Sam Berglass + for jumping out the window so many times for the camera crew; you could hurt yourself doing that!
Rocky + because when you were alive, you were ALMOST as gosh-darn fuzzy as Hank
16-Sylvia Wheeler
13-Marty's Old Partner
12-Dennis Denehy
11-Lynn Bodner
8-Carl Desmond
3-Miss Yun
2-Guy Jerry Tuxhorn shot
* * * * * *
Heaven/Redeemed/Resurrected, etc.
1. The Pomeranian
2.Ken Middleton
3 Less Knowles
4. Sam Berglass
Hell/Death/Dismemberment, etc.
1.Bank Robber
2. Mr. Lee
3. Brent Eastman
4-Bud Kessle
5-Josh Krist
6-Rip
7-Demetrius Taylor
8-Anne Donnelly
Sam Berglass had had a tough childhood. Not only had his father died when he was young, leaving him in search of a father-figure, but, when he found one, the man turned out to be, shall we say, not nice. His mother was the one constant, the one good thing in his life, and he would do anything to keep her happy. He sent her letters, just to prove that wasn't a lost art. Kept both her and the Post Office happy. When he moved out, he moved as close as he could, managing to find an apartment only six blocks away. 3110 Norfolk wasn't that far away; he thought it could be a place to heal.
There was only that... bit... about the man he'd trusted. The man he'd given his affection to. The man he'd looked up to and hoped could lead him into adulthood. The man who'd betrayed him.
Victoria cried with him. She was a good friend. She understood the pain, the hurt, the betrayal, more than anyone else could, even his mother.
Sam had dreams, at night, in the dark, where he grabbed the wheel of the bus and ran Doyle over, where he cut off his head. The leader of their therapy group said, as long as it was in his imagination, it was fine, just his mind's way of trying to heal, living vicariously in his imagination, killing Doyle over and over for a little bit of satisfaction, a little bit of redemption.
But there was one thing preventing him from moving on. Warren Doyle, lying, sneaking bastard, wouldn't admit he'd ever done anything wrong. And Sam knew he was still out there doing it, hurting other people. The police had been no help. The one detective had apologized and told him to "absolutely let it go," but he couldn't. The detective couldn't understand. There was too much at stake.
He had a plan. He couldn't kill Doyle. Not even in his dreams did Doyle ever actually die. The head, severed, would cry. The body, run under the bus, would beg for forgiveness. Sam wasn't a murderer, but oh, how he hurt, how he was a man of action, how he had to do something!
He tore up his apartment in frustration, bought a shirt and took it to an embroidery place, everything so carefully planned, slit his own arm open and watched the blood, as if it weren't his own...
It was his last morning on earth. He could feel it. He'd planned it so far and today was the day. He just needed a moment, at sunrise, to be alone, to meditate, to collect his last thoughts. He couldn't say goodbye to his mom; he'd never be able to go through with it if he saw her one last time. He'd been so happy lately, everything he'd been doing, so purposeful, had given him... hope. But now... it was over, wasn't it? He couldn't let it go. There were principles, and other young boys, and justice involved.
Across the park, a middle-aged man was walking with his son, and a dog, and it was clear the man had been drinking, but wasn't that what a family was supposed to be like? A father, his son, a dog...
The man started yelling. "Ben, I told you, you gotta stop leaving your toys in the middle of the floor! I brought you hear today so you can listen to me, you gotta learn your lesson!" He hit the kid.
The dog barked, warning, then growled.
"And you, shut up, stupid, mangy dog." He kicked at the dog.
Sam found himself running across the grass, dodging trees. "Hey!" Sam yelled. "Hey!" He grabbed the man and pulled him away from the kid and the dog. "You--you have a son. I'm not going to get that chance. I didn't grow up with my father. He couldn't teach me to play baseball. He couldn't show me his trophies. But he couldn't hit me, either. And he's not the one who--he never would have--he didn't..." Sam found himself crying. He'd never have a chance to have a son, not now, not if he... And his mom, she'd never have a chance to have a grandchild, not now, not if he...
The dog nudged him, soft fur and a cold wet nose.
The dog and the boy eventually wandered off to play fetch. The man stayed behind, introduced himself as Lloyd, and they got to talking, about how he'd just gotten out of prison, how he couldn't cope outside, how he'd been "damn near raped." Sam invited him to his therapy group, for sex abuse survivors, where they could both continue to heal.
The dog, Rocky, started chasing his tail--or was it his tail? Perhaps it was the ghost of a little Pomeranian Guardian Angel, a little dog who'd done his duty that day, saving not only his canine bretheran, but bringing together the catalysts that would save at least four lives.
Sam would have children, maybe even grandchildren someday. And his new purpose, he'd put Doyle away. He'd start by checking out his apartment building, seeing if there were any kids there. He wouldn't give up, he wouldn't let it go, but he would absolutely live to see another sunrise.
