Code Adam

The intercom buzzing interrupted his retail trance: "Code Adam."

Adam groaned. A Code Adam meant that one, his coworkers would be making fun of his name all day and, two, that someone had lost their brat in the store.

Again.

They were up to fifteen that week.

He dutifully put down the box of toys that people had been too lazy to put back and walked around, looking for any little kids that were either alone or pissing their pants. He hoped it wasn't the second one (for the fifth fucking time).

What kind of parents was it this time?

Adam took a peek up at the counter. Yep, overweight soccer mom with a fake Gucci ensemble, massive manicured nails and a voice like a belt sander to the ears. His favorite. Probably let her precious little Jeffrey or Tarquin or whatever name she thought sounded edgy or unique play while she yacked on her phone.

He cupped his ear, hoping to catch those magic words. "-I can't believe you didn't watch him better!"

Aha! There it was. Adam rolled his eyes outwardly but sort of snickered on the inside. These retail-hating assholes always blamed them, the retail monkeys, for not taking care of their precious little monsters.

"He's such a good boy!"

Or, his favorite, "Don't tell me how to parent my child!"

Then parent them, he always thought while he nodded and groveled for his pitiful job.

They all searched while attempting to keep up with shoppers who didn't give two fucks about anything else but getting checked out to shut their bleating spawn up. When told no one could leave the store for a bit, there was more than a few threats to call: the manager, corporate, the police, lawyers, whatever.

By the time he had circled around, Adam noticed the police actually were there.

His heart sank a little. That was the fifteenth kid that they hadn't been able to track down. Now he almost felt a little bad for the clawed soccer mom -- her tears seemed hysterical and genuine.

Adam sighed and went back to work. He was sure he'd get the gossip later, but noted the details: young toddler, blonde hair, green eyes and wearing a blue jumper with some obscure cartoon character on the front.

Fifteen kids in one damned week. How effective could the code be if it seemed to fail every damned time?

He tried to think and couple his love of crime shows: had there been any suspicious repeat customers in? Anyone that looked shady? Customers all sort of looked the same to him, except for the four hundred pound woman that had smuggled dolls in her cleavage; no one even attempted to stop her.

No one came to mind.

His trudge to the stock room felt heavier than normal. All that was left was those stupid, massive dolls that had grown in popularity. Adam heaved the box onto the trolley and rolled it out, attempting to avoid squishing any little monsters.

These things were so creepy. They never looked the same, either. First there was a bunch of blank-eyed little girls with their lips flapping around. Supposedly, they talked, but he avoided pressing the button like the plague.

Three girls in cute little outfits, some oddly ghetto looking dolls and a few little boy dolls. Adam had no idea why -- he couldn't imagine a fan of dolls wanting a dead-eyed looking ginger kid, a wide-eyed boy with some epic dreadlocks or some blonde kid that looked like he'd peed his overalls.

Oh well. Corporate knows best.

The Revolving Door

Kelly looked through at the hotel. The historic Patrick Henry, home to a million and one ghosts, as she was told.

The lump in her throat thickened. She rifled around in her messy purse and sucked down two more cough drops.

It wasn't the ghost stories she minded.

Somewhere in there was her boss.

When Kelly had started her job as a software engineer ten years ago, Mr. DeVille had seemed nice; sickeningly so. After a decade with him, Kelly had decided he was the closest thing to the anti-christ.

She'd been tempted to call up the crazies bashing the President as the almighty Damian and tell them to cast holy water on her pudgy little frog of a boss.

How many anxiety attacks was she up to now? Six hundred and twenty-four, Kelly sighed. The last one had been so bad that she'd honestly been amazed she still had a job. They'd been at another hotel, this one in Phoenix. Mr. DeVille had pulled her aside while she set up her aging laptop for a presentation and blasted her with phlegm as he screamed. Screamed for an entire hour before the group showed up to listen to her present their messy, overpriced pile of shit accounting software.

Halfway through, and she thought she was fine. Then she got a glimpse of him staring her down and burst into tears.

What was it about the software industry that made people act like machines?

The business group had stared blankly at her and shuffled out at Mr. DeVille's urging. He had insisted that she was suffering from the "lady issues" that come after a pregnancy. Never mind that she'd lost her third child. Never mind that her husband had walked out on her his hands thrown in the air at her "neurosis".

Women problems. Sure.

Kelly looked out on the road where it seemed like a perpetual game of Frogger for anyone who dared used the crosswalk. Everyone in a hurry, no time for humanity.

No time for her to eat some cancer sticks. She had to go and give her soul to the DeVille (she almost cracked a smile at the coincidental hilarity. Almost).

Maybe she would get lucky. Maybe some ghost would swallow him whole or trap him in a bedroom, like in The Shining. The thought of a rotting old lady coming after his sallow turkey neck did make her smile.

Oh well. Emotions off. Face blank.

Kelly turned and headed through the revolving door.

Her mind went blank with her face, and she found herself pushing a few times in a complete circle. Maybe if her inner child hadn't died a long time ago, it would have been fun. Now, it just felt hollow. With a sigh, she turned to her stop.

But, instead, she stopped dead in her tracks. The glass had to be playing tricks on her eyesight. Fuck, she did really need glasses -- the doctor hadn't just been trying to line his pockets.

The guests, the staff, every single one of them looked as though their face had melted. Their ribs had opened like butterfly wings escaping a cocoon and their hearts dragged behind them on the floor.

Kelly tried to make a sound, but it only came out a whimper, like when she tried to sleep but saw only the spittle flying out of her bosses face. The door was no longer turning.

The things inside had begun to look up at her. Some of their eyes had rolled down their cheeks. She gaped at them, they gaped back, as though a woman frozen in the revolving door was the weirdest thing about.

Then, she saw Mr. DeVille. Oh God, did she ever see him. 

He practically poured out of the reserved conference room like a gelatinous slug. Kelly was sure he was yelling, but all that came out was the sound of someone drowning beneath a bubbling ooze. His grotesque form slithered her way, waving the tiny limbs she supposed were arms.

When he got close enough, she saw his mouth open and screamed.

It was a gaping maw, not unlike a lamprey. Two pincers on either side of his mouth wildly jerked towards it, as though directing her on where she should jump. He only stopped his beeline for the door when a bag boy got in his path.

The bag boy was sallow, more of a skeletal corpse than a melted mutant. He looked up blankly as Mr. DeVille crammed him in his enormous mouth and swallowed him whole, screaming the entire time. His face was still visible against the translucent gut; he looked unaffected.

"Kelly," he garbled at her. "You fucking idiot, get your ass in here, now!" 

She looked at him and pressed back against the door. It wouldn't move.

She could see the veins in his face as he pressed it to the glass, trying to prod his comical appendage of an arm through to grab her.

Every rant, every curse, every scream he uttered spewed a sickening black ooze over the glass.

Oh, god, it was melting through! 

The dead face of the bag boy stared out at her and Kelly swore that he was mouthing, "Go."

With a wild shriek, she rammed into the door with all of her might. The revolving door spun her around several times until she practically collapsed outside. She glanced back for a brief moment, only in time to see Mr. DeVille flailing his arm around wildly and screaming loudly enough to shake the glass.

Kelly felt the world lift from her shoulders. She lit a cigarette, flipped him off, and hailed a taxi. The historic Patrick Henry could have him. The business group that would have to watch his mealymouthed presentation and how he didn't know how to work a basic projection screen on their own.

It didn't matter to her. She saw some of the horrors inside nod at her, some even smiling a bit.

For the first time in a decade, she smiled back.

The taxi driver was the most handsome slob she'd ever met.  

The Habitat (Finished)

    When he signed the papers for his new home, the stars aligned. A million dollar home staring right out at Palma Sola Bay -- he had argued them down to 950. 

    The house stood at one story, but not for long. John's mind rearranged every inch: arched windows here with custom stained glass, marble counters, a spiral staircase into what would be the upper story. Another million dollars, but what did he care. 

    His promotion at the Able and Perron Law Firm had probably been the closest he had come to great sex since the divorce. The feeling of sitting down at Thanksgiving in front of Aunt Lucille and her meth-stained teeth or his little sister who was repeating her third year in college, for the fifth time, was sinfully delicious. It even made the dry turkey taste like ambrosia. 

    John laughed internally as each of his family tried to show off, tell each other they were off the bottle or had found Christ. They tried to pick at his divorce but he was more than happy to tell them his dearest Sarah was dating an unemployed loser and beloved children had scribbled all over their tiny apartment. "I sure do miss them," he concluded innocently. 

    Oh, he missed them alright. Sure he did. 

    Back in his home, he inhaled the scent of the clean -- it was citrus and superiority. He couldn't wait until his sister visited in a month so he could show off his leather furniture, art from local geniuses and imported wines (no touching). He was split between hoping she would bring Mom and praying that she wouldn't.

    Right on the Bay. Life was good. 

    He ran his hands over the smooth wood that would make his custom bar, euphoric. His bliss was cut short when he felt a sharp pinch on his thumb. 

    "Damnit!" He glanced down, ready to call the workers and scream at them until they sanded the wood properly. Instead, the culprit was a large, black carpenter ant. 

    John scoffed, "Of course. Damned lazy migrant workers kept the door open all day. Of course these little bastards would get in." He folded his arms at the scurrying dot and chided, "Well, there's no food here for you -- because I paid for it." He paused with a wry smirk, "I admire your work ethic, Danny ole' boy, but you're just not keeping up with the times." Danny had worked at the law firm for over twenty years. John had to fire him last week. "We'll have to part ways, Dan. Nothing personal." And with that, he squashed the ant under his thumb and flicked it's corpse into the trash can. 

    He'd get the exterminators to spray the place before his sister came. No big deal. John almost laughed. His mother had always told him that ants had the right idea: no lollygagging, no protests, just working towards a better life. 

   Maybe they did. He didn't get to partner by wasting time or daydreaming. His new surround system was here. No time to ponder worthless insects. 

   The exterminators came and went. He made sure he hired the top rated (and most expensive). You get what you pay for, after all. Before his sister stopped by, several cousins, aunts, uncles and even his ex-wife had stopped by. John could see it in her eyes behind her mumbled pleasantries: it was killing her inside, seeing how she could have had it, and he felt like a kid allowed in a pool full of jello. 

    His kids, Tom and Kelly, ten and eight, were only concerned about the possibility of a game room. Just to stick it to his ex, he put on a sickeningly sweet voice and asked them what happened to all the nice games he had bought them before. They whined that Ronny (their new Daddy) had sold them because they weren't good kids for Santa. 

    I wonder if his dealer is named Santa, John giggled internally while telling them he'd see what he could do.  John was glad Sarah scurried off with their kids after. Their voices had started to grate on his ears, and he had to check on his granite counter tops.

    He almost skipped over when they were gone. The best revenge is living well, after all. He hoped it burned her right to her bleached blonde roots.

    Ants. John stopped and gawked at the line of black dots moving around his counter. He almost instinctively grabbed for his cell phone, ready to put the exterminator on his speed dial shit list. Instead, he took a deep breath and doused them in glass cleaner before sweeping their fallen army off. The timing was good, fortunately, as his sister had arrived.

    “Johnny boy,” Gina called in her usual sing-song tone.

   “Come in, G!” He hollered back.

    Gina let herself in, swaying a bit. How many times would she lose her damned license? He wondered this as they hugged.

    “Cyoar, great place!” She raved. Gina was on a kick of pretending to be British. “Uncle Ron bitched forever about how he had all this same crap in his time and for a better deal.”

   “Fuck Ron,” John muttered. “He still insists he knows Kung Fu. Fat bastard.”

    They laughed together and he offered her some coffee (still no touching on the wines).

    “So, who did you have to sue to get this place?” She gave him a sideways smile. Gina always assumed that his position let him pull some kind of Mafia deals.

    “No one,” he laughed. “The agent told me that there was some issues with loose dirt under the foundation and I told him to make me a deal and I would fix it.”

    “Nice.” She sipped and made a face. “Bleck, no sugar? What, afraid of ants?”

    He bristled. “Sugar isn’t in my diet, G.”

    “Oh yeah, Mum was still calling you her little piggy, eh?” Her smile faded. They shared a small moment of silence. “She didn’t want to come.”

    “God knows she could bear the thought of me making more than Dad ever spoiled her with.” John wanted it to be lighthearted, but it was about as bitter as the coffee.

    Gina sipped in silence and tried to lighten the mood. “Hey, you’ve donned the crown of the dysfunctional heavyweight division – kudos!”

    “Thanks.” His eye had been drawn to the upper corner of the wall. You have to be fucking kidding me.

    She followed his gave and frowned, “Oh damn, Johnny Boy, you’ve got some heavy roommates.”

   He swore at the line of ants. Little fuckers must have popped up under the wallpaper. His custom made wallpaper. “Maybe I’ll sue the damned exterminators.”

    “You could try vinegar,” she tried. “They hate that shit.”

    “So do I!” He snapped, startling them both. In the uncomfortable silence, he murmured, “Sorry, G. Maybe you should go. I gotta take care of this.”

    As soon as she left, he was screaming down his phone, calling every single exterminator he could find. He spent the rest of the day angry. Angry and looking under every nook and cranny.

    The little fuckers were everywhere.

    When he tried to go to sleep that night, his gorgeous home groaned around him. “I know,” he groaned with it. “This is bullshit.” It seemed like the very dirt was rustling. He saw ants in the dark, like a tapestry of writhing soldiers marching across his vision in perfect diagonals.

    The next day, his house was full of poison while he angrily paced about. Each consecutive exterminator was obviously displeased, but he didn’t care. What the fuck was he paying them for?

    Each one marched out with a grunt of affirmation. If anything had been living in his house beside him, it would be dead meat now.

    John went to work and kept his mind off of ants. He had a whole litigation team to lay off and several petty cases and real estate closings. The mind-numbing paperwork soothed his frayed nerves. No more ants. No more rattling dirt in the night. He had spent a fortune to assure it.

    When he came home, he broke his own rule and opened a nice vintage. He didn’t even bother with a glass and sipped straight from the bottle.

    If his table hadn’t cost over five thousand dollars, he would have spit it all over the surface.

    Ants. He was drinking ants.

    John stared at the dark, drowned smudges in the bottle. “How? How did you get in there?! It was sealed!”

   He screamed and threw it against the wall. “I don’t have TIME for this! Don’t you fucking understand that I built this house?! This is MY HOUSE!”

   His raving led him to the kitchen. Everywhere. Marching, pinching little fuckers everywhere. His food, his fridge, the washer – everywhere.

    John didn’t care that it was ten at night. He sprinted to his Benz and roared towards the grocery store, barging past some retail slave trying to close. He didn’t even look.

    Bleach, bug spray, vinegar, garlic; he nabbed it all and practically threw cash in the cashier’s face.

    He left a message as he weaved violently on the road towards his home and told his boss he was calling in the week off he hadn’t taken in all his years at the firm. He didn’t even care if they paid him or not, he was done.

    For five days, all he did was kill ants. Every single one he could find: stomping, drowning them with bleach, scrubbing the walls with vinegar and bug spray.

    Anything.

    By Saturday, he hadn’t showered all week. The shower was full of ants.

    John had run out of bug spray. He had run out of the pads, out of vinegar, out of everything to keep the little bastards at bay. Now, he was crouched down by the ants endless line and squashing them under his thumb, one by one.

   "Damned ants," he muttered each squish. "Ruining my perfect new home!"

    The light from the windows grew dimmer. He faintly heard the dirt shift under the foundation, as though even it was tired of the swarming army.

    "Those are custom made windows, you sons of bitches!" He lamented.

    His beautiful home. The home that had impressed even his family, covered in endlessly marching ants.

    But he would have the last laugh. He swore it.

    John rolled to his side an on to his feet, uncaring of the ants crawling over him. He had laid a crowbar to the side -- it was meant to help him pry off the old wooden eyesores in the walls. Instead, he found himself aiming for the pipes under the sink.

    "Like mother always said. You keep washing until there's no more mess."

    He swung the pipe with a manic grunt, and beat at it until water began to spurt upwards. He knocked holes in every wall and beat at every single pipe that had painstakingly been marked, each with a battle cry of, "Drown!"

    The water took its time, but it didn't take too long before it had near turned black with struggling dots. John sank against a wall with a tired smile. The bliss of feeling the bites fade as he was cleansed was absolutely euphoric.

   He'd let it flood. He could buy new furniture, start over on his dream home. His family would come back and be even more impressed. Maybe he'd put in that god forsaken gaming room for his two snot-nosed little shits. He had the best job in the whole family -- bunch of deadbeats, druggies and whores. Who was going to turn their nose up at him now?

    No one, that's fucking who.

    John shut his eyes and let the water rise. Done. Over. Finally.

    When he could be bothered to open them again, he thought perhaps he hadn't opened them at all. The light had gone completely.

    "I'm just too tired to open my eyes," he assured and forced them open with his fingers.

    Darkness.

    He looked instinctively towards his beautiful, custom arched windows. Brown? How could they be brown?

    Then he realized that the water wasn't the only noise. The very foundation of the home had been dragged down and loose dirt crinkled all around him in surround sound. The real deal, not that cheap shit the guy at the store had tried to sell him.

    John stumbled to his feet and waded in a frenzy to the kitchen to grab his flashlight. He turned it on with a muffled sob.

    His beautiful home had been buried. What once had been a million dollar view out on the bay had becoming nothing but dirt and buried dog shit.

    For a long moment, all he could do was watch the ants crawling in the thousands on his windows. They would get in soon. He looked to his food: covered in ants. His clothes, covered. Everything was nothing but a squirming black horde.

    His mind went back to his mother's ant farm. How he used to stare as they moved around like the undead, following the call of a matriarchal tyrant. He wondered if ant queens ever told her ants that they didn't collect the right sugar, or sent them off to their deaths for amusement.

    They were beginning to swim on him. The stubborn bastards used their own comrades bodies as little boats.

    Smart fuckers.

    His flashlight, filled with water, gracefully took its death.

    The water was still rising.

The Glitch Princess

 In the dark of night, a lone shadow waited at the window, looking out upon a street that stretched into an endless abyss, crowned with a single street light. Soft jazz spread over the air; it would grow silent and then begin again.

    The shadow, hand on her chin, stared wistfully upon the world . "Oh, Player. Will you pass me by? What a dear man. A detective, I imagine."

    The handsome gent had no name, but he had a beautiful halo that read 'Player 1'. When she had first seen him, he was investigating a murder below her window. She remembered looking out one day to see if her detective might pass, but had instead, a woman's body laid out upon the asphalt. Multiple stab wounds and a face that was oddly blocky, as though someone had tried to cube her but hadn't been able to cut deep enough. The detective was examining her and listening to another inglorious detective explain the scene.

    She had known the woman. Some lowlife tramp that cruised the streets, looking for Johns to take in the alleyway.

    She had never even looked at her window.

    Bitch.

    "He doesn't need you," she had cried and pounded on the glass. "He's the best detective in the world!"

    Neither looked up.

    No one ever did.

    They took the victim away and that was that. For a brief moment, her Player had looked up. Her heart quivered. She waved at him. An almost dismissive gesture was his response, and then he was gone.

    He noticed me! 

    Her heart belonged to Player 1, no matter how absurd his name. She had pulled up the one chair, fought with it more so. It didn't want to move, but she made it. She stayed at the window, always on the lookout.

    The jazz looped again. She wished the club would learn a new damned tune, but it was better than the ambient sounds of nothing.

    She jumped as two pigeons landed on the window sill. "Oh!"

    They didn't move much, even as she put her hand to the window.

    "Pretty birdies. Nice birdies. I wish I could invite you in for tea," she cooed and pet the glass. One of them twittered, and the other exploded.

    She blinked as her window turned red and looked down. The other pigeon flew off, but she didn't notice that it flew upside down and then vanished into nothing.

    Down below, stood a man in a nice suit. His voice crackled with laughter as though much further away. She didn't understand what he said besides, "-Got it!"

    He was joined by the detective, her detective. 

    "Nice," he said sarcastically. "We're meant to be progressing, not shooting birds."

    "I wanted to see if the Glitch would happen," the suit man argued.

    Glitch? She stopped her desperate waving.

    "You mean the character they didn't finish?" Her detective asked, unimpressed.

    "Dude, she was supposed to be like this crazy monster lady that lived in this building. There was going to be a whole quest around meeting her and her trying to eat you." 

    The woman in the window hadn't had a name before. "Glitch," she mouthed. "Glitch."

    The crazy glitch in the unfinished building. 

    Despite Player 2, she smiled. "My detective...now I know I can see you truly."

    She peeled herself from the armchair and moved through the dust particles transformed into cubes. Her limbs stretched behind her where the very air seemed unwilling to let go. But she surged forward, her body become more distorted, more thin.

    "My detective." She breathed and pressed her face into the door, the entry to her prison. It cubed, all the things around her cubed and her arms waved lime limp streamers. "My Player."

    No matter what she passed through, it simple cubed itself. No more being stopped. No more being a ghost. She wove, serpentine, around the numbers breaking through the walls.

    A bit more...

    My detective.

    ************************************************************************
$̴(̴'͘.sele͟c҉ţor͜'͝).c͟h͟ang҉é(fun̶ct̀i͢o͡n̸(͢){͘
͝ $t̡1̢ ̢=͢ ͠$͞(͝'#͡ty͡pe̴1').v̷a͜l͢(͜)͞;
̸ ͝$̕t2 = ̴$(͡'#ty̧pe͜2').҉val̷()̢;͢
͢

//My Detective
̵$i͘m͟m̶un͜e̶s̶ ̢= ͢[͟];̶
$dS̕t̶ròng͞ ͜= [̡];͠
͡ ͝$̴s̨t̢r͠o̡ng̵ ͜= [҉]҉;
̢ ̢$nòrmal =҉ ̀[̴];͜
$̷weak =̷ ҉[͜];͘
̢ $d̶Weak ͢= ̀[̧];

for͏($͢i҉ =̶ ̸0;̢ $͝i̧ < ̨$ty͟p͏eL̵ist.l̸eng̕th; $̧i͟+͏+҉)̕{̕
$e1҉ = c͏hec͟kTy̛p̷e(͢$ty̡peL͏ist͡[҉$͢i͟]̶, $type̢Tab̷le[̸$͜t1]);̨ohgodwhatisit
͠ $e҉2 ͏=͏ ̷c͞h̡eck͜T͝ype͜(́$̨ty͜p̴e̡Li͏s̴t̛[̢$́i͏], ̴$̧ty͟p̵e͢T͠a̴bl̡e[$͢t͡2]);
͞
́ ҉ $st͠rèn҉g͠t̷h́ =͢ ̢$e1̀ + $e2;glitch.glitch.glitch.no.no.no.no.nononononononononononoo
̸ ̀ ͠

//Player 2 has been killed
͡ //̸If ̷immùn͏e.̸..͏
̕ /͏/͜el̀s͞è ̧s̸w͜i͡tc҉h
̸ ̶if($̧t̛y͏ṕeT͞able͝[͡$t͠1]͡[̨'̢i̴m͞m͢unes͟']͜.́in͡d͞e̴xOf($týpe̸L͜i͠st[̢$i]) ͏> ͜-̀1̕ |҉| ͏$҉t͠ypȩTa͞bl̀e[$t2̀][́'͡immu͡nes']̛.inde͝xO̢f(̶$͡ty͞p̧eList[$i]͞) ͢> -1){
͏ ̕ $̧i̴m͢m͟unes͟[͟$̸i͞mmu̧nęs̸.̶len̷ǵth] = ̡$t͏ypȩL҉ist[͏$i];҉
̶ ͘}̵
҉ ͏élse ̶świtc͝h($̷st̨ren͜gth)͞{̀
҉ ̨ c̵ase -͝2͠:̧
̕ ͘ ͡ $dWeak͝[$d̀We̡ak.le͏ńǵth͡] ̀= $̨typ̶eL̷is͘t[$i̢]̶;̶
͠ ̡ ͜b͠reak;͠
̡ ̷ ca̷s͞e̷ ͏-͞1̸:
̴ ͝ ̵ $̛w҉e̕a̡k[$̸we̷a̴k.l҉en͜gth]͠ ̷=҉ $̕t̨y͝peL͞iśt҉[̕$i];͟
̢ ̴ ̨ ͟b̀ręak;
͘ ͏ ̕ ҉cas͢e 0͠:
͠ ̴$̀no̷r҉m̶al[$͡n͝o҉rm̸al.̴l͏en̴g̵t̕h]̵ ̕= $typeLis͏t[͜$͠í];̨
͢ ͢ ̡ b̢r͠e̢ak̵;
̕case̡ 1̵:
̀ ͜ ͏$stro͢n̨g͜[̶$͘st̶r͏on̵g͠.le̕n͟g̨t͢h̨]͝ ҉= ͘$ty̸pe̶List͝[$̢i]̀;
͞ ͡ b̕reak͜;͞
͏ c̷as҉e͢ 2:
̀ ͏$dS͠t͠rong[͞$҉dStro̴ng.l͡e͠ngth̡]͟ = ́$̧t̨ypeL̶i҉st̷[̵$̀i͏];
̷ ҉ ̸b̛r͘ęak;̶



//Don'tscream
}͜
̸
}
//Don't scream
͞ ̡
͞ $̵da̷t̛a ͏= ̛[$dSt͟rong͢, ̢$͢s̶t̨ro̡n͠g͢,͝ $nơrmaļ, ͘$̕w̢e̸ak̴, $d͝Wea̧k, $̀im̀m̨une͘s͞];̶
̨ ҉dis҉p̀l̀ayD͞a̕t͡a(̢$d̡a̕ta)͝;
}͝);
//It'sstillhere

*******************************************************************************

 - We at Lexicon Studios would like to apologize to players within our community who have reported critical system failures within "Mean Streets".

    We assure you that this glitch is with an unfinished character, and nothing more. This character will be taken out entirely and the character model of 'The Detective' will be returned to players that played as him ASAP.

While we cannot confirm why The Detective character has suffered such immense damage, we will be doing all we can to restore the character and to insure our loyal community can continue to enjoy "Mean Streets".

    Thank you for your patience.


                                                                     Amelia Cecille, President and CEO of Lexicon Studios.
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//I'mstillhere
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