And the perfume fucked up not only his nose but his eyes, as well. And maybe his heart, too. ‘Cause he shot the guard. The innocent guard. Guard of the great store. No Sentinels need apply.

“It’s a little annoying,” Jim’d helloed to Blair. “I shot a man today.” 

And they danced the Ellison revelation dance. By now, Blair knew all the steps by heart, to heart, tangoing with his partner. Cha cha cha!

Bitch and reveal. Pitch and peel. Twitch and reel. They boogied and salsa’d around the loft—the dance, their dance. Familiar. Safe. Swing yer partner, dosey-doe.

But in that huge, clashy field of a bed, Jim’d dream-shot the panther. Black man, black cat. Dr. Freud’s out today, but Dr. Sandburg will see you now.

“We'll get through it,” hoped Blair. After all, they’d been down this road before, shouldered this load before. Broken this code before.

But Jim’d said, “You're missing the bus here, Chief. Maybe this time I don't want to get through it.”

Ticket for one please, on the greyhound to hell.

But the phone rang and the body stank and the relationship tanked.

And habit and business kept them together—“associate” now, not “partner”. Over. Dismissed. Missed. Pissed.

So pissed, in fact, that Blair table-legged the first pretty girl he saw—but crashed and burned, spurned away, turned away. She flashed a rock, action denied.

Janet-the-hugger—first trees, now Blair. But Jim saw, pretending not to care. Now who’s pissed? Revenge is sweet, and best served cold. Payback’s a bitch, and so is Jim.

“What’s up with Jim?” said Simon, but it was Sandburg he asked, ’cause Sandburg spoke English. Jim didn’t speak. Way to go, Simon. Fuck you very much.

Enter former Peruvian lover, just passing through town. Jim welcomed him: “Incacha’s quest. Enquiri’s nest. Mea casa est...”

So Jim harboured a fugitive while gal-pal pirated files. Bye-bye, Cyclops. Here’s looking at you…with both eyes open.

Oh, what a tangled world wide web we weave, 
When first we practice to retrieve. 

“It's over. The sentinel thing is dead.” Sentinel thing. Sensual thing. Sentimental thing. And Jim turned from the rotting corpse of love lost, glad of no senses to enhance the stench.

Blair argued, pleaded, very nearly begged: “Do you think Simon will let this partnership continue with no legitimate reason for me to be here?” Legitimate reason? As legitimate as Blair Sandburg, any way.

“Abiding tolerance,” Jim offered. Speaking for Simon, speaking for himself. Protecting. Projecting. Rejecting.

“And what about you? You sure as hell don't need me if you don't have sentinel abilities.” Or love.

Then Jim dissed the diss; insecurities blaring— anxieties Blair-ing—that’s all you wanted, ever wanted, from me. No, not me. From the Sentinel. Not the man. Not from Jim.

Games people play. Names people say. Blames people lay.

“I got enough for ten dissertations,” Blair confessed. “Coulda finished months ago.” To be near you, he repressed.

Oh, so you lied, was Ellison’s take. Obfuscating on thin ice once again. Credibility blown—maybe for good.

They argued cross-purpose, not hearing, not grasping. Missing the Rosetta Stone of love or closed captioning for the caring impaired.

Roller coaster to merry-go-round. How could he ever get off? Now that he’d gotten off. With Jim. Go on? Go back? With someone else? With anyone else? You must be this tall to ride.

Then an ex bled out on the sofa—a parking lot claimed another: two in one day. Must be a record, even for them.

Performing for paramedics and cops, a most captive and captivated audience, it finally came to blows, the first pitched battle. Maybe their last. In this corner, wearing plaid flannel, tie-tied trunks, weighing in as light as a feather—hollow, empty, barely there—the contender, the pretender, Blair Donovan Sandburg. And in red, white and blue striped trunks, weighing in at thousands and thousands of pounds, heart like lead, barely beating in his steel-banded chest, the returning champion of messy endings, James Joseph Ellison.

If push comes to shove. Despair comes to love. Fits like a glove… until it just doesn’t anymore.

And again with the dreams. The waking dream. Perched on a rooftop—a Crow, a raven raving: nevermore. No more. The ending of forever. This is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but a whimper. Scarcely a whisper.

Obscure advice from a shadowy other, the ghost of Christmas past in camo fatigues and the latest in warpaint: accept the senses, accept the gift, accept the Guide, accept… Blair. Find the forest in the sky. Save the day, save the city, save the love. The love of your life. This is your life.

So roles were assigned, mystic forces at play. Sentinel of the Great City. Ditto the Shaman.

Shaman. Lawman. A couplet, once again.

And the panther wailed in the darkness.

End.