[center][sub][h1][img]https://i.postimg.cc/MZnCKZnz/qheader.png[/img]
[b][color=black] T H E  Q U E S T I O N[/color]
[color=cadetblue]T H E  Q U E S T I O N[/color][/b][/h1][/sub]
[sub][h2][b][color=black] I S S U E # 1[/color]
[color=cadetblue]I S S U E # 1[/color][/b][/h2][/sub]
[sup][h3][b][color=black] D E V O T I O N[/color]
[color=cadetblue]D E V O T I O N[/color][/b][/h3][/sup][/center]
I should've realized something was wrong about four wrong turns ago, or perhaps when the paved road stopped and transitioned into dirt, but the man within me was too stubborn to come to the epiphany. As I step out of the woods and gaze upon the prairie before me, stretching out endlessly as far as the eye can see, it hits me that I am lost. I want to curse and shout at the realization, let off my steam on the rusted up tractor nearby maybe, but I take a moment to steady my breathing and remind myself that all things must pass. This misfortune, this anger at that misfortune, will pass too. And while the man may be stubborn and angry, the butterfly is content to make the best of this.

The track of dirt that one might call a road continues on for a few hundred feet ahead of me, ending at a white farmhouse that stands alone in the vast green sea. A coop sits in a fenced off area behind it, chickens and ducks milling about, pecking at the grass. As I approach the house, I notice a beat up Ford F-150, probably from the 70s or 80s, sitting parked out front. Up close now, I can see that the bumper is rusted and decorated with bumper stickers, all cracked and peeling away save for one in the center, pristine black on white: "John 3:16". I look away from the truck to the front porch which houses an old wooden swing bench and a wooden sign above the front door, proclaiming "As for this house, we will serve The Lord. - Joshua 24:15".

And underneath that sign stands an old man in a plaid shirt and faded blue jeans, toting a double barrel shotgun. Not aimed at me, not yet, but ready to be at a moment's notice.

The man sets his icy blue eyes on me, his gaze more suspicious than sinister. [b]"You lookin' for somethin', son?"[/b] he asks.

[color=cadetblue][b]"Just passing through, sir. Might be in need of directions,"[/b][/color] I say as I raise my hands in a placating manner.

He lowers the gun a bit and I lower my hands just a bit too. [b]"That so? Where you from?"[/b]

[color=cadetblue][b]"Hub City. Trying to find my way back."[/b][/color]

He blinks in surprise at that, quirking an eyebrow at me. [b]"You're far from home. What brought you out here so far?"[/b]

[color=cadetblue][b]"Enlightenment."[/b][/color]

The man snorts at that. [b]"Ha. Guess you might find it better out here than in the Hub,"[/b] he says, before trading his two handed grip on the scattergun for one hand on the barrel, resting the stock on the ground as the other hand extends outwards. I walk up the porch steps and shake the man's hand. [b]"The name's George. What's yours, son?"[/b]

[color=cadetblue][b]"Victor."[/b][/color]

He smiles at that. [b]"Victor? Had a friend named Victor once. From Hub City, too. Good friend."[/b]

[color=cadetblue][b]"Had?"[/b][/color]

[b]"With the Lord now. Passed a few years back."[/b] The smile on George's face grows wistful as he remembers his friend, his gaze setting past me and onto the bright blue sky, no doubt going through memories like an old photobook for a moment before coming back to Earth. He sets his eyes back on me. [b]"Just finished up lunch. Looking for a meal, Victor?"[/b]

[color=cadetblue][b]"I'd appreciate it, sir."[/b][/color]

[b]"Come on in then,"[/b] he says, opening the door. We step through and into the foyer, a quaint little hallway leading to a staircase at the end, with a doorway on both sides leading into other parts of the house. Framed photos hang on the wall, dotting the room with memories of years past. Most of the photos are of George and a man, going as far back as young adulthood. The last photo with the other man is of him and George sitting on the swing bench out front, the man smiling contently at the camera while George sneaks a look at the man, love in his eyes.

Love.

George sets the gun down next to the door, carefully. [b]"Sorry 'bout the gun. Get some no good sons of a gun out here sometimes, love to cause a ruckus. Usually that scares 'em off."[/b]

[color=cadetblue][b]"Not a problem. Gotta defend your home somehow,"[/b][/color] I say. George grins at that.

[b]"Right you are, son."[/b] He moves forward, but I stand in place, still looking at the last photo. [b]"You good there?"[/b]

[color=cadetblue][b]"That Victor?"[/b][/color] I ask, gesturing to the framed picture. George turns to it, then back to me.

[b]"Yep. There he is."[/b]

[color=cadetblue][b]"... How long were the two of you together?"[/b][/color]

George's face goes a bit pale at that. He sputters a bit at my bluntness, letting out a cough, before regaining his composure. [b]"... In the eyes of the law, two years. In the eyes of the Lord, forty-seven."[/b]

[color=cadetblue][b]"He looks like he was a wonderful man."[/b][/color]

George's smile returns at that. [b]"The most wonderful man I could have asked for."[/b] He turns back to the doorway, continuing on through it. [b]"C'mon now,"[/b] he calls to me, [b]"Food must be gettin' cold."[/b]

We take a seat at the dining table in the kitchen and eat, chatting about nothing in particular. We jump around from subject to subject. Our pasts, our presents, our plans for the immediate and far future. Neither George or I have much to say on the last subject. Both he and I share the same commitment to just living in the now.

The topic shifts to my need for directions. [b]"I gotta swing by Highwood tomorrow to pick up some farming supplies,"[/b] he says, referring to the town just 50 miles south of Hub City. [b]"You can stay the night and come with me in the morning, try and find a ride into the Hub. I'd take you myself but it's been decades since I last set foot there and I ain't too keen on heading back."[/b]

I give a nod at that. [color=cadetblue][b]"I understand. I appreciate it a lot, George. Thank you."[/b][/color]

He waves a hand dismissively at that. [b]"Don't mention it. You'd do the same for me, I'd hope."[/b]

I give him a smile. [color=cadetblue][b]"Of course."[/b][/color]

We finish up our lunch after that. I handle the dishes while George heads out back to tend to his poultry. Gazing out of the window overlooking the kitchen sink, I can see George scattering grains for the chicken and ducks as they crowd around him in excitement. A smile makes its way on my face as I gaze past the scene to examine the rest of the yard. About fifteen yards away from the scene I spot a large oak tree, casting a blobby shadow against the grass. Under it rests a grave. I can barely make out the inscription from this far away.

[center][u][b]Victor B. Waltson
Loving Husband
Romans 12:10
1949 - 2016[/b][/u][/center]
The man in me can't tell if his mood is lifted or soured upon seeing that, caught between joy for George and Victor's love for each other and sorrow at George's loss. I never knew Victor, but from what George has told me, he loved the man above all else. And while the man in me is conflicted, the butterfly that is dreaming of him is glad that they loved, once and forever. Finding peace and solace in another person, especially in a time when that love was deemed worthy of scorn and hatred, is a beautiful thing.

I finish the dishes up and head outside to join George. He shows me the ropes, letting me scatter a bit of grain for the chickens and ducks, before moving on to showing me how to clean their coop while they're distracted by their meal. We spend a few more hours together before heading back inside for a quiet dinner of pot roast and mashed potatoes before George turns in for the night. He shows me to the guest room before heading to his own room.

As I lay in the bed, red cotton blanket wrapped around me and a grandfather clock in the hallway slowly ticking away, I stare at the ceiling and contemplate how much might have changed in Hub City in the year I had been absent. Fermin's term wouldn't be up for another two years, so I'd at least still have my hands full with him. But my mind continues being drawn towards other things, other people, people I cared for rather than crusaded against.

Tot. The last we spoke was in February, before Shiva escorted me to Richard Dragon's cabin in the woods. He seemed worried for me, at least in his own way, which meant snarky comments about how I [color=burlywood][b]"shouldn't try out any mushrooms the strange hippie in the woods might offer you."[/b][/color] At the time, I laughed; now, I might actually advise him to rethink that statement. If Dragon offered me any mushrooms, I would've taken part.

Sam. My boss, owner, founder, and CEO of Starrstruck Media Inc.. Last we spoke, he was hounding me for another article like the one I did covering Council Chairman Floyd's ties to the Chicago Outfit. [color=salmon][b]"Drove our traffic up by [i]fifteen percent[/i], Vic!"[/b][/color] he told me, all excited about it, but I convinced him to give me an extension of a month for the article. I was about to get documented proof of Mayor Fermin's ties to the Sinners, Hub City's answer to the Outfit, when Shiva ended my life. Hopefully, he'll be willing to increase the extension he gave me by another month, if we weren't counting the twelve I wasn't there for of course.

Myra.

[i]Myra...[/i]

The clock ticks away.

The last time I spoke to Myra was two years ago now, just after my article on her brother for the Gazette was released. She called me to meet at a cafe in Hupert Square, said we needed to talk. I knew what about. When I got there, she had a window table all to herself, waiting for me. She looked absolutely stunning, as she usually did. Her long strawberry blonde hair was pulled tightly into a bun, as it usually was when she was working. It was gorgeous when she let it down. I loved to play with it. The gaze of her striking green eyes was set on the park across the street, watching the children as they played and laughed, a small smile on her face as she spectated.

Her smile shifted to a scowl when I announced my presence.

[color=cadetblue][b]"Myra,"[/b][/color] I said, sliding into the chair across from her. I smirked at her glare. [color=cadetblue][b]"Not really digging the vibes here. Feels like I need a beanie and an oiled up beard to be able to fit in. Maybe they'll settle for me starting up a tech com-"[/b][/color]

[color=thistle][b]"[i]Don't.[/i] I'm not in the mood for your smartass shit, Vic."[/b][/color] She pulled out her phone and unlocked it, before sliding it across the table to me. I picked it up; lo and behold, my very own article, my claim to fame. My smirk widened into a grin as I looked over my work. [color=thistle][b]"What the [i]fuck[/i] is this?"[/b][/color]

[color=cadetblue][b]"My own [i]Kentucky Derby[/i]. Something that will lay the groundwork for all pieces of political journalism to come,"[/b][/color] I said, sliding the phone back and leaning back in my chair.

She didn't seem amused. [color=thistle][b]"What it [i]is[/i] is you dragging my brother's name through the [i]mud[/i] like he's just some, some-"[/b][/color]

[color=cadetblue][b]"Some crooked politician, just like all the other no good bastards in City Hall. Just because he's your brother doesn't mean he's a good man."[/b][/color]

[color=thistle][b]"Don't you [i]dare[/i] say that about him. My brother has done more for this city in the two months he's been mayor than you [i]ever[/i] have, or ever [i]will![/i]"[/b][/color]

[color=cadetblue][b]"Right, right, really doing a great job at pocketing city funds, taking bribes, getting his mobster friends out of jail while he lets men like Hugo Wernher rot behi-"[/b][/color]

[color=thistle][b]"Oh, Wernher, [i]again?[/i] That man [i]murdered[/i] a [i]cop[/i], Vic!"[/b][/color]

[color=cadetblue][b]"Because that cop would've shot him and his wife if he [i]didn't![/i]"[/b][/color]

[color=thistle][b]"It's a miracle he didn't get the death sentence. You know [i]I[/i] was the one who lobbied for that, right? Everyone wanted him sent back to Indiana so he could be put on death row there but because you were so [i]insistent[/i] on it I pulled some strings to make sure the case remained in Illinois, and I-"[/b][/color] she pauses, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose as she groans in frustration. [color=thistle][b]"... Vic. I [i]love you[/i], but I can't... I can't stay with a man who [i]hates[/i] my brother the way you do."[/b][/color]

[color=cadetblue][b]"... Then don't,"[/b][/color] I said, before standing and walking away. In the reflection of the windowpane in the door, I saw her shocked expression, battling between surprise, anger, and sorrow at my response. Finally, she settled on a disgusted scowl, turning away. I walked out of the cafe and never looked back.

I never looked back.

The only woman I have ever loved. There had been others, before. I slept around a bit in college before I met her. A few women, a man here and there, but no one was like [i]her[/i]. No one was able to keep me on my toes as much as she was. I threw that all away.

[i]Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock...[/i]

The clock continues its countdown.

Tomorrow, I'll be returning to Hub City.

But tonight, I am content.