Mic always thought it silly when people mispronounced his name. It couldn't be that hard, could it? There had never been a first day of school that didn't commence with the same routine. "Mick?" The struggling teachers would call out. He would always groan inwardly, and respond "Here, but it's pronounced 'Mike'." The teacher would then proceed to completely forget the encounter and repeatedly call him Mick for the remainder of the school year. Mic didn't mind though. After all, the device with which he shares a name isn't known to protest when spoken at.
Most microphones enjoy a solitary existence. Spent, for the most part, receiving and then projecting sound waves; a central part of the proceedings, but quite invisible to onlookers. Indeed, with such a wonderful perspective, few microphones are as blind to people, as people are to them.











~~~~~~~~
This particular Mic is boarding the subway on a rainy day in April, anxious to get home. Clutching a soggy New York Times above his head, in the vain hope that the torrential rain will heed, and be subdued by the thin paper. As the sleek doors slide shut behind him, he glances around, only to discover that there are no vacant seats in the crowded space. He grips the overhead railing, closes his eyes, and listens. Not to the restless clamor of people surrounding him, but to his thoughts. They lift him from the crowded subway, up and away through the rain.

He’s interrupted by the harsh sound of squealing brakes which rudely yank him back to reality. Mic makes his way off the train, shakes his head brusquely, and forces himself to postpone the reverie. If only for a short while.
Upon exiting the cavernous subway station, Mic seeks out a nearby bench and sits down. He leans over, meticulously unties his shoes, and pulls off his dripping socks. Standing, he looks carefully left and then right.
Wary of the risks that come with this indulgence, he begins to walk. His bare feet slap the pavement rhythmically on their journey home. Mic forces himself to methodically place one foot in front of the other. Keeping a wary eye out for anything potentially dangerous on the cold expanse of concrete stretching off into the distance. The cool rain feels truly wonderful between his toes, and a warm sensation slowly spreads through his frame. He forces his mind back to reality, but reality is lacking, and entirely optional.
Once again, Mic’s thoughts begin to soar. Up through the clouds, out into the vast expanses of space, and... smack! He walks straight into a comely middle-aged women pushing a stroller laden with various shopping bags and carrying several children. One of the children bounces free, landing with a painful-sounding crunch on the sidewalk. Rather surprised and distressed by its sudden exit from the stroller, the child begins to wail loudly. Mic reaches to help, bending down to comfort the ailing child. His attempt is thwarted by a venomous glare from the mother. "You've done quite enough, thanks" she spits. He recoils, stung, stuffs both hands in his pockets, and continues onward, his face a deep shade of crimson. He tries in vain to blend into the concrete.
Arriving at the doorstep of his apartment complex, Mic withdraws a key from the depths of his over-sized coat, enters quietly, carefully dries his bare feet on the doormat and makes his way up the stairs. The cool stone steps serve to lighten his warm, still blushing face. "It's nothing personal," He mutters to himself "I'm sure she's had a long day." The words echo off the bare concrete walls ominously, as words are wont to do when nobody is listening.
Mic steps onto the second floor. His toes curl on the coarse carpet as he makes his tired journey down the hallway, his head angled directly downward. He becomes so engrossed in the patterns on the carpet that he passes his room entirely. Realizing his mistake, he corrects it sullenly, pausing to momentarily lean his forehead up against the wooden door frame. Finally, he heaves a great sigh, unlocks his door, and slips inside.
Mic's apartment is a sparsely decorated affair, everything in its perfect place. The walls are void of decoration. No crumbs infest the carpet, and no clothing ever strays from the hamper. He looks around approvingly. He removes his coat and drapes it carefully on the coat hanger adjacent to the door. He elects to remain in darkness, disregards the switch and proceeds further inside. Immediately to the right is a small kitchen. He enters, opens the fridge, removes a glass bottle of Coca-Cola, and slumps into a chair.

He sips it like fine wine, mulling it around in his mouth until the stinging carbonation abates. He sips a little bit more and repeats his routine. The Coke is halfway gone when his stomach rumbles. Mic rummages through several cupboards until he discovers a bag of extra butter microwave popcorn. This he carefully unwraps, and places inside the microwave. He leans up against the counter and listens to the sound of the kernels popping and cracking.
Two minutes later Mic withdraws the steaming bag, shaking it to be sure every kernel is popped and receives the proper dosage of butter. His countenance remains shrouded in darkness, save the dimming twilight through the kitchen window. He rips open the bag, finds a bowl and dumps it all in. He enjoys it like he did the soda, one flake at a time.
Eventually the popcorn runs out, the kernels clink forlornly in the bottom of the metal bowl. He places it sadly in the sink.
The only other room in the loft doubles as a bedroom and a study. One wall is taken up entirely by a small bed, the other is dominated by a massive desk. Sitting atop it, in gleaming technological wonder, are three awe-inspiring computer monitors. A solid black, backlit keyboard rests in front, each letter glowing a fluorescent blue, pulsating softly and warmly. The light reflects off of a glossy black office chair that waits imperially for its master’s arrival. Adjacent to the keyboard is a sleek black mouse, backlit in similar fashion to the keyboard.
Mic accepts the unspoken invitation extended by his armchair and settles himself comfortably on its extravagant padding. Underneath the desk, the computer tower purrs with power. It’s his pride and joy. Built on three years of hard-earned savings, and two weeks of manual labor. It’s state of the art in every way. He commands it to wake, and it complies. Humming contentedly, as it performs with quiet efficiency. The room is bathed in a muted half-white light as the monitors come to life. Mic types in his password, and logs in.
His fingers fly across the keyboard, one hand occasionally drifts to the hyper-sensitive mouse, which he maneuvers with the skill of a composer directing an orchestra. His eyes flit from monitor to monitor taking in information at extraordinary speed. On one screen a music program flashes patterns in syncopated rhythm to a booming instrumental soundtrack. It wafts into his ears from every direction thanks to enormous speakers positioned intricately about the perimeter of the room.
Mic let’s the music fill him up. He releases the mouse and withdraws his hands from the keyboard. Leaning his head back against the chair, his eyes slide shut, and the music consumes him.
A pair of billowing white wings sprout from the small of his back, and the ceiling parts to admit his flight. He rises steadily, the great wings flapping in unison. Seconds after clearing the roof, he laughs ecstatically. The rain drenches his hair and back as he begins to cartwheel through the air, accompanied by the peals of twirling synthesizer and a sense of true freedom. He climbs high into the sky, breaking through the clouds into the clear blue beyond. Mic finds himself gasping at the beauty hidden by the billowing storm below. The music reaches its climax, and begins its descent. Mic follows suit at a dizzying speed, accompanied by the pulsating rhythms that thump through his system.
As the ground rushes up to meet him, it dissolves into an endless ocean. One song ends and another begins. The voluptuous wings morph suddenly into a pair of fins. He enters the water gracefully, and begins to speed through the water. The soft peals of an electric piano dance playfully with the colorful assortment of fish that inhabit the ocean floor.
Suddenly, a sharp rapping noise cuts through the music, and Mic jerks back to consciousness. He looks down, and upon discovering that he has hands, rushes out to get the door. He isn't expecting visitors, but the harsh banging noise continues. With fading hope that whoever is knocking will leave, he slowly flips the lights on and opens the door.
Standing there, with a mop of disheveled black hair and a dimwitted complexion, is his loathsome neighbor. A half undressed girl in one hand and a mostly empty bottle of hard liquor in the other. He is dressed only in a grey tank top and a what was once a pair of jeans. His expansive gut protrudes disgustingly, bouncing about as he speaks. “Hey shithead, turn down the music. I’m having a party downstairs.” The words are slurred and the man (If one may call it that) behind them is extremely intoxicated.
Mic just stands there, not sure if he should call the police. The music still blares from inside the study. “I said turn it down! Now b****!” Mic freezes. Standing there mutely, scared half to death. The neighbor laughs menacingly, and a cold gleam flashes into his eyes “Guess I’ll turn it down for you!” The girl squeals with delight and the bottle whistles toward Mic’s head at lightning speed....
~~~~~~~~~~
Mic sniffs. There is only the cold smell of alcohol, which strikes him as strange since he can’t remember ever drinking any. Then again, his head hurts badly enough that not being able to remember anything seems appropriate.
He opens his eyes. Everything is white. He closes them again, and everything is pain. He’s not sure which he likes less, so he opens them again.
The white turns out to be his ceiling. Mic flexes his arms to make sure they haven’t fallen off. They respond, albeit slowly, and eventually so does the rest of his body. He stands, wobbles, and falls again. He realizes for the first time his clothes are drenched in alcohol, which explains the smell. His head is still throbbing, threatening to fall off, or worse, stay on. He stumbles, half unconscious, into his bedroom and collapses on the downy bed. He reaches for the the remote. The remote that promises to bring the soothing orchestral music to his wounded ears. He clicks play. There is no sound.
Mic clicks the button again. Still nothing. He sits up and checks to see if his computer is still on. An invisible fist the likes of which the great Muhammad Ali couldn't hope to rival drives itself punishingly into his gut. Each monitor has a gaping hole the size of a tennis ball punched neatly into the center. Cords are strewn about, smoking. The speakers have been ripped from the ceiling and smashed on the ground. Mic’s wonderful chair has been gutted, more liquor poured on the shredded cushions. It stains them an ugly yellow color, which makes him think it might be urine.
Worst of all, his computer lies dejected on the ground. A dull rattling noise emanates from inside the dented carcass. Like the moans of a dying animal, begging for a respite from fatal wounds. Resting several feet from it lies his hard drive, smashed to pieces. Mic’s music, writings, and data all permanently destroyed.
Mic’s eyes start to sting, he cannot hold back the tears. He reaches out and strokes the aluminum casing. The sheer cruelty of the consequences suffered for failing to comply with such a menial request seem unthinkable. The tears last for upwards of an hour, as he kneels weeping beside his fallen friend.
The shaking sobs eventually withdraw, and sadness steps aside, only to be replaced by a new emotion that surges violently through Mic’s slim frame. Anger, raw, hard, and bursting to escape. Straining at his insides like a caged wild animal. It forces him to stand, and shoves him into the hallway,
Mic finds himself opening the closet, and pushing aside the coats and boots. Resting near the back is his trusty little league baseball bat. He picks it up gingerly, as if it could lash out at him at any moment. He hefts it between his hands, feeling the smooth wood between his fingers. The throbbing in his head lessens, but adrenaline continues to pump through him. White hot and furious, coursing through his veins like liquid electricity.
The anger drives him to the stairs. His bare left foot finds purchase on the first stone step, but his right does not. He tumbles downwards, unable to save himself from gravity, Mic crashes in a great heap at the bottom, further intensifying the rage of the beast inside. He scrambles to his feet like a drunkard, and staggers down the remaining steps, lurching awkwardly towards the sounds of a party. He finally arrives at the right door, reaches for the knob, and turns it.
The scene that meets his eyes is wholly disgusting. The stench of the various pigs strewn about the room is almost unbearable. There are ten of them, in various states of dress and drunkenness. They are lounging across the furniture and floor, smoking, drinking, and laughing. The anger lashes out at Mic from behind, cutting off his only path of retreat. Gasping for breath, he utters a single syllable to the assembled gluttons, thieves, vandals, and whores.
“Why?”
He voices it quietly, and many of them don’t even realize he’s said anything.
The few who do respond with absolute silence. One sour-faced man glances up in surprise, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth, flesh hanging disgustingly from his face. As if barely attached.
“I asked you a question.”
He speaks this slightly louder, with as much menace as he can muster. It isn't much.
Still nobody answers. Smoke curls through the air, mixing uncomfortably with the growing tension.
“Get out of here, shitface!” a scrawny middle-aged adulterer commands from the corner, finally realizing he’s at the door.
Anger once again shoves him from behind, but he resists for a moment more. Fending it off, knowing that he does so with the last of his willpower.
“Why?”
He screams it this time, his vocal chords straining with the effort.
“I said get out! I don’t want nobody getting’ hurt!” It’s the same man in the corner, his words sound pathetic compared to the pounding in Mic’s head.
With a final, mighty heave anger forces Mic into the room. His weapon clenched in both hands. They can do little to resist his fury.The bat connects with a supremely satisfying cracking noise, over and over and over. He whirls through the room, smashing and pounding, driven on by endless waves of emotion.
Finally, completely overwhelmed, his body ceases to respond. Mic collapses to the ground. Surrounded by a room in ruins. Liquor and blood run together on the floor. Broken bodies and smashed bottles litter the furniture. The bat rests on the floor beside him, split cleanly in two. One piece clenched in his hand.
Mic blacks out. The villains that once vitalized him leave as quickly as they arrived
~~~~~~~~~~
Sirens sound, far off in the distance. He dares to crack open his eyes. Everything is black. He closes them and nothing changes. A sudden burst of energy drives him to his feet. He slips and falls in his haste, spattering his already wretched clothing in even more vile filth. Righting himself once more, he staggers for the back door.
Outside, the rain is coming down in torrents. He sets off down the street. Half of the bat trailing limply from his bloodied hand, skittering across the slick concrete behind him and bouncing crazily over the cracks that litter the dilapidated sidewalk. The intense fantasy lies smoking in his apartment, the once glorious wings have been clipped. Something important inside Mic has snapped, replaced by a dull ache that threatens to overwhelm him. He has nowhere to go, and no desire to go there. Mic no longer projects, he no longer hears. There is only static. The rain lashes down at him as he continues onward. His bare feet growing numb in the cold...