Prophecy and Fulfillment: 2012 heralds the arrival of the Sun to it's place of birth, or origin, the center of the galaxy, called the Milky way. Here the sun will rest and burn off the dross. The sun's power lies in the fact that we must follow it wherever it goes in the universe, we meaning the earth and the inhabitants thereof. The sun makes a trip to it's place of origin when it feels the need to cleanse the whole of the systm.
We are catapulting to a place of destiny. History reveals that the Sun has made this trip before. The nano meltdown of the earth's crust is historical evidence of the powerful meltdown caused when the sun's energy is directed at the earth. This happens when there is a breakdown of the universal laws. Infringement on free will is caused by Men who wish to rule by the power of death and not the law.
The laws of the universe were brought to the earth by it's great avatars. Each Avatar brought forth a set of laws so that men who were seperated from God by the fall of humanity were able by fulfilment of the law, re establish devine contact with God. In each dispensation the flesh and those who desire the flesh fight against the light of the Sun, and the light of mankind. The laws were put in place so that men could wander in and out, and find the law working, so that they could reach their fruition, in their time and in their place. This is why hope springs eternal, so that any man who fulfils the law receives the truest gift of life, the eternal breath. All men seek to fulfil desire. As long as the fulfilment does not impinge on any other creature in god's kingdom, there is no harm, no fowl.
We see that the Lie of Cain, was to take control of the womb, to place his seed within it to bring forth only his image. Mankind fell from the grace of God, when Cain slayed Abel in the field. The womb no longer brought forth in anonimity, there was placed upon specific instruction by a directed will. This was the lateral fall, literally. Now there are men on this earth who only believe in their own divine bloodline. They protect it, and nurture it and reincarnate through it again and again. Men have learned to take up the image they leave behind, because for them death is a certainty.
Cain was told because of his sin, (stealing his brother's womb) he would wander, and that he would bring up the weeds with the wheat. The illumined ones consider all of mankind the weeds. They consider themselves the wheat. They do not like the law, because the law makes all men equal before it. The oligarchy that controls the earth have always subverted and destroyed the practice and fulfilment of the law, because they want the power and the glory to determine what comes from the womb and what goes to the tomb. The black hole absorbs all light and steals free will.
The conquering Nations, and the conquering bloodline of this world have used the power of death to rule this kingdom. The elites who liked to be called illumined because they can reincarnate back to where they were before, control the earth, or so they think so. Their control depends on the destruction of the law and the total destruction of free will. They are the progenitors of the black hole. Via Appia is the main road between Sodom and Egypt. This is the road of conquering. This is the road where the Elite have villified all other images before them. They have learned to accuse by using the law against the sons of any men. They hate any image not of their bloodline. They accuse, then they execute. Billions of people have died so that the Elite of this world can sustain themselves. They need the shedding of human blood to keep their crooked kingdom alive.
The road between Sodom and Egypt is filled with cries of the men and women who were murdered to sustain this Luciferian system. Men have put the flesh before the spirit. The flesh refuses to obey the law. The flesh seeks to destroy the law, so that it can rule over the lord's earth, and the lord's men. Now we see that there are wars and rumors of wars, and that the negative energy of the unlawful is filling the earth.
THIS IS WHY THE SUN IS RETURNING TO IT'S PLACE OF BIRTH!
The Sun removes all of the unlawfulness of the earth, when it burns off the dross. This will happen and wiser men have recorded the history of the sun and it's journey to the center of the black hole of the Milky Way. In revelations we read that all nations will come together to make war, to break the yoke of the law which impedes them from taking over the whole earth, we are given the truth of the revelation of Jesus Christ. All will be gathered together on the field of Har megiddon. To make battle against each other, against the law, and against God. AntiChrist is anyone who believes they have a right, or have rationalized and justified taking another man's life. And the men who rule this world, who believe they are the wheat, have created war to cull the masses, the weeds of the earth.
But we were given the law so that we might wander in and out. This was a universal right given to all of us by God. And those who have been villified and murdered to sustain this system have been taken up by the Black hole that denies free will. "And fire came out of heaven and destroyed them all" Revelations Now the sun returns to it's place of origin and there is a sign given to men so that they know when this great prophecy is about to be fulfilled.
It's called the Sun Dagger, a testament to the power of the sun and the power of God. Chaco Canyon: The Sun dagger was sculpted out by the hands of men, who created a kingdom, where they built 5 story buildings, but needed to kill other humans in order to sustain their kingdom. They realized too late that this is the crooked kingdom and the sun returned to it's place of origin and burned the earth until there was nothing left. The natives of this land understood a crooked foundation, leads to a crooked kingdom and so they left the Sun Dagger in Chaco Canyon, as a reminder, as a portent, as a grave sign, because when the sun creates the dagger in Chaco Canyon, it is catapulting through space to it's place of origin, and mankind better prepare for certain destruction.
The Black Hole:
The black hole is so dense with light, and it steals the free will of the light of the universe. It takes in all light, it steals the light. It impinges on free will and denies it to the universal soul. We call this Satan. Satan is the advesery. Only here to point the accusing finger to take away free will. The world has seen the accusor at work since the beginning of time. The accusor stands before God and accuses mankind so that he can use the power of death against him. In this world the power of Satan is the taking away of free will.
THE RETURN OF FREE WILL:
We see today how men who worship Satan, create laws, and war to take away the free will of man. They have subverted the law and used it to control mankind by fear of the limit of death. When the sun reaches it's place of origin, it will do so to liberate all of those souls who have died to sustain this system on earth. The black hole holds the light of billions of souls who have been murdered and accused and stripped of their free will.
All of those souls who were crucified Via Appia are waiting for the return of the Sun to it's place of origin to set them free!!!
Ressurrection vs. Reincarnation All of those souls who have been killed to sustain this Lucierian system will be released from that BLACK HOLE. The Sun returns, the villified, the accused, the murdered will all be released of their own volition. WHY you might ask? Because when the sun returns to it's place of origin all of those souls will once again have: FREE WILL No man on this earth can stop this, no man on earth has the power to stop free will. Free Will moves the Universe. Free Will is the whole image of God. Free will can not be stopped by any negative energy or power that think they be.
Understand the portents and the signs of the times. Understand the sun returning to it's place of origin. Understand the need to sculpt the sun Dagger in chaco Canyon. The time is now to scream freedom. The time is now to demand freedom from the guards at the Prison Gate. Get on your rooftops. The time is now, right now, the revelation is happening NOW. DEMAND YOUR FREE WILL The time is coming when those who rule the earth will seek to destroy it. They seek destruction of those things they can not have, because they belong to GOD. FREE WILL belongs to GOD. Free will implies no possession of any living, breathing being. When the fire comes out of Heaven, it will destroy much. It will destroy many. It will destroy those who are destroying the earth. For some this will be a horrendous event, because it will take away their world. But all of that light will have been released of it's own volition from the black hole, because free will has once again returned to all of those who have been killed.
LISTEN UP! This is the ressurection of the dead. This is the return of free will, this is the king of kings, and lord of lords returning to take dominion over this earth.
MINE EYES HAVE SEEN THE COMING OF THE GLORY OF THE LORD!
Make no mistake, rise up and demand your freedom, do not fear the light, it is the return of the kingdom of God. God's will be done. That is FREE WILL! This is a testament of a witness who is faithful and true.
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For all intents and purposes John Hicks, prisoner of Guantanamo was dead. Rumor had it that he had been reanimated by alien technology. But no one knew with an absolute certainty. He appeared one day in the offices of George Noory , the executive producer of Coast 2 Coast, a radio talk program known for its off the wall, in-depth approach to the paranormal.
When it was medically verified that the John Hicks was indeed dead after his execution, Art Bell assigned one of his top producers and star reporters to do the story. The producer ran into some obstacles when he tried a human interest approach to the story’s spin. He wanted to establish a history, interview family and friends. But John Hicks wanted nothing to do with it. His reason for coming to the world’s attention was to make people happy, he said. His past, his family, his origins were not important, what was important was the truth …and he wanted to share it with everyone
. When the show aired, the ratings went through the ceiling. The Executed man was an immediate success. People loved him. They wanted to invite him to dinner, even if it was only to have him sitting at the table. Politicians from around the world and religious leaders from every denomination wanted to consult with him. They felt that he had insights into life that were given to him by God. What became immediately apparent was that his mere image on the TV screen instilled a sense of happiness and contentment in the viewing audience that was unheard of in the annals of television broadcasting. No one could account for this phenomenon.
Corporations were quick to see the value in all this. They asked John to sell their products and wanted his photos for print ads. They offered top dollar, but John hicks said he did not need money, and no longer felt the urge to chase that beast. Furthermore, he made it plain that he had not come to sell candy, soda, cereal, or anything else to anyone. He came only to be seen and make people aware of the continuity of consciousness in the Bardo State, also known as death. Although he had not given permission, toy makers were manufacturing action figures and dolls in his likeness. This brought the whole world out of deep depression. He refused legal representation,thus allowing anyone who cared to market his image to do so with impunity. He began to appear in ads all around the world, on trading cards and billboards.
The resurrected man was seen drinking beer and eating foods that he had no use for. He had become an overnight celebrity. Hollywood wanted to sign him to do feature films; TV execs wanted him to star in his own sitcom. He refused all offers. Nonetheless, paparazzi and reporters followed him everywhere he went along with mobs of autograph seekers. Fan clubs sprung up on every continent of the planet. Glossy photos of him were in countless households, even in shacks and shanties in third world countries, all of them John Hancock-ed by John Hicks. No matter where he was seen, or where he appeared, he always wore the same clothes–a white pair of pants, and a white tunic, and a thin black tie with a star and quarter moon embossed upon it.
No one knew where the dead man lived. He would simply appear where he was expected, and in places where he was not expected at all. People from all walks of life invited him to come live with them, wealthy individuals offered to build him air-conditioned mausoleums around the world so that he would have a comfortable place to stay no matter where he went. He would have nothing to do with it. It was apparent that he was enormously reticent and valued his privacy above human comforts. Scientists took interest in him because he did not decompose. There was a bright aura and halo emitting from him, but this did not increase over any length of time. He was a true enigma who always sidestepped a question with a shy and wry smile.
When he met with Ratzinger at the Vatican, this press release was handed to reporters:
After many a millennia, the time has come to complete the true, long awaited role of the human species. My presence on the planet at this time is to draw attention to the resurrection that befalls everyone alive today. The time is near when the great culmination that the human race has long expected on a subconscious level is but a sun flare away. The technology is in place; the required number of human beings is in place; the political antagonisms and spiritual malaise are ripe and very much in place. The momentous time has arrived, the sun has returned to it’s place of origin, only doing so when times like these arise. The great culling of the human race is about to begin. I am the second born of the dead, pick up your lives and follow me, take no food, no clothing, no possessions, they will not be needed.
The minions from every nation, every race, every creed, every color, left their homes and domiciles to search for John Hicks, he was spotted in the Himilayas, or on the Pyramid of the Sun, or beneath the Denver Airport, he preached to the Liberals and the Republicans, baptizing them in the Potomic River. He would appear at bar mitzvahs and family picnics, at Christian baptismal ceremonies, and at pubs and nightclubs where he was seen dancing with delighted females who slipped their phone numbers into his white tunic jacket in hopes of a late night rendezvous.
Drug addicts toasted him as he passed because they believed he had reached the highest high attainable. Post offices had to open up special divisions for all of the fan mail he received. They had to store all these letters in huge warehouses because Hicks had no known address.
Then suddenly John Hicks made an announcement, he would speak to the whole world on december 21, 2012. He said he would reveal many truths, and needed the world to listen.
On the night that this broadcast occurred, everyone was in front of their TV set or radio, eager to hear what he had to say. Soldiers on battlefields stopped for the occasion, crime halted during this announcement, the flow of human semen ceased while sex was put on suspension. All ears and eyes were peeled to hear the second born among the dead. He told the world, there was now so much more to life, that life extended far beyond our dreams, that it now extended into the bardo state. The sun had returned to it’s place of origin and erased the limit we call death. He said “men will seek death and shall not find it.” No more suffering to die, no more giving up the ghost, all of mankind would now experience the reality of the universal consciousness. He suggested World Leaders release prisoners and stop all wars, and destroy all missiles and nuclear warheads. He told the people they no longer needed food or sustenance, that the ether was all they needed to sustain their consciousness, because it was the very face of god.
Without hesitation, or thinking of the ultimate consequences, The illuminati gave orders to launch missiles of mass destruction at countries that were at the top of their adversary lists. They also deployed troops on their home front to decimate the civilian population. They would not give up their power without a fight. They controlled the womb, and they controlled the tomb. While the sheeple sat in front of TV sets listening to the gunfire and explosions in their cities, they waited patiently for the nuclear, chemical and biological warheads to hit the earth; and they watched John Hicks, the executed second born of the dead on the screen with smiles on their faces, in complete tranquility, as he opened wide the door to heaven.
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I leave this testament as a warning to the future, if there is a future. The infection spreads across the world, corrupting all that it touches. I do not have the power or courage to stop it, I do not know if anyone does. I have seen it claim my friends and family. I shall not let it claim me. Death shall claim me: unsullied, strong, pure. The poison that I have administered is quick and painless – death before dishonour, you could say. I pray I find death and it will still be there.
I have seen what the scourge has done to the world and I do not wish to become a part of it. It is no longer my world, but a mockery of all we held dear.
It started so very innocuously, as such world-altering events often do. A military raid in a little place called Ghazni, you’ve probably never heard of it.
OFFICER’S REPORT: August 17th. Vagrant; male, Moslem. No ID at time of arrest, no name given or forthcoming from questioning. Ragged clothes, no shoes, no money at time of arrest. Vagrant was very happy, however, and very co-operative in nature. Believed to be intoxicated: at least we can’t see why he would be so damned happy, considering his circumstances; perhaps deranged? He was found wandering in a poppie field. (cf. psych report) When questioned about his incongruously happy state (i.e. what drug he had taken), vagrant laughed; stated “I got the TRUTH! You want some, man?” Vagrant was subsequently searched again for drugs; none found. Tests were inconclusive, seemed to be clean. Locals call him “Al Mahdi”
How wrong they were. They just couldn’t detect it, that’s all. If they would have gotten rid of that vagrant then, they could have saved the world.
OFFICIAL MEMO, August 21st, from the desk of Sergeant Murphy.
Re: Gitmo Protocol. No officer is allowed within 3 feet of Prisoner Hicks. After the severe attitude change of Officers Sanchez, Williams and Carpenter, we believe that Hicks still has a quantity of Truth and is disseminating it – his continued state of happiness testifies he has enough to feed his own addiction as well as spreading it to others. If you are exposed to his preaching, you shall be dismissed as have Sanchez, Williams and Carprenter. This is a message for your OWN PROTECTION. Prisoner Hicks, a converted Christian is dangerous and his religious beliefs are dangerous.
You see, it started to spread, like some inexorable cancer. Just as hard to stop – no cure; a suppression; a remission. But it still lay there, like a silent serpent, to lunge when defenses were lowered. They tried, as I tried, but they failed, as I failed.
OFFICIAL MEMO, August 25th, from the desk of Sergeant Murphy.
I have interviewed Prisoner Hicks and after careful deliberation I have violated my own orders. Prisoner Hicks has shared his incredible insights with me, it has made me so happy, it has made my life complete. All the officers whom I have dismissed I welcome back with open arms; I apologize, please forgive me. All of you, please visit Prisoner Hicks yourselves but be quick; since he will be released on the 28th. Join me in sharing this great tiding!
Thankfully, Sergeant Murphy was quickly relieved of command by Internal Security. Some noble individual obviously reported his treasonous activities to the proper authorities. Prisoner Hicks was not released as promised. When Internal Security stepped in and saw the threat to our great nation, they locked down Gitmo and had their top scientists work on the nature of his contagious truth. Believing his words to be some lethal edict against This great country, Prisoner Hicks was declared a Terrorist and was sequestered away in a hermetically sealed cell. None of this took his euphoria away. This proved how dangerous his truth was. Hicks was put through extreme torture. Water boarding, sleep deprivation, hours of exercise that would have weakened any ‘normal’ man.
PROGRESS REPORT: Special Agent Beck.
We have been compromised. The hermetic seals have been sabotaged, we have infiltrators within our ranks. Guantanamo is psychically affecting our black ops officers. Too many of our agents have gone rogue; colleagues whom I have depended on for years suddenly have changed their ways. A break-out by key infiltrators was attempted last night and almost succeeded. Hicks-afflicted rogue agents seem to be particularly peaceful and non-confrontational. If they weren’t I believe we would all be dead by now. It’s like we’ve been invaded by flower children! More on this as it breaks. We must stop this, the consciousness of our new world order depends upon it!
(This, however, is Special Agent Beck’s last report. He is believed to have gone rogue also. Within the month all agents at the facility became afflicted, inexplicably listening to the Imam who was preaching to the prisoners at Gitmo. All agents were removed for detoxification and rehabilitation; a new squad of Internal Security was deployed to secure Prisoner Hicks.)
Something had to be done. Euphoria was spreading all over the country; no one could stop its relentless advance. Everyone forgot about the depression. Entire groups of people, everywhere, without any definable connection with one another were being addicted; calling themselves “Seekers of TRUTH”. They networked; they grew in strength, an insidious infection upon our country. Fortunately wiser, rational people held the reins of power and sought to behead this Moslem viper before it could strike.
PRESIDENTIAL ADDRESS: March 22,.
Due to his treasonous activities threatening the social fabric of our fine nation, Prisoner Hicks is sentenced for execution by lethal injection on July 4. His beliefs have become a scourge upon our streets – everywhere can be seen the happy, smiling face of the Seeker of the ressurection. Removing the leader of this corruptive, criminal syndicate that promotes widespread and frequent use of Moslem propaganda should halt this terrible plague which he has unleashed upon us. Ladies and gentlemen; I promise I shall stop the spread of Moslem conversion that is corrupting our youth and destroying the fabric of our society. Our Truth shall march on, by any means necessary. My government and I shall save you, loyal patriotic citizens that you are, from exposure to the religious fanatics who call themselves ‘truth seekers.’ . And I say to you; truth has no place in this great country of ours or anywhere else in the world.
A voice of sanity against the tide of madness.
The frequency of break-out attempts by the Seekers intensified a hundredfold, they did not succeed in Prisoner Hick’s release at Gitmo. Political groups argued in court long and hard for his sentence to be revoked, but a presidential decree has too much weight for such insignificant attacks to make any difference. Prisoner Hicks was executed at his appointed time. However the Seekers of Truth had gained in Hick’s sacrifice the very model of a modern martyr – he went to his death with joy suffusing his features – we couldn’t take that away from him, no matter how hard we tried. I’m afraid that his rapture did make me somewhat wistful, I hoped someday I would experience such bliss, even for just a moment. But that would mean accepting his beliefs, his religion, his god awful truth – and I did not want such taint upon my soul. I could not relate it to anything I already knew, it was so different to the established order. Perhaps I was just content with what I had, unwilling to risk my worldview by exposing myself to the possibility of Euphoria without monetary means.
THE TIMES, July 7,
Although the President expected the death of Prisoner Hicks to paralyze the Seekers of truth it seems that membership of this strange group is steadily increasing. Whole towns have joined this seemingly tranquil movement. Peaceful demonstrations have been held; BRING “Allah” TO THE PEOPLE, one of their more popular slogans. It seems the death of Prisoner Hicks, while meant to stop the Seekers of truth has actually accelerated their cause, there are now Photos and Billboards of “Al Mahdi” embellishing highways and roads across America, his name is everywhere, the internet is humming with the return of the great savior.
It was true. We cut the head off the snake, not knowing it was the Hydra of legend. A multitude of heads appeared; too many cells of resistance to be put down. Racing across the country like raging wildfire; spread to all nations. We were the best hope of the world, perhaps the biggest lie, but we could not stop the power of free will, which is the basis for the Moslem religion..They say it is the will of Allah. But we knew better, it was personal free will, the crux of the ressurection. Sure we pushed Reincarnation, but the sheeple just wouldn’t go for it.
Too little, too late.
What is the truth? Is mine the same as yours? It must be very addictive, beyond the siren’s call of heroin or cocaine, the stuff the government has been feeding the sheeple to keep them subservient. It must be very powerful, leading these addicts to fight, maim and die for their belief in it. However, some have resisted its enticing seduction, they speak of such terror and agony that it has brought them, haunted night after night by tortured dreams. Free will seems to be a paradox, pleasure and pain hopelessly combined together.
My children, my spouse, my friends. All joined the burgeoning tide – all Seekers of truth. This leap of faith has taken all I held dear away from me by their willing surrender to what has possessed their souls.
I know they feel pity and sorrow for me because I have not joined them; I feel pity and sorrow for them because they have been warped and twisted to unrecognizability by their faith. They are no longer what they were before, they are no longer patriotic, they are no longer willing to pick up arms and kill. They are no longer on the side of the Zionist Jew.
The thing that pains me is that they are so happy. They cry “the truth shall set you free!” and perhaps, for them, it has. I can feel myself dying as I write this, mercifully the torment will end soon.
Gentle reader, you have read my account. I chose to refuse the offer of this truth, Suspicious of what it would do to my ego, to my way of life…seeing it as the total demise of our great nation, how can we truly say “In God we trust,” if we allow this nonsense to continue?
ONCE UPON A TIME…God celebrated the very first Christmas, He was a good father who had two Sons. The eldest Lucifer and the young one, Jesus. The father spoiled his oldest son, who was never satisfied with the things his dad did for him. As hard as his father tried to please his oldest boy, the harder the son seemed to complain and throw fits and exclaim that he loved his brother more….
The younger son, Jesus was rather unassuming and, as you might imagine, did not receive the same attention from his father as the older boy did. The younger boy seemed perfectly happy with whatever his dad gave him. In fact, the boy often made better of the circumstances than they actually appeared…
ONE DAY…
JUST BEFORE CHRISTMAS EVE, God the father decided he was going to do something really spectacular for his boys. He had worked many hours of overtime and saved quite a large sum of money to buy expensive gifts for his sons. As he began his scouring all of creation for the ‘perfect gift’, he soon realized that his oldest son would not be happy with just one big gift, so he bought the boy two. Then, after picturing in his mind the older boy’s reaction to only receiving two gifts on Christmas morning, the dad bought three, then four, then five, and so on, until all his resources were spent.
Feeling quite pleased with himself at having bought so many perfect gifts for his oldest son, God, the father suddenly remembered that he had forgotten to purchase even a single gift for his youngest boy. The dad felt ashamed and embarrassed at this oversight. An overwhelming sense of panic struck him like a lightning bolt as he thought of his little boy having no gift to open on Christmas day!
Out of money and with time running out, the father began driving around the block in search of something…. ANYTHING! to give to his youngest son as a gift. Just before he headed back into town, he spotted a German Shepard out for a walk with his owner.
‘Aha!’ he thought. ‘Perhaps I can find a suitable gift there for my little boy.’
With a sliding stop on the shoulder of the road, he leapt from his great chariot and began searching for something of value to give his younger son. He looked in vain, finding nothing suitable as a present.
WISHING NOT TO GO HOME empty-handed, the dad was suddenly aroused by the potent aroma of a handsomely large, pile of freshly deposited dog doo, He had an idea! Rushing back to his car, he shifted some of the store-bought gifts around to different bags. Taking an empty paper sack, he trotted back to the pile of dog shit, and carefully scooped it into the bag. He was quite proud of himself for the skill he deployed in retrieving the ‘special gift’ because it looked as if the German Sheppard had deposited its waste contents into the bag, personally.
RELIEVED AT LAST, the father sped home and spent the next several hours wrapping the various purchases in shiny new paper, trimming each parcel with ribbon and bows and cute name placards (all addressed to Lucifer , of course!) Once again, due to his emphasis on his older son, the dad ran out of paper and trimmings for Jesus’s only gift.
EXHAUSTED BEYOND BELIEF, the dad simply folded the top of the paper sack over twice, ran several staples through to hold it shut, and quickly scrawled his younger son’s name on one side of the bag in pencil. Then, guilt-stricken once again, he quickly shifted what blame he could for this fiasco, by adding the words ‘From Santa’ under his son’s name. Then he shoved the bag to the most remote corner under the tree and crawled off to bed for a few hours of rest.
AND THE BOYS AWOKE EARLY. Rushing into the semi-darkness of the living room, to the foot of the beautifully decorated Christmas tree, Lucifer shoved his little brother, Jesus aside and flung himself headlong into the mountain of gifts addressed to ‘only’ him. In a whirlwind of shredded paper and peals and outbursts of spontaneous delight, he tore into every gift in record-breaking time. There must have been 50 presents ripped open by the eldest child!
AND TRUE TO HIS PLEASANT DISPOSITION the oldest boy, after dumping the contents of the last gift unceremoniously onto the carpet, shifted his expression of glee into a horrible twist of a scowl and screamed at the top of his voice,
‘IS THAT ALL I GOT?!!!’ His father stood in the afterglow of this warm reception in something akin to a stupor. He was, in fact, speechless. JUST THEN…
Jesus , who had been sitting patiently in anticipation of the wonderful gift(s) he would open, turned and asked his father, ‘Daddy, what did you get for me?’
A nuclear war head could not have pierced the father’s heart with more ferocity than the words his little boy spoke. Feeling like all the blood was draining from his trembling body, still unable to talk, the dad pointed a shaky finger to the dark shadows at the farthest point beneath the tree. This was too much to bear! The father began sobbing uncontrollably at the sight of his little Jesus eagerly and gingerly pulling the paper sack out from under the tree. His son had an expression on his face as if the bag were filled with the most precious gift on earth!
SLOWLY AND WITH GREAT CARE the younger son removed each staple. As he read the message on the outside, tears welled up in his eyes, as he excitedly proclaimed, ‘Daddy, it’s from Santa!!!’
THE LITTLE SON’S FACE did not change expression, even as the unpleasant odor of the bag’s contents escaped into the room like a bursting dam. He peeked into the bag and paused…. (The father felt his own heart stop beating at that very instance.)
HIS RIGHT EYEBROW RAISED EVER SO SLIGHTLY once the boy recognized the shapely pile that was his new gift.
‘OH, FATHER!! OH, FATHER!!’ the boy cried with great joy.
‘Oh how wonderful, Daddy, I almost got a dog!”
Lucifer was green with envy, he pursed his upper lip, then pouted and cried, “You love him more than me!”
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The Shop Keeper's spirit meandered down the dusty road like an abandoned cur, stopping here to look at a dead person alongside the road. His feelings were like something soaring out of nightmarish dreams. Shading his eyes from a tremendous January sun, he peered off to the right where a wounded psyche lay being baked into something calloused and hard and no longer part of the poor soul from whence it had come. To his left, where he didn't have to shade his eyes because the sun was hot on his back, stood a huge mountain of broken walls and windows. Tears the size of his hand tumbled down its weathered slope to drop into a swirling vortex of death, which reprocessed it back to betrayal, forever recycling the sadness of man's treachery. The Shop Keeper, closed his eyes and sighed as old Sol began its final plunge behind the broken spine of Port Au Prince, the whole of Haiti had become a Wanga, the result of Petro magic perpetrated by the white devil.
"I can't do this."
No answer. The Shop Keeper expected none. But it wasn't silence which greeted his declaration, not at all. Faint moans of anguish could be heard over the tormented pleas of a small child. Male? Female? He did not know. It mattered not. The pain was real. Yes. He withstood the sound better by keeping his eyes closed. He realized that the faint moans were coming from himself.
The catastrophic events were familiar. He had never been here, though. Not in this life. That was the thing, then. Since everything here seemed twisted, the whole world upside down, the Shop Keeper had to ask the question.
"Am I going to die like this?"
Far away he heard shattered hope screech.
"Will I get out of here alive?"
Raucous laughter issued from wickedness. The shopkeeper had heard it before. Wickedness never showed its face. Coward. Instead it played out it's evil game through the sonic booms hitting the ocean floor. The reason you can never see it is because it is the darkest side of you.
This rather unusual event was familiar in an obscure, unfamiliar way. Since early this morning, or was it yesterday morning, oh, no matter. Since he'd found himself suffocating in this place, he recognized certain . . . things. Nothing he could put his finger on and say, "Look, I remember this from . . ." No. Nothing like that. There was a surreal quality about certain things which defied definition. Although some of the things he knew he had never seen before but still, he knew what they were.
Like the stench of thousands of bodies, swelled in death, baking in the streets.
Was he next? Then he wailed as loud as he could and stopped with a wimper as the dust filled his parched lungs. He knew not why he was naked nor where his clothes were. He shivered. It was approaching nighttime and he recalled it had gotten cold last night.
The shopkeeper swooned in and out of consciousness. Soon he came upon a wooden bridge built over foaming, raging rapids. He stopped, fearful of crossing the bridge. He took a tentative step. The bridge creaked, gave somewhat to his weight. Another step. Groans from the timber. He froze. After a deep breath he took five very fast steps and was about in the middle of the bridge when he heard them.
He stood, naked, afraid, and alone. Debating whether he should go back or go forward. Instead of doing either he placed his hand on the bridge's railing to keep his knees from giving way and causing him to collapse from the terrifying dread. He leaned forward trying to steady himself and the noise became ferocious. He knew he should not, but still, he looked into the rapids.
But actually, the foaming water was not rapids. What was probably a languid little stream normally, was foaming and churning because of the drowning libidos and accompanying egos, a cacophany of raging souls caught up in the electromagnetic field created by the vortex of souls, 'gro-bon-ange,' being forced from their clay bodies, by the 'bitter loa.'
"Please, what do you want from me?"
He stared into the horrible scene as hundreds, no thousands of perishing libidos screamed out for one more chance at life's breath before being taken into the void. Defiant and lustful to the absolute end is mankind's absorption with ego against skin. The Shopkeeper lingered his eyes on the tempestuous torrent below because to not do so he would have had to look into himself.
Taking a few quick, very intense mouthfuls of air, he leaned further over the railing and stared into the turbulence below as if he were seeing the very last thing on earth. Rank odor emitted from the air, an odor which could mean only death and decay. All of a sudden he saw something scurrying from the stream. Then another. And more. Egos were making a mad dash for . . . where? Where could an ego go if it had no body to prod and to push? Still. They were leaving the earth by the thousands and they looked so comical that the traveler laughed in spite of his own dire situation.
What had been fetid odors wafting from below gave way to a different fragrance, the lingering smell of all the lovers he had known. The combined smell was at first pleasant and satisfying. Taking the Shopkeeper back to better times and the sensuousness of women's caresses. Faces flooded his thoughts. .
"See?" The Baka spoke. "I am your lover, can you not see that? I am the only thing you have ever loved, I am you."
The Shopkeeper screamed. Then he ran and ran and ran, the road abruptly becoming as straight as it was crooked before. He could not escape from himself, though. He understood that. The woman thing was gone but it still lived as surely as he took the next gasping breath, and it did so because it was him with all the warts.
A forlorn, solitary howl interrupted the Shopkeeper's perverse musings. Such a sad and lonesome wail could only come from a horse. The shopkeeper took it as a warning. A cautionary howl for strangers who walk among the remnants and distasteful ingredients which make up mankind. He needed to shelter himself from this pale beast.
"Why?"
He startled himself with his question. Shelter because he was, or would be, cold. Shelter to hide his nakedness. He was ashamed of his slightly rounded stomach, his slightly sagging breasts, his slightly receding penis. Shelter to hide his imperfections.
Oh, my. The pale horse was there with him, pressing his cold, wet nose against his bare leg. Oh, my. The horse walked ahead of him. He was, of course, not a horse A beast though. He was that. A beast that spoke.
"I am here to take you there." Actually the shopkeeper did not see the beast's mouth move when it talked, but he knew that it must have.
"Where?"
"Follow me." The baka loped off but the shopkeeper did not run after it. Soon the horse was out of sight.
He did continue walking though. What else was he to do? There was no where else to go. As he walked, he was met with ghostly images from his past. Only they were not spirits. Unless spirits could touch and feel and bleed and sob and scream into his face all manner of fearful words and screeches and claw his backside and frontside and attack his genitals, especially his genitals. He could not defend himself because somewhere without him being aware, his arms had become paralyzed. So, he was at the mercy of these agonized, brutalized entities and they went about the job of making him pay for his indiscretions. Still, through it all, he walked, and as he did so he found that he desired to forgive his persecutors even though it seemed they had held onto their grudges.
.Now he understood. He knew now. They were all gone and in their wake, left the parts of themselves they blamed the shopkeeper for destroying. Hearts, broken hearts were the most prominent but there were also minds unstable and potential destroyed. Potential destroyed was the most awful of them all. He had heard of potential his whole life and had never known exactly what it was. Now that he was looking at potential destroyed it was all he could do to keep from screaming. Potential destroyed was a dreadful thing to behold. Potential destroyed was a small golden sphere approximately the size of a small green pea when it fell from those now gone. When they touched the ground there was an audible gasp and then no more sounds. The golden sphere morphed into such a lovely child, a child of no particular sex but a child of innocence and a child desirous of guidance, someone to attach to and grow into love personified. It was not to be, however, because the lovely child's skin began to peel from its body and as it did its eyes stared straight into the shopkeeper's and the eyes said, "I never had a chance to grow into my potential,." Then it turned into a caricature of an old hag, the kind you see in fairy tales as witches and melted back down to the pea size it used to be, sprouted roots and bloomed into hate intensified. When that happened, the shopkeeper had to turn away, the horrible stench and penetrating stare was just too much for him, as his senses were assaulted by the Marasa, the contradictory forces of the universe.
He stumbled down the road, half running, half walking; stumbling. A huge, intense, bright light blinded him and caused him to lurch sideways and finally collapse onto the sandy road, and just before he passed out he heard the moans and shrieks and screams of all the broken bodies suffocating under the broken structure that was once his home.
His eyes opened to the loveliest woman he had ever seen. She had been wiping his forehead with a cool, moist rag. She smiled, the world smiled too, and was happy. The shopkeeper was in bed. Not his bed. She poured a sparkling glass of water and touched it to his feverish lips and before he sipped from it he knew that it would be the best water he had ever drank. It was. She sat the glass on the small table and stood to leave.
"Oh, please," the Shopkeeper said, "don't go. Where am I? What is your name?"
The Zanj smiled. The world smiled again. "You are here. My name is Over." With that she turned and left him alone. But no. Someone else was here. The Shopkeeper sensed another presence.
"How do you feel?"
The voice, like the girl's, just saturated him with breathtaking sensations. A rich baritone voice full of wonderful . . . ambiance. "Tell me what I am doing here, please."
"My name is Cross," the voice answered. You are being prepared."
"Why, am I--"
"Yes. You are dying, . You are in the hospital room in the city where you reside. We have been preparing you for the transition."
"Oh."
"Fear not, we will treat you kindly."
"But the crossroads, and oh, the people and all the--"
"That is part of the transition, an unkind part to be sure, but necessary."
"Why? To show me my past sins?"
"No. Everybody thinks that. It is a cleansing. Not everyone gets caught up in the vortex, you did not, because you were a good person....
"But the earthquake, all those people trapped, then being caught up in that torment...I witnessed it...."
" you are dead now. My companion and I will assist you the rest of the way." The young woman appeared beside the bed.
"Take her hand, now mine."
The shopkeeper saw the voice standing beside the 'Hounsi' they both wore long, flowing white robes many thousands of departed children were hanging on to them, and when he took their hands he understood the significance of their names. Cross over.
Foggy, rainy, miserable days were meant for me, Mr. Peterson moaned, rolling his eyes upward toward the darkening sky. The daunting weather overhead threatened his land with rains torrential, the howling winds already bending a group of young poplars in the woods that surround him. . ‘Give me what you’ve got, oh masterful Lord. And Ill spit it right back at you.’
Uncomfortable, sitting awkwardly in the aged wooden rocker on the porch of his home, Mr. Peterson digs the nails of 67-year-old fingers into the soft cedar. There was a time when the cleansing perfume from the wood gave a treat to the discerning nose, but no longer does the bouquet exist. Scratching into the splintered boards that support his arms, Mr. Peterson challenges God himself with dull gray eyes.
A wart with wrinkling gullies protudes from his wide Irish pug-nose, creating valleys both deep and shallow on his forehead, around his eyes; its calyx replaces lips that were far more succulent in years long lost. Ornery old Mr Peterson has abandoned cleanliness and all that goes with it, including changing any of the clothes on his back.
He doesn’t fear death, He defies the Maker to take him. And when he does, Mr. Peterson will give antagonistic counsel at the top of his lungs until he is dropped into the fiery pit of hell. Fire and Brimstone, he thinks, is meant for me.
A crinkled hand splattered with brown spots of age reaches into a box of full flavored cigarettes. When he exhales, the malodorous cloud of smoke surrounds his head, covering his bent shoulders and yellow brown stained shirt, that was once white.
Just as they do every day at this time, a group of schoolchildren walked past the withering 19th century farmhouse, never failing to slow their gait. They hope for a glimpse of the notorious wicked widower. When they see him, they run. Their screams and laughter have no effect on Mr. Peterson. None whatsoever.
Rocking in the chair – his ankles doing most of the work – Mr Peterson leans forward, protecting the brittle bones of his back from the hard planks behind him. His late wife Annie, had always brought her pillow, though Mr. Peterson believed it a paltry accusation of his own shoddy craftsmanship. For several years after her death, he deliberately pushed back into the exposed nail heads, hoping her spirit was able to watch him suffer from her rudeness to his assaulted ego.
Pain is meant for me.
Life wasn’t always so dreary for Mr Peterson. It was a party, a means to submerse himself in pleasure while so many others strove to stifle the entertainment. He found people to be invasive, smothering him with their petty concerns and grievances. At times he could feel them all clogging his throat like so many maggots on rotten meat.
What right had they to proudly display their countless insecurities as badges of authority? Digging into his business with picks and spades? he didn’t want to be lonely, simply alone. They wouldn’t allow it. After all, he was life, a tasty morsel for the appetite of the dead, which is what they all were.
Dead men and women, scratching at his skin to feast on the delicacy of his hard work. Marrying Annie, was Peterson’s own suicide, an axe driven into the pith of his dreams. The vows were quite simple: take me away from the scavengers, Peterson , for I would rather tolerate one man than a world full of them.
Oh, the things he would force on her in the bedroom. Penetrating her flesh was not enough for Peterson , he insisted on an intimacy that could never exist. Even now he cringes when he considers her, rolling over to his side of the bed with the eyes of an excited child. Such words he would throw at her. The sweetest of nothings that she considered just that.
Nothing at all.
It would have been better for Peterson had Annie exposed her lust for what it was; a release of the animal inside her. Instead, he chose to love her. Love of all things! No matter what fight she managed to give him, what pain she would bring to the table with her teeth, nails, or bitter words the weak man would never lift a finger in defense, instead lying broken until she would stop the irruption. There was never an apology, not from Annie . She would simply grow tired. Tired of it all. Peterson knew he was never enough man for her, he was never meant to be.
At least when he was on top of her, inside of her, she would find something of interest to bide the time. Gifted with an active imagination, Annie found physical stimulation to be a perfect catalyst for the imagery in her mind. The places she went on such occasions were dark, dangerous. Never would she picture a man having his way; it was always a demon, a frightening monster, perhaps a rabid animal. Peterson played his part becoming the rabid animal, devouring her flesh, lusting for her blood, violating her until his love turned to hate.
He sits there rocking in total disgust, He took care of it, many suspect something,
foul play, but he gave Annie what she wanted, the ultimate sexual experience that the
goddess deserved.
A slight pang of hunger pushes against Mr Peterson’s stomach, reminding him it will soon be time to eat. There is a certain intimacy he finds with food. The idea of puncturing something that was once alive – pressing into it with a steely fork and bringing its juicy essence to his mouth – excites him. While meat is his preference, rare and dripping, there isn’t a corner in his kitchen that doesn’t remind him of Annie’s struggle to live..
Each fruit and vegetable begins as a seed, digging desperately into the earth, hungry and parched. So many predators to contend with. So much competition from the encroaching weeds, from the footsteps of lumbering men. Nature rewards the weak; the prize is a withering death. And for the strong?
Eating life is meant for me. Peterson smiles when he thinks this, enamored of the gifts creation itself spills upon him. Pleasing him, is why the world exists.
Lost in his thoughts, the old man doesn’t see the approach of the little girl. No more than 7 or 8, wearing pink sweatpants and a powder blue jacket, the child moves fawn-like legs forward, her big brown eyes staring up at Mr. Peterson, her pretty blonde hair in a ponytail. A slight scraping of the little girls tennis shoe snaps Peterson back into the real world. he is alarmed by the child’s presence, at once putting a decrepit hand to his heart.
“What…” Mr Peterson glares down at the child for interrupting his thoughts…
The girl stops. Waiting. Staring.
Mr Peterson puts his hands in his lap, squeezes them, Leaning slightly forward, he says, “You’re not a Buffy, are you? Maybe a Jenny?”
The child shakes her head, her little pink lips trembling. She buries her hands deep into the pockets of her jacket.
“What do they call you little one?”
It isn’t the first brat to brave the gritty driveway of Peterson . A dozen vile children have succumbed to the challenges of their playmates, mistaking foolishness for courage and engaging the old man. A handful have come to befriend the widower, attempting to share bright eyes and warm hearts in an effort to ease the pain of his lonely existence. Peterson always welcomed the random caller, for a much darker purpose..
In little more than a whisper, the girl mutters, “Cindy.”
“Cindy, is it? How darling is that? A thin strand of milky white saliva stretches between Peterson’s lips as he speaks. Pungent breath fouls the air around him, eventually reaching the child, evidenced by the wrinkling of her nose. “So tell me, little Cindy, what is it you think you’re doing here? On my personal and very private property?”
“I dont know”
“You dont know?” …. I do, you little witch! Like countless others before her, Cindy has come to take a bite out of Peterson. A trophy for her friends. A stake of ownership, like bear urine on a tree. . Peterson gave up wishing years ago. Wishing they would stop coming, that the parasites would leave him be and find another soul to feed upon. Now he accepts it, watching the bloodsuckers grow younger and younger, trying to fool him with the innocence of childhood. But there is no innocence. Not in Peterson. Not in little Cindy.
Not in anyone.
“Maybe we can sort it out together. Just the two of us.”
Peterson spots his cane leaning against the worn porch railing. In his mind, he leaps from his chair like a panther, scooping up the walking stick in one swift motion, then swinging it with all his might into the skull of the impish intruder. Peterson releases a lascivious sigh, watching the eruption of red, gray and white through the backs of her eyes. Blood, brain matter and tiny flecks of skull spray from the fresh wound on the child’s head, landing like droplets of spring rain on the ground beneath her. The crunching sound of shattered bone echoes in Peterson’s ears.
‘I could do it, you know,’ Mr. . Peterson says aloud, his gaze wandering. I have it in me.
The foul excuse of a human has the ambition, but not the strength for such a forward attack.
Disturbing Peterson’s stomach once again, the pang of hunger is firmer in its delivery, now demanding attention rather than encouraging it. Like a dog, saliva fills the old widower’s mouth, forcing him to either swallow or drool. “life’ Peterson thinks anticipating his dinner.
Cindy stands stiff, her arms straight, pushing soft pink hands to the limits of her coat pockets. She looks away from Mr Peterson, to stare at her shoes.
“I’ve got an idea.” Peterson uses his weak legs and frail arms in unison to lift himself up from the rocker. He places one hand on the back of the chair for support; he uses the other to wipe the spittle from his lips. Would you like to come inside for a cookie?”
A long time ago, when the world was naked, and all that was, were the deep sea life that ruled the air and the heights, I met my friend- my closest friend. He was a water eel named Slither, though the things then had no names, I gave him one, just to make frequent conversation a little less of a hassle. slither was proud of his scales and the speed he owned in the water. His reflection was golden and you could hear his call rolling miles away. It took him a day once just to gather up the nerve to let himself down from his rocks. He was proud and knew the golden sunshine wouldnt strike his back if he lay back down in the water with me. So he waited all day till night came and that’s when he jumped. I never knew an eel could jump and so high too. He could jump to the top of the sky, and he owned wherever he could reach. The phrase seems uncommon around these parts; a jumping eel. Back then we had no phrases or names. Just slither and jump. And something that came out of my mouth one morning. “Psssst! Slither was unimpressed. That’s just because he was jealous and prideful; he was an eel in the water, so he couldn’t say things like me. I had those ruby slippers on, that tied themselves when you didn’t feel like it – they bounced on water like lily pads. Slither rode me on his back some hours afterward. I would lie there and he would swim for another rock to conquer. I had dreams that I was on a dirt mound, even though in those days we had no dirt. I had those dreams and often thought about someone whispering in my ear, thinking I was he and he was I. And he’d tell me a secret. Though we didn’t have secrets in those days. I couldn’t breath underwater; that’s mostly what slither could do that I couldn’t. He was quicker in the ocean than I. This made him act all the more big, electrifying. I had a big heart so I let him slide. He asked me not to say the new word that came out my mouth in the mornings. He said it irritated him. Yet slithering eels didn’t say things in those days, I just knew what he was thinking from the way he looked at the water as he swam with me on his back. I had just woken up from the secret sharing dream, and thus my body did something that felt all too natural and unstoppable. I had tried not to let slither hear it those past few days, so as not to hurt his pride. Yet that day, I felt if I didnt I might never be able to take another breath. I breathed in deep and then my lungs belted out, great and loud, “pssst!” “Hmpf,” thought Slither, “That’s it.” He swam furiously to some far away rocks. Farther than I’d ever been. They were isolated amidst the deep blue. Slither frowned back at me and flipped me off his back and swam away. He swam underwater, as if to cleanse himself from my weight. He popped up every so often; for he couldn’t exactly breathe underwater, just hold his breath for that long. I sat there on the rocks after floating up and down in the water, watching the eel slither and race towards the horizon. The sun shined golden on my back. Yes, Slither had given that up – one pride for another. Yet no one could control either of those things. The sun shined on me just as it did on him. Yet he felt he deserved it more. And I pssst just as naturally as he swam, yet he wanted it all with me left speechless adrift, near some rocks far away from his own so no one could hear me. He could tell himself that the pssst didnt exist. That my red shoes didn’t tie themselves and that dreams about telling secrets never occur, and if they did were of no great importance. He could keep his pride because all the whales and sea life had nothing to spout. He was on the rocks in the sunshine. He swam the fastest. Slither, with no friends, had no one to make him feel like less of a watery eel. And he took to the dust, because he could not say pssst, in the water, he had to crawl on his belly in the dust. I got irritated on those stupid rocks in the middle of nowhere. I remembered Slither waiting all day so the sunshine got all of him – not the other way around. I remembered him jumping and how that was a word, even though we didn’t have vocabulary or the alphabet back in those days. I bet if Slither could spell jump, or sunshine or even rocks, he’d spell it just like this and in this punctuation too, though we didn’t have punctuation back in those days of my ruby slippers and the prideful watery eel- he’d spell it all like this: Pssst. But pssst. He wouldn’t notate or spell or punctuate ‘pssst’ like that. Not psst. Because as far as he was concerned, there was no such thing as that new word that came by way of my mouth one morning. He wouldn’t think of it at all. He’d just smile because now he could slowly forget, and think himself golden again. I got off those rocks. Remember my shoes, how they bounced on the water like lily pads? They took me far to a place where all the water came from. I walked until my feet could touch the lower end of the ocean and some how everyone found land. All the whales were on the beaches now, forming hind legs and fingers to hold tobacco pipes. The sea life took to the air. All the watersnails that used to lose all the races had a fiery sugary strut. It was long and indulging and it looked quicker than sap. Most of the fish had legs to go along with their cursive stingers. There came birds and dinosaurs and furry mosquitoes. Though the golden eel, slither, was no longer apt in the water. In fact I don’t believe anything was anymore. Everything hurried along now on the shore with a new dynamic, that the sea seemed like a roadway with a 10 car highway wreck right threw it, slowing down traffic, though we didn’t have traffic or roadways back in those days. Slither tried the land. He stepped into the dirt and the sand and the leaves. The watersnails passed him by with their fiery sugar slide struts they would do. He was embarrassed. He could not be fast anymore. He was the slowest thing on land. “The watery eel, the golden eel,” the snails teased, (the snails couldn’t really talk, back in those days) “has no more a gift of sunshine. He has lost his quickness of speed and pride.” So Slither sat back up on the rocks. He told himself all was still golden. He didn’t dare let many more know of his secret. He never moved from his mount, so the reality of the thing was no longer engaged. He could continue spelling all words as ‘jump’. Though never pssst. I forgave Slither for abandoning me, and I didn’t tease him for anything. I guess he just kept thinking things were the same. He never moved, so he never showed his flaws, at least not out in the open. Never did a man have a body like a watery eel, or swim like a torrent. We left him a reason to feel it. Though never did a slithering eel have the treat of dreaming and waking up and having a secret to share, free a new word into morning. I needed no rush or hurry for the sun’s grace, or for that secret to know me. That is where my pssst had come from. There was a dawning deep inside, and that is why I had awoken. This is why I feel golden. The watery eel took to the land because he sacrificed feeling golden, so he could whisper ‘pssst.’
Rochelle checked her watch again, then began to drum her immaculate fingernails on the Formica tabletop. God, what was with him? 'Christ, I live at this diner.' Her mind was a storming whirlwind of sickening anxiety and rage, and she had finally become fed up. sighing loud at the table with warm, coffee tainted breathes.
The Diner's waitress held out a pot stained from years of use and queried, "You want me to top that off for you Rocky?"
"Nah, Lauren," shaking her head, the auburn curls of her hair jostled loosely around the oval frame of her ash-white face. "I'm going to take off I think, could you bring me my bill, please?" "I have to pee so bad I can taste it."
"Sure thing." Winking sympathetically, Lauren headed back over to the counter, pulled the pen out from behind her ear and began to scribble on her order ticket occasionally stopping to tap the tip on the counter top pensively.
While rummaging around hurriedly inside her purse for her wallet, she heard the bell on the door jostle and chime, and didn't even raise her head. It was Bobby; she could sense his presence before he even stepped inside. "I'm sorry," he hurried toward the table. "I was working and I lost track ." . ."
"Of time? Yes, I know Bob." Rising slowly from the booth, she glanced toward Lauren who nodded to assure her she was still adding up her bill. "And now I am out of time. I'm going home."
"Oh come on, Rocky," reaching out for her forearm, she raised her eyes to his, but refused to allow their molten innocence to woo her. "I'm sorry, let me make it up to you."
"No, Bob, I'm finished. I will be meeting with my lawyer in the morning to sign the papers and that is the end of it." Shoving past him, she met Lauren at the counter and perused the bill she handed her. Handing over a twenty, she told her to keep the change and thanked her for tolerating her all night.
"No problem, Rocky. You know I enjoy your company." Bob was already there at her side, interrupting and demanding to be heard. That was so typical of him, she realized. The man could never be around when you needed him, but when he was, you better pay attention because everything he had to say was important.
"Rochelle, I am not going to just let you walk away from us like this." Following her out the door into the crisp, autumn evening, she walked with quick, certain steps, trying desperately to guard herself against the brisk chill that cut into her long overcoat. "I have put too much time into this relationship and it's not over until I say it's over."
Jamming her hands into her pockets with stiff certainty, she continued on, eyes focused on the sidewalk ahead of her. "Then I'll say it for you. It's over so go away." Heels clicked against concrete, echoing in her ears. They were her heels and she suddenly realized how tired her feet were, how tired she was altogether. It was an exhaustion that had grown to consume her almost completely over the last two years, but at that moment, it was unbearable, just like his presence.
"Now please, I'm going home and I want to be alone." Rocky blurted.
Grabbing her arm, he spun her around quickly to face him. "I'm not going to leave you alone, Rocky, I want to save our marriage. Why do you keep running away from me?"
With a sudden jerk, she freed herself free from his hold, and through it, she never once lost that semblance of composure, which had become her trademark. "I'm not running, Bobby, I'm walking and you're so far behind me, you'll never catch up."
When he stopped following her, there was a tug of disappointment inside her already unsettled stomach. In her mind, she imagined him standing there, arms at his side, an absolute look of defeat painted across his face, and it brought her a grave sense of satisfaction to see him this way, even if only in her mind. After all he had done to her in their short lived lifetime together, seeing him suffer a little was like a reward for all she had been through.
"Oh Come on Rock!" , whining, his insecurity and fear pulled at her conscience, causing her to stop. "Please, will you just hear me out?"
"You have from here until I get to the end of this block, Bob, and then I'm finished listening."
Sprinting to catch up with her, he arrived quickly at her side, his breath catching in uncomfortably in his chest as she began to walk.
"That is hardly enough time to say everything I need to say." He complained.
Breathing a thick sigh of frustration, she stopped again and looked over at him.
" First you keep me waiting for over three and a half hours. Then you show up as I'm leaving and tell me it's not over until you say its over. Now youre telling me the little bit of time I have allotted you, which I feel is quite generous, might I add, is not enough time for you to say whatever it is you have to say. If you ask me, Bob, you're treading on ice that only gets thinner and thinner with every step you take."
He pursed his lips together, twisting them a little to show how perplexing this whole situation was to him, and then his shoulders sagged. This outright display of defeat proved what she had known all along, he wasnt strong enough to survive a relationship with her. "All I wanted was another chance."
Crossing her arms over her chest, a direct representation of her closed mindedness to the very idea, she smirked. "How many God damned chances do you need?"
"As many as it takes to show you how I really feel."
Unbelievably, he was oblivious to her feelings, staying wrapped up inside his comfortable cocoon of narcissism and egocentric psychosis; it was a shame he couldn't really express a simple gesture of affection.
Just a little, she leaned on her heels, watching him make an absolute fool of himself in an attempt to save their marriage. Marriage, huh. It was nothing more than a piece of paper saying two people had permission from the state to copulate and coexist in the same dwelling. Where all this sappy romantic bullshit came from, she had no idea, but it was everywhere. As if to prove her point, the city bus rolled past them, an advertisement for breath mints on the side depicting a couple blissfully close. You see, breath mints help you fall in love. So few people really know that after about ten minutes of sucking, you find yourself looking at this person you're supposed to be in love with wondering why he had to slurp while he sucked that mint.
Bob was rambling on and on about some plan he had for them to work things out and the more he spoke, the less she listened. She'd heard it all a million times, the promises, high hopes, big plans, just like love, it was bullshit. Her husband, she realized, was the epitome of the word bull shit. And she realized, you can't bull shit a bullshitter.
"So what do you think?" Was what he asked her when he finally finished his presentation.
Tilting his head ever so slightly to the side, like a puppy dog who wasn't sure what his master was going to do next, she vaguely wondered if she could get him to do tricks. There was a hopeful smile pulling at the right corner of his mouth, exposing the perfect, white semblance of his teeth.
Wetting her lips with a quick movement of her moist tongue, a snide grin tugged them upright. What did she think? Was he stupid? Did he really want her to answer that? Was that a rhetorical question?
"What do I think?" She pondered aloud. "About the anus as a hole?" She thought a lot of things, but rarely ever said them. If she kept them to herself, she kept from breaking his fragile spirit, but this time, she decided to say them. Just for the hell of it, of course. After all, what if his spirit wasn't so fragile? What if all these years, she had been tiptoeing around him for fear of breaking him without just cause?
"Let me tell you what I think. I think you're an idiot if you think I'm going to stand around and listen to another minute of this bullshit!"
She left him standing there, absolutely dumbfounded. It was as though he had been swallowed by the void of his own ramblings and master plans. Even as she rounded the corner of Grove street, she noticed he was still standing there, with his jaw hanging open against his chest.
Served him right, she decided, ignoring the inner tug of guilt on her conscience. After all he had done to her, it was payback and she wasn't about to feel badly about it. He had it coming, and besides, she hadn't gotten this far in life by listening to guilt. Onward, she trudged now, her steps slowing in hope that he would come after her, but by the time she reached the front stoop at 322 West Garden Drive, the only other human in sight was a pizza delivery guy on his bike.
Dejected, she sighed and huffed her way up the stairs, all four flights of them, then unlocked the door to her stuffy attic apartment. She had been right to speak her mind this once, hadn't she? He'd had it coming, right? Tossing her purse onto the sofa, she kicked off her shoes and listened to them clunk into place across the cluttered living room.
With steady fingers, she reached for the lamp switch, clicking it five times before she realized the bulb had probably blown. "J@# C%$," she muttered to herself. Darkness, like a thick, wool blanket wrapped around the room, the last bit of light from the hallway huddling like a frightened child in the far corner by the door.
"J@# C%$! Again," She cursed herself for shutting the door too quickly and for not buying the more expensive name brand light bulbs.
Bob was to blame for this, she decided. He was to blame for everything that had ever gone wrong in the last two years of her life. It was almost twisted when she analyzed it to make it his fault in her mind, but all kidding aside, he had been the one that insisted upon keeping their old apartment when she announced that she wanted a divorce.
Stumbling blindly through this unfamiliar place she had been sleeping in for the last six weeks in attempt to turn on the dim bulb in the hallway, she stubbed her toe on the corner of some waylaid end table. A well formed curse escaped her lungs before she began haphazardly jumping and hopping in a ritualistic pain dance that would in the end, be her ultimate demise.
It was during this dance that a column of stacked boxes erupted behind her, tumbling around her and knocking her off balance. A heavy thud met with that sensitive point between her toes causing her to fall, slowly at first, as though the hands of time had ceased in order for her to think about what was happening to her. This was unbelievable, she realized in the process of the fall.
When her forehead met with the corner of the glass top coffee table she had taken despite her husbands' begging her not to, it split wide open, spilling out fragments of bone and sticky blood onto the carpet beneath her head.
Through this whole ordeal, she remained conscious, her mind skittering around the edge of a thousand unmet expectations in life. Her marriage had been an absolute disappointment, her career a failure, there was nothing in her miserable existence to be happy about, and now she was going to die in a pool of her own blood, alone on the floor in an apartment she absolutely hated. Somehow, this was all Bob's fault too.
Inside her ears, there was a pulsating numbness that rang in a maddening, high pitched tone, almost identical to that tone at the end of the public service announcement, that signaled an emergency. How ironic that in this state of personal emergency, her brain would send out that signal and she would die with that as the last sound she would ever hear.
A sound she imagined was a groan from her own throat filled the air, but she could hardly hear it over that incredibly annoying tone ringing in her ears. Perhaps someone else in the apartment building would hear her and come upstairs to see if she was all right. Again, she attempted that sound, only this time, there was a thick, sticky, fluid in her throat and she choked.
Oh my god, she thought. I am really going to die. It was absolutely insane, and she had never seen it coming. She had thought she had at least into her early seventies like her mother, before the grim reaper stood over her shoulder, beckoning her into the Bardo with a skeletal gesture of his cold hand.
One hour passed, but Rocky didn't know that, to her it felt like days, while she drifted in and out of consciousness, the moment of her death growing ever closer. For a moment, she felt as though she wasn't alone, someone else was there, watching over her. There was no comfort in this presence, she realized, not the way an angel's nearness would feel, soothing away the ever increasing fear of the end. But she realized, she could not feel fear, she was numb all over.
Through that hour, she realized how this was Bob's fault. If only he had come to the diner on time, she wouldn't be lying here now, her very brain matter seeping into the carpet of her dark, attic apartment. If there was an afterlife, she decided, cynical even in her last dying breath, she was going to find a way to come back and haunt that bastard for all eternity.
Hovering over her, closer now than before, was that silent presence, as though waiting for her to take her final breath. She thought she felt the warm certainty of breath on her skin, and though she longed to move away, to hide from whatever apparition lingered close, she couldn't move because her brain couldn't remember the signal to send to her body that would make it respond.
Shallow, empty, her breath was becoming more and more difficult, her lungs no longer capable of carrying the task the body knew as respiration. As she drew in one final, labored breath, a spark of light illuminated a dark, masculine face above her, and then she died.
Exhaling cigarette smoke over the corpse of his employer's wife, the hired assassin rose from his hunkered position beside her, stepped carefully over her lifeless body toward the door.
"Wow, that was just too easy!" he guffawed, "What an idiot."
Without looking back, he left the apartment where Rocky Banta's body would begin to decay, eventually seeping through the ceiling of the apartment below her's and dripping into Mr. Lee's breakfast of champions nearly seven days after her death.
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