MEGAN FOX, OMEGA SUPREME

The Ghosts In The Heart

     Now that I finally have your attention, I believe it's time we get down to business. Perhaps you were expecting the rest of the first story I was telling you? Well, never mind that story, for I have a better one. Much better. See, I only wanted you to listen carefully to what's coming next...Now, due to the fact that what I'm about to say though true, didn't happen to me, I'll need to describe these events as if they did. They call it writing in third person in the literary biz; and as narrator, I will become omnipresent--meaning, I will see all and know all even though I didn't technically witness any of this firsthand.

One.

    The man in the charcoal gray business suit entered the real estate office and sat down in the chair opposite Brandon Wilkerson. He sat down slowly, but deliberately, as if he'd been standing up forever and wanted to enjoy this moment of leaving his feet before he discussed whatever he'd come to discuss. He even exhaled, and closed his eyes a moment.

    Wilkerson, who was only twenty-five, but had been a realtor for six years, was quite experienced in the art of reading people: their body language, facial expressions, tones of voice. It was why his business was thriving even at a time when there weren't many homes being bought. They blamed it on the recession that hit America as President Obama walked into the White House; the one they say President Bush actually caused, though the Rush Limbaugh's and Sean Hannity's of the world always seemed to forget that as they ranted and raved.

    They blamed it on banks and other money lenders giving loans to minorities to invest in homes, who couldn't afford them, and had no way of ever paying them back, but Wilkerson knew better. It had all been arranged that way. So greedy people who didn't give a fuck about anyone else, only their yearly profit margins, would have convenient scapegoats. Bernie Madoff was swept under the rug...that fiend...lets blame the niggers. But that was neither here nor there.

     Wilkerson could see that there was something heavy weighing on this man's mind...a slight pang of fear ran through him, but he forced it away, not knowing its source, and studied his visitor in that way all good realtors are very good at doing. African American, he guessed, but who the hell knew these days. He was brown skinned--that was about all Wilkerson could ever attest to in court. He was medium height, of medium build, well dressed, though the suit didn't look new...but then, it didn't look old either. Maybe a Brooks Brothers. Or maybe something he'd picked up in the local Goodwill. For a thrift store, they often had some pretty decent shit.

    Age-wise, Wilkerson guessed he was about thirty-five, maybe forty, but he looked young in that way blacks have of looking regardless of their age. Could have still been in his twenties; it was the suit that made Wilkerson place him in the thirty to forty range. It didn't seem like the kind of suit someone closer to his own age would wear. The pants weren't overly tight around the ankles.

     He guessed he was handsome. He didn't make it a habit, judging a man's looks, but it was important he be honest with himself when it came to a person if he wanted to assess them properly. So yeah, he was handsome...who did he resemble? Some actor or sports star, he was sure...okay, he knew. Alonzo Mourning. He once played basketball for the Miami Heat. Only this guy was darker, and definitely much shorter.

    His eyes were still closed. "Can I help you sir?" Wilkerson leaned back in his seat; Corrine, his secretary, had been acting rather funny. He wouldn't be surprised if she liked him. She was Irish and Scandinavian, and found black guys irresistible. He personally didn't understand it, and wasn't sure he really liked it, but well...he himself, did mostly date black chicks. Who was he to judge.

    "Sir?" he repeated. "Can I---"

    "Stop," the man whispered. "Please. No disrespect, but just don't talk for a moment...I've..."

    He finally opened his eyes and Wilkerson's heart jumped. They were blue...some of the palest blue eyes he'd ever seen. Turquoise. Megan Fox blue. (One of the prettiest women who ever lived. How big was his crush on her? Immense. In Jennifer's Body, which Wilkerson considered an incredibly horrible film, he felt Megan stepped over the beauty line into Gigi Hadid, Dee Wallace, Sharon Stone, Christina Hendricks, Barbara Eden, Sarah Gadon, Elizabeth Taylor, Vivian Leigh, Lauren London, Megan Good, Tuesday Weld, Adriana Lima, territory. This was his personal list of gorgeous women from the entertainment world he wanted to fuck--some of them from the present, some from the past. As diverse a group as you'll ever find. And unashamedly, he used to actually have fantasies of killing Brian Austin Green while Megan Fox watched, and laughed.)

     Now, Wilkerson knew full well blacks could have blue eyes...he'd seen whole islands filled with blond haired, blue eyed blacks on the Internet (and who hadn't seen Vanessa Williams?), but to see it up close. It was rather eerie.

     Taken aback, Wilkerson remained silent. What must it have been like? Growing up In the hood, he was sure this strange man had come from, with such exotic eyes? This should be interesting. Wilkerson thinks this, then picks up the receiver of the telephone on his desk.

    "Corrine," he says, "hold all calls for an hour. I don't care who it is. In fact--"

    "You saw him," Corrine says. "His eyes. Who is he sir?"

    "I'm about to find out," Wilkerson replies. Not sure if she meant their color, or the intense look of despair in them. "Just see to it I'm not disturbed. I'll fill you in as usual, young lady."

     This was a joke between them. Corrine was actually old enough to be his grandmother.

    "Will do sir," she says. "If he's over thirty, get me his number."

   "I'll get you a pink slip, see if you like that missy!"

    Corrine laughs. They both hang up.