Sometimes . . .

I miss the people I never knew the most.

Life in the Woods

Genre: Journalism (Profile)
Date written: 02/24/2009
Word count: 1717

“’Stop! Thief! Coward!’ I chased him into the woods shouting that. I was about to tackle him, and he dropped the backpack.” Dr. Wagner’s eyes glisten with a boyish eagerness as he recounts to me his encounter with a machete wielding man in Guatemala this past summer. He suddenly gets up and walks across the room towards his coffee pot. I see on his desk a small basket of dried apples picked from his own farm. A battered gray briefcase leans against his desk. Interspersed with several travel books, various textbooks ranging from modern physics to environmental science line his bookshelves. The very bottom shelf contains a collection of National Geographic—some dating back to the 1980’s. On his computer, he has open a Wikipedia page about grapefruit.

With his scraggly beard and slightly unkempt hair, Wagner bears a slight resemblance to the great philosopher Henry David Thoreau. “I got a lot of ideas from him [Thoreau] when I was in junior high,” Wagner admits, “I read him again after I got out of college, and he’s right. Simplify your life, and things will be better for you. Buddha taught that suffering is caused by desires and to the extent you can reduce your desires, you can reduce your suffering. I’ve found it to be true.” Highly critical of the modern consumerist age, Wagner has lived up to his goal of living life simply. He resides in a modest home on a farm with a monthly $15 electric bill. Living without air conditioning, central heat, a computer, or a cell phone, Wagner opts to heat and cool his home with a simple wood stove and fan during the winter and summer months. Roy Flannagan, a friend and colleague of Wagner, notes that “his house is empty. It’s almost creepy.” Despite his minimalist approach to living, Wagner admits to having some creature comforts. “I do have lights, a radio, a TV, and a ghetto blaster so I can listen to music.”

Although more commonly known as the thrifty, economically-savvy chemistry teacher at the Governor’s School for Science and Mathematics (GSSM), Dr. Kurt Collins Wagner leads a second life of adventure aside from his teaching career. Student Anna Capps recalls a time when Dr. Wagner admitted to wearing his swim suit under his work clothes so that he could leave immediately after class to go surfing. Although still thoroughly entrenched in the world of academia, Dr. Wagner has managed to balance his active outdoorsman lifestyle by traveling the world during his months off work. “I always wanted to be a scientist, and I got to do that. I wanted to be sailor, and I’ve done that. I wanted to have adventures, and I’ve had an awful lot of them,” he replied when I asked about his childhood goals. “I’ve always enjoyed the outdoors,” Wagner continues, “When I got out of college, I dropped out. I didn’t want to have to do anything with modern society. I basically thought it was evil. I lived in a cabin in the woods and lived by hunting, fishing, and foraging. In my senior year in high school, I got a tent and lived in the woods. After I got my doctorate, I went wandering around in the Rocky Mountains for a while.”

Despite his modest way of life, Dr. Wagner is at the age of 56, a self-made millionaire. Gifted with an eye for financial opportunities, Wagner through the years has accumulated a respectable fortune through thrifty spending habits and a series of lucrative investments. In his chemistry class, students can look forward to his “Economic Minute,” a series of daily tips ranging from investment advice to legal tax evasion. He admits that making money is “kind of a habit at this point. I hope that some of this information will rub off on my students, who are presumably interested in money. Materially, I have everything I want already. At some point, the only reason to make money is to give it away prudently, and that’s what I want to do.” When I ask him why he continues teaching, he replies, “Well, I can’t think of anything I’d rather be doing. I don’t really need the money anymore, but hey, it’s a pretty nice job.”

In 1994, Dr. Wagner had been in midst of what he likes to call his “wandering chemist phase” when he met Bob Trowell, a former chemistry teacher at GSSM who suggested that Wagner apply for a job at the school. “I was working at the University of Rochester and ended up in a dorm with Bob Trowell. We were both teachers and both into long distance bicycle riding. Six months later, I get a phone call saying, ‘Guess what? Joe quit. Want to apply for his job?’ So here I am.” Dr. Wagner continues on to tell me that the students are his favorite part of teaching at GSSM. “I like the fact that I can teach, and that I have to spend little time maintaining order.” However, he does admit that teaching does have its downsides. “Teaching is so schizophrenic in that you work all the time, twelve to fourteen hours a day, six days a week, and then have two months completely off. Sometimes I wish I had a more normal existence.” He rocks back and forth on his worn swivel chair as he waves his arm over a stack of paper. “And I really hate grading,” he adds, “I should hire someone to do it for me.”

After a full day at work, Wagner returns to his 67 acre farm in the small town of Bishopsville and participates in what he likes to call “aerobic work.” “I just mess around on the farm. Cut brush, or cut firewood. I grow all my vegetables and most of my fruit.” He gets up and pours more water into his coffee pot as he adds, “Oh, another thing I do for exercise is, I walk. I like to walk. I walk a lot. I walk the perimeter of my land because I know it well and can find my way in the dark. I walk during my vacations. I call these summer expeditions my ‘walkabouts.’ I’m open to whatever presents itself. Be it an opportunity to be robbed or whatever. I set forth with no particular plan and make it up as I go along. No schedule. If you have a schedule, it’s too much like work. You just go wander around and experience new stuff.”

From these “walkabouts” Wagner over the years has collected an impressive collection of personal stories. He tells me about his recent trip to Guatemala. “I met this woman from Texas in Guatemala. I was looking for somewhere to eat breakfast, and she was doing the same thing. We decided to walk over the next village to get away from the tourists. We’re walking on the road and some guy comes walking in the opposite direction carrying a machete. I didn’t think much of it, but he walked across the road to where we were at. Robin immediately takes off her backpack and gives it to him. The guy looks at me and says, ‘Give me your backpack.’ I took it off, looked him squarely in the eye and said, ‘No.’ So he starts swinging his machete around and I block it with my backpack. Then, I punched him in the nose. He swung the machete several times, and I just hit him again and again. Finally, he turned and ran. So, I chased him into the woods, and when I was about to tackle him, he drops the backpack. Robin comes running and says, ‘There’s two more [men] coming.’ So we ran.” He adjusts the collar of his wrinkled blue shirt and takes a sip of his coffee as he adds, “I went to the police later and identified the guy from a mug shot.” After a moment’s pause Wagner’s blue eyes turn cold as he says, “Thieves are cowards. They’re looking for a victim. I am not a victim. I do plan on hurting them. At least.”

As an afterthought he adds, “Well, I haven’t been killed or seriously injured yet. One wonders how long the good luck can hold.” He smiles mischievously as he begins shelling pecans he picked from his farm the week before. While telling me of a time when a horse had fallen out under him at a full gallop, he adds, “It was exciting. As long as you don’t get hurt, it’s fun. At this point, I’ve almost lost completely all interest in fiction. I just don’t care. It’s all made up crap. Reality is interesting enough.”

Pragmatic and very much grounded in the real world, Wagner’s students and colleagues alike testify to his strong opinions and beliefs. One can often find a student in his office debating about politics or the economy. “I’m for minimal government and maximum freedom,” he notes with a small laugh. His voice suddenly turns serious, however, as he adds, “Keep in mind that the flip side of freedom is responsibility. If you decide to smoke, don’t ask me to help you pay for a new set of lungs.” Wagner holds equally practical opinions regarding religion. Describing his retreat into the woods after college, he tells me, “At the time, religion had caused a great deal of confusion in my mind. I went to the woods and lived there for seven years without electricity. I explored and read all the religious texts, and certain things became clear to me.” As I start packing away my notebook and pens, he asks me, “What’s the difference between religion and mythology? Mythology is religion that’s died out, and religion is a myth that hasn’t died yet. But I shy away from the word ‘atheist.’”

On my way out, I see his travel books and ask him about all the countries he has visited. “This past summer, I was in Guatemala. I’ve also been to Mexico, Peru, Bolivia, Ecuador, Nicaragua, Belize, and Honduras.” I ask him about his plans for the coming summer. Without skipping a beat he replies, “I might just go wander around pointlessly. Or I saw an opportunity to go research medicinal use of plants in the Caribbean. I might do that.”

The Drones

Genre: Fantasy

Word Count: 687

He was running—feet pumping wildly, tripping, hands circling in a dance for balance; the golden stalks whipped his body mercilessly as he thrashed by. Why? Why, why, why? Why had it happened?

The slaving workers all around, but only spots of color in his eyes; they never turned from their harvesting. Why?

The field burst into a clearing, a small shack at the edge of the estate, a blur in his wet vision. He stopped, a man sobbing for breath, legs gasping for support, arms thrusting the lashing whips aside. His body was spent, but for some reason, that reality barely lurked in his grieving mind.

It was over.

He had never thought it would be like this, a mad panic descending, a sudden disregard for reason, a pause for contemplation, a spark of hope—

He hadn’t thought he would lose control, but he had; he clearly had. The unsolved weights were pressing down on him, making it hard to breathe, making it hard to think. His vision blurred; and then the shed was right in front of him, a squat cube of wood and tin smashed next to the woods, yellow straws just tickling the corrugated sides. Inside, was the answer.

In a sudden rush, his breath returned, his lungs gasped, his limbs burned from the heat of exertion. A bitter laugh almost rebelled—he was really doing it, was really going to end it all.

A stumbling step, a clumsy fumble with the parched door, and he was in—in the encompassing darkness within. The sounds of the laborers faded away; his hands pawed the cabinet as his eyes adjusted.

He looked at the vial. Fragile. Innocent.—Who would have guessed that it held so much power?

“Karil,” a voice from behind him, a wisp of tender hair, a whiff of soft perfume, “what are you doing?”

She had come, but he didn’t reply, didn’t turn around. His fingers slowly rotated the glass, tired eyes intently watching the clear, colorless liquid within swirl gently about.

“Karil.” A little louder, a little concerned, “What are you doing?”

The solution to all his problems was in his hands, he knew. There were the stirrings of a smile.

“Karil,” she brushed gently against his side.

Did he have the strength to drink it? Did he have the strength to give up?

“Karil!”

No, no. It wasn’t giving up. Not everything. He would still be useful to society, to his friends, to his family.

Her hands flew out, grasped the vial, nearly taking it completely from his grip.

“Karil! What are you doing?”

He snatched the precious flask back. “It’s for the best.”

“What do you mean? You can do so much more the way you are now.”

He looked away, out the window, toward the mindless, toiling workers in the fields. “The drones are happy,” he said with a hint of bitterness.

“They don’t know any better!” she made another lunge. “You don’t want to be like that!”

“Don’t I?”

“What are you saying? Weren’t you laughing at them yesterday?”

He didn’t answer.

“Think about it, Karil. Think about what you’re doing.”

Slowly, “I have.”

“Then why? Didn’t you weigh the positives and negatives? Can’t you see the benefits of staying yourself?”

He fingered the stopper.

“What about me? What about me, Karil?” A desperate voice, a begging voice, a voice on the verge of collapse.

He paused. Froze. He paused and then slowly lifted the vial, slowly lifted it to his lips. She watched, crying, not daring to reach out, not daring enough to stop him.

“What about me?” a whisper, an unbelieving whisper. The answer was too obvious, painfully obvious, heart-wrenchingly obvious.

One drop was enough, a mere mist on his lips. One drop and the vial was lowered again, a glittering phial of liquid crystal. One drop and he was gone, standing stiffly in the center of the room, awaiting an order.

One drop and it was all over.

Slowly, so slowly, she reached for the glass still clutched in his undead hands, reached for the container holding the sparkling liquid,—reached for freedom.

The Garbage Man

Genre: Short story
Written: August 29, 2009
Word count: 728

At 3:00 AM I met the garbage man, and by 3:11 he was just another memory. I was sitting on the cold pavement of the curb, blowing soft clouds of white vapor with my mouth when he came. He drove up the street in an eerily quiet truck and shuddered to a stop in front of my apartment. He was humming softly to the tune of "Amazing Grace" as he picked up my putrid can of leftover dinners, unpaid bills, and molding yogurt containers. He sniffed the air with vigor, and smiled with a modest satisfaction.

"Yes, sir. It's a good day. Yes, sir it is."

I stirred a little, not knowing if he had just addressed me.

"Yes, sir, I can see ya. Yes, sir I can."

He started humming again. The night decided to throw a little chill in the air, and I tugged my jacket closer to my chest.

"Whatcha doin' on a night like this? Lonely as hell. Dark as hell. Hell! You're probably the only one out here. Yes, sir, just you and me on the streets. On the streets all alone."

I sat there mute, not knowing how to respond, and feeling a strange sensation of wanting to bare my soul to an utter stranger who collected all the unwanted things of life. He stood there for a moment, decided I was not going to answer, turned around and started walking towards his truck.

"Yes, sir, it's an excellent day for the garbage man. But a man shouldn't be alone. A fine man like yourself shouldn't be alone. No, sir, fine men should not be alone on a night like this."

He suddenly turned around and faced me with a violent grin that made a small part of my stomach fold.

"No, sir, you should not be alone."

His oily face was framed by his slightly matted, damp hair that fumed with the vapors of the city. His clothes were stained by every excrement no one wanted, and his shoes were damp with the juices of week-old lunches and spoiled milk. His entire being reeked of the garbage of the cities, and he repulsed me. I turned away, ashamed at my disgust. When I looked up, his smile had gone. Some part of me knew that I would never see it again.

"I do this for you, ya know. Yes, sir, I do this for everyone. Someone's gotta do it, and yes, sir, I suppose it's gotta be me. You learn a lot about people through their trash, ya know that? Yes, sir what everyone doesn't want, is what everyone does truly want deep inside. I know more about every one of ya than any of ya ever care to admit. Yes, sir, I'm a goddamn factory of information on you all. That apartment right there," he yelled as he pointed to the complex above mine, "They're going through a divorce. They don't even bother to shred those types of papers! Yes, sir, they're going through some tough times and I bet you didn't even know it. You see that one over there?" He continued to yell, his volume swelling, "Yes, sir, I suspect that there be some abuse goin' on in that place. That one, sir! Yes, that one! Someone just died there. Ya know that? Ya know that someone died there?" He panted slightly with exertion and wiped the bead of sweat that had formed near his hairline with the back of his wrist. “No, sir, I bet you didn’t know a damn thing about anyone.”

He gave me one final look of disdain, jumped in his truck, and drove away. I sat on the curb, horribly ashamed at the one way conversation that had transpired between me and this man I had never met. I looked up at the apartments he had pointed out, and became repulsive in my own eyes. It was a lonely night, and I was an abhorrence to myself. I wondered who had died, and cursed that no names came to mind. I cursed into the air and knew that I was alone. For the next week I stood on the curb, waiting for the garbage man, but he never came back. He never came back, and the garbage of my life sat festering, rotting on the curb, and I knew that I was alone.

Wrong Choice, Try Again

Genre: Science Fiction
Word Count: 3918

A/N: Might be my last post for a while, who knows. I'll have to see how my schedule settles out to in college. :)

Wrong choice, try again.

My surroundings fade out and reset themselves. The tracks in front. The oncoming train. The five people tied to the track, like something out of a corny Western movie. The smug man standing next to me, watching the whole scene unfold without any expression of emotion. Oh yeah, and the never-ending miles and miles of empty desert around. What’s the point of this place again?

The train barrels closer.

What the heck is going on, anyway? One second, I’m at the office, about to sign the document that would fire the people responsible for the recent fiasco. The next, here I am, standing on this station platform, watching the train chug closer, closer, ever closer to running over the people on the track. How’d they get there in the first place?

Closer.

The man next to me glances at his watch, checking the time. What the heck is he doing? Why doesn’t he go and do something about the people? Like, something along the lines of saving them?

“I’m not the one being tested.” He looks up. He must have read my mind. No, can’t be. Just coincidence.

And closer. Fifty feet away. Forty. Thirty. Twenty. Ten.

And there go the people… again. For like the billionth time. Blood and limbs and who-knows-what flying everywhere. What can I do? There’s no convenient switch, no way to signal. And it’s not like I want to be here.

The train slows… and slows… and stops. A bit late there.

I wait for the voice.

Wrong choice, try again.

It booms from everywhere, nowhere, like some stereotypical god. Hold a sec. What did I just say? Stereotypical god… how does that work? Oh, never mind.

The scene fades out again, reappears. The train whistles in the distance… again. This is getting to be too familiar.

The man next to me casually examines his fingernails. “Well? Are you going to do something this time?”

Me? Do something? Why don’t you? I ought to punch that smug loser in the nose. Might make him rethink his words a bit. What a jerk.

“I’m not the one being tested.” He rummages through his black clothes and pulls out a monocle. The stereotypical gentleman from who-knows-what time period. I don’t know. I’m just an office worker. Black shoes, black pants, black jacket, black top hat. I’d give more descriptive words, but I don’t know much about old-fashioned clothing. Heck, who would? Some random aspiring writer in the middle of nowhere who really needs to get a life, no doubt. Oh yeah, don’t forget that bushy, white mustache. Can’t forget the mustache.

And what’s this about a test?

“You’re being tested. I’d suggest you do something.” He musses around with the golden monocle, shifting its position constantly. The glaring sun burns down on us. Oh yeah, the sun, something else I forgot in my earlier description. Anyways, wasn’t he hot? Heck, I’m feeling a bit warm, but he’s wearing all black… and all long-sleeved at that! He ought to be melting. Of course, I ought to be, too, but the place keeps resetting itself every five minutes or so. Thankfully, that includes the heat as well.

I glance over at the incoming train. Getting closer again. Ah well, nothing else to do but talk to that condescending loser.

“What can I do?” I finally ask.

He shrugs. “Do something. Save the people.”

I’m in some crazy, weird time loop in some crazy, alternate reality, and this guy expects me to go all hero. Yeah, I’ll just bust out that Superman costume and throw that train out to Timbuktu. Just another normal day at work.

“How?” My voice was scathing. Can’t keep the sarcasm out. I’m bad at that. Almost got into some real trouble back with my old boss about that. Hey, nobody can be perfect, right?

He shrugs again. “I’d suggest stopping the train.”

No really? I can feel the sarcasm struggling to break out again. Got to work on that self-control. Anyways, what’s the point of saving those people? They probably don’t exist—definitely don’t exist anyway. Just like this whole place doesn’t exist. I mean, what place do you know that keeps repeating itself after every five minutes? Oh yeah, and that weird booming voice. Nope, definitely not real. I must have fallen asleep or something—this is all just some weird, bizarre dream.

Time to try that good-old, clichéd way to wake up. I raise my finger… and pinch. It hurts. Dang. If this is following any of those crazy rules of really bad fiction, it means this is real. And I’m not dreaming.

“The people are real.”

Dang, he read my mind… again! How’d he do that if this is real? He was a bit slower on it this time though…

“I’d try to do something if I were you.” The gentleman smiles and checks his watch again. A fancy, gold, pocket watch, of course. Nothing less for Mr. Prim-and-Proper.

I look back at the train. Getting closer. Smoke pours out from the funnel. What the heck.

I half-run, half-walk towards the train, feeling really stupid. Whoo hoo. Over here! I wave my hands in the air. Maybe the train’s driver will actually see me and stop. What a laugh. “Hey! Stop!”

I can tell I’m doing this half-heartedly. I mean, who wouldn’t? And what’s going on here anyway? If only my boss could see me now… or not. He’d get a kick out of it for sure.

“Hey! You! Driver person! Stop!”

The train moves closer. Is it slowing? Nope, not slowing. I wince slightly as it runs over the people again. Blood splatters around. Fake, I tell myself. Blood doesn’t really splatter that much in real life. Then again, you don’t really see people get run over by a train in real life either. Well, at least where I live people don’t.

The train stops. A bit late there. Just a bit.

Wrong choice, try again.

Here we go again.

I’m back where I started, next to the gentleman. Mr. Prim-and-Proper. Cool, teleportation. I take that back. It’s only almost cool, since I’m stuck here in the middle of nowhere.

“Nice idea, but there’s no driver.”

“What do you mean, no driver?” How does a train go without someone to start it?

He shrugs.

Great answer, bud. Helps a whole lot. How does that work? Does the train just move all by itself? Somewhere inside me, I guess yes. Well, what now, genius? How’re you supposed to stop the train? Heck, why do I even need to stop the train. To save five very very real people? Just let them die. It’s not worth the effort on my part. Except… that I might be stuck here for all eternity if I don’t do something. I seem to be in some sort of infinite loop… or at least until I do something to get out of it. And standing here watching the train plow into the five retards who got themselves strapped to the stupid track obviously isn’t the trigger to getting out of here. What now?

“Think.” Mr. Prim-and-Proper pulls out a toothpick and starts picking away at those pearly whites. Or, more like not-so-pearly yellows on his part. Ick. “You’re supposed to be a good thinker. Think up a way out of this.”

Out of what? Oh well, might as well try. How can I stop the train? Tear up the track? It might work, if I had half an eternity to attempt to chip away at the steel with my bare hands. Or, at least I think it’s steel. I mean, how many other shiny, silvery metals can there be?

Anyways, that won’t work. Gotta think of something else. Push the train over? Yeah, right, with that superhuman strength I’ve been saving all along just for this moment. What else?

I’m thinking too deep. What’s the easy solution? Oh yeah, duh, untie the people. I’m so stupid.

Or… not. They’re tied down with… steel bands? How’d that happen? This is stupid. Really stupid. Oh crap, the train’s getting close again, better move away.

I’m back next to the gentleman, still picking away at those teeth. Just admit it, buddy, it’s a lost cause. And… there goes the train, plowing into those people again. And slowing… and stopping. Too late, of course.

Wait a second. There’s no driver, so the train must’ve stopped on its own. How? Why?

The people. Hitting the people must slow it down. Ugh, this makes me thinks of physics back in high school. Not a good memory. Anyways, what am I going to do? Chuck stuff at the train and hope it’s enough to slow it down to a stop?

I look around the platform for stuff to throw. Nothing. Well, there goes that idea.

The train chugs cheerfully along. Well, maybe not cheerfully, but, well, you get the point.

And then I spot Mr. Prim-and-Proper again out of the corner of my eye. Well, more like he attracts my attention—by nearly impaling me with that spear of a contaminated toothpick after he’s finally given up with his little dental hygiene streak. Now he’s powdering his face, of all things. Don’t ask me why.

And then the idea hits me. Not literally, but, eh, what’s the point.

I size him up. Looks light enough. If I can’t carry him, I could always just drag him or something. Hmm, I can just see his face when I throw him in front of that train…

Hey! Nothing wrong with that, right? I’m trading one life to save five! Not a bad bargain. Sure does make sense, right?

I pick him up. Lighter than I expected. Or maybe I’m just stronger than I thought. I prefer the latter.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” Some not-too-gentlemanly words follow.

I walk over to the track and the incoming train. Will it be enough? The train seems to be going awfully fast. Ah well, no great loss to me if it doesn’t work anyway. Heck, the way I see it, I’d almost be doing the world a favor.

I put him down, next to the edge.

“What was the idea of that anyway?” he brushes angrily at his disheveled clothes. No need to do that where you’re going.

I smile. Hey, who wouldn’t? And I push him out in front of the train. “Bon voyage!” Can’t resist saying that. French? Spanish? Eh, who cares? Just another one of those weird languages no one really cares about.

I step back. I don’t want to get caught too close to the train when it passes. I dunno why, but that’s just the way it works, I guess. I remember all those nice, yellow lines at the subway stations. No yellow lines here, but why take the risk?

The train plows into him, still firing insults. No great loss. I wait to see if my plan will work. Slower…slower…

Darn, still squished a few guys. Two lived. Hey, that’s only four dead. Better than five, eh?

Close, try again.

Drat. I’m not out of this yet. Okay, I’ll just push Mr. Prim-and-Proper in earlier. And further away from the people. Should work. Besides, I don’t mind getting to enjoy that particular part again.

I pick him up… again. Who knew someone who looks like him could be so ticklish? Oh well. Have fun getting run over, mister!

And… it works! I just saved the people. Whoo hoo! What a hero. Just don’t mention that unlucky dude who got clobbered beyond recognition in the papers.

At least I’ll get to get out of here now.

Good job. On to Level Two.

Or not. What is this, some sort of video game?

Everything fades out and fades in again. Nothing’s changed, except that Mr. Prim-and-Proper is gone and there’s some random black guy in his place.

Hey! Don’t make it this easy!

I wave as the poor guy meets the same fate as Mr. Prim-and-Proper. Just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Oh well, no bad feelings.

Level Three.

Asian guy.

I do some weird bowing thing to honor his ancestors, or whatever. This is getting annoying. When am I going to get out?

Level Four.

Native American.

Level Five.

Some guy who looks like he took a bit too much pot. Not my problem.

Level Six.

Some Russian lady.

Level Seven.

Some random hobo off the streets. Ehck. Any Purell around here?

Level Eight.

Pregnant woman.

Level Ni—

Wait, what? Pregnant woman? Oops…

Eh, a bit late to think about it now. Back to my job of saving those five retards from dying again.

Level Nine.

Two kids. Two kids. Guess one wouldn’t be enough. I send them both to heaven. Or hell. Depends on how you think of it. Hey, I’m still saving lives, right? Two for five? Sounds like a deal to me. Two hundred and fifty percent return value!

Level Ten.

Einstein. I think a bit about this one. Then, I do away with him like all the others. You would’ve thought that he’d be smart enough to think up some way to break out of my grip. Guess not. Who needs any of that fancy shmancy relativity stuff anyways?

My life as a serial murderer. Hey, I have to get myself out of here, right?

The rules are changing. You have reached the final level.

About time. I wonder what’s changed.

The five people have been changed.

I look over the edge at the poor victims. Dang, they did change. How’d Mr. Deity do that so fast? Hmm, and that new lady lying there on the tracks almost looks like someone I know. The light brown hair, the dark eyes. Oh, I know! She reminds me of my wife!

Oh wait a second. Clara! What are you doing here? I look at the other people. My son Jered. My daughter Jane. My brother-in-law What’s-his-name. And Aunt Polly.

Well, that shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll just reach for whomever they provide this time and…

Oh yeah, by the way, notice the whomever. I’m just smart like that.

“Hello, son.”

Dad? My own, old father, standing next to me. Isn’t he supposed to be in a nursing home somewhere? Far, far away from me?

Oh crap. This brings up a few issues. Moral issues. And I thought I left those pesky things behind back when I stopped going to church. Do I kill my dad to save five other family members?

Well, he’s old, and they’re young. Well, younger anyway. Mostly. With the exception of Aunt Polly, but she doesn’t count. Hold on a second, how come she isn’t in a nursing home either?

Back to the issue. Old Papa’s probably going to die soon anyway, considering he’s had a stroke and can’t even talk—hold on a minute. He definitely talked to me.

Ah well, just forget that. Nothing here makes much sense anyway. I guess everything’s pretty clear. I’ll just have to kill—err… accidentally trip my old pater here to save everyone else. He’d probably do it himself anyway. He was always the hero type. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.

And of course, there’s also the inheritance. Yup. Choice made for sure.

And there he goes… and the train’s slowing… and there, stopped. Just barely in time to keep from squishing poor Clara. She better be grateful. I got to cut down on my thinking time a bit. That was a bit too close for comfort.

At least it’s over now. Everything fades out, just as I expected, and I’m looking to find myself sitting back at my desk, none the wiser from this stupid excursion. I really needed to finish writing that report. I mean, those people down at Accounting were waiting for their destinies here, those poor bastards. The blame’s got to go somewhere, eh? And everyone knows I’m too precious a commodity to lose just because of some careless mistake. I mean, who wouldn’t have tried investing in that startup? It was like a dream come true! Well... almost. Not quite, but, hey! At least I tried, right?

The train barrels closer.

“Hey! What’s this? I thought you said that was the final level!”

I lied.

That’s not fair. What now?

I glance back over at the five prisoners. Poor Clara. Who did they provide this time?

Old Ma-mah. Great. Just what I needed. No regrets there.

“Now am I done?”

Not yet.

That stupid condescending voice is really starting to make me angry. Okay, I lied. I’m ready to rip out someone’s voice box… or just throw a certain someone in front of a certain train. No specifics. No names. Cough. Cough. Wink. Wink.

Some random person holding a sign that says: Don’t throw me in front of the train.

Sorry bud. What did you think you were doing? Using reverse psychology?

Nope. Guess not. I watch his body crumple as it is crushed. The train slows as expected. I swear this God-thing that’s keeping me here is getting a sense of humor.

And you know what? This is actually sort of fun, in a twisted this-is-so-much-better-than-typing-out-a-stupid-report-for-my-stupid-boss sort of way. Notice my use of than. Not then. Than. That’s me. Mr. Grammatically-Correct. Yeah, right.

Maybe this mass-murder, killing-spree is getting to me.

Next Level.

Mr. Senator? Take your stupid pork-barrel legislation with you while you’re at it!

The President? See ya later. I didn’t vote for you anyway.

What’s up with this? Am I just going to be stuck here forever?

“Hey you! Mr. Voice-in-the-sky! Are you having enough fun watching me?”

No answer. Besides, he probably isn’t just having fun. This is probably part of some weird government conspiracy to freak out the populace. Yeah, that sounds about right. It’s all their fault I killed all those people.

Oh wait, I killed the president.

Ooooo… that’s even worse. The president isn’t even in control of the government anymore! What’s this world coming to?

“Say. I’m tired of this. I’m just gonna stop if you don’t let me out soon.”

Fine. This will be the last one.

“Really?” Like I’m going to believe him. Her. It. Whatever.

Well, I might change my mind.

Great. What can I say to that?

This will most likely be the last one.

Fun. Fun. For everyone! Okay, not really. I think I’m going insane. I wonder how much money I can get out of suing the government for that. Hmm, maybe I should call up a personal injury lawyer.

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd… there comes the train. Too easy. You’d have thought Mr. Deity would replace it with some sort of monster or something. I reach without even turning to snatch my next victim and…

Nothing.

I’m the only one here.

Should’ve seen this coming. Perverted pseudo-god. What do I do now? Throw myself into the path of the train?

Yeah. Right. To save my wife, son, daughter, some brother-in-law, and Aunt Polly. Is it worth it? Hmmm, should I leave my children without a father, or just solve the problem by having no more children. I’m liking the second choice. Saves them a lot of trouble.

That’s right, I’m a stinking, self-centered bastard. I’m definitely worth at least a trillion other people. What’s the choice, save a trillion, or save five? What are you going to do about it, huh?

I will stop time to allow you more time to think.

Oh great. Extend the time. Give me more chance to start having doubts. There goes my plan of delaying until it’s too late to save them even if I jumped. Tricky, huh. I’m a tricky guy. You’ve got to be tricky to shunt all the blame from that scandal down to those five poor guys in Accounting who are going to get fired and then sued until they drop dead because the company just about steamrolls over them with lawsuits.

Hmm. Is Clara really worth it? Sure, she’s pretty, and not bad in bed, but I think I can get along fine without her. I can always just find another woman. Less people to pay for, too. Sounds good to me. Oh yeah, there’s also that life insurance. Can’t forget the life insurance.

Jered. Well, that one’s easy. He’s just an arrogant, egotistical prick. Just like me. No wonder I hate him so much. I’m sure if I were in his place, he wouldn’t hesitate either.

Jane. She doesn’t bother me as much as Jered, but she’s still pretty annoying. You got to admit, spending all my hard-earned cash on stuff like hair spray, lip-stick, who-knows-what. And there’s also that annoying boyfriend. And that time she just about totaled my car. I still have her driver’s license in my briefcase. Anyways, strike three. You’re out.

Unknown brother-in-law. Only saw you once at a family reunion thing anyway. I think we talked about sausages. Think I care anything for you? Think again.

And finally, Aunt Polly. Weird hair. Ugly glasses. Big, fat, wet lips. Get away from me!

Okay Mr. God. Decision made. You can stop the time-freeze now. Let me go back to my office so I can enjoy my nice, hot coffee.

Come on, please? I’ll even share some with you.

Fine, fine. You can have all the coffee. Just take it all. Steal all of a poor, innocent man’s lifeblood.

Okay, this isn’t working. Fine. I’ll just stand here. I’m not playing your game anymore. It’s stupid anyway. S-T-O-O-P-I-D. That’s right. Stupid.

I whistle for about thirty seconds.

Fine. You must have infinite patience or something. I give up. Just let me go. You win. I lose.

Oh! I have an idea. Let’s flip a coin. Heads, you win, tails, I lose. Deal? Oh, wait a second… I take that back! Heads, I win, tails, you lose. Much better. What do you say?

Oh come on.

Fine, fine. You win. I’ll just walk up to the edge and jump. Happy?

I’m standing at the edge. You have to be dreaming if you think I’ll jump willingly.

Oh wait, what am I thinking? Why commit suicide when you can just run? Gosh was I really losing it there.

Wait a second... why isn’t the platform getting any further away?

Don’t try to run away.

Looks like there’s no choice. I look over at Clara. You better be grateful for this. Enjoy the insurance money while it lasts. I know you have a thing for finding scams on the internet.

I look up into the sky. Dang, that sun is bright. This better not hurt, Mr. God-person.

I close my eyes. Jump.

The train leaps forward.

---

Whew, my office. What was that all about? Hmm, weird daydream. Nothing really happened. What a waste of time… oh wait, no time has passed. Figures. I get tortured in some time loop and don’t miss out on any work. Life sucks… and… hey! Where’s my coffee!

I’ll get the person who stole it after I finish these forms. Just need to fill out the names and sign it. Sucks for those guys down in Accounting. I feel for you… not.

I sign…and… done! Wish I could see the look on their faces when they find out. Oh well, can’t have everything you wish for.

They’ll protest, that’s a given, but it’s hard to win when all the evidence points towards you. Too bad I guess.

Now, about that coffee…

(Wistfully) Wrong choice, try again.

Written: Before 6/20/2008