As time continued free-falling through the universe, it was becoming clear that modern humanity, was about to join the Cro-magnons in the museums. New humans, transhumans, were pulsating at our fingertips. The ghosts of Mary Shelley and Frankenstein, Huxley and Brave New World had finally been expunged. All was ready. We could now grab the reins of that runaway horse known as Darwinian evolution and engineer it into whatever we desired. The grandest achievement in the history of mankind. Nothing on Earth could impede us. Then, the consolidated God of the Christians, Jews and Muslims, God-y-allah, (God-Yawweh-Allah), swirled down from the sky.
It’s dawn over Los Angeles, July 4th, 2045. The wounded sky showers down twenty-four hours a day, but it’s not rain. The screams of the ash-covered birds pierce my eardrums. I follow the flight of the biggest crow in the chrome sights of my revolver as he knocks the jays and sparrows out of his territory. I hate that. I think maybe I’ll take him with me.
.38 police special. One copper hollow point, nestled in the cylinder, next up, ready to go. Hammer cocked. Kennedy head shot. My right index finger thaws in my steamy mouth. Gun metal now bathes my tongue. In a few seconds, I’ll be able to wrap this finger all the way round the trigger. The wild tingling of anticipation throughout my body seems to be warming me. Who or what can stop me?
Williamson Mountain, thirty miles above LA, up the Angeles Crest Highway, used to be a popular spot with the local rock climbing crowd. But I’ve got other plans for it today.
I’ve cinched the end of this nylon rope to the base of the pine ten feet behind me. Wedged into the bark, won’t slip. The other end is loitering up against my Adam’s apple. Three loops. Eighty feet up on a shale ledge overlooking the snake-like highway below, this should be more than enough. And I used to be afraid of heights.
I read about it. Guy wanted to make sure he was going to be dead so he shot himself while leaping off a building. Gun misfires, he still snaps his neck, neck doesn’t shatter, you’ve still got burning copper in your noggin’.
That’s the worst. Fail to finish the job and you’re left twisted with a broken back or the wrong part of your head ripped off, but still breathing. Screaming in bloody pain for who knows how long? Armies of blistering needles stabbing through your body. The lights have to go out right away. Becoming a vegetable is unthinkable, besides, the hospitals are all gone.
Jesus. I remember the last things Oggam said to me. “I see... I see what you’re saying.”
“See? Oggy you remind me of Charlie Chan. You are like ‘man who look through keyhole with glass eye.’ See...you don’t see anything. If you unleash your forces, we will all be destroyed. Everything, everybody, everywhere.”
“Look...it’s out of my hands now brother,” Oggam said, “only HE can stop it.”
“He...he, but there is no he, you said so yourself!”
“HE forgives you.”
“The whole human race is going to be eviscerated on your fucking speculations! You’re giving me nothing. I’m standing here with two hands full of bupkes...nothing but spit in my eye.”
“Well, at least you got something.” Oggam giggled. “I suggest you prepare.”
Jesus...this noose may finally stretch me into geek land. How happy I was when the ever-growing ladder of lead pencil marks against our kitchen wall stopped at six foot five. John Wayne, Rock Hudson, Henry Doefield were 6’5”. Ever see any stars taller? Any that were human, not gorillas?
Six foot five was the line, the demarcation of what was acceptable. Anything over meant either life in the NBA, if you were lucky, or more likely, a circus performer.
At 16, I filled cardboard boxes with dirt and carried them around on the top of my head. Sometimes I’d put our cat, Humphrey, in the box too, and walk around in our backyard after dark. Tall was good, but too tall...I didn’t know, maybe the pressure of the box pushing down... Unfortunately, I’d forget about the clothes lines. Once I was almost decapitated. If this rope stretches my neck, I’ll finally be ensconced in circus land, albeit posthumously.
When it comes to looks, Jeez. Before I climbed up here, I stared in the rearview mirror of the BMW that was now mine. Blue eyes peering from underneath the dirt and grime of the mountains. Like a depiction of a hobo in a train yard with a charcoal beard. My hair? long, matted, ashy. It never getting above 25 degrees Fahrenheit, makes for lots of bad hair days.
When you’re tall your face is stretched out over a larger area. Bones become sharper, foreheads higher. Then, there’s the inevitable downward pull of time. Noses grow, hair recedes, faces loose heft, become hollow. I started out like Kennedy, and now I’m watching myself turn into Lincoln. Man. Scientist. Prisoner. Escapee.
Oh and who am I? None of your goddamn business, that’s who. And why? It doesn’t matter, does it? You may be a three-headed alien standing here reading this fifty thousand years from now. Do you care what my name was, alien? Maybe you’re peering up at the rope that snapped my poor neck as it dances up against the cliff. Or maybe, you’re just heating up a raspberry pop tart with your ray gun. My bones long since decayed and floating in various parts of the universe. God...there’s probably no more rope, maybe there’s no more mountain.
It’s dawn over Los Angeles, July 4th, 2045. The wounded sky showers down twenty-four hours a day, but it’s not rain. The screams of the ash-covered birds pierce my eardrums. I follow the flight of the biggest crow in the chrome sights of my revolver as he knocks the jays and sparrows out of his territory. I hate that. I think maybe I’ll take him with me.
.38 police special. One copper hollow point, nestled in the cylinder, next up, ready to go. Hammer cocked. Kennedy head shot. My right index finger thaws in my steamy mouth. Gun metal now bathes my tongue. In a few seconds, I’ll be able to wrap this finger all the way round the trigger. The wild tingling of anticipation throughout my body seems to be warming me. Who or what can stop me?
Williamson Mountain, thirty miles above LA, up the Angeles Crest Highway, used to be a popular spot with the local rock climbing crowd. But I’ve got other plans for it today.
I’ve cinched the end of this nylon rope to the base of the pine ten feet behind me. Wedged into the bark, won’t slip. The other end is loitering up against my Adam’s apple. Three loops. Eighty feet up on a shale ledge overlooking the snake-like highway below, this should be more than enough. And I used to be afraid of heights.
I read about it. Guy wanted to make sure he was going to be dead so he shot himself while leaping off a building. Gun misfires, he still snaps his neck, neck doesn’t shatter, you’ve still got burning copper in your noggin’.
That’s the worst. Fail to finish the job and you’re left twisted with a broken back or the wrong part of your head ripped off, but still breathing. Screaming in bloody pain for who knows how long? Armies of blistering needles stabbing through your body. The lights have to go out right away. Becoming a vegetable is unthinkable, besides, the hospitals are all gone.
Jesus. I remember the last things Oggam said to me. “I see... I see what you’re saying.”
“See? Oggy you remind me of Charlie Chan. You are like ‘man who look through keyhole with glass eye.’ See...you don’t see anything. If you unleash your forces, we will all be destroyed. Everything, everybody, everywhere.”
“Look...it’s out of my hands now brother,” Oggam said, “only HE can stop it.”
“He...he, but there is no he, you said so yourself!”
“HE forgives you.”
“The whole human race is going to be eviscerated on your fucking speculations! You’re giving me nothing. I’m standing here with two hands full of bupkes...nothing but spit in my eye.”
“Well, at least you got something.” Oggam giggled. “I suggest you prepare.”
Jesus...this noose may finally stretch me into geek land. How happy I was when the ever-growing ladder of lead pencil marks against our kitchen wall stopped at six foot five. John Wayne, Rock Hudson, Henry Doefield were 6’5”. Ever see any stars taller? Any that were human, not gorillas?
Six foot five was the line, the demarcation of what was acceptable. Anything over meant either life in the NBA, if you were lucky, or more likely, a circus performer.
At 16, I filled cardboard boxes with dirt and carried them around on the top of my head. Sometimes I’d put our cat, Humphrey, in the box too, and walk around in our backyard after dark. Tall was good, but too tall...I didn’t know, maybe the pressure of the box pushing down... Unfortunately, I’d forget about the clothes lines. Once I was almost decapitated. If this rope stretches my neck, I’ll finally be ensconced in circus land, albeit posthumously.
When it comes to looks, Jeez. Before I climbed up here, I stared in the rearview mirror of the BMW that was now mine. Blue eyes peering from underneath the dirt and grime of the mountains. Like a depiction of a hobo in a train yard with a charcoal beard. My hair? long, matted, ashy. It never getting above 25 degrees Fahrenheit, makes for lots of bad hair days.
When you’re tall your face is stretched out over a larger area. Bones become sharper, foreheads higher. Then, there’s the inevitable downward pull of time. Noses grow, hair recedes, faces loose heft, become hollow. I started out like Kennedy, and now I’m watching myself turn into Lincoln. Man. Scientist. Prisoner. Escapee.
Oh and who am I? None of your goddamn business, that’s who. And why? It doesn’t matter, does it? You may be a three-headed alien standing here reading this fifty thousand years from now. Do you care what my name was, alien? Maybe you’re peering up at the rope that snapped my poor neck as it dances up against the cliff. Or maybe, you’re just heating up a raspberry pop tart with your ray gun. My bones long since decayed and floating in various parts of the universe. God...there’s probably no more rope, maybe there’s no more mountain.