ASTRAL ROB
Episode 1: Waking Isn't Always Wanting
Episode 2: Echoes Over Beaver Creek
Episode 3: A Long Day’s Night
Time had slipped away like water through Rob’s fingers.
He walked for blocks without remembering the route, his mind a whirl of conflicting emotions. The OMNI magazine tucked under his arm throbbed like a secret. Part of him dismissed it as junk science. The rest? Hooked on the possibility.
Astral projection.
He scoffed to himself.
But he kept walking.
He was late.
Idle Hands thumped with energy.
Neon lights pulsed across the parking lot like the heartbeat of something alive. Rob pushed through the front door, bracing for the wave of music, sweat, and smoke.
He checked his watch. Half an hour late.
Shit.
But before guilt could spiral, Monty Morris appeared—club manager, mentor, friend. He was dressed like someone who had just stepped off a Miami Vice set: too much cologne, wide collar, and the biggest smile in the province.
“Hey, Rob! How ya doing?”
He caught Rob’s hand in the signature Monty Pump—a firm shake, a shoulder clap, and a conspiratorial lean-in.
“What’s up, buddy? Everything alright?”
Rob managed a weak grin. “Lost track of time. Today’s been... rough.”
Monty’s tone softened. “Heard the news.” A pause. “We’ll talk later if you need.”
Rob nodded. Sometimes, a man didn’t need to be understood. Just recognized.
He moved through the thrumming dark toward the main bar, where a familiar face leaned over the taps.
“Hey, man,” Marcel Seto said, already handing him a bar rag and a glass to polish. “You okay?”
Rob nodded. “Getting there.”
And then, without ceremony, the night swallowed them whole.
Idle Hands lived up to its name.
Customers flooded in like a wave that never broke. Three deep at the bar. Elbows, flashing cash, drinks poured by memory. Basslines from 1980s pop and synth-rock bounced off mirrored walls. Sweat glistened on dancers’ necks. Glowsticks snapped like fireflies. The chaos was beautiful.
Rob found rhythm in motion. Muscle memory took over. So did the buzz of routine.
But beneath it all, something tugged.
That damn magazine.
Those words.
That name.
Glenn Picco.
He shook it off.
Declined shots from regulars.
Focused on lime wedges.
Counted tips with fingers that didn’t quite feel like his.
Last call came too quickly. Or maybe not quickly enough.
End of Episode 3
Meanwhile...
Somewhere.
Nowhere.
Elsewhere.
A presence.
Disembodied. Drifting. Not yet thought. Not quite need. Just… motion.
It seeks.
Walls mean nothing.
Steel doesn’t stop it.
It passes like breath through a keyhole, brushing against dreams and neurons, hungry without knowing what hunger means.
Then—
It feels.
A pull.
Rhythmic.
Familiar.
Below.
A body.
Alive.
The chest rises. Falls.
Inhale...2…3…4…
Hold...
Exhale...2…3…4…
Hold...
The body is empty.
It enters.
Fatally.
TTFN
Frank Sirianni aka Foxxfyrre Cg
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