25 Hour Watch

                       

Note: I needed a small break from Charlie Marley, D.O.A. so I decided to post this little monster for this week. MS.

   Edgar stood with unsteady legs upon the top step of the small stepstool. The damn thing had one leg considerably shorter than the other making it wobble spastically as the janitor tried to balance his weight. Directly above his head, the large rectangular florescent light fixture buzzed and flickered. With slow and deliberate caution, Ed reached up and placed his left hand on the ceiling. With his other hand, he used a knuckle to rap on the translucent plastic screen. From within the fixture, he watched as hundreds of black spots and flecks of various sizes danced in response to his tapping.

            “That’s right, you little bastards,” he grumbled at the light, “time for you guys to move on to greener pastures. Christ, there has to be a better way to make a living. Ten bucks an hour to mop up piss, paint walls, clean chalkboards and sawdust the puke that our fine students yack up in the cafeteria every Tuna Casserole Tuesday. Now Principal ‘Dickhead’ Spaulding wants me to shovel these things out of every fixture in every classroom like some damn mortician?”

   Edgar pried a finger between the side of the light fixture and the ceiling, his heart quickened as the stool gave another twisting lurch to one side. He then gave a quick tug and the fixture ripped from its fastenings much easier than he had anticipated. His own hand jerked back and he managed a reverse bitch-slap that landed against the tip of his nose. The stool kicked out from under his feet and he began to fall backwards. On instinct, his left hand shot out, searching for something to arrest his fall but found only the loosened edge of the fixture.

   He fell, pulling most of the housing of the fixture after him. His back slammed against the ground, his mouth gasping as the air was driven from his lungs. The plastic screen hit just above his head, thankfully missing it, and smashed into pieces. Staring upward now, Edgar’s eyes widened in horror at what was approaching.

   A small dark thin cloud was floating directly towards his head. Dead flies, wilted moths, curled roaches, dehydrated spiders. They fell upon him, peppering his chest, his neck, his face. Two lucky flies found a bull’s eye, fluttering down in an lazy spiral directly into his gapping mouth, hitting the back of his throat. A moment of silence, then…

   “FUCK!”

   The word echoed up and down the empty dark halls of East Ridge High School.

   He was up in an instant, dancing a mad, frantic jig of revulsion as he beat the dead bugs from his overalls and hacking up the flies that had made their fantastic final flight into his mouth. Once calmed, he took a seat at one of the student desks and gave a menacing glace at the now broken light fixture.

   “Just why in hell do those things attract so many dead bugs anyway?” he asked himself.

   At that moment, the sound of high pitched laughter barked throughout the room. Ed turned his head in surprise at the doorway. There, doubled over in fits of hysterics, was one of East Ridge’s “students,” a seventeen year old Peter Walbash. While not a true friend of Edgar’s, Peter, or Lil’ P as he was known on the street (at least according to him), was the school’s main pot pusher and the two of them had done more than a few business transactions together.

   “What the hell are you doing here, Petey,” Ed bellowed over the teens chortles. “The damn school is closed, get the hell out!”

   “I broke in. Ah, man, that was some funny shit right there,” gasped Lil’ P. “I mean… ‘boom!’, then ‘crack!’ and that funny ass dance you just did. I tried to keep it in man, I really did.”

   Embarrassment burned away to anger. “I said school’s closed! Get the hell out!”

   “School’s never closed, man, least not to me. Anyways, just chill, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I actually came to see you about something. You listen?”

   The janitor rubbed his neck. Something in there was going to be hurting in the morning. “See me about what, Petey?” he asked indifferently.

   “It’s Lil’ P, man, Lil’ P! Enough with this ‘Petey’ shit already!”

   Edgar smiled. He only called him “Petey” when he wanted to get the boy’s blood up. A petty attack, sure, but oh so satisfying.

   “My apologizes, Grand Master P Dog. Now what do you want?”

   “Yea, about that. Listen, man, I got a business propagation for you. You good?”

   Ed squinted at him. “Are you trying to say proposition?”

   Petey threw his hands in the air. “Whatever it is, Einstein, I got one for you. You good?”

   “Sure, I’m good. Now talk to me already. Please, tell me all about your propagation.”

   The teen nodded his approval, took a desk and sat, facing the janitor. Though the entire school was empty, Petey made a point to look behind both shoulders before beginning.

   “All right, man. Now you know that I, Lil’ P, am possibly the biggest weed pusher in this school, true?”

   Edgar nodded, “True, you are also the only weed pusher in this school.”

   “Whatever! Now you and I have been pretty tight, right? I mean I would have to say that you are actually my biggest customer, right?”

   “Sad but probably true, yes,” Ed agreed.

   “Anyway, I was thinking that maybe it’s time to, you know, step things up.”

   “You mean branch out, sell pot at other schools? Great! You know I hear that the kiddies over at Pinewood Elementary have been really hurting for a good buzz.”

   “No, man, not pot. I mean… branch out.” Looking over his shoulders again, Petey reached into his oversized coat and pulled out a large flat parcel wrapped in cellophane. Through the clear plastic, a brick of white powder.

   Ed arched an eyebrow. “Is that what I think it is?”

   Petey smiled. “Yes indeedy. One kilo of Columbian pure. Uncut. Man, this is the first step into a bigger and better life.”

   “What the hell am I supposed to with a kilo of coke. I’m not a dealer! And grass is one thing but do you have any idea how much time we’re looking at if we get caught selling coke in a fucking school?”

   “Easy, man,” Petey cooed, “I’m going to take care of the dealing. What I need from you is a safe place to keep it. I mean I can’t be carrying this shit back and forth from school every day, bag searches and all that. Can’t keep it in my locker, locker searches and all that. What I need from you is a place to store it… here in the school. I mean you got access to all the places that the kids don’t. So you store it and I come to you when I need more product. And for your services, I’ll cut you in for say, twenty percent of the take.”

   Edgar considered this. It seemed simple enough, it even seemed safe enough. Petey was right, though. Off the top of his head he could think of half a dozen places in this school he could stash it, places that students, teachers, even the cops wouldn’t think about searching. Something occurred to him just then.

   “Where did you get this stuff, anyway, Pete… Lil’ P?” he asked

   The boy nodded and gave a knowing smile. “From the Dread Boys, over on Hollister Street.”

   The hairs on the back of Edgar’s neck did an electric dance. The Dread Boys were the most violent gang in the state. Hardly a week went by without the local news reporting at least one murder committed by them. Cross them and you were lucky to get a slug in the back of the head. For the unlucky, things would often get a bit more… creative.

   “You bought a key from the Dread Boys? Interesting. And how much did it cost?”

   Petey was practically giggling now. “That’s the beautiful part, man, it didn’t cost me a damn thing.”

   It was Edgar’s turn to begin looking over his shoulders. “Are you telling me you stole this from the Dreads? Are you out of your goddamn mind? Didn’t you hear about what they did to that dealer last month that was skimming from them? Didn’t you hear where the coroner found that guy’s testicles?”

   “Hey, relax man…”

   “In his eye sockets!”

   “Relax, man…”

   “And they guy isn’t even dead yet!”

   “Dude, seriously, you’re starting to freak me out a bit. Listen to me, you don’t have anything to worry about. The Dread I got this from ain’t talking to nobody.” Petey reaching over, took the cellophane package and flipped it over. The underside was streaked with still tacky blood.

   Those hairs on his neck were no longer dancing, they were exploding. “What did you do?” Edgar asked in a small whisper.

   “Nothing, man, nothing. Dude was already dead. Earlier today I’m walking down Hollister street when I hear pop pop pop! Now you know Hollister Street, hardly anybody ever walks down it so the place is practically empty. Anyway, pop pop pop means leave leave leave in my book so I’m about to turn around and bolt when I see this Dread coming out of an ally, all hunched over and staggering. He barely makes it to the sidewalk and boom, he’s down. He’s only about fifteen feet away from me so I decide to go over and check up on him, dude’s dead, three taps to the chest, never saw the guy that hit him but I heard a car peeling out from the other side of the ally. That’s when I notice this little package sticking out from underneath him. So yea, I took it and ran.”

   Edgar was has shaking his head slowly. Jail time was one thing but getting messed up with the Dreads… the Dreads!

   “Are you absolutely sure that no one saw you take this thing? Are you sure there is no way this can be traced back to you?”

   Petey only shrugged his shoulders. “Sure about that as anything else, right?”

   “Wrong, man. Dead wrong.” The response did not come from Edgar.

   Both turned towards the door. Standing there was a young man not much older than Petey. Green jacked, yellow bandana. A Dread Boy. In his outstretched hand, a MAC-10 machine pistol; gleaming, cocked, aimed directly at Petey.

   There was no hesitation. Even before Petey could make a move to object or escape, the gun opened up. Rose buds appeared all over the young man’s chest, then bloomed into red mist. One second of ratcheting crashes which shattered the quiet, then silence. Petey’s body had crumpled to the floor before the ghosts of furious sound had emptied from the halls.

   The weapon spun, glaring at Edgar now. He didn’t know what to do, what to say, how to act, frozen in panic. For two seconds, staring down the snubbed barrel of the gun, Edgar quickly considered his options. Impatient, the gun made up his mind for him.

   Again the gun barked to life. “Odd,” Edgar thought as several bullets thudded into his chest, “this doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it would.” His view of the world vibrated with each impact, then began to fade. He felt nothing as his body fell the side, crashed into the desks and fell to the floor for the second time that day.

   Then everything went…

black

so black floating in this black cold blackness what happened did i die i may have cannot remember i am scared where am i i am just floating nowhere everywhere somewhere so black so cold

what was that? did I hear something? over there? what is that? no, not hear, i see something. look closer. is that a light? way in the distance. can I move? i think so. can I move closer to the light?

Yes, I can move closer, I am moving closer, closer to the light. God in heaven, it is so beautiful, so magnificent. Hello, you beautiful light. Look at me, I’m getting closer to the light. I’m flying. That gorgeous, glorious light, it’s getting bigger, closer. Yes, I do hear you, see you, feel you. Closer, you are saying, come closer. Of course I will, of course I will come closer.

And There You Are Light, Oh Beautiful Light. You Are So Warm, So Bright, So Something In This Great Nothing. But Still So Cold Here. What Do You Say, Oh Light. Say It Louder To Me. I Must Do What? Stay By The Light. No, No, You Say… Go Into The Light. Yes, You Tell Me To Go Into The Light. Closer. Just A Little Closer… And

YES! I AM INTO THE LIGHT NOW! I AM INTO THE LIGHT! INTO THE HEAVENLY LIGHT! I AM INTO THE LIGHT! INSIDE WITH THE LIGHT! ONE WITH THE LIGHT! I AM FALLING

into

the

light…

   The Archangel Gabriel stood with unsteady legs upon the top step of the small stepstool. The damn thing had one leg considerably shorter than the other making it wobble spastically as the angel tried to balance his weight. Directly above his head, the large rectangular florescent light fixture buzzed and flicker. With slow and deliberate caution, Gabriel reached up and placed his left hand on the ceiling. With his other hand, he used a knuckle to rap on the translucent stained-glass screen. From within the fixture, he watched as hundreds of black spots and flecks of various sizes danced in response to his tapping.

   “That’s right, you little bastards,” he grumbled at the light, “time for you guys to move on to greener pastures. God Almighty, there has to be a better way to make a living. Ten halos an hour to sweep up angel wing feathers, polish the Holy Throne, mop up the Holy Ghost’s ectoplasm and change the cherubs’ dirty diapers. Now Jesus “Better-Than You” Christ wants me to shovel these things out of every fixture in every hall like some damn Grim Reaper?”

   Gabriel pried a finger between the side of the light fixture and the ceiling, his heart quickened as the stool gave another twisting lurch to one side. He then gave a quick tug and the fixture ripped from its fastenings much easier than he had anticipated. His own hand jerked back and he managed a reverse bitch-slap that landed against the tip of his nose. The stool kicked out from under his feet and he began to fall backwards. On instinct, his left hand shot out, searching for something to arrest his fall but found only the loosened edge of the fixture.

   He fell, pulling most of the housing of the fixture after him. His back slammed against the ground, his mouth gasping as the air was driven from his lungs. The glass screen hit just above his head, thankfully missing it, and smashed into pieces. Staring upward now, Gabriel’s eyes widened in horror at what was approaching.

   A small dark thin cloud was floating directly towards his head. The minuscule bodies of dead humans; mummified murderers, putrid sinners, stiff adulterers, cadaverous non-believers. They fell upon him, peppering his chest, his neck, his face. The tiny bodies of Edgar and Petey found a bull’s eye, fluttering down in an lazy spiral directly into his gapping mouth, hitting the back of his throat. A moment of silence, then…

   “FUCK!”

   The word echoed up and down the empty dark halls of Heaven.

   He was up in an instant, dancing a mad, frantic jig of revulsion as he beat the dead people from his wings and hacking up the bodies that had made their fantastic final flight into his mouth. Once calmed, he took a seat at one of the seats and gave a menacing glace at the now broken light fixture.

   “Just why in hell do those things attract so many dead people anyway?” he asked himself.