed the door on my way out. Since our music was too loud for the neighbor's sanity,

we had to rehearse between the damp walls of the apartment basement. Or at least, when all three of us showed up, we did. That night, I spent 20 minutes alone with my Gibson-Less Paul, taken out my frustration on the fretboard, and sending up a series of howling notes before anyone chose. joined me. Tony eventually came down. It snuck a bite from my half-eaten cheeseburger sitting atop one of the washers. When I called him out on it, he stammered through an apology until I tore open the Burger King bag and tossed him a fresh double cheddar. Take it. Got it for free anyway.

You forgot to pay again? Some Zittnose cashier called me a Joan Jet wannabe. So I went bitch to the manager, told her sorry wasn't enough of an apology. That's our girl. Nobody's girl. Minutes rounded the basement clock. I shredded through warm-up riffs while watching for Shane in the stairwell. My fingers stampeded down the frets while my pick hand chopped at the strings until one of them snapped. And then I snapped.

I flung my Gibson onto a dryer, fill in the basement with a gong-like echo accompanied by a six-stream twangy dissonance. and I just went for the stairwell. Tony cut me off and we got into a shoving contest that ended with his cheek scraping the cinder block wall. He wiped the blood with the color of his Slayer t-shirt. Jesus, Ash. Shane's always late. What's your deal?

I licked my thumb and wiped a red smear off his cheek. Never this late, he's pulling this shit to piss me off. It's probably the interview. Case your last count, that's the eighth straight one he's bombed. Cut him a break, will you? Back upstairs, the apartment was pitch dark, aside from a neon green line beneath Shane's door. A gloomy nine-inch nail song screeched inside. I tried the knob. It spun, but the door was stuck.

One hit from my shoulder, knocked it loose. Shane jumped at the side of us. He shut his briefcase and tossed it in the corner near a Christmas tree decorated with crushed beer cans. On his desk was a baggie of coke that he stuffed into a drawer. Grab your drums. In a bit. Now! Shane sank into his computer chair and nodded at his screen.

Still waiting on that picture of you from ten years ago. Cut the shit. We got a gig tomorrow. Why the hell should I care? Come on, man. Ash needs us, and we need money. Shane spoke as if I wasn't there. You think we matter to her. Then why did she run off and fuck the lead singer of Under Ice? Tony glanced at me.

What? That was a mistake. I was blind drunk that weekend. Yeah, well, not blind enough to miss that post on our website about needing a guitarist. Way to cheat on our band, man. Oh, fuck off. I'm too talented to screw my way into a band. Grab your drums. I'll grab my drums when you grab me that photo. Damn it, Shane! Enough for the 10-year... Tony stepped between us.

Chill. Both of you. I got an old photo album under my bed. Ash, come give me a hand. Tony's room was somehow messier than Shane's, with Aussie posters peeling off the walls. A dead plant sprouting out of a desk drawer and Snickers wrappers swamping the carpet. We squatted near the bed and fuck did it wreak hard of cigarettes.

Tony dug out old music mags, chipped bonds, and a stack of LSAT books with yellowed pages. I asked him when he was retaking the LSATs and he ignored me. Among his findings was a dust-caped guitar case with a gold Fender logo branded into the lid. Since when do you own a Fender? Tony shrugged as if it were no big deal. I couldn't understand why he'd keep it stashed while playing away at that cheapo one he'd had since sophomore year. The excavation ended in success. Tony flipped open a leather photo album to the older photos. He slid one loose, a picture of his cute boy band face at age 12, wearing a white button down,

and a reindeer pattern tie. Always an ugly bastard, even then. Pack up my junk while I run this to Shane. Instead of packing, I flipped through his photos and saw one of an older guy, maybe 40-ish, playing a Fender bass on stage at what looked like a church bazaar. I eyed the guitar case near the bed. Tony was still John with Shane in the other room, so I popped open the guitar case. The fender gave off an eerie black shine beneath a ceiling light. Two tattered lead zeppelin decals were peeling near the pickups. The bass of the guitar was smudged with grimy fingerprints. I lifted the bottom of my tank top to wipe them.

Don't. I jumped. Tony stood in the doorway, glaring at me as if I'd tried to rob him. Killer bass! It was my dad's. My mouth turned to cotton. Tony shut the case, glaring at me. I tried to explain, when Shane yelled from down the hall.

The loading bar was at. 98% when Tony and I swung in. Shane poked a pipe between his lips and hit it. He exhaled a warm, sweet cloud. Moment of truth right here. The loading bar disappeared. The screen went black. Everything froze.

Even the mouse wouldn't budge. Shane threw up his hands in frustration. Then the screen flashed. Black to white. From the top down an image loaded, an into view came shaggy dark hair. Tony's face appeared looking almost exactly as he did now. It even showed the scrape on his cheek. Tony and Shane lowered their jaws, shocked.

Right, real funny, guys. Shane blinked. This is funny to you? I pushed Tony's hair aside and revealed the scrape on his cheek. You took that picture just now while I was in his room. I turned to Tony and jabbed him in the ribs. The future lawyer falsifying evidence? They should disbar your ass.

Ash, we didn't. Then the loading finished. It left me, speechless. At the bottom, his neck was hulking through the collar of the kitty shirt. The top button had torn loose, and his reindeer tie hung a... skew. Tony had grown. His clothes hadn't. Rehearsal went nowhere. Shane swatted drums. Tony thumbed his bass. The more distant they grew, the more I second-guessed my skepticism about that website. Ten-year photo, powered by Janus. A decade in one click. While there was image alteration software

readily available, no way could Shane Dr. Tony's shirt and tie like that, not in three minutes. But if they weren't pranking me, what did that say about the website? And what was Janus? A person? A company? Some hush-hush government group? We ended up back in Shane's room, the popcorn stench fading as Shane toked his pipe. Tony agreed to upload a picture of his mom from that same Christmas collection. In it, Photo Mom wore a tight candy cane sweater and looked awfully thin. Much thinner than the globy hammocks-chinned woman Tony introduced me to during homecoming week. The three of us mauled a six-pack of cores while Photo Mom loaded.

Shane downed his beer seemingly in one gulp and reached for a second. Tony leaned in when the loading bar hit 100%. Once again, it froze. this time longer than the last. Part of me prayed that Janus ran out of power. The screen flashed. Tony's mom appeared, brow wrinkled and cheeks ballooning. She looked as plump as her current self,

but what shocked us was the sweater. That candy cane sweater fit photo mom fine, but now her chunky arms stretched the fabric like fishnets, with her suffocating pink skin poking through. Maybe it was the booze, but I started laughing. I had to. I needed to believe it was a joke. Shane joined in the two of us howling.

Tony, not so much. Shane, upload my dad next. Shane and I traded a look. The humor slid off our faces. Tony told me about his dad one night when he was drunk and I was pretending to be. The last time he saw his old man, the guy was in a hospital bed,

a thin blanket covering his bumpy ribs and jagged knees. Worse yet, with all the IV stands and monitors around, Tony couldn't give his old man a goodbye hug. For a brief moment, his dad stirred, noticed him, and lifted a scrawny hand above the bed railing. Tony reached out, and right before their fingers brushed, his dad's arm fell short and hung there. Right now, Tony's eyes held the same glossy stare as when he told me that story.

Except this time, there was a sick, wistful hope in them. No doubt he was cycling through the what-if scenarios. What if his dad beat the cancer? What if he regained weight? What if he were here now? The loading bar hit 99%. Tony's throat hiked in his neck. I knew I had to get him out of the room, away from the computer.

Seeing it would tear him apart. I pinched his elbow, but he shook me off and leaned over the monitor. The loading finished. The screen froze for several minutes. Nothing happened. Nothing, nothing, nothing. I cleared my throat to say something. When my mouth opened, no words fell out.

The screen flashed. Black to white and back to black. There was no picture. Just one word. Error. The bottle went frigid in my grasp. A numbness spread up my arm. I knew I was supposed to say something, but I was never the consoling type,

and now seemed an impossible time to start. Shane finally broke the silence. Want me to re-upload? Tony left the room. Water flushed nonstop from the bathroom sink. I listened with my ear pressed to the door. Never had Tony needed a moment alone more, but I couldn't trust him with total solitude.

The look on his face when that error message hit was something out of hell. And while us rockers were headed there, it wouldn't be tonight. There came a final splash of water and the slap of a towel. He coughed a few times, and the bathroom tiles creaked. He was leaving. He was okay. Thank Christ. I hurried away to the kitchen and grabbed another six-pack. When he started down the hall, I stepped out all casual bottles rattling at my side. He tried ignoring me on his way to the front door, but I stopped him.

So, Shane's ideas can be shitty sometimes, huh? He didn't reply. Just swallowed. He smelled of sweat. and soap. His hair shining wet in the light from the kitchen. His eyelids were swollen and red. Before I could stop myself, I snared him in a hug. The bottles clinked behind him as I squeezed tight. He trembled, his cheek moist against my forehead. It took him a second to register what was going on, and then his head slid across my back, bumping my bra as his palm meshed against my spine.

We pulled back, still in each other's grasp. I wiped a wet clump of hair from his face. He brushed a couple stray dreadlocks from mine. I froze. His lips plunged toward mine. I shrank away. Let's not turn this into days of our lives, okay? He stammered something about heading out to the bar,

but I couldn't let him leave. Not with that broken look in his eyes. I steered him by the shoulders back, towards Shane's room. Maybe not the best therapy, but not the worst either. Shane's uploading me next. You don't want to miss this. Not if I burn out and end up looking like some knocked-up Pat Benatar. The loading bar shot across the months, the seasons, the years. I wasn't doing this for Tony, not entirely. Sure, it was an excuse to keep him home, but the truth was, I needed to know where I was headed.

I've been dragging my fingers down guitar strings since kindergarten, and every time I closed my eyes, I saw myself on stage in front of assloads of loyal fans. If that life was coming, it'd be written all over my future self's face. At 100% I nudged Tony. He was staring at a crack in the wall, still mixed up about his dad and our non-kiss. Another nudge broke his trance. The screen flashed. I braced myself for the big moment.

It flashed again and I saw a stranger, a bald, baggy-eyed stranger with shriveled tattoos webbing her neck and shoulders. The tough metal chick was gone, replaced by a heroin thin banshee who probably hadn't slept in a decade. Shane threw his head back laughing and Tony snorted to his sleeve. I leaned over the keyboard, my mouth tasting of dust. How could I go bald at 32? Tony went next, apparently loosened up enough by my shitty outcome. When his future arrived,

I forced myself to laugh. Somewhere before his 32nd birthday, he got himself a crew cut and went gray in the process. I joked about the long hours of loyering in his future. He was a He didn't laugh. Afterwards, Shane clicked out of the program. The fuck, Shane! If we can look like dog shit, so can you. Tomorrow, maybe. Let's hit the bar.

I looked to Tony. Grab him. Tony pinned Shane to his chair and rolled him away from the keyboard. Shane whined and moaned, his voice growing childishly desperate as I uploaded a recent picture of him. The loading bar chugged along while the guys slammed each other into a bookcase crammed with PS3 games and Tom Clancy paperbacks. They thrashed around until Shane landed on his stomach and tried crawling toward the computer. I took a seat on his back and stamped him against the floor. Ash, please, I don't want to see it.

When the loading bar struck 100%, I climbed off. He scrambled to his feet, diving after the computer. His hand bumped the mouse and knocked it back behind the monitor. He fumbled for it, spazzing like I'd never seen him. By the time he wrestled the mouse back down, everything flashed. Black to white. And back to black. Error.

The kitchen felt like the only place left on earth. I don't know why we picked the kitchen after Shane threw us out of his room, but we did. Tony and I sat with our backs to the fridge. its stainless steel sending chills through my tank top. The floor was sticky from old soda. A wet stench of used coffee grounds hung in the air. Now and then the light above the sink flickered and the faucet dripped. Everything else seemed hollow and motionless.

We started drinking, and a small forest of empty bottles arose between us. We kept going to the last beer. Want to split it? Tony lumbered to his feet. I think I'll go check on Shane. Don't. It's got to be winding down now. There's only like 80 photos on his computer.

What? You take an inventory? I snorted. Tony sat back down. He squeezed the lid off the last cores and offered it to me. What about you? You all right? I scratched at my dreadlocks to make sure they were still there.

I've been twirling them like a circus act ever since we sat down. Any minute now, I expected them to pop loose and slither away. Tony was no better. I caught him checking his reflection in the chrome door handle, probably afraid the color would leak from his hair any second. That was pretty goddamn bald in that photo. Tony shrugged. Who knows? Maybe I'll get sick of my dreads and shave them.

Try a new look. Go all punk. Yeah. Maybe. My head didn't look shaved, though. Tony frowned. Does anyone in your face... Never mind. When he looked away, I shoved him.

What? Go on. Say it. There was a long pause. Only the faint rumble of the fridge and the buzz of the light sounded. He frowned and said... I was going to ask if anyone in your family had... You know, cancer.

Hearing it, sobered the night's booze right out of me. I took his cores off him and knocked it back. The beer hit my throat like a blessing. Handed it back and told him about my Aunt Kay. You mentioned her one night when you were wasted. Something about her and your Gibson? My Gibson was hers originally. She babysat me a lot.

Give me guitar lessons. Then when I was seven, the lessons. stopped. My dad said she had to go on tour. I was thrilled for her. I thought she joined Metallica or something, but it wasn't that kind of tour. Tony said his hand on mine. I didn't budge. His hand, its warmth, it felt like it needed to be there. Last time I saw her, she was lying in her apartment bed. As soon as I walked in, she told me her Gibson was mine now. I ran to hug her all excited. When I threw myself over her chest, something wasn't right, he raised an eyebrow. See, N. Kay had these huge boobs. I expected them to be there. I shook my head, sighed.

She had a double mastectomy. Not that it saved her. Tony brushed the back of my hand with his thumb. I reached for the beer as an excuse to free myself. He cleared his throat. Nobody in my family went gray until their 50s. Nobody in your family stresses out like you. Every time I see you with those L-Sap books, I want to pelt you with Xanax. I made a throwing motion with my wrist, and we laughed. Sounds like I should pull the plug on law school.

Oh, fuck, no. I'll need a good lawyer when I start touring. Remember, I'm good for a stage riot, or 30. We laughed until our tired heads thumped against the fridge door. We stared back at one another. Our beer-soaked breaths collecting on the stainless steel. Tony shifted toward me, his eyes fixing on mine. Our breaths overlapped on the door. He leaned in.

I road-blocked him with my hand. You can do better. I might go bald tomorrow. I might go gray. He folded my hand down into his, and I felt his breath warm. and boozy on my nose. I closed my eyes and bent toward him.

Tony and I stared at each other, wide-eyed. We wobbled to our feet in a reckless hurry, stumbled into chairs and walls on our way to Shane's room. Tony beat me to the door and tried the knob. Locked. He pounded and yelled. His urgency sent me into a drunken run, and I stumbled into him from behind.

The force popped the door open, dumping us on a stacks of CDs and text books. Everything clattered and avalancheed around us. When I twisted loose, I screamed. No! Jane lay on the floor at the foot of his chair. His face impossibly pale in the green neon. His elbow was knotted tight with his tie from the job interview. Nearby, his briefcase was butterfied open, a spoon and plastic bag lying inside. I crawled over and my knee crunched some. I crawled over and my knee crunch something. A used syringe.

Tony, hurry! Get him into the shower! Tony took Shane by the armpits while I got his legs. We dumped him in the shower and threw the water on full blast. Cold spray soaked his shirt, spreading through it like a shadow. He should have twitched by now, but he simply lay there blocking the drain. I felt powerless, useless. It was my aunt.

all over again. Tony stammered through a 911 call. He opened his mouth and say something but couldn't. He slumped against the wall, sliding to the floor as the operator's tinny voice chirped through the receiver. He shook his head. No. That website had to be wrong.

I climbed inside the shower and pumped my hands against Shane's stomach over and over. I slapped his face, pinched his earlobes, No response, nothing. I went back to pumping. Tony yelled at me to keep at it, not to give up. I didn't intend to. I only stopped when the cold got to me. That was when I realized that it hadn't gotten a shame. Today marked the 10-year anniversary of that night. I celebrated with a routine trip to the oncology ward where a nurse donned a sea-list actress's

smile and led me to the chemo room. It was bright inside, the sunlight warming the leather chairs, the air tingling with a fake lilac freshener. What could have been a halfway peaceful visit turned hectic when I saw who was sitting inside. Nurse, can I have a minute alone, let my stomach settle? The second she left, I squatted next to the man sitting by the window. I couldn't believe it. Tony? No response. His arm slid off the armrest and dangled there, the IV tube swinging in rhythm. He smelled of sweat and worry, probably his first chemo session. He still had his hair, after all, gray as it was. Tony, remember me? From the old apartment? He stared ahead. His breath leaking out. Somewhere

in my mind, I could smell warm beer and undercooked burgers. I could feel his palm against my spine. Who? Ash. Ten years ago, we were in the... The website.

Yeah. The website. I took his hand. You'll laugh, but I've become kind of addicted to it. I upload my photo every day now. But get the...

this, I'll survive my cancer. And my hair's supposed to grow back. Guess it'll be powered by Janus. Did, did you know Janus was a Roman god? The god of time, beginnings, doorways, and... Uh... Yeah, yeah, I know it's silly. Uh, what about you, Tony? Have you been uploading yourself? No. My skin prickled at his tone. It was unfair. Here was the only guy on earth who understood the website. Janus's power. My addiction. Maybe Tony didn't want to know if he'd be around in 2029, but I did.

I snapped a picture of him and booted up 10-year photo on my phone. My thumb hovered over the upload button. Ash, don't? Why not? Why wouldn't you want to know? What if... He dozed off. His breath.

warm on my face. Warm as it had been in front of the fridge ten years ago. Before everything became predictable. Before everything went to shit. I checked my phone. My thumb hovered over the word upload. Instead, I hit cancel. Then I took his hand and waited.

You for joining us on our journey down the lost. Highway. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Mike Olski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett. Our creative content manager is Olivia White. I'm your host and executive producer, David Cummings. If you would like to find out how you can hear the extended editions of our audio program, please visit the no sleeppodcast.com to learn about our season pass program. 25 episodes, each over two hours long, and three

exclusive bonus episodes, all for only 2499. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening. It's the darkness phase. It feels like you're going to dream. Production is Copyright 2020

by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective Authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.