Malcolm Midnight

Sometimes, I wonder why I do this to myself. Sitting here, burning my eyes out with a computer screen. I should be asleep by now, but where would the fun in that be? After all, who sleeps anymore, even at 3 am with a full schedule the next day? Oh that's right, sane people. There are so few left nowadays, I forget they exist at all.

Sanity and normality don't sit well with me. I would like to believe I am not quite so abnormal as the psychos you see on the news, keeping dead relatives in their fridge, but I am definitely not quite on that level with everyone else. They say sane people think they are going crazy, but I don't even know what I think anymore.

Everyone around here calls me Malcolm Midnight, I guess because Malcolm Five-in-the-Goddamn-Morning is too much of a mouthful. My real last name is Anderson, but no one has bothered with it since I can remember. My family are the Andersons. I am just Mal.

My eyes run quickly along the lines of text as I shuffle through the long list of emails coming into my website. To my delight, it seems they are all small matters today. Math homework and essays for biology, but nothing too taxing. Helping idiots with their homework can be tedious, but at least it has never ended with my needing stitches.

As a young adult, still living with my parents but slowly working my way toward drinking age, I have always had trouble finding a job. I have never gotten along with people, and too much activity is not easy on me at all. Still, with the options of paying rent or find a nice cardboard box to live in, I had to do something. They say to play to your strengths, and my strongest trait is an inexhaustible trove of useless knowledge. My idea formed quickly, and my website was born.

Here, on Askmal.com, you can ask me questions, request home work to be done, or make other requests for a small fee. It worked pretty well when I started it at 17, until after three months I got a request for help that was just a little bit bigger. It started with a mother wanting to know how her home was being robbed, and by the end, her son was in jail, I had gotten soundly beaten, and the entire town had discovered overnight that the local weirdo dropout was at least slightly less useless than they'd thought. After that, things got complicated, my days got longer, and I became increasingly familiar with local law enforcement, as more and more people began paying me to solve problems for them.

Its been like that for years. I've caught thieves burglars, you name it, something like fifteen all told. You'd think I would love it, that I would be proud of my skills, and revel in the attentions of those who used to shut me away like a dream they'd rather forget. Most people would. I am, most definitely, not most people.

I hated it. I was never equipped to deal with people, and now that I'd found a way to make some money and stay out of society, I gain more recognition than I ever had before. The Gods of Irony are cruel indeed.

As I sat at the screen, staring blankly for a few moments, I suddenly realized that I had run out of messages for the day. 4:15 am. Always nice to have an early night. I rise, and wobble over to my bed in the other corner of my room, leaving my computer on. Thank you, sleep mode. Come morning, I have to head out into the world to return books to the library, and being well rested is always good whenever I have to show my face outside. Not fun, but whatever.

As I close my eyes and drift, an automated pinging sound tells me that I have one more message that has just been received. Who on earth is up right now? I figure it must be just us whackos. I suppose I do owe my fellow mental-patients-to-be some professional courtesy, but for today, I am all out of shits to give. Instead, I slowly fade into dreams, talking under my breath about something or another. You know, I understand they are a bad sign and all, but these voices make some damned good conversationalists.

Morning, or close enough to it. Probably right around I-don't-give-a-fuck o'clock. The sun is up, and shining directly into my eyes through the gap in my curtains that wasn't there last night. In the other room, I hear my folks shouting, hear threats, same old same old. Just as I begin to drift back to dreamland, I hear another voice, deep and practiced. Someone I don't know. Not a good sign. I roll out of bed, get into my pants, and have my shirt half on when the man opens my door without knocking, badge in hand.

"Hello, are you Malcolm Anderson?" the officer asks. I nod, frozen in position with one arm through my shirt. "There's been an incident and I'm going to need to ask you a couple of questions."

Fuck my life.

The station was packed full of blue boys running around, all seeming fairly confused about what exactly they should be doing. I'd seen this plenty of times, and it always meant headaches and hospital trips for yours truly. While the prospect never exactly thrilled me, today's case was a truly unique sort of awful, because all the dirty looks I saw could only mean this was somehow all linked to me.

Before all the huge, mean looking people who obviously wanted to beat me to paste could bring back any more fond memories of my high school days, the cop who'd been at my house hurried me along into a private room, where I am honestly shocked he didn't begin to pummel me. He managed to keep himself looking fairly calm, but I could tell by the way he stood there that he was just waiting for me to act up. I would have to struggle hard to deny him the pleasure.

"Son, can you tell me why you think you're here?" He gave me a long hard look from behind square rimmed glasses.

"My first guess would be because my life was getting too easy." I really need a leash for this goddamn tongue. The officer frowned, but kept silent. I hurried to think of something that would keep me in one piece. "What I meant was, probably because you have some questions for me?"

"That's better, Mr. Anderson. Just keep that attitude of yours in check." He went to a seat at one end of a large table in the center of the room. I wanted to keep standing to mess with him, but my allergy to bruises made me reconsider. "So, you do not know why you're here. You sure? No clue at all?" I held my tongue this time, and nodded. " Well, first I'd like to ask, where were you last night, say, between 10 and 12?"

"Home, where I always am. Not exactly a social butterfly."

"Really? Never would have guessed. To my knowledge, you are somewhat well known around here. I'm new to the area myself, but everyone knows you, Malcolm. You should hear what they say." He was trying to get a rise out of me. He probably thought that if he could get me angry, he'd be proving that I did whatever he was already sure I did. I had to tread carefully. "Next question. Do you or do you not maintain a website called Askmal.com ?"

"I do," I said. Privately I wondered what that had to do with anything, but I figured asking would just get me in deeper shit. The officer pulled out a small card and put it on the table in front of me.

"I hear you hand out cards for the website. Is this once of them?" I nodded. On the card was : Questions Answered, Problems Solved, Fees Negotiable. Simple, true, and no more than what needed to be said. I should speak like that in everyday life. I may live longer. "So, who do you pass these out to, and where? "

"When I'm not home, I am at the library, or around town with work from the site. I bring cards with me whenever I have to go out. Also have someone help me pass them around. Lisa Richards."

"So, this Miss Richards has these cards in regular supply?" I nodded. "Fair enough. Now I guess I'll tell you why you are here. Last night there was a break in at the home of a family of three Called the Kenslys. That card was found at the scene, near the computer desk of their 14 year old daughter Ellen, who is now missing. The computer was on when her parents came into her room after waking. It was on . Now, I am going to let you go, boy, but don't go far. We made need you again before too long."

The officer, who's constant frown had made my mind give him the name Mr. Happy, lead me back to the door, and watched me intently as I walked back toward my house. It wasn't far, and squad cars were in high demand so soon after a kidnapping.

As I walked past the alley between the book store and a local pizza place, I caught a glimpse of a black bum lounging against a wall, watching me as I pass with that weird yellow grin of his. I grin back, despite my mood, pull out a quarter and toss it to him. "Here, Dave, don't spend it all in one place."

"Ah, c'mon Midnight," he said, his voice strangely feminine in spite of his broad build and wiry beard. " That joke's gotta be older than either o' us here. S'pose you ain't smart enough to think of nothin' new though." He stood up, sauntered over to me, and clapped me on the back. " So, what they got for you at the station. Another case, Mr. Detective?" I must be a truly sorry sight for all the good respectable folks out there, watching as I talk to some bum off the street. Well, fuck all the respectable people, I have to have at least one friend, and Dave at least gives me the time of day. The old fool comes in handy once in a blue moon too, though if I told him that his head would get too big even for his shoulders.

"Nope, not this time. Apparently I broke into a house, wrecked some shit, and kidnapped a 14 year old daughter. Must have been a busy night for me." Dave's smile faded, and he looked at me solemnly.

"You gonna be okay, Midnight? I mean, you can figure this thing out, just like always, right?" I nodded, and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Hell if I'm not going to try. Listen Dave, I would like you to keep your eyes open for a while. See or hear anything strange, come find me. Spread word if you can. I'm off, I can't waste time."

"So , You gonna be at home, or what?"

I walked off, and shouted my answer back to him. "Not quite yet, I have to see Lisa first. Also, check the hood of that old coat." I was already around the corner when I heard him shout his thanks. Guess he found the twenty I slipped him when I patted him on the shoulder.