Beauty and the Ego: A one Act play

The scene is a lavish living room, where Josh watches football on a big screen tv, and drinks a beer. His phone rings.

Josh: Hey. Um yeah, ok. (pause) Uh, you sure? (pause) Isn't this the kind of thing you talk about with your girlfriends. (sighs) Well, I just finished my last one. Yeah ok, I'll buzz you in.

Josh walks to the door and presses a buzzer. Becky enters, carrying a case of beer. Josh opens the case and pops open a beer and takes a sip

Josh: You know how to get me to do your bidding.

Becky: Josh, he's doing it again.

Josh: That sucks. Dump him, date me.

Becky: We've been together for 3 years. Why won't he move in with me?

Josh: He wants other vaginas.

Becky: But he's never cheated on me.

Josh: He wants the possbility of other vaginas.

Josh's phone rings. He looks at the screen, presses a key and returns the phone to his pocket

Becky: Is that one of your sluts?

Josh: Yep.

Becky: I do not get men.

Josh: I'll dump them if you date me.

Becky: It's just, with Ryan, he says he loves me and I know he never cheated on me. He refuses to commit. Why do men do that?

Josh: He's holding out for other vaginas.

Becky: That's ridiculous. He tells me I'm the most amazing woman in the world. Why won't he commit to me?

Josh: Doesn't appreciate what he's got. Hey, can you hand me another beer?"

Becky: Josh, you have sex with tons of women. Why do men do that?

Josh: You won't date me. I don't love these other girls.

Becky: But Ryan and I are in love. Does he think there's someone better than me?

Josh: Hey football. Let's watch that.

Becky: I mean, I'm kind of out of his league.

Josh: So dump him. Yes, yes! Run! Yeah! That's how we do it, baby! Um, yeah, Becks, you're right. You deserve some hot rich guy who loves you. Date me.

Becky: I've got to put my foot down. I'm going to tell him, "you move in with me or we are through"

Josh: Then in a year, you can do the same thing to get him to marry you. Also, great for kids. (to tv) Oh, come on, ref! What game are you watching?

Becky: Well, I'm ready to commit. He isn't, but he should be. I should try to persuade him.

Josh: You assume Ryan is a rational creature.

Becky: Yes, he can be persuaded.

Josh: Looks like you've solved your problem. Hey, it's football! Let's watch that and not talk about your douche-bag boyfriend. Hand me another beer.

Becky: Thanks, Josh. Talking to you really helped. I'm going home. I'll tell you what happens.

Josh: Oh boy.
Becky leaves. Josh takes out his phone.

Josh: Hey Stacy. I see you called a little while ago. I'm sorry, I was watching the game. Uh-huh. Well, you know me. Um, yeah, you can come over for a couple hours. I got work in the morning. Okay. See you in ten minutes.

Employee of Evil

At 2:23AM, Nitin Yangzom discovered Lila Kala sprawled dead across the Comnetrix Corporation server room floor.

Nitan froze and forced himself to retrace every detail in his life that led him to the very wrong situation. His parents had immigrated to America when his father, working for the very same Comnetrix Corporation, was transferred to the company’s U.S. offices, and in their celebration, Nitan had been conceived. While he was considered gifted at a very young age, it did little to keep his young peers from calling him “Nitwit” throughout even his years in high school. School did little to challenge him intellectually, and the few times when it did, his studies only aggravated his difficulties building a social life. He eventually grew accustomed to a more solitary life, finding the benefits of an ignored life such as peace and a degree of independence. There were times he considered whether he was grateful for his older siblings, for having married and obtained vast wealth and generally having satisfied the desire of his parents. As it was, though, Nitan had no real direction of his own, and so he didn’t object when his father recommended he follow in his footsteps as an employee of Comnetrix Corporation. Nitan did not know exactly what business Comnetrix Corporation practiced, nor did he terribly care. It was just like any other soullessly simple company that paid the bills, he felt, and just like most companies these days, they needed people to run their IT. So it was that he had fallen into a sea of a poorly-managed IT department, left mostly in charge of babysitting programs mining away at whatever real work needed to be done.

The months Nitan intended to stay while he found a better job crept into years. He dropped out of college as his grades fell and the hours at work demanded of him rose. His only pleasures at work, which he indulged in when nobody was looking, included playing games on his smartphone and staring at Lila Kala’s curves when she walked by his desk. What she was doing at a place like Comnetrix, instead of high above the lowly earth within the heavens as Nitan imagined, was beyond his understanding. It would make his day whenever she acknowledged him with a smile or even a “hello” in passing. He never had talked to her, though, and therefore only knew of her what fantasies he conjured in the vast and unexplored palace of his mind. Not that he would have had much of an opportunity, as work forced him to stay in the offices for twelve-plus hour days, six days a week. As it happened this Saturday night, Nitan filled in for the work of three people as the others had called out sick, and during one of the routine server checks, a message pinged back, asserting that the server was unavailable. Normally, protocol would dictate that his immediate superior (who claimed to be working on reports at home) had the sole authorization to enter the server room, and should no proper authority be present, Nitan was required to e-mail his immediate supervisor, his supervisor and the assistant department manager and await further instructions. Because the gods of business derived pleasure from the ironic misery of their worshipers, the operations required that the server never be down for longer than the minimum two hours required for monthly maintenance, and any response Nitan received from his superiors would inevitably take at least five hours, after which they would undoubtedly blame him for the incident. Nitan briefly considered the advantages of unemployment and, having decided he would not be so fortunate as to be fired, took the keys to the server room from his supervisor's desk drawer to check up on the servers. He figured the servers simply needed a reboot.

His back now against the wall, Nitan continued to beat his own mind, having scavenged through what little the totality of his life answered for his current life-and-death situation. Nitan's eyes remained locked on Lila, noticing the blood stain on her shirt still appeared wet, and even in his shock, pieced together that she could not have died more than a day ago. The realization of foul play finally sunk into his head, and despite his full awareness that the killer was long gone, instinct screamed at him to leave immediately. His hand reached for the door handle when he stopped in place. Nitan snapped his gaze around the corners of the room, fearful of possible cameras present and staring back at him. When he saw none, the yell of instinct seemed more distant, and his attention back on the dead form of Lila. It was then that he noticed writing on her hand. Nitan bent down and, with the most delicate of care, turned her hand over to see “operation_apocalypse.exe“ and “sisyphus” below it. The server monitor glowed its multicolor screensaver upon Lila's face, which caught his attention. Nitan moved to the monitor, nudged the mouse, and glanced at Lila once more, before typing the executable file in the command prompt. A password field appeared, and his hands struggled to type “sisyphus” before hitting the enter key. His eyes grew wide as he saw a database, listing all the programs he watched run over the years, images of satellite trajectories and media feeds pouring over military networks across the world with launch codes to various secret instruments of warfare. Programs all made possible by business made through the Comnetrix Corporation. Programs all made possible from those like himself: faceless and unable, or unwilling, to face what was right in front of them.

Nitan turned once more to look at Lila. He knew he was facing a fate just like hers. The company he had worked for loomed too large, and Nitan stood too small. However, there was at least one force larger than even the Comnetrix Corporation, though it was a long shot. Furiously, he opened internet browser tabs, one after another, opening every major news site, blog, message board, and social network he could think of to try.

The public would have to be made known.

The Unknown Chapter of Abandoned Anonymous

Fifteen minutes already passed since Susannah May last checked the time on her aging flip-phone, and that had been fifteen minutes after she stayed waiting for company to arrive. She shuffled her posture a bit on the wooden booth seat. Her eyes wandered, hoping to see somebody walk around the corner in the rather forgettable tavern despite the fact that she would easily hear anyone approaching. The tavern at this late hour of the night was devoid of life, save the sole owner back in the kitchen cleaning.

Susannah stretched her arms over her head, then let her arms flop back onto the table in front of her. Many would say the wait wasn't worth it, and they would be right. For Susannah, though, little could be done but wait. There was always the option to leave, but...

The entrance door clicked open just then, and two men stepped through and towards her table. One wore what appeared to be a military pilot’s orange jumpsuit with lieutenant stripes on his shoulder, and he guided the other, who wore what resembled a peasant farmer’s attire, to follow him.

“Susie?” the first asked rhetorically. “Sorry I’m late. I found a new member for our chapter.” He then took an inventory of the empty seats. “Where’s everyone else?”

“This is it,” Susannah said.

“Oh,” said the man in the jumpsuit with a tone of resignation.

“Could you please tell me now what’s going on?” said the man in the peasant farmer’s attire, his gaze darting with confusion between the two.

“Let’s start slow, Robert,” the man in the jumpsuit said. He gestured towards Susannah. “Robert, this is Susannah. Susie, this is Robert, our newest member. Have a seat, Robert.”

“So what’s his story, Randy?” Susannah asked the man in the jumpsuit.

“We’ll get to that in a moment,” Lieutenant Randy said, slapping Robert down next to Susannah, then sits down himself across from them. “First, drinks. BARKEEP!”

Footsteps start shuffling from the kitchen closer to them.

“What is this place?” Robert asked. “It’s as if I stepped into the pages of a history book.”

“History book, you say,” Lieutenant Randy said with mild fascination. “Well, let’s just say for now you’re with good company who know what you’re going through. We’re a support group—ah, barkeep! I’ll have a Foster’s, the lady will have—“

“A cosmo, please,” Susannah interjected.

“—and he will have… hmm. We should probably stick with water. You OK with that?”

Robert nodded hesitantly.

“And a water for him, thank you,” Lieutenant Randy finished. The barkeep jotted on his notepad, then shuffled back towards the kitchen. Lieutenant Randy leans back in a relaxed posture.

“Alright, Robert,” says Lieutenant Randy, “tell us a little about yourself: who you are, where you come from, what you normally do, what exciting thing may have happened to you not long ago. You don’t happen to be a janitor, do you?”

“A what?” Robert asked.

“Um, someone who cleans up dirt and stuff, generally in places like schools and offices.”
“No. I’m a farmer.”

“Right, I should have figured from get-up. You just remind me of a friend I know, is all. I’m sorry, please tell us your tale.”

“Well,” Robert started, “There’s not really much to tell. Like I said, I’m just a farmer from a town called Cylerna. Funny you should ask about exciting things that happened recently, though. Up until maybe a week ago…or was it a month? It’s hard to say, really. As I was saying though, up until recently, my life was pretty peaceful. Dull, even. Then, during a dark and stormy night, I was attacked by a monsterous…beast, I would call it. I defended myself and managed to slay it.”

“I see,” Lieutenant Randy said. “Did you slay it with a weapon handed down to you by someone close?”

“Why…yes, actually,” Robert said with surprise and suspicion in his voice. “A dagger from my father. He was a soldier while he was still alive.”

“Did you know him well?” Susannah asked Robert. Robert started to answer, then stopped and thought about it.

“No, not really,” Robert said. “I mean, I thought I did, but then I realized that I can’t recall much anything about him. I know his name was Fredrick, and his mother – my grandmother – survived the atrocities of the Years of Darkness over half a century ago, though she never told any of us who my father’s father was. It was something that a stranger soon after the incident claimed to know…”

“Please, continue,” Susannah said.

“Well, this stranger claimed he was a demon and that he sent the beast, or as he called it, an imp, after me as some sort of test, one I apparently passed. He then offered me knowledge of my grandfather if I joined him to search for what I assumed to be treasure of some sort. Now, normally, I wouldn’t give this stranger a second thought. He was obviously some sort of con man under the guise of a make-believe monster of superstitious lore. I don’t take stock in any claims of the supernatural, mind you, nor do I go about committing crimes. However, for the first time in my life, I felt I was meant for something, that I was meant to go on this journey with this stranger, that I would finally know the one mystery in my life I cared to know, however far-fetched the possibility may have been. I felt I could hardly do otherwise but to accept his offer. From there, I must confess that the details are still a blur in my head. We came across a stout bearded man with an axe—“

“Sorry to interrupt,” Lieutenant Randy said, “but was he, by chance, about yey-high, wearing a horned helmet with a dirty blue tunic and blackened yellow cape?”

“Yes—do you know him?”

“Possibly, but that’s not important right now. Please finish your story.”
“As I said, the rest is still a blur to me. After the stout man was forced to join us, we ventured out into the sea to a larger sea vessel, where the stranger claimed the treasure would be found. Other people arrived, though, and a fight broke out. Were I not a man of reason, I’d say that some of those fighting were angels and demons, but in the chaos of all the fighting, I’m sure I was seeing things. The ship took damage and began to sink, and I was sure that I would drown then and there. I blacked out, and when I came about, I found myself on the shore of an unfamiliar coastline not far from here, strangely dry and no worse for wear. That is when you – Randy, is it? – found me and offered to help me with my bearings. I’m still of mind that I may be dreaming right now.”

Susannah and Lieutenant Randy both looked at Robert in contemplative fascination throughout his speaking, though Lieutenant Randy came off as if he were already familiar with the story. Robert lowered a hand surreptitiously to his hip as his suspicions rose.

“I’ve told you my tale,” Robert said. “Now, if it’s not too much to ask, tell me what it is you want with me.”

“We don’t want anything from you,” Lieutenant Randy begun to say, then leaned towards Robert. “Look, there’s something you need to know. You’re not going to believe it, and when you realize what I’m saying is true, you’re not going to like it. I can tell because it’s written all over you. You’re the straight man, doggedly stuck firm in more-or-less the ‘real world’ as it’s sometimes called, and your whole purpose is to be confronted with your mistaken beliefs.”

“Are you going to tell me that angels and demons exist too?” Robert said as he rolled his eyes.

“Not quite,” said Lieutenant Randy. “I can’t tell you whether they exist or not, but they exist at least in fiction, just as you do.”

“I’m not following,” Robert said. Lieutenant Randy pulled out a smartphone from one of his pockets, continuing to talk to Robert with his attention focused on his phone.

“I’ll spell it out, because subtlety is not my forte: you are a fictional character -- a forgotten fictional character, to be more accurate, just like me and Susie here. I’ve had this conversation enough times to know how this goes. You scoff at the idea, we show you the story you come from, you deny it some more, it sinks in, you get angry, you’ll probably try bargaining with the Writers to wipe your memories or something, then when they don’t listen, you’ll get all depressed and then, hopefully, accept your fate. I won’t lie to you, though – a lot of forgotten characters kill themselves to try and give closure and drama to their lives, and sometimes that’s enough to be remembered again. Some of them off themselves just because they can’t handle it all. Some of them just wander away as if they never existed. Trust me when I say that being a work of fiction is not what should concern you. It actually resolves a lot of mysteries in one’s life, one’s purpose becomes quite clear, at least some part of said life is often meaningful to a lot of people, and once you know you’re a fictional character, there’s a lot of fun to be had. A forgotten character, though, that’s a whole different story. In fiction, death can bring you glory, and you’re almost assured at least an afterlife, if you haven’t just outright ignored death altogether. When you’re forgotten, however, it’s as if you never existed. Nobody cares about you, your sense of purpose suddenly falls from under your feet—ah, here we go. Took a bit of searching, but I found the story you came from. Have a look.”

Lieutenant Randy handed his smartphone to Robert, who reluctantly took it. Robert’s eyes slowly hardened as he read over the text before him. He sat paralyzed before he finished reading what was on the screen. Susannah held the hand Robert held the phone in with her own.

“We know what you’re going through, and even if you don’t believe us now, we’re always here for you. I have a place not far from here, and you can stay with me, if you wish. I know the pain of being forgotten even before I knew I was just a character, because that was what defined my stories. All of them short, all of them with the same futile notion that the man I loved would remember and return to me if I just waited. I still can’t help but wait for him, but I know that my stories have been forgotten and my writer has abandoned me. We will never abandon you.”

“Unlike the barkeep,” Lieutenant Randy muttered. “I think he forgot about us.”

The sounds of shuffling footsteps approached the table.

“Spoke too soon,” said Lieutenant Randy. The barkeep placed their drinks on the table, not once having turned his attention to them, and then proceeded back to the kitchen. Susannah gently removed the phone from Robert’s hand and replaced it with his glass of water. She then took hold of her own drink, as did Lieutenant Randy.

“To the forgotten,” Susannah said as she raised her glass. Lieutenant Randy did the same, and the two of then turned their attention to Robert. His gaze, firmly locked to nothingness before, now fell to Lieutenant Randy, then to Susannah, then to his own glass of water, before having looked back up with his glass raised.

“May they be remembered,” Robert said.

The three clinked their glasses together, Robert and Susannah sipping their drinks as Lieutenant Randy downed his.

“You’ll never be forgotten, Ten-Four,” Lieutenant Randy whispered.

“Ten-Four?” Robert asked.

“Oh, tell that story, Randy!” Susannah chimed.

“I really should get going to Annual Forgotten Character convention before page twenty-seven…” Lieutenant Randy started to say. “Ah, what the hell! Let me tell you about a story that started off as a knock-off to Star Wars…”

The Diary of a Malcontent Wanderer

13th October 2011
or Why I Have to Go (Away From the Beaten Path)

“Because I am the Devil of Solitude, that's why.”

That was from an anime called “The Fantastic Adventure of Unico” but I doubt anyone reading this now would have heard of it. After all, everyone is on the beaten path, the safe path, afraid to wander and find something new, something unique, make their own path like people used to do instead of following whatever the media tells them. I have to go off the beaten path because, if I don't, who will? This diary of mine will document my journey into originality and my thoughts free from others who would judge me in their ignorance.

I was inspired to start this today because my Communications professor, Dr. Lovestrange, infuriated me with the crap he was spouting today. He usually rambles on about the media as if it were a portal into the human soul, that understanding the media makes it possible to understand ourselves – that in itself frustrated me as it was. The media isn't a portal, it's a prison for your mind! Today was the last straw, though, as he actually tried to talk about The Matrix as something special. God, even Harry Potter is less mainstream than that sell-out trash! It would have been tolerable if he at least talked about Brazil or Run Lola Run instead, even if they're still movies we all already have seen, but no. Not that I care about movies, per se -- I only watch ones ironically, like Troll 2. Regardless, though, I will vow from this day to never set foot on the beaten path again.

Today is the start of my long journey. I think I'll end tonight snacking on goat cheese and play some Little Nemo on my original Nintendo system before entering Slumberland for real.

14^th October 2011
or How I Went Past “Underground” and into the Minus World

I planned to write my lengthy thoughts today on my iPad at the Starbucks today, before someone else does and it becomes the “cool” thing, but... ugh, whatever.

15^th October 2011
or _________________________

I am too distraught to think of a fitting title or an appropriate quote for my diary entry right now. Today, I met someone who said I was a hipster.

Who were they to judge? They didn’t know me. It was just some guy on campus who yelled out that I was a “stupid hipster” and kept on walking. So what if I like to drink only organic, locally-grown Peruvian mushroom tea and not Lipton instant with Domino sugar packets and processed milk from ill-treated bovine? So what if I only dress with clothes from the GoodWill thrift store and avoid the major department stores like Nordstrom and Macy’s? So what if I don’t watch American TV programs like Jersey Shore or House and prefer Japanese anime series in their original voice acting such as FLCL (and not Fooly Cooly like those god-awful English translators would have you think)? So what if I only play video games made in the last fifteen years that sold less than a hundred thousand copies such as Cheetahmen II? So what if I don’t define myself by the gender or sexual preference labels such as male or female or straight or gay or bi? So what if I only listened to bands like Arcade Fire and The Cure before they sold out? So what if I refuse to read The Lord of the Rings because it was turned into a major motion picture trilogy? So what if I refuse to use a PC like every drone on the planet, opting instead for my Mac? So what if I actually look forward to a new Apple product coming out? So what if I still use my ten year old Livejournal account purely to make an ironic commentary? So what if I spell “colour” with a “u” in it even though I live in Southern California? So what if I consider myself Gaelic-American in spirit even though my ethnicity is technically German so I can broaden my horizons to cultural practices nobody knows about? So what if I am part of a Buddhist sect no one has heard of to show just how disgruntled I am with the capitalist, commercial consumer lifestyle they want for the sheeple masses? So what if I only spend time with other like-minded brethren who understand me? So what? Just because I fit some mainstream label for a group of people who also refuse to shop mainstream, eat mainstream, drink mainstream, watch and listen to mainstream entertainment, play mainstream games, follow mainstream gender labels, read mainstream books, use mainstream computers, speak with mainstream vocabulary, all in the name of irony and originality when possessing neither and falling instead for a marketable mainstream trend – that makes me a so-called hipster?

Yes.

No. That random stranger may think that, and may want to convince me that as well, but it’s not going to work. I know full well that plenty of phony people out there fall as hipsters. They are hypocrites who are not after true originality or even ironically mocking unoriginality – they are after showing other people that they are unique and original while just being part of another homogenous group of followers. I am not a hipster. I am nothing like a hipster. In fact, I just put in my order online for my T-shirt that says “I am a hipster” in morse code to make an ironic statement about the whole thing because I am fed up with the hipster fad.

Tonight, before I go to sleep, I think I’ll play a game of Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2 (or Call of Duty 6 as it should be called) on my brother’s Xbox 360. Ironically, of course. Tomorrow, I will continue my journey of wandering in search of originality and individuality in a world where the blind are leading the blind.

Test Pilot

So we figured it out, the intersection of religion and science. The coordination of temporal physics and fate. All of it. We knew all the math, experimentally derived over centuries of observation, experimentation, and billions of frustrated, caffeinated man-hours of thousands of the world’s greatest minds. We had just gotten it all down to a science. Now we were examining practical applications. If destiny is determined and measurable, can it be harnessed? Can we end unnecessary suffering without messing with free will? Can we prevent suffering without interfering with free will? The science is understood, we are the engineers of the future, the shapers of tomorrow. I looked myself in the mirror, adjusting my safety harnesses and weaponry. For this cause, I put myself in perennial danger on a daily basis.

I’ve gotta admit, I’ve loved this stuff for years. Having an IQ of 200 never hurts, but you still have to live and breathe this stuff. While other kids had posters of pop stars and Quidditch players on their walls, I had autographed posters of various chrononauts, the first time travelers, beaming proudly in front of their time machines. While other kids read their space westerns, I was reading Hawking. My 9^th grade science project, an analysis of chaos theory’s role in statistically improbable events, attracted the attention of Hong Kong Tech’s physics department, reversing my science teacher’s claims of plagiarism.

But back to present day. Basically, in my research, I look up events of the past, and enter all relevant situational data into the school’s supercomputer bank. I then look for numbers that look strange, probability factors far outside of expected values. This is more grueling then you might think: collecting data, fighting with the model, re-calculations, and interpreting results. Then you have to triple-check the whole thing, and send it to some lower grad students for two more rounds of double-checking. Once results are determined and a plan is declared, the departmental head gives me my signatures to operate the chronomobile, the school’s time machine. That’s when the fun begins.

This is my second time working with the chronomobile. We are just at the vanguard of experimental fate, so we only look at little things. Last semester I wrote up an entire paper on a sandwich choice that changed a traffic accident a couple blocks from campus. I saved the life of an old lady crossing the street. I bought all the hot dogs of a local 7-11, thereby preventing another guy from doing so. He bought a sandwich instead, and never spilled ketchup on his pants while driving to work. He never got distracted by the ketchup, never swerving his car into the old lady. She died two days later of natural causes, unfortunately, so we believe the space time continuum is unaffected. We are currently analyzing consequences and resulting ripples.

So, step 1 is complete. We prevented some minor suffering in the world. No one had to kill an old lady, no pedestrians witnessed her death, and traffic was not held up that day. Now we look at the unintended consequences. Basically, before the event, our computers spat out all kinds of data. Signals you’ll never understand that ripple for years into the future, location and person-specific. I can tell from looking at a few squiggly lines that the would-be killer would have spent a few days in therapy, and several months letting his wife do the driving. Then the squiggly lines return to normal for a while, until the man’s son is about to get a driver’s license and we see some spikes and then a return to normal activity. There are thousands of other signals associated with the event and all those affected, but none got in the red zone, so that’s the experiment preceded as normal. I saved an old lady’s life for science. It was a good day.

We still had more tests, though. We did an analysis, again, searching for the red zone that should now be absent. It was missing! This was a success. We held a press conference that week and received an invitation to speak at an exclusive conference. I was the first0I spent three bleary-eyed days staring at my screen, checking and double checking results. Boring work, but you know, drink coffee and put on some good music and get it done. It’s generally worth a paragraph write-up you owe the department.

Around 2am on day 3, the red zone popped up. I sat up. Where was the disturbance? I found the locational and personal signals. The time of the start of the red zone was 22 days, 2 hours, 5 minutes, and 2 seconds after the old lady avoided death. It continued for 5 hours. Where? A few blocks from the university. Whom? Um, let’s see. It was easy to recognize the waveform and identification number of the same driver. I guess he’s just a terrible driver. Whose life did he claim this time? Whose waveform is this? It goes into the red zone and disappears, signifying the end of a life. I right clicked the second waveform and sipped my coffee as the hourglass pulled up the personal id number. I spat. That number was mine.

What’s the date of that red zone? What’s today? My eyes darted to my desk calendar and back at the waveform. I had approximately 8 days. 8 days to determine the cause of the disturbance. I zoomed in on the start of the red zone nervously. The progress bar slowly turned from blue to green as the program hummed along in its thousands of calculations. Fuck fuck fuck. “Damnit, Cody,” I thought to myself. Why did I have to be so impatient? Why did I skip the most basic calculations? My eyes fell upon the picture of my fiancée. Oh yeah. How much scientific progress has been lost to love and horniness? The exact time came into clearer view. Yep. 12:03pm is when I die. Same intersection I cross to get to the sandwich shop. That’s me. Death on rye bread on Thursday, April 6^th. I gulped.

So, the score was thus: I was the first person to save a life with time travel. I fucked up. I pulled my flask from my desk and took a swig. I had disrupted the signals of the universe and fucked myself over. I scrolled right through the disturbances. For 4 years, 7 months into the future, there are 106 waves in the red zone. I…do not have time to fix all this. I can’t save myself within 3 weeks and look at the unintended consequences. Clearly, clearly our software is screwed. I got up. I crossed the room. Deep breaths. Let’s think this over.

So Dr. Iverson’s calculations are clearly off. The software is based on faulty calculations. We’ve been screwing up the entire space time continuum due to a misplaced decimal or a faulty exponent. Shit. It could take months to recalibrate, months we don’t have. I paced. Simulation software is now useless. It’s all got to be direct experimentation. I have to get the chronomobile and tweak the past. It is not enough to save the old lady, I must save the old lady but still teach the driver a lesson.

But no, what if the calculations are all wrong right now? What if there are no red zones in the future? At least one signal could be miscalculated, throwing everything else off. Maybe part of the experimentation process is re-evaluation. Shit. Experiments are great when everything works, but something about prediciting my own death to the third decimal place makes me uncomfortable.

I paced. What can I do? Well, the department head must be alerted. And the dean. Probably need some chronography researchers. What’s the plan? The chronomobile fuel budget has already been exceeded some ten-fold, and I’ve already had several screw-ups. What am I saying? This is my life! Spare no expense to save me! No, no, no, I don’t need a chronomobile, I can just, you know live my life going forward through time at the same speed as everyone else. I just won’t, you know, die. I won’t go to that deli, I won’t cross that street. But then what? I’ve fucked with my own free will. Does the simulation take into account my awareness of the simulation? Must everyone in town live in fear of the man who spills ketchup on his pants as he drives? Can’t we just arrest him. I cried. I don’t want to die. Fuck science. I need me! I’m my own red zone.

I checked my bank account. I checked the airline price trackers. You know, whatever. My life is worth all of it. I was on the next flight before the night janitors finished cleaning my lab. My landlord never knew what happened. My sister probably still has no idea, and I don’t want to think about how upset my fiancée is. All that matters is that I find the answer. If I have to haul pails of water to this monastery for the rest of my life, I would be no happier.

Of Gods and Goons

A revolver drops from one hand onto a small, circular table, the clap of its weight echoing in the darkness beyond, the clatter of five bullets following suit from five other hands. The sole table lamp hanging from above reveals six men in funeral suits as they each pull up a seat, their features obscured in the shadows and cigar smoke choking the pale light.

“Ignorance is bliss, eh gentlemen?” the sharpest of the men, Johnny, says as he reaches for the revolver and one of the unassuming bullets. He slides the single bullet into a chamber, spins the cylinder and snaps it into place. Johnny draws the revolver to his temple and, without a second thought, pulls the trigger.

Click.

Johnny hands the revolver, handle-first, to the guy on his left -- Lenny, the luckiest of the men.

“Your go,” Johnny says to Lenny.

Lenny grasps the handle with a shaking hand, and then begins to bring the gun to his own temple.

“No, stop!” says Franky, the largest of the men. “You have to spin the block first, you blockhead! Don’t you know anything?”

“Oh, right,” Lenny mutters. “Sorry.” He steadies his hands long enough to spin the cylinder block once more before raising the barrel to his temple. Lenny squeezes his eyes shut. Seconds start to pile up.

“Go already!” snaps Bobby, the quickest of the men.

Click.

Lenny slumps his head on the table, and the tallest of the men, Donny, peels the revolver from Lenny’s hand.

“The kid doesn’t belong here,” croaks Perry, the oldest of the men, pointing at Lenny. Donny spins the cylinder of the revolver, drawing the gun to his head.

“He’s old enough,” Johnny says, “and he can leave anytime he wants.”

Click.

“You know that’s not entirely true,” says Franky as he takes the revolver handed to him by Donny.

“You know what I mean,” Johnny growls. “Let’s not get into semantics, please.”

“It ain’t semantics,” Franky says as he spins the cylinder, his attention on Johnny. “It’s the whole reason we’re all here.” He raises the revolver to his head. “I’m just saying that we don’t want to--”

Click.

“--lose sight of the stakes here,” Franky continues as he slaps the revolver into Perry’s hand. “That’s all.”

“How could we lose sight of our own lives?” Lenny asks in a quiet, monotone voice.

“Shaddup!” Franky yells. “I’m talkin’ about how we even have stakes at all!”

Perry clicks the cylinder in place after spinning it and waves the barrel towards Lenny as if it were his finger.

“Our lives just make the stakes fun, kid.” Perry goes on as he turns the barrel towards himself. “Our lives don’t matter; the stakes themselves do.”

Click.

Bobby snatches the revolver from Perry’s hands and already starts spinning the cylinder.

“I don’t know about the rest of you gentlemen,” Johnny says, “but--”

Click.

Bobby slides the gun on the table into Johnny’s hand.

“--thanks--but I didn’t join this game to be reminded of what’s outside our little circle.” Johnny rolls the cylinder, closes it in place, and pulls the barrel up to his head. “And if it’s all the same, I’d rather not know any of your--”

BLAM!

Lenny jumps in his seat, while everyone else barely bats an eye at the now very-dead Johnny. The revolver falls to the floor.

“Will someone please get rid of the dead guy so we can get back to things already?”

Donny rises from his chair and moves around Lenny and to the late Johnny. He bends down, scoops the revolver from the floor, and drops it with a thud in front of Lenny before dragging Johnny’s corpse into the darkness. Lenny simply stares at the revolver on the table as a heavy minute shuffles by.

Donny returns to his seat.

“Any day now,” Bobby says. “Before someone figures to stop us.”

Lenny takes a deep breath, picks up a bullet, closes his eyes, slowly goes through the motions, and aims the revolver between his eyes.

Click.

Exhaling on the verge of a sob, Lenny tosses the gun on the table. Donny pulls the gun towards himself and turns the cylinder once more.

“Does your lucky streak last this long with the ladies?” asks Franky with a smirk. All the men guffaw except for Lenny, who groans.

“Hold on!” says Bobby. “This all is too predictable for my liking. The whole going-around-in-a-circle deal, I mean. Give it to me, Donny.”

Donny flashes a wicked smile. He points the barrel at Bobby.

BLAM!

Bobby’s body slumps onto the floor. The other men, save Lenny, applaud for Donny. Donny tips his hat towards the others before reaching for another bullet to begin the process anew. Franky stands up to move Bobby’s corpse away.

“Can’t say I didn’t see it coming, but he was asking for it,” Perry says.

“You didn’t—“ Franky starts to say before Perry cuts him off.

“Of course not! Knowing the outcome of our little game would ruin the only pleasure I have these days. I was actually hoping it’d be a dud just so I could see the stupid look on his face.”

“Wait for me, will ya?” Franky says as he drags the body into the darkness. Silence.

“So,” Lenny says to Perry.

Perry hums in inquiry.

“Do you remember what life was like before?”

“Before the moment when everyone could know their fate, and everything else in the universe, with precise certainty? Before the questions of science and faith were answered beyond a doubt?”

Lenny nods.

“Frightening. Exciting. A lot more gambling, and a lot less peace. Now let me ask you something, kid: why are you here?”

Lenny pauses in surprise.

“Life has no meaning if we can’t make our own choices. You said yourself that this game gives us the one sole thrill we don’t otherwise have.”

Perry sighs.

“You don’t belong here – and no, I don’t mean you’re not old enough. I mean that you’re better than us. No matter what life has dealt you, you have the strength to accept your fate, or the character to fight against it, regardless of the futility. That’s always a choice you have, whether you know your fate or not, and damn the gods who say otherwise!”

Lenny stares into the space that only exist in his thoughts. Franky returns to take his seat.

“Alright, let’s get this game going!” Franky says. Donny draws the gun to his head.

Click.

Donny passes the revolver to Franky. Lenny stands up to leave.

“You goin’ already?” Franky says to Lenny. “Don’t lose sight of the stakes, chump! It’s not like you ever made a real choice coming here or leaving, you know. None of us did.” Franky spins the cylinder block and snaps it into place. “We might as well be dead!”

Click.

“Damn it!” Franky screams, hurling the revolver onto the table. Lenny picks up one of the bullets on the table and walks into the darkness. Perry grasps the revolver and thumbs the cylinder block.

“So who wants to bet on how all this will end?” Perry asks. “I’m putting down two on the tall one left at the end.”