(All That Happens) Before The Epilogue
They will not call you back. You will know if you got the job.
A tip: it is not rude to ask questions, just senseless.
If you are not willing to work for nothing, you really don’t Get It.
Bring your lunch tomorrow. The dress code is Truth. Ties are optional.
There is a man who loves everyone. He stated this in the middle of a televised street-side poll about his opinion of the guiltiness/innocence of a national sports celebrity/movie star to the charge of murder. And when he said what he said, all the people in the entire world stopped what they were doing and—without looking at their TV—shuddered and blinked and shivered, feeling the alien wash-over of Truth for just the merest moment. He also said he knew for a fact that there is no higher power, not anymore, only ourselves to take care of things. He said that Nietzsche had it down, man—it sucks to say, but that’s how it is. (Note: he did not say How It Is.) He never did answer the poll question.
He is one of The Few. But he will not make it to the End.
Everyone on the planet stopped again, (shuddered again), went blind and deaf for a full minute (if not already living in that condition, [in which case they got to see and hear for sixty seconds]), and everybody screamed. (Coincidentally, all the owls laughed at this time, but no one noticed. Still, many people remembered why they hated the man on the TV they had(n’t) seen. While the Ayatollah, along with a number of dictators, parliaments, presidents and princesses merely made dismissive comments about the man’s remark, endless media hype in the United States filled ten solid weeks of air time about the incident until several of the wealthier movie and sports celebrities hired assassins to hunt down this “spiritual terrorist” and execute him.
He whistles. Never the same tune twice.
from after The Epilogue
A mountain is the last island, the only land in the endless red. Now, those Who Could Not Die for one reason or another come silently across the red red sea in make-shift crafts, or kicking with a floating scrap of plastic under their arms, or just paddling through the still, thick ocean of blood, until they slide up to the shore, only to be greeted by the killer who will shake hands in polite greeting with a penetratingly authentic manner of concern, and welcome them out of the growing night, and to a warm seat by the campfire he has prepared and has already roasted some owls. There he waits patiently as the crying returns to them, and pats them on the back, squeezes their shoulder, until they are finished (for now). No one among The Few says anything cruel or paranoid, for they don’t know how any of this happened or his role in it (nor does he remember), as he blinks his deep white eyes (which no one comments on), and begins a new story, hoping to make the night feel somehow smaller.
There is a bomb that burns dreams. It splashes into your sleep landscape, a reaching wave of thick fear gel, and lights itself instantly, spreading white-hot nothing fire. The government has been trying to find and duplicate the weapon for decades now. They say it fits inside a common soda can. It is the only weapon ever designed by a woman or child. She made it one night (age eleven) and has been trying to think of the reason why for the last ten years. She does not pray at night, but speaks the reasons aloud in the dark, sometimes with strong defiance, but more often as wavering questions. She says, “It was necessary.” Says, “It was an accident—whoops.” Says, “Just in case.” Says, “Out of love.” Says, “Revenge.” Says, “Everyone must have some weapon.” Says, “A hobby.” Says, “A clich�, I know, but—because I can.” Says, “I was young—reckless, foolish.” Says, “I’m not sorry.” Says, “I am sorry.”
More people are killed each year by accidentally inhaling powdered sugar than are killed by this dream weapon. It is made with baking soda, ginger, cilantro, milk, owl urine, mandrake root, eye crust, and kerosene (for smell).
In late September of that year Steve “Rager” Simmons (who would always see himself as a high school quarterback star [but never as a rapist of three cheerleaders]) managed to write his first piece of fiction for a beginning college English class (which was supposed to merely reiterate how to double-space papers and teach the correct format for bibliographic information… but the teacher was [a man?] who had wanted a writing workshop instead, and had made a decoy syllabus for the English Department Head different than the one he actually used and taught). The story was Inspired By the kid’s first college party, whereat someone had put a four-CD set of classic rock music in the CD-changer, and all 20+ people in that dorm room had drunk beer and played air guitar until 4 in the morning (despite protest by neighbors who were trying to read Franz Kafka’s “The Hunger Artist”).
