Once upon a time there was an evil scientist who lived deep in the rolling hills of Ireland. His lab was plopped--somewhat lopsided-- on top of one of these numerous hills and was continuously shrouded in the cold and dank fog that accompanied the land. The house was neither small nor large, it just was, covered in wooden shingles and a sloping roof that had moss draped somewhat romantically over the edges. Off to one side was a sheer cliff that plummeted to the black salty ocean below. You could hear the deafening thunder as the waves crashed with all their force against the frozen and jagged wall, and when the waves crashed they sent a puff of air up and over the lip so the cliff seemed to breathe with bitter, salty breath. The overall appearance of the area felt forlorn, and the local mothers would squawk daily at their children like a broody hen about how they would call on the wicked man if they didn't finish their potatoes.

But no matter about the out ward appearance, it was the inside that counted. When you walk in--if you were ever so unlucky to--your legs would shake, your heart would squeeze and for the first time in your life you would find out what it means to be in a cold sweat. The first thing you would notice is that it is just as lopsided on the inside as it is on the outside. All the paintings on the wall hung crookedly and the light furniture had slid into one wall. The next thing you would notice is the utter lack of sound, the smell of cigarette stale in the still air and the downright lack of feeling in the air. The temperature was just so that it felt like nothing on your skin, not to hot and never to cold.

As you continued to walk around you would notice that this so called lab seemed more to look like, and smell like, a particularly old house that was slightly neglected and in need of some serious up keep. This home could have been beautiful once, but that time has long past, almost as if all the beautiful had died and no one had bothered to clean it up and replace it. Now all that was left was dust motes performing spectacular dances in stray beams of light that had managed to penetrate the fog and grey wool curtains. The dust was probably just bits of the beautiful thing that had died here all these years ago, morbid I know, but sometimes the truth isn't pretty.

The scientist is another aspect completely. He had dug his lab under the house with his bare hands, a spoon, and broken clay cup. All three of which he had on display on the main floor of the house. He was just going to display the spoon and cup but decided that the hands made a nice center piece. Now don't fret! There weren't his, his hands are much too important for his work. The hands in the dusty glass case belonged to some poor bloke who happened to wander to close.

The scientist couldn't be more opposite of the house, true he was old but you could tell that good looks had once graced his tall willowy frame. Though he was somewhat pail his prominent cheek bones, wide blue eyes, and soft Cupid's bow teased at the back of your mind that he might resemble someone famous if he ever gained back a normal complexion and put some jell in his salt and pepper tuft of hair. His ear lobes flapped loosely at his neck and sometimes a tattoo peaked out of the top of his lab coat. His hands were thin and long, perfect for the line of work that he found for himself.

You could always, without a doubt, find him in grey corduroys, tan button up that was open at the neck, a tweed sweater vest, dingy moth eaten lab coat, leather boots and spectacles in his coat pocket. The glasses never came to rest on his face, in fact, he didn't need them. The glasses had a single white gem on the edge of the lenses suggesting that they belonged to the beautiful thing that now made up the dust motes in the sun beam.

But the lopsided house, dust motes, and glasses were the least of the things we should be talking about. The most disturbing thing about this lab was what was within. You see, the scientist, let's call him Francis, Francis had found a way to reach into the far corners of the universe and trap young black holes. The young ones are particularly dangerous because they have not yet learned to contain their power and energy. They were kinder then their elders and fought relentlessly against the power that exploded from deep within them, but after so long they gave up on control and grew bitter. As their powers dwindled they would eventually die and implode.

No one knew how he got them, but when he did you could find them locked in glass cases and starved on a meager diet of sheep's milk and uncooked potatoes. The reason he was capturing the small black holes was so he could collect their tears and harness their energy. You see, a tear is the rawest, most powerful form of energy and that is the reason that Francis collected them. The need for them was uncertain, but if you are asking me I would say it was to bring back the dead beautiful thing in the dust and sun beam.

No one ever knew if he accomplished what he wanted. He just trudged on for years, filling jars with salty tears that matched the black ocean. Maybe one day is you travel to Ireland you will see the lopsided lab, and you can ask him yourself.