Final Post

I'm leaving. This town is a ball of frustration, a decaying skeleton futilely rattling the bars of its cage. A lonesome wind blows through the desolate landscape, from building to building, but even it has nowhere to go and its bone-penetrating chill is somehow pathetic. It spends itself and dissipates, only to rise again at a later time and repeat the cycle anew. Taking a walk in the park, I spot a bright red slide, glistening with rain droplets. It sends a surge of hope and brightness through my heart, and a perk in my step, until, beneath it, I see a corpse. A hunched, aging old lady, whiter than a sheet, quite dead. She's slouched to the side, her mouth hanging open slightly. There's nothing glamorous about death. Immediately I recognize her as Madame Maureen, the woman who told my fortune a few weeks back. I had looked into her crystal ball when she wasn't paying attention and she snapped at me. The things I saw in that crystal ball – had they come true yet? I couldn't say. Madame Maureen looks...happy. Content in death. Four glass panes. A galloping horse. Swirling colors. This is what I had seen when I peeked into the future. It hadn't made sense to me at the time, but it was beginning to. She looks so peaceful. The rain has reduced to a light drizzle, numbing all extraneous thoughts, feelings and ideas. There is only the rain, the corpse and the playground.

But the silence is interrupted by the arrival of an ambulance, sirens blaring. The paramedics rush out and shove me out the way. Thunder rumbles in the distance. They load her onto a stretcher, grotesquely. There's no doubt that that ambulance is heading straight to the morgue. The ambulance driver cracks a joke to his partner and they both laugh, windows up, sealed away tight in the cab of the vehicle. I wonder if Madame Maureen had foreseen her own death. And how she had felt about it. I wonder where her soul is now. Is it rising, up through the numbing sheets of rain, through the misty clouds into the sunlight and up, up, into the heavens? Is it descending into some rocky, terrifying landscape of fire and demons with three-pronged tridents which they poke the damned with? I find that hard to believe. Even if she preached sin in her lifetime, she tried, like every other human being, to be a good person. Isn't that enough? Or is there a point at which we all must be judged?

Or is her soul not a soul at all? Is her body the same as it was before, when she was alive? I find that hard to believe, too. There must be something, some vital spark that has now left her, making the body a lifeless shell, worth nothing and signifying nothing.

A soul left us today, departing for another world, and yet death is as much a mystery as it was before. But I can still take something away from all this: to enjoy what is in front of me, what I can do when I am still alive. And again my attention is turned to the bright red slide, glistening like a piece of fresh fruit in the spring drizzle. It is luminous, offset by the damp mulch below it.

The paramedics are asking me questions. "Do you know her, sir? How did she die, sir? Did you have anything to do with this?"

I can only smile, and continue walking, leaving them all behind. It's amazing how humans can still cling to their bureaucracies even when they're brushing so close to the phenomenon known as death. Instead of taking a moment to enjoy life, they waste more of it with their endless questions, plans and worries.

I'm leaving. I don't think about it, or worry about it. I walk straight to the bus station and get on, becoming aware of my damp self in the dry, climate-controlled air. But it's all good. I'm off to somewhere, somewhere tropical, where the weather's warm and people take life slowly.

THE END

Life, or something like it

Saliva dripped from the alien's mouth. A gut-wrenching scream erupted from its many mouths. I jammed a canister in my C176I alien deterrent cannon and fired the weapon. The creature in front of my exploded in greens slime, covering me. Gross, I muttered to myself. I moved forward, up a hill and over a couple rocks. There didn't seem to be any more of them nearby, but you can never be too sure. Suddenly, I had a premonition. I looked behind me, where a shadow edged up the grassy meadow. I looked up, where the menacing prow of a C-6 destroyer ship moved in ominous silence. I uttered a curse word that can't be repeated, then took action. Removing my grappling from my gadget belt, I did a quick calculation and aimed it in the top quarter-region of the ship. I fired the gun and waited for the characteristic snag on the rope that meant I had struck gold. The rope snagged. A flick of a button and I was on my way up. I sailed through the air, the black shape above me growing bigger and bigger. As I neared the point where my elctro-magnetic grapple spike had sunk in I realized a flaw in my plan. There were no windows or entrances anywhere nearby. That's alright, I thought to myself, I'll just bust my way in. I bit down on my cigar stub and reached for the sticky C5B13 explosive putty and stuck a generous gob of it to the side immediately next to me. I pulled a small vial from a case on my utility belt and crushed the vial in the putty, then held the f**k on.

BOOOOOOOOOOM

My body was forcibly throw to the left as smoke, fire and shrapnel shot from the newly-created hole in the ship. Swinging back and crashing hard against the side of the ship hurt, but I was more gratified that I didn't a have a piece of alien steel stuck through my forehead. I crawled in through the hole and, immediately, got riddled with alien rifle rounds. Most were stopped by my armor, but a couple pierced through to my flesh. Good, I thought to myself, that only ignites my blood lust.

"YOU GODDAMN ALIEN BASTARDS! YOU'RE ABOUT TO GET SERVED – THE WAY HUMANS DO IT! MEET MY FRIENDS – SMITH AND WESSON!"

I whipped out my dual miniguns and fired until all I could taste was lead and my eyes stung from gunpowder residue. When the smoke cleared, it looked like Nickolodeon Slime Fest 2006, when Zac Efron was covered in record amounts of slime. Except this was real slime. And some of it was purple.

"Hell Yeah." I pulled a pepsi can from my pack and cracked it open. "Time to get hydrated."

...

I flick off the TV and rise from the couch. My body is stiff and uncomfortable. The clock reads 3:03 am. I go out to the fire escape stairwell to smoke a cigarette. The smell of marijuana wafted down – it was impossible to tell where from. The harsh cough tells me. I look up, to where a gristled man looks down at me with a leery grin. Paint streaks his shirt. He leers down at me with a toothy grin.

"Hey, Pardner." Wanna buy a paintin'?"

"How much?"

He grins again.

"A quarter."

"Okay."

He cracks up, wheezing.

"I'm just kiddin', pardner, unless you're talking about a quarter of some fine arabian tropical. These here are fine paintin's, made out of sweat and heartache. 60$."

What the hell. I climb the stairs take a look. The paintings are bad; earnest in intent but lacking in execution. I can sympathize with the man. I can't spend $60 on his paintings though.

"Sorry, my friend. Call me after some practice." The man looks crestfallen, but he seems to understand. I climb back out and go back to my apartment.

Un Eventful Day

Dog carcass in alley this morning, tire tread on burst stomach. This city is afraid of me. I have seen it's true face. The streets are extended gutters and the gutters are full of blood and when the drains finally scab over, all the vermin will drown.

Haha, just kidding. But really though, that Watchmen movie was pretty good. A little long, I zoned out at times, but still good. Currently it's 12:53 am. "Man I Feel Like a Woman!" by Shania Twain is playing at a low volume. It's amazing. Songs like those seem to never go away. It could be year 2233 and "Man, I Feel like a Woman!" would still be playing on radio stations at 12:53 am in the morning. Strange things have been going on in the neighborhood. Last night some rapper got arrested at the Jaguar for Chris Brown-ing some stripper. I didn't know rappers came to this piece of shit city. Crime rates up in general. I was watching "The Brain that Wouldn't Die" on TCM when I was rudely interrupted by a P.S.A. telling me that some dangerous guy was loose in the streets. Then, just yesterday, we had a crazy standing atop the bank across the street ranting and raving and claiming to be the second coming of Jesus. I watched with binoculars from my window for awhile. I could see the lady who owned the pub out there looking concerned. She could probably understand the bum's predicament. Sympathize with him a little bit. I saw a man dressed in all black – trench-coat, hat, pants, shoes – pass by without giving so much as a second glance to the man on the bank. Not the religious type I would assume.

The bum had mounted the bank at 9:30 am. By 11:30 a small crowd had gathered, but, amazingly, still no police. I left my apartment and ambled down the stairs to get a closer look. I emerged from the fire escape door on the side of the building just in time to see the man being escorted into a police cruiser by a cadre of officers and firemen. He looked calm and complacent. The crowd there was divided. One guy swore the bum was the real thing – JC himself. "I'm packing my bags and leaving, cause this'll all be gone soon," he said. Others weren't so convinced. "Well first of all, he incorrectly quoted the bible...I mean, would Christ really incorrectly quote the bible?" That was from a studious type who claimed to be a "life-long Catholic."

I thought about Lu Garigano, or whatever his name was, as I walked back to my apartment.

And now I'm here in my apartment. The song issuing from the radio needles into by brain all high-pitched and trebly. I shut it off and go to bed.

Jaguars and Seances

I numbly walk to the Jaguar, willing my body to handle the cold. I'm underdressed, and it's getting late. It is 12 pm when I arrive at the Jaguar. The building stands in opposition to the church, a darkened rectangle adorned with neon pink and blue lights. The place is hopping, as usual. Sunglasses-wearing bouncers mill about outside. A fight breaks out in the parking lot, where gleaming Maseratis and Lamborghinis are parked conspicuously. I walk in and immediately regret the decision. It's too loud in here. I'm not exactly squeamish, but there's something weird about ritualized ogling of women by large crowds of men. The women don't really want to be there, they're just doing their jobs. I toss a twenty dollar bill to one of the more starved-looking ones and exit out the same way I came in. The door is a portal, linking the cacaphonous heat of the club with the icy silence of the outside. A few people turn their heads as I exit, annoyed at the sudden rush of cold air invading their inebriated dream-worlds. "Sorry," I mutter under my breath, "but that's life."

I find myself in a surprisingly bitter mood as I walk the streets, hands shoved in my pockets. My ears burn uncomfortably, and I'm muttering. That's never a good sign. It's cold, dark, and quiet, save for the wind. Frustration. I look at my options – going back to the apartment, going to Mo' Liquor, going to the bar, or...a walk in the woods, maybe? Beside the church, there's a skimpy a patch of woods. I'd never gone in there before. I walk into the enveloping darkness. For a time, all is dark. And then, the darkness clears. I come to an opening in the woods, illuminated by moonlight. In the center of the opening is a well, and a hushed crowd is gathered around it. My first impulse is to turn and run, but I realize that I am invisible to the people, cloaked in the darkness of the forest. White light reflects from the identical frosty cloaks that each person wears. I can count eleven of them. I hear a voice.

"Someone died and was buried here...her name was...her name was..." Someone looks up with start and says, in a surprised tone:

"Abby."

The man clenches the air with his fist. "Abby! Yes! Her name was Abby! Her parents weren't fond of her, they...they hated her! They threw her in this well and drowned her! Everyone, we must bring Abbey back, together!"

It starts as a gentle moan, then gets louder. "Abby. Aaaa-by. Aaaaa-by. Aaaaaaa-by," like they were calling a dog. The man in the cloak, who seemed to be the leader, threw his palm into the air. The moaning stopped."

"Can you hear her!?" the man says, his eyes wide. "CAN YOU HEAR HER!?" He was kind of annoying, actually. A few members of the crowd give half-assed nods of agreement. I decide to jump-start this seance.

I clear my throat and muster up my best falsetto. "Iiiiiiii AMMMM ABBBBBYYY." The crowd looks around, confused. I can see the leader's train of thought rumble across his face. We wait, on edge, and then, he speaks:

"IT'S HER!" He exclaims, his eyes growing wider. "IT'S ABBY. We must listen."

I smirk and raise my voice again. "MYYYY PARENTS DROWNED ME WHEN I WAS 11 YEARS OLD..."

I think for a second.

"...AND I HAVE HAUNTED THESE WOODS EVER SINCE."

The leader cuts in – "Abby, which one of your parents drowned you?"

"IT WASSSSS MY FATHERRRRRRRRR." I reply.

"Abby," the leader starts again, his voice taking on a tone of utter seriousness, "what was your father's name?"

Uh-oh.

"MY FATHER'S NAME...MY FATHER'S NAME WAS....IT WASSSSSSS–" I say the first name that pops into my head – "LU GARIGAMI!"

"Lu Garigami!" the leader exclaims. "We must find this man, whoever he is, and bring him to justice! The spirits are not to be ignored!"

I laugh to myself, turn around and leave. "Well, that was fun..." As I make my way toward home, an image strikes me – the apartment register in the lobby. It's one of those old-fashioned ones that lists the name of the man or woman who owns the apartment. About halfway up, where it says "Lu Garigami-Apt. 121F."

"So that's where I got that from." I think to myself. "Hmph...Hope nothing bad happens."

The Hallway & Other Stuff

Stepping out from cell block – er, apartment 1218B into the blank-looking hallway I am greeted with a menagerie of wonderful sights and sounds. A passed out bum whose clothes have all turned to the same amorphous shade of brown-green, regardless of their original color. A woman in a wife-beater missing a shoulder strap standing at the end of the hallway. The loud, manic buzz of Telemundo coming from the open door of 1212B, competing with the Mexican man who lives there, who conversates on the phone in Spanish at all hours of the night. I can smell fried food in hallway, but I can feel it too – the heavy haze of oil in the air that seems to invade my pores. Damn, and I just showered. I inspect my shoes and pants. Spotless as usual. I take the stairs. I enjoy the brief quiet and solitude. Now, you may ask why I don't just stay in my apartment for quiet and solitude, but there's a distinct difference between sitting silently in a room and walking silently down a staircase. The difference is, with the staircase, you have a goal, a set destination, and it makes the peace and quiet all the more valuable. I like the echo of the squeak of my shoes. I like that I can tell when someone else has entered the staircase, like right now. The door shuts ever-so-slightly, but I can still hear it. Then I see the characteristic bowl-cut of an Asian woman rounding the corner of the switchback. She makes eye contact with me briefly, then looks at the ground. I can deduce nothing from her facial expression. She has an armful of groceries from the authentic Asian market nearby. We pass in silence, but it's an awkward, pregnant silence, not the reverent silence I have when I have the staircase all to myself. A twinge of annoyance passes through my skull. I try to dismiss it, let it fade, but it sticks with me, all the way until I get to Polaski Avenue. There, in the midst of the city, I feel enlivened. Cities are humanity's forests. Instead of underbrush and squirrels, we have newspapers and homeless people. Yeah, I like homeless people. There are a lot of them. But the city, man, the city. It's amazing. Sure, it's snowy and cold, but it still makes you feel alive to be out here. A bus rolls by. A guy on a bike follows. Concert posters tacked to a power-line post rustle in the wind. I catch the tail end of a conversation between two younger guys, who head off purposefully down the road. I mean, in a place like this, you can always find something to do. And, boy, have I got things to do. Lots of them. First I go to Lu's Garage to inspect unused engines. Some decent stuff. Then I canvass the city with posters, soliciting for volunteers and other materials. This, of course, all relates back to The Plan. I'm in a spending-money sort of mood – the cold makes me feel alive – so I step into the psychic's shop on Chester. I walk in, and she's perched on a stool like a pigeon. "Welcome," she says, "what can I do for you?" I read the sign: "Palm Readings: $5, I Ching: $10, Horoscope: $10.50, Crystal Ball Readings: $25.00." I choose the crystal ball. Go big or go home, right? As she's readying the implements, I make light conversation:

"So, what, exactly, is the crytal ball made of, and what makes it so magical?" She doesn't look up and answers seriously:

"Crystal deposits imported from the bottom of Peruvian waterfalls. This crystal ball was harvested from a waterfall in Machu Picchu in 1874."

Impressive. "So, how did you come to own it?"

"Bought it off Craig's List." Ah. "Stop talking now."

I say okay and she lights a fresh stick of incense, leads me behind a curtain into the back room, which smells old but nice, closes the curtain with a sweep, lowers the light, plops down with the crystal ball between us and begins the reading.

"I see...hmmmm...mmhmmm...oh dear...oh my...yes...

...

...

...oh?...a-ha..."

This goes on for a while, she sits there in quiet revelry, murmuring to herself. I get a little impatient and peek around to get a look. The crystal ball is filled with colors – yellow swirls, purple clouds...I think I spy the shape of a horse galloping...the design shifts and evolves, never staying the same, constant improvisation. I am enveloped in it. I feel as though I'm zooming forward. My mind is split into four sections, each one made of glass. Four glass panes, hovering in the air.

"AH AH AH!"

I snap out of it, looking up into the creased face of old Madame Maureen.

"Are you a licensed psychic?" she snaps. "There's a reason I'm sitting here and you're sitting there, you imbecile. You're not supposed to look into the crystal ball, that's my job." She stands and ushers me out of the room. She takes the twenty and the five I gave her and hands them back to me with a look almost of pity. "Keep your money," she spits out. Then her demeanor changes. Her eyes soften and she regards me once more with pity. "You poor, poor soul." She shakes her head and takes one last look at me. With that, I am ushered onto the street and the door slams behind me. I stare at it for a time, until the cold creeps up on me. Gradually, I become aware of my surroundings. I'm back in the city. It's gotten colder out.

"What a fucking bizarre incident," I mutter to myself. "Nothing a whiskey and a lap dance won't fix, though." I orient toward the Jaguar and start walking.

Moving In

So this is my place. 1218B. No one could explain to me the B part, apparently some rooms have letters and some don't. Mine does. The inside is empty. I look out upon this city and I start to realize that I could get used to living here. It will have to do for now. This may be the one place where they won't find me. An anonymous apartment, stuck nice and high in an anonymous gigantic block of concrete in the middle of an anonymous city. Yeah, I should be safe here for awhile. Can't call attention to myself. That guy in the liquor store was eyeing me strangely. I guess he's never had someone buy 12 cases of absinthe. Oh well, that's why it's legal. Of course, there's always the chance he could be in with...them. I'll have to be careful around that one.

My apartment has scarlet red carpeting, white cinder block walls, and ceilings of foamy stucco. The ceiling's my favorite part. It looks like a strange white fungus that inhabits the upper portion of the room. It looks like I could jump up and get sucked into it. I stood on a chair and touched it, but it wasn't soft at all. Strange stuff. My cabinets are all empty. I have a mattress on the floor. The lab is currently stashed in the master bedroom closet. That place is too cramped though, I'll need somewhere else to put it. So far, totally unremarkable. The city is your typical urban pioneering experiment. Hipsters and the homeless. The hipsters like it because they feel like they're the real thing, living in squalor and barely making and rent. The homeless like it because they know the hipsters will give them money. I've done a survey of the city and concluded that the only thing it's missing is a porn shop. Anyway, I'm currently searching for more of the parts I need for The Plan. This relocation is a minor setback, and I shall not let it deter me from my goal.