*Corman (previously published as a part of Ch. 1)

Corman's scream woke him and he fell, flailing, out of bed and onto the floor. He moaned. His ass hurt. Really hurt.

Criminy. He'd had a nightmare. A blood and sweat smeared man had lunged out of a bathtub for him, knocking him on his butt. There was also a woman, a black-haired stunner shrink-wrapped in leather, who was not amused. She was holding a bucket of red paint. Next thing in his dream, they were jogging through a golf course on an emergency painting mission.

Maybe that's why his muscles were sore. He'd been sleep exercising all night.

"Stupid dream," he mumbled. Bleary-eyed, he checked his phone, and would have fallen again, except he was already on the floor. "Four pm? I missed work. I missed everything. Shit. Forty-two messages and three calls? Hell, did the Russians break through our firewall?"

He stumbled to his feet, swaying. And glanced down at himself.

"Yarg!" He jumped backwards, waving his hands, as if he could escape his blood-coated shirt and cargo-shorts. His Star Wars sheets were covered in dried blood, bits of grass, and mud from his dirty socks and sandals he hadn't taken off.

The dream. The nightmare. No.

"It didn't happen. I didn't do it. I need a drink. And a shower. Nothing happened last night."

Thirty minutes later, he ducked through the front door of his favorite haunt, a neighborhood bar called Bottled Arcade. He was clean. Everything was normal. His life was fine.

The bar was a comforting mash-up of eighties nostalgia, restored arcade games, imported brews, RPG flyers, and nerds. Inside, the usual day-crowd of four men—semi-permanent features of the bar's landscape—hunched over their screens, half-forgotten drinks at their elbows. They glanced up and gave him a nod of greetings, fellow geek.

He fell onto his stool at the end of the counter, the musty smell of stale beer a balm to his nerves, but before he could order a foaming beer was set in front of him. It was uncanny how the ex-cop bartender always knew what Corman wanted before he did. With a grunt, the man returned to wiping down glasses. Corman gazed a moment at his beer before lifting it.

On the large-screen TV, a commercial for cardiac medication finished its list of three dozen horrifying side-effects. The local news logo flashed, and then a blond journalist smiled soberly.

"Welcome back. Again, I would like to advise sensitive viewers about the disturbing content of today's main story. Recently acquitted Michael McFerguson, who had been accused of multiple sexual acts with children, was found dismembered in his home—"

Corman choked, spewing beer across the counter. Unfortunately, the beefy bartender paused in wiping glasses to glance his way. He had to act normal. However, one of the pale, techie patrons with his hair in a bun moved to the stool next to Corman, violating several unspoken rules of conduct in the bar.

He cleared his throat, and Corman swivelled to acknowledge him. The man rapped his knuckles on the wood counter, not quite making eye-contact with him.

"So, uh...how did your expedition go last night?"

Corman froze, throat closed tight. "What expedition?"

The journalist on the TV screen interrupted, "Police are currently searching for two suspects in Mr. McFerguson's murder, a man and woman—"

"With the woman," the man said to Corman.

"What woman?" he squeaked.

The bartender narrowed his eyes at him. "The raven-haired goddess with the gold-medal winning ass."

"Right. Exactly the woman I thought you meant." His nightmare companion was real. Corman's gut turned to ice-water. A distant part of his mind listened to how the murder victim's limbs were arranged decoratively throughout the mansion.

The bartender glared at him. "You did it, didn't you?"

"No," Corman said as his deodorant officially died. "I—we didn't do anything. I went straight home. Absolutely normal."

Behind the bar, the reporter's pale pink lipstick outlined her every word. "There is speculation that the crime was motivated by cult rituals or organ trafficking, as the victim's major organs seem to be missing, along with most of his blood."

The paint buckets...

"Huh. I thought if anyone was going adventuring last night, it would have been you two," bun-man said. "I thought you rolled a natural twenty when she walked straight to you. Looked like she knew what she wanted. Am I right?" This last bit was intended for the other three customers in the bar and they nodded furtively.

One even glanced up from his screen. "Not that we actually know what women want."

"You sure you didn't go where you've never gone before?" bun-man asked. "Sometimes a man's first time can be pretty fast. Maybe you blinked?"

"First time?" A thought sprouted in his mind. "Oh, you mean—did I and the woman, together, first time?"

Relief spread through his body so fast, he almost toppled off his chair. They didn't suspect him of murder. Thank Alan Turing, they thought he got laid!

"Wait," he continued. "How do you know I've never..."

"Oh, we know," the man said. "We all know."

Every other man in the bar pressed his lips together in silent solidarity of Corman's virginity. For the first time in his life, he was thrilled to be talking about it.

"This just in," the journalist said. "Police have now released images of the two suspects, who are aged between twenty-five and thirty-five."

A grainy, black and white recording showed a man and woman walking in the dark. It could be anyone. It could be the woman from his nightmare and himself. He clenched his jaw, suppressing a whimper.

"Although I appreciate their sense of justice," the bartender grumbled, "those two psychopaths should get the chair."

The journalist continued, "From the victim's security cameras, police were able to create these two sketches. We are asking our viewers to call this number with any information—"

Two faces replaced the fuzzy night recordings.

Corman gasped, "Yes!" The faces weren't his or the woman's! Giddy with relief, he pointed. "I saw that guy!"

The instant the words left his mouth, he wanted to slam his head on the bar.

"Where?" the bartender growled. "I'll have the entire police force out looking for him in five seconds."

Not a single good answer came to Corman's mind. When the sketch had popped up, a memory had crashed into his head—that man's face was in his rear-view mirror the night before.

His left butt cheek gave a prickling tingle.

*** Something is up with Corman's (quite nice) ass... Not that I would ever objectify computer nerds. Hit the star if you like smart, geeky men! ***