I always seem to be approaching the grand culmination of many things. I’m never prepared. I was born unprepared, and I grew up without preparation. So I’m always activating my "spontaneous response" protocol as I slowly crouch behind my insecurity shields. I’m always “winging it” in the middle of the ice storm. In the middle of the confetti wars. Here I am sinking in quicksand and not even thinking about getting out until I’m up to my neck. Prudent people meditate and plan their day. Prepared people anticipate and perspire. They write down their strategy 6 days before their event. I’m up to my neck in it and trying to dodge debris. I’m initiating last-minute evasion tactics. I’m scribbling down my last words to loved ones as I bargain feverishly with my creator.
Dusk. Open country, two cars round a blind corner, one on two wheels out of control on the wrong side of the road. They hit head on. Metal explodes, pieces fly, tires screech then stop. One car flies over the embankment horn blaring, the other stopped like it hit a brick wall, much of it gone...a woman sprawled on its hood, arms at odd angles, blood pours from her head, her face obliterated coming through the windshield on impact. Another body, what's left of it, lays behind some rocks. Quiet returns. A bird lands on a fence post closeby and sings as usual, then flies off. Nothing for miles in either direction but the road, a line to the horizon growing dim. Dusk turns into night. Crickets chirp.
Some days the toil and risk of this post Adamic life dances and bangs louder than other days. Some days the toil is undeniable. The danger obvious. It could be a rainy day. It could be a sunny day. Some days I do not feel safe. Some days eternal life seems impossible.
I sit in corporation-designed ambiances, sipping corporation-designed beverage products, while corporate employees prepare for worship--which is to say, they prepare for work. I don't know. I guess what we call "the rat race" just gets to me some times. It ain't a big deal.
It's just bad news coming. I know it's coming. Death is in transit. And little pieces of it appear ahead of schedule all around me. The stress, the elbowing greed, and the ugliness of aging. No, I'm not ready for delivery.
When he started writing he didn't think that it would be the last thing he ever wrote. All he wanted to do is say thanks and goodbye and that he'd lived a long good life and that he loved his wife and his family and that his stomach hurt a lot and that he didn't want to get sick and go to the hospital because it would use up all the money they had in the bank and he sure didn't want to do that because his wife wouldn't have anything to live the rest of her life on then. Anyway, he wrote he was old and it was okay for him to GO. When he got to the bottom of the page and signed off with the words "see you" and ps. "I'm not afraid." he put the pen down and put the note on the pillow on his bed. He walked through house out the backdoor and into the garage. He'd already rigged his car with the garden hose the night before. It was waiting. As he went through the house on the way to his car, he made sure his wife has gone to the store as usual that time of day. He slid behind the wheel. Turned the key. The engine started. His last thought was about his stomach and that soon it would not hurt any more.
I check all my gear before activating the lift. I only had 3 drums of rockets, a couple of boxes of chain-gun ammo and a box of 20 shells. There was a blue sphere hidden behind a loose panel in the wall so I grabbed that, coupled with the blue armor I found earlier I felt I could take on anything Hell could throw at me.
I kicked on the lift and it took me up through tons of scaffolding and dangling wires, to the top of the anomaly. Once I arrived there were two pillars in the center of the star, and I felt a sudden sense of dread. I hoisted the rocket launcher and stepped off the platform. Once my boot hit the ground the door shot open and two, very pissed off... I dunno what to call them.
They stood 7 feet tall, with the head of a goat, torso of a man that looked like he was chiseled from rock, and long goat legs. In each hand was a glowing green ball of flame. Their eyes were lit from inside with fiery hatred hatred. They knew I was the reason their invasion failed, that I was responsible for blasting all their minions back to hell. And they knew I was there for them. They said as much with their inhuman howls as they charged, ready to tear me apart.
I got two rockets off before I had to dive out of the way. One barreled into the back of the elevator as the next one came up short and scorched the hair off my arms with a fireball. We continued the deadly dance, me pumping rockets into them and they shrug them off like flies. I dodge and weave, avoiding their fireballs. My last rocket took one down, and his brother seemed to get even more pissed off. I tossed the launcher aside and pulled out the chaingun, just as I heard the snorting of a pinkie right behind me.
I whipped around and shoved the barrel in the vile things gaping maw. I pulled the trigger and blasted through the thing into the pack behind him. I heard the sizzling of a fireball hurling through the air, I ducked just it time for it to catch the blown-out pinkie in what was left of it's face. The rest of his horde was filled with more lead than a number-two pencil. And the chaingun was dry, I turned around and tossed the gun to the side, staring down the goat-headed fucker. My shotgun was slung around my back.
He charged, both hands trailing green flames. I yelled and pulled the shotgun around, pumping round after round into his chest and head. He barreled into me with the force of a small truck, my last shot round I put the barrel up under his chin and pulled the trigger, blowing his head clean off. I rolled his stinking carcass off myself then I passed out.