The KR
Walter left the office he loathed and suddenly felt free from it. The future was truly unclear, but he was now free to do as he pleased. It surely wasn’t the end of the world for his paintings still remained in his tiny living room and Leroy Spaklovitch was still alive. As he stepped onto the Boston sidewalk, he noticed a woman on the other side. Her hair was dull brown and her muted, blue dress stretched clear down to her ankles robbing of her womanly figure. She leaned up against the wall of a building that seemed to have gone untouched for a number of years. Eager to go home and paint, he had been walking quickly from Mr. Kronx’s office, but here he felt his legs come to a halt for no other reason except that she, this woman across the street, intrigued him. Her face looked sleep deprived and her eyes were fixated solely on what was in front of her. He wasn’t entirely sure if she was looking at him or the building he couldn’t stand when suddenly, she motioned for him to cross the street, turned over her right shoulder, and disappeared around the corner to a smaller, less crowded alleyway. Against his better judgment, Walter followed. It took him a few minutes longer than she because he had to cross the street over the loud car horns and chaos of the work place, but he managed to find her sitting outside of a dimly-lit cafe. He was positive that it was her. Her face looked even more so fatigued than it had from across the street.
Her dark gray eyes, a deep abyss that held secrets of which Walter pleaded to hear, were held up by deep, dark circles. Walter wanted to paint them to ensure that they would match the rest of her face instead of giving her sleep deprivation a physical attribute for all to see.
"Sit down," her voice cut through the busy street noise. Walter obeyed her commands. "You have just put your life in the most significant danger you might ever come in contact with. Do you understand me? You are in grave danger and the only way to get out of it is to come with me right now. You must stay safe."
She spoke quickly with a purpose that captivated Walter's every being.
"What are you talking about? Does this have to do with Mr. Kronx and his weird job?" He found himself growing annoyed with the amount of secrecy he had been given recently.
"Yes. It has everything to do with it. Now, come with me. We need to get you informed."
"Oh please. That would be nice," Walter sarcastically spat out his remark as the mysterious woman with answers marched up to another alleyway. Walter followed.
She approached a small black door in the middle of a brick building and knocked three times. The door opened to reveal a tall and scrawny man dressed in dark clothing. They walked straight past him into a dark hallway. Walter questioned his whereabouts and general safety in the lack of lamp-light.
Do these people ever stay in the light for more than a moment? Do they even like the light—maybe they’re vampires! That’s it, Kronx hates them because they are vampires and he is trying to kill them all! There must be some underworld war going on right underneath my nose!
Walter’s imagination had a way of expanding when he was placed in high pressure situations such as this one. It was one of the many perks that he associated with being a successful painter.
The mystery woman made a sharp right and flipped on a switch that provided less than enough light to see the staircase they were about to descend. At the bottom of the stairs, however, was a brightly lit room with couches and tables and a large board similar to one of a detective’s. It held pictures and slips of paper scribbled with words and were held together with string and arrows pointing chaotically in every direction. Were they solving a murder here?
The mystery woman motioned for Walter to sit on one of the mismatched couches. This one was dark red velvet and smelled of cigarettes and red wine.
"Welcome to The KR,” her voice had become clearer now that they were underground and looked less like criminals at a dimly-lit cafe speaking in hushed voices. "We're the resistance. We're the movement. We want to stop Kronx from his evil deeds and we need your help. I’m--"
At this statement, before Walter could ask any of his multiple questions, another woman dressed in an eggplant purple suit entered the room. Contrary to the woman Walter had previously encountered, she was strikingly beautiful. Her hair was auburn in color and her slender body glided across the room.
"You're probably confused as to what exactly we do, Mr. Watson. Do you have plans tonight? You'll be here a while.” Walter discovered why the couch smelled of cigarettes and wine as he heard her speak directly to him.
"No, I don't have any plans," Walter managed to whisper.
"Perfect. Let's begin." She took a seat at a dining room chair next to the board of suspects and clues which Walter had just begun to survey more closely. In the center of the board was Mr. Kronx with the word 'murderer’ scribbled across the top in red marker.
"I'm assuming you know this man," she pointed to the dashing company picture of Mr. Kronx, "He is not who you think he is. This man is, in fact, your worst enemy. You know him as the head of your former company, the Stuffin’ Muffin Muffin Company. We know him as a murderer, a liar, and a cheat.” Her speech was eloquent and inspiring, the same as any other passionate person may be. Walter felt important here, like he mattered to the world. “Before Mr. Kronx was a successful Mr. Kronx, however, there was a great tragedy. There was a great deal that happened in his little town that no one knows about. What did they tell you about how the company started?” She gave Walter no chance to answer though he wasn’t sure if he would be able to do so.
“It was something about happiness and muffins and a mother that loved him, right? Well, that’s a lie, Mr. Watson. Maybelle George, Kronx’s mother, was crazy. Literally. She was diagnosed with severe Schizotypal Personality Disorder. Those muffins she made were truly delicious and the beginning to the powerful company, but the motive behind it was a façade, a dirty lie. You see, Maybelle George went missing the winter before the company was founded and no one questioned her whereabouts because of her insanity. People had assumed that she was thrown into an institution, but no institution has Maybelle registered. And what’s more, Charles, Kronx’s father, was killed two months after the doors of Stuffin’ Muffin opened. It was an ‘accident’, but we know more than the police. We believe that Kronx killed his father and has hidden his mother in some secret location that we cannot find.”
“Wait. Why do you need me?” Walter chose this question out of all of the questions racing through his mind for reasons he couldn’t uncover.
“Because, Walter,” she knew his name and pronounced it correctly every time she said it which energized Walter and made him feel at home, “Kronx wanted you to be on his side because he saw some quality in you that he liked and needed and you were brave enough to turn his offer down. It isn’t that we need you. You need us. Obviously, Kronx knows that you might be suspicious of the job He will try to rid of you. How are we sure? Because it happened to us too. Allow me to introduce you to the team. My name is Melanie, I’m the head of this secret organization. This is Sylvia,” she motioned to the woman dressed in drab clothing Walter had initially been intrigued by on the street. Sylvia is the head of our undercover department. We have three other Undercovers, or ‘UC’s, as we call them, that you’ll meet today. The others you will meet in time, because, well—they’re undercover. The man you first saw upstairs is Harry. He is our lookout, but also helps us with transportation and getting from place to place without being discovered. Ah, Dean!” A short, young man came into the room. He looked stylish and put-together with clean, up-to-date clothes. Walter thought he might have walked out of a magazine and then pictured painting such a scene. “This is Dean Pratt. He is the brains of our entire existence; that is to say, he is the technical director of The KR. He plans our excursions and undercover work and helps us with compiling any information we might need.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Walter Watson. I’ll be helping you get acquainted with The KR in the next couple of days. I’m looking forward to working with you and will help you with whatever you need,” Dean was incredibly nice and seemed to be more intelligent than Walter could imagine being.
“Before we go any further, we need to know everything about you,” Melanie commanded the conversation once again. “Kronx has most likely begun the plot against you and we need to ensure your safety by knowing your every move. You’re one of us now. Welcome. Now, how long have you been a painter?”
July 17, 2010
Part Three: The Offer
The Offer
She walked further and further until her legs felt as though they would buckle underneath her. She was curious for the first time in quite a long time and as she traveled along the cobble stoned streets to her favorite spot, she suddenly found it. She had been correct. There was something incredibly different about today. Where there had been a vast forest so dark that it seemed black now appeared an endless sky. She wanted to be enveloped in its mystery, to soak in her own curiosity. It was this sensation that compelled her to move beyond her limitations. Although her mind said it was dangerous and that comfort is comfortable for a reason, she threw logic behind her and for the first time, crept closely aside her feelings. In front of her was a sky as black as licorice inviting her to discover its secrets. More confident now, she quickened her steps as her interest began to overtake her thoughts. She was desperate for something new, something that would take her mind off of the mundane and monotonous life she was living. Here it was in front of her. Excitement overwhelmed her as she broke out into a run. As she approached the abyss, however, she suddenly lost her balance and let out a scream. In a panic, she immediately forced her eyes downward and saw that she was standing on the edge of a large cliff to which she fell prisoner. The cliff cracked and broke away causing her to fall into the oddly lit sky she was initially intrigued by.
---
The next morning was just like any other. Walter woke up, slipped out of his bed that (he was sure of it) shrank continuously, and walked into the kitchen (if it could be called one). He loved his apartment, small as it was. He loved the simplicity of it and the paradox of a life that it held. The paintings that Walter woke up to and returned home to see every evening reminded him of his success, of the secret life he hid from the world.
But why? Why hide the brilliance behind a name—behind Leroy Spaklovitch?
Walter’s grandparents discovered his love for painting years after the affair had begun. One might assume that the multi-colored fingers and steady, purposeful hands were enough to suggest his artistry. However, Walter’s grandparents selectively noticed that he had disappeared for hours at a time to a secretive location that they weren’t sure they wanted to find. One day, most likely in the winter for this wasn’t a conversation to be had in the spring, Walter’s grandparents approached him.
“Walter, we need to talk to you,” his grandfather had a deep, smooth voice that could calm and woman’s anxiety.
“Okay, shoot,” teenage Walter fell into the stiff, abandoned armchair that was merely for looking comfortable not for spending an hour or two to lounge in on a Sunday afternoon. Immediately, his sweet grandmother began to weep.
“We’re worried about you. We don’t know why you’re doing this, but we want you to know that we don’t want to be your enemy, we want to help you seek help—“
“Help with what? What are you talking about?” Walter’s confusion grew furiously in time with the awkward silence that seemed to last thirty minutes. In all actuality, it was only thirty seconds, but in the moment of such pressure, time slowed down. Finally (or rather suddenly), Walter’s grandmother burst out a full-frontal howl.
“THE DRUGS! WE KNOW—”she couldn’t finish this tirade for it seemed that an ocean had decided to take up residency in her tear ducts.
“You think I’m on drugs?!” Walter couldn’t help but laugh at such a thought. He didn’t know of anyone that might even think of how to achieve such drugs though he was curious how they might change his painting style. He thought of explaining himself to them by talking for quite some time about the euphoria he found in acrylics and oils as opposed to cocaine and marijuana. Walter, however, was never one to be dramatic or lengthy in his speech and decided to be brief and straight to the point. He stood up, pulled a key out of his pocket and managed through the grin of amusement plastered on his face to say, “Come on, I have something to show you.”
He took them to his painting shack which had become, by now, a beautiful work of art in and of itself. Since it was difficult to find canvas, and money was already an issue, the walls and cement floor became experimental scenes that carefully molded into each other. A forest slowly faded into a beach, the beach into a city, and the city into a snowy mountain top. The cement displayed different sunsets and sunrises, daybreak and nightfall. One only need set foot inside to be whisked away into a variety of places.
Walter’s grandparents had nothing to say. They were shocked and relieved, but mostly captivated by their grandson’s obviously inept artistic abilities.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” grandmother forced out a question amongst the splendor of colors around her that caused the oxygen to escape her.
“Walter,” his grandfather’s soothing voice made the contradictory scenery stand out more than it originally had, “please consider taking a class or two. A talent must be trained. It must be mentored. We’ll pay for you to grow. You’ve got a great talent here, son.”
After the second day of art class, however, Walter knew that if he continued, the passion, excitement, and love he found would falter, sway, and dissipate altogether. It is for this very reason that Leroy Spaklovitch was born. No one could ever know who held the true talent. With knowledge comes expectation, and therefore with expectation comes failure—or so Walter believed.
After eating breakfast and throwing on a similar outfit to the one he had worn the previous day, Walter decided it was time to face the life altering decision he had suddenly placed before him. He lethargically walked out of his apartment and locked the door behind him, but because Walter was a secret superhero, he donned a vibrant violet cape and flew to the office—just kidding. Walter walked, of course, to the office that held his fate.
“Walter Watson,” this time, the secretary’s monotonous tone was anticipated and Walter was able to overcompensate the confidence in his name that still remained uninteresting. “Mr. Kronx will see you now.”
Mr. Kronx, as legendary as he was, sat in his usual spot in his usual way, but, this time he held an unusual smile on his strongly structured face.
“Ah, Harold!” He pronounced, unfaltering.
“It’s Walter...,” his confidence shattered to the spotless white tile.
“What? Oh—right. Walter! Have you made a decision yet?”
“Yes.” Walter began as he noticed the room grow hotter, his palms sweatier, “I have given it careful thought—I thought about it all night, in fact. I had trouble sleeping and I tossed and turned all night…Thank you for the offer, I think it is very kind of you to invite me to join such a team…” Where had this long speech come from? He had practiced it all night, much like the speech he had planned to pronounce on the first day he was in the presence of the muffin company’s president. Why, now, were the words flowing out of his mind as though he was an eloquent public speaker?
“Wonderful! You’ll start immediately!” Mr. Kronx interrupted Walter before he could go any further. “Cynthia,” he shouted through the door, “have James bring in the…”
“Sir…”
“…paperwork I had him…”
“Sir!”
“…write out earlier this morning…”
“SIR!”
“Yes Harold? Did you need something?”
“I’m not taking the job.”
“What?” Mr. Kronx was suddenly interested in all Walter had to say. “I’m sorry. I thought I heard you say that you’re not taking the job…”
“I’m not. I thought about it and I love my simple life…Sir?” Mr. Kronx had already befun shuffling stationary around his desk and scribbling words furiously on a notepad.
“Sir?” Walter was utterly confused.
“Get out. Get out and never come back.” Mr. Kronx’s eerie smile had faded. He was serious and Walter was scared. He left the office quickly, but quietly walked home.
She walked further and further until her legs felt as though they would buckle underneath her. She was curious for the first time in quite a long time and as she traveled along the cobble stoned streets to her favorite spot, she suddenly found it. She had been correct. There was something incredibly different about today. Where there had been a vast forest so dark that it seemed black now appeared an endless sky. She wanted to be enveloped in its mystery, to soak in her own curiosity. It was this sensation that compelled her to move beyond her limitations. Although her mind said it was dangerous and that comfort is comfortable for a reason, she threw logic behind her and for the first time, crept closely aside her feelings. In front of her was a sky as black as licorice inviting her to discover its secrets. More confident now, she quickened her steps as her interest began to overtake her thoughts. She was desperate for something new, something that would take her mind off of the mundane and monotonous life she was living. Here it was in front of her. Excitement overwhelmed her as she broke out into a run. As she approached the abyss, however, she suddenly lost her balance and let out a scream. In a panic, she immediately forced her eyes downward and saw that she was standing on the edge of a large cliff to which she fell prisoner. The cliff cracked and broke away causing her to fall into the oddly lit sky she was initially intrigued by.
---
The next morning was just like any other. Walter woke up, slipped out of his bed that (he was sure of it) shrank continuously, and walked into the kitchen (if it could be called one). He loved his apartment, small as it was. He loved the simplicity of it and the paradox of a life that it held. The paintings that Walter woke up to and returned home to see every evening reminded him of his success, of the secret life he hid from the world.
But why? Why hide the brilliance behind a name—behind Leroy Spaklovitch?
Walter’s grandparents discovered his love for painting years after the affair had begun. One might assume that the multi-colored fingers and steady, purposeful hands were enough to suggest his artistry. However, Walter’s grandparents selectively noticed that he had disappeared for hours at a time to a secretive location that they weren’t sure they wanted to find. One day, most likely in the winter for this wasn’t a conversation to be had in the spring, Walter’s grandparents approached him.
“Walter, we need to talk to you,” his grandfather had a deep, smooth voice that could calm and woman’s anxiety.
“Okay, shoot,” teenage Walter fell into the stiff, abandoned armchair that was merely for looking comfortable not for spending an hour or two to lounge in on a Sunday afternoon. Immediately, his sweet grandmother began to weep.
“We’re worried about you. We don’t know why you’re doing this, but we want you to know that we don’t want to be your enemy, we want to help you seek help—“
“Help with what? What are you talking about?” Walter’s confusion grew furiously in time with the awkward silence that seemed to last thirty minutes. In all actuality, it was only thirty seconds, but in the moment of such pressure, time slowed down. Finally (or rather suddenly), Walter’s grandmother burst out a full-frontal howl.
“THE DRUGS! WE KNOW—”she couldn’t finish this tirade for it seemed that an ocean had decided to take up residency in her tear ducts.
“You think I’m on drugs?!” Walter couldn’t help but laugh at such a thought. He didn’t know of anyone that might even think of how to achieve such drugs though he was curious how they might change his painting style. He thought of explaining himself to them by talking for quite some time about the euphoria he found in acrylics and oils as opposed to cocaine and marijuana. Walter, however, was never one to be dramatic or lengthy in his speech and decided to be brief and straight to the point. He stood up, pulled a key out of his pocket and managed through the grin of amusement plastered on his face to say, “Come on, I have something to show you.”
He took them to his painting shack which had become, by now, a beautiful work of art in and of itself. Since it was difficult to find canvas, and money was already an issue, the walls and cement floor became experimental scenes that carefully molded into each other. A forest slowly faded into a beach, the beach into a city, and the city into a snowy mountain top. The cement displayed different sunsets and sunrises, daybreak and nightfall. One only need set foot inside to be whisked away into a variety of places.
Walter’s grandparents had nothing to say. They were shocked and relieved, but mostly captivated by their grandson’s obviously inept artistic abilities.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” grandmother forced out a question amongst the splendor of colors around her that caused the oxygen to escape her.
“Walter,” his grandfather’s soothing voice made the contradictory scenery stand out more than it originally had, “please consider taking a class or two. A talent must be trained. It must be mentored. We’ll pay for you to grow. You’ve got a great talent here, son.”
After the second day of art class, however, Walter knew that if he continued, the passion, excitement, and love he found would falter, sway, and dissipate altogether. It is for this very reason that Leroy Spaklovitch was born. No one could ever know who held the true talent. With knowledge comes expectation, and therefore with expectation comes failure—or so Walter believed.
After eating breakfast and throwing on a similar outfit to the one he had worn the previous day, Walter decided it was time to face the life altering decision he had suddenly placed before him. He lethargically walked out of his apartment and locked the door behind him, but because Walter was a secret superhero, he donned a vibrant violet cape and flew to the office—just kidding. Walter walked, of course, to the office that held his fate.
“Walter Watson,” this time, the secretary’s monotonous tone was anticipated and Walter was able to overcompensate the confidence in his name that still remained uninteresting. “Mr. Kronx will see you now.”
Mr. Kronx, as legendary as he was, sat in his usual spot in his usual way, but, this time he held an unusual smile on his strongly structured face.
“Ah, Harold!” He pronounced, unfaltering.
“It’s Walter...,” his confidence shattered to the spotless white tile.
“What? Oh—right. Walter! Have you made a decision yet?”
“Yes.” Walter began as he noticed the room grow hotter, his palms sweatier, “I have given it careful thought—I thought about it all night, in fact. I had trouble sleeping and I tossed and turned all night…Thank you for the offer, I think it is very kind of you to invite me to join such a team…” Where had this long speech come from? He had practiced it all night, much like the speech he had planned to pronounce on the first day he was in the presence of the muffin company’s president. Why, now, were the words flowing out of his mind as though he was an eloquent public speaker?
“Wonderful! You’ll start immediately!” Mr. Kronx interrupted Walter before he could go any further. “Cynthia,” he shouted through the door, “have James bring in the…”
“Sir…”
“…paperwork I had him…”
“Sir!”
“…write out earlier this morning…”
“SIR!”
“Yes Harold? Did you need something?”
“I’m not taking the job.”
“What?” Mr. Kronx was suddenly interested in all Walter had to say. “I’m sorry. I thought I heard you say that you’re not taking the job…”
“I’m not. I thought about it and I love my simple life…Sir?” Mr. Kronx had already befun shuffling stationary around his desk and scribbling words furiously on a notepad.
“Sir?” Walter was utterly confused.
“Get out. Get out and never come back.” Mr. Kronx’s eerie smile had faded. He was serious and Walter was scared. He left the office quickly, but quietly walked home.
Part Two: Leroy Spaklovitch
Leroy Spaklovitch
That’s right, Walter Watson works for a muffin company. However, it is not merely a muffin company. It is the most powerful muffin company in the world. The Stuffin’ Muffin Muffin Company was created in a place just as any other baked goods company might be—the oven. Maybelle George, Mr. Kronx’s mother, was a dainty woman. She was born and raised in Little Rock, Arkansas in a tiny house that consistently smelled of newspapers and pickles of which she attributed to her grandmother who seemed to visit much too often for comfort. On a Spring day, as it seems that all good things happen in the Spring, when Maybelle had grown old enough to move out and too tired to take the smell (pickles and newspaper) into her nasal cavity, she laid her eyes on the most beautiful muffin she had seen. If only I could taste this muffin, she thought, my life might be that much more interesting. She imagined baking the very same muffin and intended to do so as soon as possible. Before unpacking anything else, Maybelle put her kitchen neatly together and began to mix the ingredients to what she believed to be the most delicious muffin anyone might taste. The smell of cinnamon and sugar began to swirl about the kitchen and Maybelle couldn’t do anything else but dance in its delectable delight. She imagined the smell to take form as swirls of smell and fantasy as she swayed to and fro. She felt the promise of hope and bright mornings build within her. Remembering the haunting smell of her previous home, she vowed that hers would only smell of sweetly baked goods. Who can have a bad day when a muffin so scrumptious melts in one’s mouth? When her muffins came out of the oven, however, they were not the best creations anyone had ever seen—or tasted for that matter. It took Maybelle several tries, years in fact, to produce an edible form of a muffin. However, the day that she concocted the perfect recipe was a day to be remembered because it was the day that she found out she was to have a son. Maybelle had, in the few years of her muffin trials, fallen in love and married a man named Charles Kronx. They met in the grocery store—the baked goods aisle, of course—as Charles reached for a package of mini muffins. Maybelle wasn’t sure what overcame her, but she couldn’t stand the thought of this particular man eating anything but her own freshly baked muffins. Of course, none of her muffins were any good, but Charles didn’t seem to notice and continued to eat them as they came out of the oven. On the day she discovered she was with child, Maybelle pulled out a baking tin containing what would eventually create the most powerful muffin company in the world and suddenly became nauseous. Motherly instinct and affection wasn’t the only thing developing within her through the years. Besides, the smell of muffins could never make her swell up with vomit, what else would it be?
As Mr. Kronx grew up, he only knew the sincerely sweet smell of his mother’s muffins because they were the only source of food placed on the dinner table. This is why he decided to create a muffin company—or so every package of Stuffin Muffins claimed.
---
Walter walks. He doesn’t enjoy driving in Boston; instead, he walks. He finds that walking helps him sort out his thoughts and while some people think and drive; Walter prefers not to endanger the human race as he would be too distracted. Today, Walter affirmed that his decision to walk was a wise one because the questions from the meeting with Mr. Kronx continued to circle furiously like a cyclone in his mind. It was nearly seven o clock in the evening and the sweet air was beginning to cool, giving Walter a reason to walk and think his way straight home to light the fireplace he adored.
On days like today, when his thoughts are a whirlpool and the weather presents a stinging to his warm flesh, Walter likes to channel his energy towards a more creative outlet. That is to say: Walter paints. He has painted his whole life. At first, his drawings were nothing but abstract lines and circles—as may be the case with any two year old boy. But as he grew into his teen years, he began to create beautiful works of art that seemed to breathe and take life. Walter had a relatively easy childhood. He lived with his grandmother and grandfather in a little town in the outskirts of Boston and couldn’t complain about the quaint cottage he came home to every day. When he was sixteen years old, Walter found what looked like to be the remains of an abandoned warehouse. He quickly gathered all of his painting supplies from the crowded corner of the living room he’d been given and transformed his new discovery into a studio where he felt comfortable painting as he pleased. Walter disappeared for hours at a time to escape from the hustle of responsibility to find a world—his world—of creativity. His paintings were capable of explaining the thoughts that he never imagined to be deciphered.
Now, since Walter is forced to live in the city because of his current job situation, he cannot use his creative genius in the make-shift studio any longer. Instead, he uses his small apartment. His empty living room complete with various paintings, some finished and some hardly begun, carried the perfect tone for his creation. Tonight, he was anxious to continue his current project: a space-themed universe he only dreamed of living in. As he pulled out his favorite supplies and lit the fireplace, Walter’s chaotic mind settled to a familiar dance where his hands connected with his brain and a steady back-and-forth motion brought him comfort.
Walter believed that he was subject to a boring life. He had committed no crime, hadn’t been victim to a traumatic event, and had certainly never fallen under the pressure of depression. There was no reason for him to be tortured and upset and therefore, he was doomed to live a life of tedious office work.
He took a step back. Something isn’t right, she needs to have longer hair, his mind refocused onto his painting.
Why, then, did his mind fill with confusion? The answer was obvious, the solution clear.
Walter continued to constantly check between the few scenes in his apartment. He needed to make sure she was consistent. He had to get her facial features right, her hair had to be the same color.
What might have been a peaceful night next to the fireplace now turned into a furious outlet of passion and frustration. Walter was purely and utterly conflicted and the only way he knew to deal with it was through her. He gave her the qualities he wished to see off of the canvas.
As he finished the last bit of outer space, Walter sat in the middle of his empty room to look at his masterpiece.
I wish I could jump into that painting. I would be better off. I would never worry about anything. I would be able to live without having to answer to--
Walter abruptly returned to his current predicament. Tomorrow, he had to answer to Mr. Kronx. He had to come up with an answer to his proposition. Should he take the job and possibly risk his life? Should he leave town and find a different yet dreadfully similar job? All of his life, Walter had dreamed that he might be able to be a part of his paintings where life seemed better and more interesting. Here in front of him was the perfect opportunity for a more exciting life.
Just as Walter began to feel the excitement build within him, his apartment phone rang. “Leave a message.” Walter always let the answering machine receive his calls.
“Leroy, it’s Melanie. You’ve got a request for another exhibit downtown. They love your art…as usual—I don’t know who wouldn’t. Listen, just mail everything to me and I’ll take care of it like normal. People want to know who you are, you know? It would be nice to put a face to these brilliant works of art. Oh, almost forgot. There’s a man that wants a painting for his office. He’s willing to pay millions for it. Okay, that’s it. Alright. Bye.”
Walter let out a great sigh, grabbed a permanent marker and signed the corner of his painting:
Leroy Spaklovitch
That’s right, Walter Watson works for a muffin company. However, it is not merely a muffin company. It is the most powerful muffin company in the world. The Stuffin’ Muffin Muffin Company was created in a place just as any other baked goods company might be—the oven. Maybelle George, Mr. Kronx’s mother, was a dainty woman. She was born and raised in Little Rock, Arkansas in a tiny house that consistently smelled of newspapers and pickles of which she attributed to her grandmother who seemed to visit much too often for comfort. On a Spring day, as it seems that all good things happen in the Spring, when Maybelle had grown old enough to move out and too tired to take the smell (pickles and newspaper) into her nasal cavity, she laid her eyes on the most beautiful muffin she had seen. If only I could taste this muffin, she thought, my life might be that much more interesting. She imagined baking the very same muffin and intended to do so as soon as possible. Before unpacking anything else, Maybelle put her kitchen neatly together and began to mix the ingredients to what she believed to be the most delicious muffin anyone might taste. The smell of cinnamon and sugar began to swirl about the kitchen and Maybelle couldn’t do anything else but dance in its delectable delight. She imagined the smell to take form as swirls of smell and fantasy as she swayed to and fro. She felt the promise of hope and bright mornings build within her. Remembering the haunting smell of her previous home, she vowed that hers would only smell of sweetly baked goods. Who can have a bad day when a muffin so scrumptious melts in one’s mouth? When her muffins came out of the oven, however, they were not the best creations anyone had ever seen—or tasted for that matter. It took Maybelle several tries, years in fact, to produce an edible form of a muffin. However, the day that she concocted the perfect recipe was a day to be remembered because it was the day that she found out she was to have a son. Maybelle had, in the few years of her muffin trials, fallen in love and married a man named Charles Kronx. They met in the grocery store—the baked goods aisle, of course—as Charles reached for a package of mini muffins. Maybelle wasn’t sure what overcame her, but she couldn’t stand the thought of this particular man eating anything but her own freshly baked muffins. Of course, none of her muffins were any good, but Charles didn’t seem to notice and continued to eat them as they came out of the oven. On the day she discovered she was with child, Maybelle pulled out a baking tin containing what would eventually create the most powerful muffin company in the world and suddenly became nauseous. Motherly instinct and affection wasn’t the only thing developing within her through the years. Besides, the smell of muffins could never make her swell up with vomit, what else would it be?
As Mr. Kronx grew up, he only knew the sincerely sweet smell of his mother’s muffins because they were the only source of food placed on the dinner table. This is why he decided to create a muffin company—or so every package of Stuffin Muffins claimed.
---
Walter walks. He doesn’t enjoy driving in Boston; instead, he walks. He finds that walking helps him sort out his thoughts and while some people think and drive; Walter prefers not to endanger the human race as he would be too distracted. Today, Walter affirmed that his decision to walk was a wise one because the questions from the meeting with Mr. Kronx continued to circle furiously like a cyclone in his mind. It was nearly seven o clock in the evening and the sweet air was beginning to cool, giving Walter a reason to walk and think his way straight home to light the fireplace he adored.
On days like today, when his thoughts are a whirlpool and the weather presents a stinging to his warm flesh, Walter likes to channel his energy towards a more creative outlet. That is to say: Walter paints. He has painted his whole life. At first, his drawings were nothing but abstract lines and circles—as may be the case with any two year old boy. But as he grew into his teen years, he began to create beautiful works of art that seemed to breathe and take life. Walter had a relatively easy childhood. He lived with his grandmother and grandfather in a little town in the outskirts of Boston and couldn’t complain about the quaint cottage he came home to every day. When he was sixteen years old, Walter found what looked like to be the remains of an abandoned warehouse. He quickly gathered all of his painting supplies from the crowded corner of the living room he’d been given and transformed his new discovery into a studio where he felt comfortable painting as he pleased. Walter disappeared for hours at a time to escape from the hustle of responsibility to find a world—his world—of creativity. His paintings were capable of explaining the thoughts that he never imagined to be deciphered.
Now, since Walter is forced to live in the city because of his current job situation, he cannot use his creative genius in the make-shift studio any longer. Instead, he uses his small apartment. His empty living room complete with various paintings, some finished and some hardly begun, carried the perfect tone for his creation. Tonight, he was anxious to continue his current project: a space-themed universe he only dreamed of living in. As he pulled out his favorite supplies and lit the fireplace, Walter’s chaotic mind settled to a familiar dance where his hands connected with his brain and a steady back-and-forth motion brought him comfort.
Walter believed that he was subject to a boring life. He had committed no crime, hadn’t been victim to a traumatic event, and had certainly never fallen under the pressure of depression. There was no reason for him to be tortured and upset and therefore, he was doomed to live a life of tedious office work.
He took a step back. Something isn’t right, she needs to have longer hair, his mind refocused onto his painting.
Why, then, did his mind fill with confusion? The answer was obvious, the solution clear.
Walter continued to constantly check between the few scenes in his apartment. He needed to make sure she was consistent. He had to get her facial features right, her hair had to be the same color.
What might have been a peaceful night next to the fireplace now turned into a furious outlet of passion and frustration. Walter was purely and utterly conflicted and the only way he knew to deal with it was through her. He gave her the qualities he wished to see off of the canvas.
As he finished the last bit of outer space, Walter sat in the middle of his empty room to look at his masterpiece.
I wish I could jump into that painting. I would be better off. I would never worry about anything. I would be able to live without having to answer to--
Walter abruptly returned to his current predicament. Tomorrow, he had to answer to Mr. Kronx. He had to come up with an answer to his proposition. Should he take the job and possibly risk his life? Should he leave town and find a different yet dreadfully similar job? All of his life, Walter had dreamed that he might be able to be a part of his paintings where life seemed better and more interesting. Here in front of him was the perfect opportunity for a more exciting life.
Just as Walter began to feel the excitement build within him, his apartment phone rang. “Leave a message.” Walter always let the answering machine receive his calls.
“Leroy, it’s Melanie. You’ve got a request for another exhibit downtown. They love your art…as usual—I don’t know who wouldn’t. Listen, just mail everything to me and I’ll take care of it like normal. People want to know who you are, you know? It would be nice to put a face to these brilliant works of art. Oh, almost forgot. There’s a man that wants a painting for his office. He’s willing to pay millions for it. Okay, that’s it. Alright. Bye.”
Walter let out a great sigh, grabbed a permanent marker and signed the corner of his painting:
Leroy Spaklovitch
Part One: A Secret Mission
Over a street laced with hope and promise, the right amount of shrubs and the ideal count of cast iron gates, where any perfectly mannered family might dream of living upon, a blue-gray sky sat silent and still as an audience of one. A single carriage strolled down a cobble stone street and a white chiffon dress slightly swayed in time with the teeter-totter of a horse decorated with the festivity of this morning’s forthcoming. It seemed to be a pleasant day in this town, but one could never be sure for nothing was what it seemed. Perhaps the red ribbon of her dress truly displayed a hint of insecurity whereas the grandiose manner of her hat and safely concealed yellow curls would cause any man to stir in his socks. However, unfortunately for her, there would be no man in her life for she was locked inside a picturesque city without another soul to come along beside her. What festivity had she to look forward to, then, if no one lived amongst her? Everything. If one is destined to live alone in a city, why shouldn’t every day be a celebration? It most certainly made her life as interesting as being alone could be. Of course, the city alone seemed to speak to her in a way that no outsider would be able to understand. The cobble-stone streets were the constant rhythm under her feet (or in this case, her carriage). The light fixtures strung up with garlands of petite daisies gave her the fragrance of happiness which changed with each new dawn. Every building painted to coincide with the personalities of the families she wished would inhabit them sung the chorus she often felt within her. Today, the empty streets felt more familiar, comfortable, and oddly awakened though there was nothing particularly new about it. There was never anything new about it. But today, something appealed to her in a way she couldn’t grasp.
---
“Walter Watson,” pronounced the familiar, droning voice that never encouraged his name to transform into a name more interesting.
“Walter Watson? Mr. Kronx will see you now.”
Mr. Kronx is a large man in every way. He towers over almost every employee in his office both in the physical and mental sense. Success overflows from his dynamic torso (since that’s all anyone is ever allowed to see) onto his deep cherry wood desk which is coincidentally covered with important documents organized by the feel of the stationary. The thicker the paper, the more important it must be. Mr. Kronx arrives to work before any other employee and leaves long after the janitor mops the foyer. He wears what seems to be the same suit every day with a freshly starched white shirt and one of the many gray silk ties he (rumor has it) buys weekly. Every woman in the building—and city in all actuality--creates a reason to walk into his office. One perfect spring day, Sylvia Harton, the librarian from across the street, decided she would muster up the courage to charm him with what she supposed would win his affections. She had never seen him, but because of the nature of gossip within the office and surrounding buildings, she believed that she loved him and that when he saw her, he would sweep her off of her feet. Gossip has a way of stirring up a fantasy within a person no matter how false the information may be. Perhaps one hears that their significant other is planning on asking for their hand in marriage. Would they not float around the town in anticipation and grow butterflies within their stomach at the mere sight of him picking something off of the ground or tying his shoelace? You see, newly, falsely-confident Sylvia had fallen subject to this very concept. On this spring day, Sylvia came up with the excuse that Mr. Kronx had forgotten to renew his copy of Pride and Prejudice and must immediately return with her to sort out the situation inside the library. Much to her surprise as she rushed into his office, Sylvia discovered the row of Jane Austen novels amongst the large collection of classics in the display case behind Mr. Kronx’s charismatic head of shiny black hair. After seeing the puzzled look on Mr. Kronx’s face and muttering something that seemed to be in a foreign language, Sylvia rushed out of the office leaving only the click-clack of her heels in the hall. Needless to say, her undying love for the alleged Mr. Kronx had sent her into a nervous conniption which then forced her to stay shut away in her library where, soon after, Jane Austen novels were removed.
Walter had never seen Mr. Kronx’s face--or any other part of him for that matter. Every conversation or message he had received from him had been through a written letter, phone call, or secretary. Mr. Kronx never used computers which was part of the reason he captured the attention of almost every reporter in Boston. In today’s society, nearly everything can be completed entirely on a computer. Reporters marveled at the fact that a man was able to have the success he had without the means of the internet or variety of programs one may use to be organized and productive. In the spring, around the time of the incident with poor Ms. Sylvia Harton, Harold had decided that should he ever come in contact with Mr. Kronx, he would ask him why he chose to keep clear from such technology. However, while most men would ask such a question out of awestruck admiration, Harold would ask out of sheer frustration. The work he completed every day seemed mindless, tedious, and a waste of his time. The click of a button would be a much more efficient way to deal with the work load Mr. Kronx had thrust upon him day in and day out.
Today, Walter found himself sitting outside of Mr. Kronx’s office, waiting to speak to the legend of a man about something of utmost importance. However, Walter hadn’t the slightest clue of what the important message might be. He had dreamt of this day. He was wondering how, when, and why it would happen and finally it was in front of him. As he arose to walk into the ominous glow of Mr. Kronx’s office, Walter ran over the words he had carefully constructed in his cubicle. He wanted to say everything right, ask all of the important questions, and hear the correct answers.
Mr. Kronx, I admire your success and determination to create a company so large and astute. I admire your perseverance and production at such a young age—how old is he?—but, I am curious to know why you have chosen a technique so archaic. I find myself at a loss. I cannot continue to complete such a tedious work. I need a creative outlet because I am a man of great—no, that doesn’t sound right—I am a man that strives to be…
“Walter Watson. Please take a seat. How are you today?” Mr. Kronx’s voice matched his reputation. It was deep and profound like the movies that pretend to know what God sounds like; the gentle yet firm tone that Walter imagined to say “Let there be light”. Of course, Mr. Kronx was certainly not God and should never be compared to Him, but he might be able to play Him in a misconstrued and glamorized film.
“I’m alive. How are you Mr. Kronx?” Harold managed to form the words and send them across the vast cherry desk.
“Walter. I have called you here today because I want to acknowledge your hard work.” Mr. Kronx completely disregarded the inquiry to his personal well being. “Frankly, I think that you are doing a fine job of recording the amount of products we, as the most productive company in Boston, sell. However, I believe we may be able to use you in a more effective manner. I would like to offer you another position within the company. This position will require you to work under conditions that may not be comfortable for you. It may require you to work under cover. Will you be able to do so, Harold Watson?”
“What exactly is this position?” Walter was compelled to ask. Any normal human being might do the same after such a confusing speech and proposition. “Is it some kind of spy job, like the CIA?” Walter’s childhood fantasy of wanting to be a field agent within the CIA came flooding into his brain with a wash of nostalgia and fondness that temporarily plastered his face with a giddy smile.
“Something of the sort; yes. However, I cannot give you the exact details until you have given me a definite answer. I expect a response within twenty four hours. You are dismissed.” And with the final word, Mr. Kronx spun around on his black office chair leaving Harold stunned and ultimately confused with no other option but to stand up and leave from the office. There were a dozen questions circling in Walter’s head. What work would he be doing? Will he be put in danger? If so, what kind of danger? Will he be at risk of death? Why did Mr. Kronx choose a person as boring as Harold Watson? What will happen if he turns the offer down? And possibly the largest question that kept returning in large bold letters at the forefront of Harold’s brain: What undercover work does a muffin company have to accomplish?
---
“Walter Watson,” pronounced the familiar, droning voice that never encouraged his name to transform into a name more interesting.
“Walter Watson? Mr. Kronx will see you now.”
Mr. Kronx is a large man in every way. He towers over almost every employee in his office both in the physical and mental sense. Success overflows from his dynamic torso (since that’s all anyone is ever allowed to see) onto his deep cherry wood desk which is coincidentally covered with important documents organized by the feel of the stationary. The thicker the paper, the more important it must be. Mr. Kronx arrives to work before any other employee and leaves long after the janitor mops the foyer. He wears what seems to be the same suit every day with a freshly starched white shirt and one of the many gray silk ties he (rumor has it) buys weekly. Every woman in the building—and city in all actuality--creates a reason to walk into his office. One perfect spring day, Sylvia Harton, the librarian from across the street, decided she would muster up the courage to charm him with what she supposed would win his affections. She had never seen him, but because of the nature of gossip within the office and surrounding buildings, she believed that she loved him and that when he saw her, he would sweep her off of her feet. Gossip has a way of stirring up a fantasy within a person no matter how false the information may be. Perhaps one hears that their significant other is planning on asking for their hand in marriage. Would they not float around the town in anticipation and grow butterflies within their stomach at the mere sight of him picking something off of the ground or tying his shoelace? You see, newly, falsely-confident Sylvia had fallen subject to this very concept. On this spring day, Sylvia came up with the excuse that Mr. Kronx had forgotten to renew his copy of Pride and Prejudice and must immediately return with her to sort out the situation inside the library. Much to her surprise as she rushed into his office, Sylvia discovered the row of Jane Austen novels amongst the large collection of classics in the display case behind Mr. Kronx’s charismatic head of shiny black hair. After seeing the puzzled look on Mr. Kronx’s face and muttering something that seemed to be in a foreign language, Sylvia rushed out of the office leaving only the click-clack of her heels in the hall. Needless to say, her undying love for the alleged Mr. Kronx had sent her into a nervous conniption which then forced her to stay shut away in her library where, soon after, Jane Austen novels were removed.
Walter had never seen Mr. Kronx’s face--or any other part of him for that matter. Every conversation or message he had received from him had been through a written letter, phone call, or secretary. Mr. Kronx never used computers which was part of the reason he captured the attention of almost every reporter in Boston. In today’s society, nearly everything can be completed entirely on a computer. Reporters marveled at the fact that a man was able to have the success he had without the means of the internet or variety of programs one may use to be organized and productive. In the spring, around the time of the incident with poor Ms. Sylvia Harton, Harold had decided that should he ever come in contact with Mr. Kronx, he would ask him why he chose to keep clear from such technology. However, while most men would ask such a question out of awestruck admiration, Harold would ask out of sheer frustration. The work he completed every day seemed mindless, tedious, and a waste of his time. The click of a button would be a much more efficient way to deal with the work load Mr. Kronx had thrust upon him day in and day out.
Today, Walter found himself sitting outside of Mr. Kronx’s office, waiting to speak to the legend of a man about something of utmost importance. However, Walter hadn’t the slightest clue of what the important message might be. He had dreamt of this day. He was wondering how, when, and why it would happen and finally it was in front of him. As he arose to walk into the ominous glow of Mr. Kronx’s office, Walter ran over the words he had carefully constructed in his cubicle. He wanted to say everything right, ask all of the important questions, and hear the correct answers.
Mr. Kronx, I admire your success and determination to create a company so large and astute. I admire your perseverance and production at such a young age—how old is he?—but, I am curious to know why you have chosen a technique so archaic. I find myself at a loss. I cannot continue to complete such a tedious work. I need a creative outlet because I am a man of great—no, that doesn’t sound right—I am a man that strives to be…
“Walter Watson. Please take a seat. How are you today?” Mr. Kronx’s voice matched his reputation. It was deep and profound like the movies that pretend to know what God sounds like; the gentle yet firm tone that Walter imagined to say “Let there be light”. Of course, Mr. Kronx was certainly not God and should never be compared to Him, but he might be able to play Him in a misconstrued and glamorized film.
“I’m alive. How are you Mr. Kronx?” Harold managed to form the words and send them across the vast cherry desk.
“Walter. I have called you here today because I want to acknowledge your hard work.” Mr. Kronx completely disregarded the inquiry to his personal well being. “Frankly, I think that you are doing a fine job of recording the amount of products we, as the most productive company in Boston, sell. However, I believe we may be able to use you in a more effective manner. I would like to offer you another position within the company. This position will require you to work under conditions that may not be comfortable for you. It may require you to work under cover. Will you be able to do so, Harold Watson?”
“What exactly is this position?” Walter was compelled to ask. Any normal human being might do the same after such a confusing speech and proposition. “Is it some kind of spy job, like the CIA?” Walter’s childhood fantasy of wanting to be a field agent within the CIA came flooding into his brain with a wash of nostalgia and fondness that temporarily plastered his face with a giddy smile.
“Something of the sort; yes. However, I cannot give you the exact details until you have given me a definite answer. I expect a response within twenty four hours. You are dismissed.” And with the final word, Mr. Kronx spun around on his black office chair leaving Harold stunned and ultimately confused with no other option but to stand up and leave from the office. There were a dozen questions circling in Walter’s head. What work would he be doing? Will he be put in danger? If so, what kind of danger? Will he be at risk of death? Why did Mr. Kronx choose a person as boring as Harold Watson? What will happen if he turns the offer down? And possibly the largest question that kept returning in large bold letters at the forefront of Harold’s brain: What undercover work does a muffin company have to accomplish?
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