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Writer
Join Date: Aug 2004
Location: New Britain, CT
Posts: 41
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Why the World Ended: Chapters 1-4
[disc:e348afbec3]WARNING: Contains heavy profanity, drug use and graphic violence.[/disc:e348afbec3]
Chapter 1: Oh, what a beautiful morning.
The blood stains on the floor continue to grow as Henry clutches his chest, slipping slowly into a world of red. His mind screams for some semblance of reality as the walls begin spinning. Ochre-stained claws and fangs emerge from the walls, floor, and ceiling, grasping, pleading, consuming. The room becomes an amorphous mass of inwardly-rushing malignance, and Henry screams red for the last seconds of his life.
Beep. Beeep. Beeeep.
Henry slowly stirred from his stupor, while attempting to determine whether it was his alarm clock or his head making that noise.
Beeeep. Beeeeeep. Beeeeeeep.
He decided that it didn’t quite matter, as he wasn’t going to be sleeping with that going on either way.
BEEEEEEEP. BEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.
The clock. Definitely the fucking clock. His head wasn’t that much of an asshole, despite rumours to the contrary.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP. BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.
“I’ve got the fucking point, already,” he said, blindly flailing at any button he could find on the clock.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE EEEEEEP.
“Shit! Shut the fuck up!” Henry continued bashing at buttons for another minute of audial abuse, and finally lifted the hammer on his night stand. He then proceeded to use the hammer to forcibly switch off the alarm. When the alarm was switched off into many tiny pieces, Henry finally pulled himself out of the pile of blankets he used for a bed.
Henry stumbled to the sink, twice nearly tripping over accumulated piles of clothing, papers, and other items. Trying to ignore the pungent odor of his surroundings, he splashed cool water in his face several times, and attempted to determine why he was awake.
Ring. Ring.
“Shit. Where’s the phone?”
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Henry kicked over something by the couch, having decided the ringing came from that direction. No phone there.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.
He checked between the couch cushions. Jackpot! A bag of chips! Oh, and the phone, too.
“Crazy Bob’s Crematorium, you kill ‘em, we grill ‘em,” he answered.
“Breakfast, bitch.”
It was Marie. She always had a way of getting her meaning across with the fewest words possible.
“Uh,” Henry replied, remembering finally why he was awake in the first place, “Okay.”
“Outside.”
“Right.”
He hung up and stumbled back to the bathroom. After looking quickly into the mirror and taking stock of his personal odor, he decided he was decent to go out.
Henry entered the elevator quickly, not wanting to be late for Marie. That would piss her off. By the sound of her voice on the phone, Henry could tell she was calling from her cell phone. Probably from right outside the apartment building. Probably impatient as usual.
The elevator was of the cold, metallic sort. Purely functional, with no decorative purpose whatsoever. It was the sort of Bauhaus structure one could find in a building made for the express purpose of being cheap, with no budget for decoration. Henry idly wondered what the function of the staggered bumps covering the walls was, but soon turned his attention to the fact that the walls appeared to be melting.
Instinctively, Henry moved toward the center of the elevator. After all, if the metal walls are melting, they must be quite hot. Better not to get any of it on his shoes, as he preferred to keep his feet. They served a fairly important purpose. From the center of the elevator, which was at this point about fifty yards on a side, Henry lost interest in the melting walls, his attention now being absorbed in the thirteen crying clowns now approaching him, brandishing what appeared to be some very angry Persian kittens.
Ding.
The sound of the elevator opening on the ground floor saved Henry from an uncertain fate which undoubtedly would have involved quite a bit of pain inflicted by clawed balls of fluff. He stepped out of the elevator, and quickly walked out of the building.
As expected, Marie was standing there, leaning against her still-running car just beyond the sidewalk.
“Took long enough.”
“Sorry. There were clowns.”
“Right. Get in.”
They both got in the car, and Marie started driving.
“So, where are we going to be eating?”
“Waffle House.”
“For breakfast? How novel. And who’s going to be there?”
“Kyle. Susan.”
“Kyle’s going to be there? Oh, no.”
“He’s okay.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Mean he’s okay.”
“Okay? He’s a fucking lunatic. Ever since his air conditioner electrocuted him, he’s been calling himself a superhero. He even got his name legally changed to ‘Kyle O’watt, Master of Electricity.’”
“Not changed to ‘Master of Electricity’”
“True, but he always makes sure to add that. I honestly don’t think this is the sort of behavior that would be exhibited by a person you’d call ‘Okay.’”
“Pot and kettle.”
“Just what do you mean by that?”
Marie raised her eyebrow insinuatingly.
“Oh, sure, I see things. But that’s just after-effects of the drugs, I’m sure. I mean, acid stays in your spine, right? It’s just flashbacks.”
“Self-destructive.”
“Says who? I just like a little chemical enjoyment every once in a while.”
“Of course.”
“Speaking of chemicals, wasn’t Legs going to be eating with us, too? She usually does.”
“Said something about work at mall.”
“Legs doesn’t have a job.”
“Yeah. Stealing or dealing.”
“Stealing, I’d assume. I mean, the mall’s a rather public place to be conducting drug deals. She’s probably just talking some morons out of their cash.”
“Right.”
“Sometimes, I’m amazed that I can ever understand what you say.”
Chapter 2: Legs and the Duck
She was five feet, ten inches tall. Her shoes were black and her hair blonde. Somewhere between the two, she had on a light blue t-shirt and a short skirt of the same color. Between skirt and shoes were the appendages which had given her the appellation by which she was most commonly called.
These same appendages now carried her off the curb, into the parking lot, and towards a man who had just left a car. She had by now already taken stock of his appearance. Average height, brown hair, navy blue Dockers, white dress shirt, short sleeves, one pocket, blue tie, horrible pattern. His keys were in his front left pocket and his wallet in his back right. His hair was short and corporate. The typical white, suburban yuppie. His walk was aimed, but not forceful. All this she had ascertained within seconds of the closing and locking of his car door.
She walked up to the man, and began talking to him. She had some story or other about not being from the area and needing bus fare or something like that. Frankly, she didn’t even know what she was saying anymore. She just said it and it was automatic for her. About 236 seconds later, the man was walking into the mall, and she was walking away with five dollars of his money.
That was the fifteenth one of the day. It was getting to be that time where she’d have to move on, or the mall security might start getting suspicious. While all this was happening, somebody had been watching her from above. Just now, as she was about to walk away, that somebody decided to change forms.
A young man with tousled hair and clearly unwashed clothes walked up to her.
“Well, hello there, Legs. Mind if we talk for a little while?”
“How do you know my name?”
“That’s your name?” the man responded unbelievingly.
“Well, not my real name. It’s what I’m called, though.”
“Well, what’s your real name, then?”
“None of your business.”
“Well, None Of My Business, I have something urgent to discuss with you. Mind if we speak? Perhaps in the food court?”
Legs stared at the man for a moment, not entirely sure that she should trust him. Actually, she was fairly sure that she should probably not trust him. Something in the way he grinned, however, told her that she wouldn’t have much choice in the matter. The eyes of the security guard that she now noticed being trained at her back was the final thing that she needed to be convinced to go with this guy.
“All right. Food court. But, you’re paying.”
“Certainly. I wouldn’t want to have to make you spend any of your hard-earned money. How much did you get off that last guy, anyway?”
“Five dollars.”
“That’s it? Hm. Perhaps you’re not the one I was sent to speak to.”
“Sent? By who?”
“Whom.”
“Huh?”
“It’s ‘By whom,” not ‘By who.’”
“Well, I know that. Just never made any sense to speak in perfect grammar all the time. Seems like a useless waste of energy that could be used for something better.”
“Then again, maybe you are the one.”
“So what should I call you? You already know what I’m called.”
“I have no name.”
“Bullshit.”
“Just call me Duck.”
“Duck?”
“Don’t ask why. Maybe if you’re really lucky, you’ll get to find out later.”
“Okay, then, Donald, let’s get in the mall before Officer Friendly over there decides to get a more close-up look at us.”
“Good idea.”
The pair sat at a two-seat table in the food court, carrying plates of “Cajun” food. The table was a sort of an indescribable reddish-orange, the sort of color one finds only in food courts and fast food restaurants. Immediately after sitting, Duck began eating his bourbon chicken voraciously, either forgetting or neglecting to use utensils. Legs simply watched for a few moments, partially disgusted, partially annoyed, partially impatient, before she finally decided to speak up.
“I thought you wanted to talk to me.”
Duck looked up from his plate with a sort of stunned, uncomprehending look, and muttered “Oh, yeah. That. Sorry, I forget about things sometimes when there’s food. I get a bit carried away in eating, you see...”
“Yes, I do most certainly see that. So, what did you so urgently need to tell me.”
“I need to tell you,” he said, pausing for emphasis, “About existence.”
“Existence? Really? This should be interesting.”
“That’s not all. I also need to tell you of the very important you are to play in the very near future.”
“And what might that be, Howard?”
“You will end the world.”
“Again? I just did that last Tuesday. Took weeks to clean up after that.”
“I’m not joking.”
“I’m sure you’re not. You’re just insane.”
“Thank you, but what I’m saying is true.”
“Of course. So, what is it of existence that you need to tell me before I end it.”
“Everything.”
“Oh, good, so It won’t take too long, then.”
“Not as long as you probably think, no. But I should really get started.”
He looked about for a moment, muttering such profundities as “Uh,” and “Er,” before finally getting a good look at the chair behind his, and noticing something happen.
“There! That’s it!”
“What is?”
“That chair. There’s a noodle on it.”
“How terribly interesting.”
“That woman at that table over there, she came over to this table behind me, was about to sit in this chair, saw the noodle, and walked to a different table.”
“And this is supposed to mean what?”
“Then after she left, the cleaning lady took notice of the fact that something had driven her away from that particular table. So, she came over here, wiped off the table, and took no notice of the noodlechair whatsoever. I imagine several other people will be walking away from that table before the secret of the noodlechair is ever discovered. Who knows how long that’s been there already.”
“That explains absolutely nothing.”
“It explains more than you think. There will be a time, very soon, when you will know what the noodlechair means. In the meantime, I must be going. I’ll see you again, though.”
“I’m sure you will. Thanks for the food.”
“No problem,” he said, standing up, “See you later.”
“Goodbye,” she said, waiting until Duck was out of earshot to add, “Psycho.”
Chapter 3: More food.
The orders placed by the group at Waffle House were as follows:
Marie: Coffee. Black. Egg, bacon, cheese sandwich.
Henry: Hash browns, with cheese, and ham, and... uh... Tomatoes! Yes, great big fucking tomatoes! And chili. And coffee, black as from Satan’s teat.
Kyle: The Master of Electricity shall have raisin toast and orange juice.
Henry: Oh, yes, and orange juice, too. With vanilla syrup.
Susan: I have a question.
Waitress: Yes?
Susan: A waffle’s, like, two dollars, right? And a second waffle is about another dollar... So how much does the third waffle cost?
Waitress: Nobody’s ever asked about the third waffle before...
Susan: I’ll have the double waffle. And a Coke.
Henry: And pie! I want pie! Apple pie.
And so, the waitress, whose name, incidentally, was Janet, walked away from the table, traumatized.
“So why do you always eat stuff like that anyway, Kyle?” asked Henry.
“Because it’s the closest thing to natural this place has. The less chemicals the better.”
“Bah. Chemicals are your friends.”
“They’ll kill you. And natural foods won’t”
“Oh yeah they will! You ever been stabbed by a sharpened granola bar?”
“I meant by eating them.”
“It could stab you from inside after you eat it.”
“How would it do that?”
“Crafty bastards, granola bars.”
“Jeez, what are you on?” Susan interjected.
“Five cans Red Bull. Made me stop at Speedway on way here.” responded Marie.
“Damn. Do you know how many chemicals you have floating around in your system, man?” asked Kyle.
“765,457 today,” Henry replied, as everyone stared at him, dumbfounded by his answer, to which he finally added, “I like pie.”
It was at this moment that Janet returned, bearing, among other things, pie.
“Okay, I’ve got a black coffee and a bacon egg and cheese sandwich here, hash browns with chili, cheese, ham, and great big fucking tomatoes, coffee from Satan’s teat, orange juice with vanilla syrup, and a slice of apple pie here, raisin toast and orange juice here, and a double waffle and a coke here. Can I get anything else for you guys?”
“No thanks, I’m fine.” answered Susan.
“You call these great big fucking tomatoes? Bah!”
“We’ll be fine, citizen,” Kyle said, adding in a rather self-assured wink, “Thank you.”
Janet walked away from the table once again, rolling her eyes. This table was not going to tip well. She could tell.
Chapter 4: Wherein it begins to get remotely interesting.
Later that day, Janet left work. This is something she would do fairly often, as working perpetually for eternity would be slightly exhausting.
She stood in the Waffle House parking lot, unlocking her car. Through some twist of fate, be it clumsiness or tired fingers, she dropped her keys. The tiny crash of the keys hitting the pavement was followed closely by the dull thud of her head accidentally hitting the car door as she bent to pick them up, and then the loud bang of a bullet being fired from a nine millimeter handgun, and finally the light splatter of the inner parts of Janet’s head taking their leave of her and meeting with the car door.
Janet blacked out for a little while after this.
“Wake up.”
Janet’s eyes slowly opened. She felt numb.
“Wha... What’s going on?”
“You’ve been killed.”
Janet blinked. She looked around, seeing her brains splattered on the side of her car. She became inexplicably hungry.
“Killed? But I’m...”
“Yes, you’re not exactly dead. I saw to that.”
“Who are you?”
“I am.”
“You are what?”
The voice from nowhere sighed, and Janet found herself facing a penguin.
“It is not for you to know.”
It was at this point that Janet emptied the contents of her stomach onto the ground. She did not remember having that sort of reaction to a small, flightless bird ever before.
“Never mind that. I am giving you a purpose.”
“What?”
“Some things are to be done. You are to try and stop them from being done.”
“Try..”
“Yes. You will fail. That is not the point.”
“What...”
“Don’t worry about it. You will know what to do when the time comes.”
With that, the penguin disappeared. Janet picked herself and her keys off of the ground, opened her car, started it, and began driving home. Glancing in her rearview mirror, she noticed a large bullet hole in her forehead. She decided it may be a good idea to start wearing a hat.
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I loved the whole thing. Great jorb so far!!!
