The moment lived in ascending seconds, climbing a never ending stairway in Fabians watch. He floated through the turns, skipping no stride. He was firing on all cylinders- today.

Theodore was near.

The morning was quiet and except for passing cars became desolate. An isolation Fabian was all to familiar with. His legs burned. Pain was prevalent. Partly from shaving with a single bladed bic onto dry skin but entirely from covering himself with pepper spray. His small nicks from the razor became monumental. He anticipated a fight. His thin, vein riddled stems were now purple. But, no matter. If Theodore were to attack, he would poison himself in his own vanity. Atleast that's how Fabian defended his actions within his diary, which he long-ago entitled Fabe's Frockery.

The house drew near. Fabian's attention was at full mast. His preparation was at last paying off, as he dodged a hanging branch without removing his gaze on Theodore's domain. The plan was simple: Get Theodore to chase. Jump the Amazon River 150 yards down stream where a chained bobcat would be waiting. Hide and watch. Scare Teddy's doggy brain out and never have to worry about his bloodthirstyness again.

Theodore slept a deep sleep. He was in a place where cool wheat grass brushed his short-haired belly. He drooled a sweet liquid which he would often slurp back up. The sun was bright but not blinding, even to his absent minded stares up to the heavens. The ground was soft. He was running on mud but for some reason it wasn't sticking to his freshly manicured paws. "HEY!!!!"

Theodore awoke from his dream with a murderous rage.

"Hey Teddy Bear...Come get some!!" Fabian gasped across the street in a run-sapped voice only a resting doggy could have picked up on.

The chase was on. Theodore tore through his yard and rounded the curb, his nails gliding, fish-tailing him into the recycle bin. He recovered and ripped across the street. Loose concrete was flying everywhere. He pulled onto the trail a few strides behind Fabian with eyes burning with violence. If you had been filming this scene with a camera with a red-eye remover, it wouldn't have worked. Theodore's eyes contained inferno.

When Theodore caught up, just before he spring-loaded his attack, Fabian pulled left and in a steeple like maneuver launched himself over the Amazon River. He barely made it half-way and collapsed under the muddy water. The bobcat hovered above. His jump was too short. The cat had been positioned for a jump of another ten feet down the trail.

Theodore watched from the trail above as Fabian recieved slashing paws to the rear and lower back. He enjoyed the scene, putting himself back into a dreamlike trace he lived in moments before. Fabian's screams could be heard by no one as he crawled away from the cained death kitten-

As each song reaches the chorus he bobs his head in acceptance. At first glance it would appear that that he is hell bent on that muffin; although, his morning run is lingering in his thoughts. He approaches each morning run as he does the 1500:

The first 800- All training

The 3rd lap- All character

The last 300- All heart

His usual 5 mile trot suddenly takes on a new importance. For the last several weeks, he has dreaded the last mile. Not for the pain or lack of finishing kick but rather for the english bulldog who has patiently awaited his return. "All heart" he tells himself as another set of crumbs fall into his lap.

His runs have all ended in a bloody kick as he passes the final stretch on the Amazon loop and one particular unfenced blue victorian style duplex, which is the home of his arch enemy, Theodore.

He probably wouldn't even know his name but a week or so ago Theodore's owner, an old woman in a shawl ran after her beloved while cursing the thin harrier for disturbing his beauty sleep. On his off days, Fabian would drive by the house looking for Theodore, making mental notes of his habits. Each passing day building more courage to tap into on his next encounter.

Fabian even kept a daily log of Theodore in his laptop. That was until his computer took a vitamin water bottle in the lcd screen. One morning he was scrolling through the newest uploaded videos on Runnerspace and quickly became enraged at the slow downloading speed he was encountering. 30 seconds was too much for him. "This is 2007!" he yelled in his angry high-pitched squeal before he attacked the screen with his half-empty PowerC bottle. That was the last breath his laptop ever took.

As he finished the last bite of his muffin he made a vow: Today, Theodore would pay. Before he left Starbucks he ordered a shot of espresso. "Make that a double," he confidently exclaimed before his order went through. Liquid courage he reassured himself.

Before his run he stuffed 2 honey sticks into his spandex pocket, double laced his flats and glanced at his reflection as the LTD bus passed the curb. As his first step collided with the freshly rained upon concrete his heart skipped a beat. This would be no ordinary run and he felt it with every fiber in his body.

To be continued..........................

"Come on feel the noise! Girls rock your boys!.......I don't know why, I don't know why!.......Anymore....O no...O!..So you say I got a funny face? I got no worries!....Come on feel the noise!"

"Dude, you suck. You suck at life!" Yelled a young boy out of the back of his mom’s mini-van while he laughed a laugh so pure it could've only originated from the depths of his soul. His mom turned around and gave him a high five before accelerating to a speed of 10 mph, forcing bio-fuel fumes into the window of the American idol want-a-be in the car to her left.

Fabian stopped singing immediately. He slowly rolled though the intersection with his head frozen and eyes fixed right in front of the hood. He thought no one would see him if stared directly forward. But it was too late. He was driving through a school zone at 3:05 pm and hundreds of middle schoolers swarmed the sidewalk and street. Kids were rolling on the grass, stomachs aching with laughter. One young girl even threw her leftover egg salad sandwich at Fabians orange VW.

Fabian held his breath. He imagined himself invisible and secretly scorned himself for not bidding on the invisible cloak he found on eBay last week. He kept his attention on the road as he nervously felt his way up the door panel, frantically trying to roll his window up to create a force field between him and the chuckling children. Earlier, his morning run had been a disaster. He decided to try a new pair of running shorts Hoss recommended to him. The shorts had no liner. The chaffing burning up his inner thighs was not helping the situation.

Fabian was late for dinner at Hoss, his best friends house. He never missed his 3rd meal at the Friendly household. Jaala Friendly, Hoss's beautiful wife always had dinner ready. She was like precision Swiss timing, exact with her schedule. Fabian normally beat Hoss to his house but today he was running late. A heated conversation in the official 'Magic the Gathering' chat room had held him up longer than its usual 2 hour duration.

Jaala always commented to Hoss that at some time or another she cooked for every runner in their community. Her statement had more truth than not seeing how a normal night would typically bring around 10 house guests. Hoss spent his days pretending he was busier than he actually was. This made him inherently late for supper and agitated Jaala to no end because while her husband was picking up pieces of scrap mondo and timing warm-up laps, she was entertaining a real-life chat room which always included Fabian.

This fall evening was different. Perhaps it was the celebrity gossip magazines "Jay" (as she was called by her close girlfriends) read that day or maybe it was the blue nail polish she decided to go with instead of her usual red during her morning manicure sesh, but tonight when Hoss pulled into the drive the familiar aroma of dinner didn't great him. He ran to the front door faster than his supposed 10.9 hundy pr, preparing himself for the worst.

When he swung the door open his fears had been confirmed. Fabian sat, cross legged on the kitchen floor, weeping hysterically. Jaala towered above him, casting a wicked shadow across the linoleum that ended where Hoss‘s baby-like feet began. Today was the birthday of Ron Weasley and when Fabian told Jay to bake a pumpkin cake she reached her tipping point. No more dinners she decided.

A microwave gave the annoying, "turn contents" beep that everyone ignores, in the kitchen corner.

Hoss, sensing the situation was only about to escalate, tried to use HTML code in a conversation with Fabian so Jay wouldn't understand. He was mistaken. After hearing HTML code talk for countless years Jay had deciphered it, never revealing her secret. Until now-

Hoss and Fabian looked at each other with that guilty look only two caught conspirators can give after Jay intercepted their negotiations.

"Beep!" The microwave had finished. It had also distracted Jay before she kicked Fabians ass then Hoss's.

She removed the contents, a TV dinner, slowly cutting out the undercooked desert. She threw it at Fabian. His tears once again flowed.

"There's your cake, SON!" She screamed as she stormed out of the kichen. Hoss collapsed to the floor and embraced Fabian, who had started to nibble on a piece of cake that had landed on his chin...

Each time the flash fires out of the digital camera, the man throws out a different facial expression. Each time he becomes more serious. Each time his cheeks become more tactical. Each time he brings a Hollywood esque terror to life- so realistic he secretly commends himself for not running over to the bathtub and curling into a frightened ball of tears. He is becoming the character looking back at him in the clouded glass.

The flashes continue into the night. One after another, until after an unusual yoga like pose he is satisfied. He reaches for the light switch, struggling with his paper thin fingers to exert the force required to flip it up. The light errupts into the room, forcing him to squint and turn away despite the black polarized sunglasses he has on. The ones he wore the entire time. When he finally adjusts he spins infront of the mirror and runs both hands through his slicked back hair. One hand at a time he admires the precision spent in maintaining his hairstyle. He is content. His new myspace picture has been captured. His new identity will soon be on display for the entire world to see! The mere thought gave him goosebumps.

A half-eaten tuna sandwhich sits on the counter. He raises it quick, forcing a few chunks of tuna out and onto the floor. A few seconds after one enormously aggressive bite he spits his oral load all over the mirror. The sandwhich had been siting next to the candle the entire time, absorbing enough vanilla it made the sandwhich taste like french vanilla tuna ice cream.

While he washed his hands and mouth his attention turned to his right bi-cep. He smiled as he traced his team xo tattoo all around his pencil thick arm. It was a lick-and-stick. He thought about rubing it off completely and re-adding one of the 500 or so team xo tattoos he kept in his desk drawer but it was late, and plus he hadn't even checked his runnerspace account in several hours. Someone could have added him as a friend or wrote on his guestbook. A man must always be in control of his web-destiny he thought to himself as he turned and ran to his laptop.

There was clutter everywhere. Clothes covered the stovetop, empty Nike boxes were stacked against the wall, spent powerGEl packets strayed off into various corners and popcorn crumbs were flattened into the carpet. A Harry Potter poster hung over the flatscreen. He had a commerative broom, framed in a glass case beneath. There was a hint of sci-fi in everything, including the boxes of cereal on the center table which had filled out star wars contest entry forms waiting to be cut out and mailed.

On the mantle several pictures were carefully placed in an orderly fashion. All of the photos had him and one other face. The frames were hand-made and decorated with team xo logos and painted blue and black. In the back, covered with dust was a small frame with a new person embedded within. It was the same guy and a woman. The photo was from their wedding. That was obvious. This photo seemed to be set aside for a reason.

One hour on runnerspace turned to 8 which turned into cracks of sun bleeding through old curtains. The severly weak man arose from a hard nights work, stretched his IT bands and kissed his favorite picture of him and the other man before he retired into his altitude tent for a much needed rest.

His futuristic pajamas had one letter, an F, hand stiched into the helmet of a storm trooper holding an assult rifle. Good night Fabian he said to himself as he drifted into a deep sleep at a simulated elevation of 15,135 feet....