“Look at this, will you, just look at this!” John barked as he slapped the morning newspaper with his hand. “I’m telling you, Mary, this world is going to hell in a hand basket.”

His wife regarding him from across her breakfast, her coffee half way to her lips. “Is it about Chris getting disqualified from American Idol,” she asked. “I know if seems so unfair but hey, rules are rule.”

“What… no! Look at this,” he explained as he shook the paper in his hand, precluding any chance she could make out what article he was looking at, “a man killed his wife and three children yesterday, shot them down in their own home. This was only a couple of towns over, too. And here, Los Angeles is reporting epidemic levels in gang violence, the highest in twenty-five years. And here, in Illinois a gang related shooting at East Ridge High School leaves a janitor and student dead, drug involvement suspected. Thankfully the school was closed at the time and no one else was hurt. And here, a mall shooting in Montgomery, Alabama leaves a dozen dead, suspect in custody!” He slammed the newspaper on the table with such energy that his orange juice splashed into his scrambled eggs.

“John, settle down!” his wife cried. “You know what Dr. Anderson sad about getting worked up, your blood pressure is high enough as it is.” Her husband held his head in his hands and sighed.

“How can’t anybody get worked up over this, Mary. I mean look at the state of the world. Genocide in Africa, war in the Middle East, terrorism all around. After millions of years of evolution, it seems like the only worthwhile pass time humans can think up of is the most effecient way to kill each other off.”

“Dear, don’t you think you’re overstating the situation just a little bit? Sure these things happen but most of it is just… sensational reporting from the papers, from the media. All this is the exception, not the rule.”

“No, if anything I think I am understating the situation. True the newspapers hang on these types of stories but it does not negate the fact that it happens all too often. Trust me, when mankind finally goes extinct, it won’t be because of some great earthquake or giant meteor, it will be by our own hand. One way or another, we will end up killing ourselves off.”

A silence hung in the air as John stared at his breakfast plate, the eggs, bacon and English muffin soaking in a thin lake of juice.

“Do you want me to make you another plate?” Mary asked. John shook his head.

“No. I’ve lost my appetite. Besides, I have to be heading off to work now anyway.”

He stood and walked towards the door, his wife following. She handed him his briefcase.

“Have a good day at work, dear,” she soothed, rubbing his arm. “And stay away from the papers, I don’t want any more ruined breakfasts.” He smiled.

“I promise.”

With that, they kissed for what would be the last time.

***

Half way across the world, it was a cool, clear and moonless night at the Anglo-Australian Observatory, the type of night which made Richard so glad he was an astronomer. A carpet of stars stretched far overhead, unblemished by the lights of the cities or the smear of pollution.

On these rare nights, a perfect combination of pristine skies and absolute privacy, he had the opportunity to indulge in his own fancies and was doing that this very moment. His only required task for the night was an infrared scanning of Palomar 12 which he had completed only a few minutes ago. Now Richard was retasking the twelve and a half foot diameter telescope on a personal errand.

The massive telescope slowly pivoted into position, then stopped. From his computer console, the astronomer opened the shutter and within moments, majestic Saturn appeared on his monitor, its massive rings tiled at a perfect angle as if the gas giant were posing just for him. Richard sighed with contentment as if the sight were massaging him with warm oils. Of all the heavenly sights he had been made privy too, this was, to him, the most spectacular of them all, ever since childhood.

After a moment, however, Richard noticed a problem with the image. While the image of the planet was crystal clear, the background color was off. Instead of the normal black of empty space, the background was tinted a florescent purple. He ran a diagnostic which came back normal.

Confused, he stared at the image of Saturn, considering the what the issue may be. The telescope had been in perfect working order only an hour ago, where was this purple haze coming from?

Suddenly, the real-time image of the planet vanished. One moment it was there, the next moment there was a flash and then it was gone. Now the screen was filled with only that bright purple glow.

His analytical mind now thrown into complete disarray, Richard ran a number of tests. After a few minutes, it became clear that there was nothing wrong with the telescope or its systems. He sat back in his chair and considered. What if he tried running a spectrogram test on the purple light itself? Was it some sort of background radiation or interference from space? It was only a slim chance that it was but he decided to run one anyway.

His computer hummed and clicked as it processed this new information and within several minutes, the results blinked onto the monitor. Richard read the numbers… and his eyes bulged in horror.

The background purple light was not a computer glitch. It was actually out there, in space, a massive wall of pure energy which he had just seen vaporize the entire planet of Saturn and it was advancing at incredible speed. According to the rough calculations he had formed in his head, it had already taken out Jupiter as well.

And within the next ten minutes or so, Earth would be next.

***

By the time John saw the Camero speeding through the intersection, there was little he could do but brace himself.

There was a high pitched squeal of tires and then the unforgiving sound of metal collapsing into metal. The impact wasn’t terrific but enough to jostle his body violently from one side, then the other. The Camero had caught the rear side of his Crown Victorian, buckling the panel. The front of the sports car was crumbled, the engine compartment spewing steam and hissing in protest.

It only took a moment or two for the initial shock to wear off and then John exited his car to check on the condition of the other driver. Mr. Camero, however, had already left his car and was inspecting the damage to his vehicle, his face red with anger. He wore a dirty wife-beater, torn jeans. A Lynyrd Skynyrd song was blasting from his radio at full volume, his immaculately maintained mullet rippling gracefully in the light breeze.

“You screwed up my baby, man!” Camero Man bellowed as John approached, rubbing his neck.

Well that’s what happens when you run red lights, jackass John thought to himself. “Are you okay?” he asked instead, deciding to keep the conversation as civil as possible.

“You listening to me, man! I said you fucked up my car! My daddy gave me this here car!” The red-neck was screaming now, his eyes flashing with wild rage.

Fear pulsed through John’s body, this guy was a hair’s breath away from becoming out of control. He knew he had to diffuse the situation somehow but at the moment, his brain refused to provide any solution. Should he offer an apology? Should he assure this man that everything would be covered? Should he stand up to him or simply run away?

“Maybe we should just exchange insurance information, huh?” John suggested, his voice low, submissive, almost hopeful.

Mr. Camero’s face maintained the mask of mania for just a moment, then his expression went blank, his eyes dead as if John’s simple recommendation had drained all the humanity out of his soul at once. With a quick but deliberate motion, Mullet Man reached behind him, producing a handgun from the small of his back and leveled it at John’s head.

“Here’s my goddamn insurance, mister,” he said in a casual voice.

A split second before the red-neck could apply enough pressure on the trigger to send a bullet into and through John’s brain, however, the planet Earth and all her inhabitants flashed out of existence in one brilliant purple flare of light.

***

Ding!

Hearing the timer from the incinerator go off, Gordon placed his bacon lettuce and tomato sandwich on his plate, stood from the table and made his way across the laboratory floor, brushing crumbs from his lab coat as he did so.

He peered into the window set into the door of the large microwave oven-type device, noting that the internal light had changed from purple to green. The plate sized Petri dish was empty now, sterilized of culture by all consuming radiation.

He opened the door and removed the dish, shaking his head in disappointment.

“So that batch didn’t work out,” Michael, his lab assistant, asked over his shoulder.

“No, it did,” Gordon replied, “We had positive growth and shared generational traits that were nothing like I’ve seen but after a while the cells just started killing each other like crazy. I mean the guys were just vicious. I figured it would be best if I just dispose of the entire batch as a precaution. Can’t imagine what would have happened if something like this got out of the lab. Bad news all around.”

“Oh well,” Michael sighed, “guess we can always try again. Was that the Earth culture?”

Gordon nodded. “Yep. I’ll start with the new strain after I finish my lunch.”

“Alright. Speaking of lunch, boss, you got a gob of it on your lab coat. No, right there on your name plate.”

“Thanks, Mike. What would I do without you.”

Taking a napkin, Gordon began to casually wipe away the dollops of mayonnaise that were completely obscuring the R, second O and N on his name tag.

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.

At noon the next day, Charlie found himself in what was without doubt the most unusual situation in his life, certainly his death. He found himself sitting front stage center in a massive auditorium facing a sea of reporters. Well over one hundred men and woman sat and stood before him, all staring, cameras clicking and flashing and whirring, microphones stretched out at him as if in sacred offering. The truly outrageous part, however, was that he was hooked up to several different medical machines, all glowing and flashing alive but giving readings which read zero. One particularly annoying machine was giving of a steady, uninterrupted squelch of protest, a noise that Charlie, as a fan of medical drama television shows, was well acquainted with. It was the sound which told the doctor’s in the ER “sorry, the guy’s dead, go ahead and break for lunch.”

He was somewhat comforted by the fact that Senator Templeton was standing at a podium just ahead and to the right of him. Mr. Cross was also in view, standing what the theater types would consider “offstage,” within the wings of the stage but out of sight to the audience.

This Dr. Schlitz character was a bit disconcerting, however. Templeton had introduced the two of them only about an hour ago and most of that introduction involved the good doctor attaching leads and wires to Charlie’s head, chest, arms. Dr. Helmut Schlitz was not only a physician but also one of the directors of the region’s largest hospital, County General, and was apparently a man of some great influence. He spoke in a clipped, rolling accent, tall with mousey hair and fishbowl glasses. Charlie had found his bedside manner severely lacking, however, for as he was connecting his patient up to the various machines, the doctor  never once looked at him, even as he answered Charlie’s and Templeton’s questions, and seemed wholly disinterested in his condition.

After Charlie had been wired and before the reporters were allowed to file into the conference room, both Templeton and Cross had reminded the old man that under no circumstance was he to answer any questions directed at him and to allow the Senator and the doctor to address any inquiries. With that, the doors had opened and the reporters began to file in, jockey for seats and set up their equipment as they stared at the odd scene before them. In order to add to the immediate impact of the press conference, Cross had insisted that the press not began given any advance notice as to the subject of this address.

Sensing that it was now time to begin, Templeton lifted a hand to the gathered reporters and their low chatter faded away.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the national press,” he began, “I am Senator Alistair Templeton and I would like to thank you all for coming here today in what is, in my mind, my most important address to the people in my long career. Seated to my left,” and he then gestured towards Charlie looking for all the work like some high school science fair project, “is Mr. Charles M. Marley, a citizen of our great nation and an unfortunate victim of a widespread though quiet shame that blights our country. To better explain Mr. Marley’s situation, I have invited Dr. Helmut Schlitz, director of County General Hospital.. Dr. Schlitz, if you please.”

Templeton stepped back from the podium and Schlitz walked briskly up to take his place.

“Zank you, Zenator Templeton,” he said into the microphone. “Pleaze obzerve ze zubject zeated before uz. Ze zubject iz a zeventy-zeven  year old male of average build with no previouz hiztory of any zeriouz medical izzuez. Pleaze obzerve alzo ze variouz apparatuz ze zubject iz connected to vich read every azpect of ze zubject’z bodily condition. You vill note zat ze zubject producez to heart-beat, no pulze. Hiz brain activity, zeen here, iz nill. Core body temperature iz a conztant fifty-zeven degreez. Pupilz are fixed and dilated. Rezponze to pain ztimuluz iz not obzerved.”

To demonstrate this last point, Schlitz walked over to where Charlie sat and with a good deal of force batted him upside the head with a plastic folder he was carrying.

“Do you mind!” Charlie cried with indignation.

“Did ze zubject feel thiz?” Schlitz asked indifferently.

“Well, no but..”

The doctor turned and walked back to the podium. He lifted the folder into the air.

“And here ve have reportz gathered from variouz phyzicianz, coronerz and other medical expertz ze zubject haz zeen vithin ze pazt three monthz which all agree to ze ztatementz I have juzt made. In zhort, ladiez and gentlemen, all evidence at hand pointz to one zimple concluzion. In my profezzional medical opinion, zere iz no queztion that ze zubject iz nothing zhort of dead!”

The response from the gathered press was immediate. Camera flashes began blazing anew and questions were thrown out in a chaotic tumult. Templeton quickly strode forward and replaced Schlitz at the speaker’s podium, raising both hands and asking for calm. It took a full minute for the Senator to regain control.

“There will be plenty of time for questions, ladies and gentlemen,” he explained once things had calmed, “but for now I would ask for your continued attention. While this revelation is no doubt sensational and newsworthy in and of itself, there is much more to Mr. Marley’s situation.”

And with that, Templeton began his speech. He began with a short prelude of Charlie’s life and then summarized the events of his death. With a sweeping and soaring voice, he detailed the trials Charles had experienced and suffered in a futile effort to get his much sought after death certificate and how the system had failed him at every turn. He extolled the virtues of the great country he himself was so honored to serve and lamented the fact that it could allow such discrimination to be afflicted upon a man such as this. He spoke of duty, he spoke of the heart and soul of man, he spoke of justice that should not be denied to anyone, no, not while he was alive. He spoke to the press core directly, of the loved ones they themselves had ever lost and of the precious memories they had of them and how such memories should never be tarnished. He explained the danger of ignoring this grave situation, of how the ghosts of previous national ignorance and indifference haunt them all still and how together they can all make a difference. After half an hour, Templeton wrapped up his speech, promising that he would put forward legislation that would protect Charlie and those like him and provide them with the basic rights and freedoms and protections that the average living citizen took for granted.

Looking at the crowd, Charlie could tell that the speech had been amazingly effective. Many of the reporters had tears welling in their eyes, many more hung their heads low in obvious shame though he himself could not share in their emotional reaction. Silence had soaked into the room for a few moments before Templeton spoke again.

“I will now field the floor for questions.”

And the questions did come with rapid succession and excited frenzy. Most were directly at the Senator, several to Dr. Schlitz, both answered all with professional grace. Would Mr. Marley be made available for interviews? Yes, in time. When would legislation be presented to the senate? Currently being worked on, two to four weeks. Is there a foundation that the public can contribute to? Yes, established just this morning, here is the website and telephone number. Are there any plans for a book deal regarding the life of Charlie Marley? Not at the moment but such inquires from publishers should be made to Mr. Sebastian Cross, personal assistant to the Senator. Is the Senator considering running for president in the future? The main focus right now is pushing through the legislation but all things are possible. Political Vogue magazine wants to make the Senator their Man of the Year, is he available for an interview? Of course, of course, I’m so honored.

After half an hour, the number of questions began to peter out. The small perpetual grin on Templeton’s face told Charlie that things had gone much better than originally planned. No doubt that these fine news reporters would print and broadcast nothing but sterling comments about this afternoon’s events. It seemed that the full support of the people and the government would be placed squarely behind him and a successful conclusion to this drama was assured.

Until…

“Horace Leeds with the Capital Tattler, Senator Templeton. Just one final question before we wrap up here.”

The Senator’s eyes widened. The Capital Tattler was infamous among those who worked in government. The newspaper, little more than rag in his opinion, was a publication that reported solely on the blunders and scandals of politicians, specializing in wanton character assassination. They based their reports not such much on journalistic integrity and purity as they did on sales.  Their reporters had an uncanny knack of digging up the most lurid and semi-factual facts on their subjects and splashing them on their paper with spectacular headlines and the public ate them. Several prominent legislators had their careers cut short by their publications over the years and Templeton knew that Horace Leeds was the ace “journalist.”

“Yes, Mr. Leeds,” Templeton said simply, not liking the sly grin on the man’s face.

“If I am to understand you correctly, sir, you stated that Mr. Marley here is in fact deceased, yes? Dr. Schlitz here has confirmed that, yes?”

“That is correct,” Templeton responded flatly.

“And you have also stated this whole endeavor you have presented here is being brought forth in large part to obtain Mr. Marley a dead certificate, yes?”

“That is one of many reasons, correct.”

Leeds made a show of scratching his temple as if to scratch away confusion. “Now correct me if I am wrong but isn’t a death certificate of legal document?”

Templeton hesitated before a moment before answering, not likening where this line of questioning was going. “Do you have a point, Horace?”

Leeds smile blossomed. “Only that if Mr. Marley here is deceased and does not have the proper legal documentation to support it, is he not in fact illegally dead?”

The Senator was taken aback. “Um, well… you see…”

“So by the letter of the law,” Leeds continued, now standing, “as it stands currently, you have in your employ a man whose very existence violates the law. An illegally dead man, is that not correct!”

Templeton was speechless, panicked. Cross suddenly burst from the side of the stage.

“There will be no more questions, the press conference is over!”

The press corp exploded. Blinding light pulsed from their midst. New questions were screamed at the retreating Senator, not sympathetic this time but angry and accusing. The turmoil was incredible.

Once Templeton had been led off stage, Cross hurried over to Charlie and hoisted him to his feet. Still attached by wires to the machines, the devices tipped and crashed to the floor in a shower of sparks and smoke. Cross pushed him off to the side of the stage, the shattered machines dragging after them, the bellows of the enraged reporters still ringing in their ears.

How will the public react to this scandal? Will Chalie and the Senator be able to ride this out? Tune in next Sunday for Part Five of Charlie Marley, D.O.A.!

Templeton opened the massive wooden door leading to his office and ushered Charlie inside. He walked in and was taken aback at the sheer size of the room. At the far end, a single panoramic window allowed for a sweeping view of the park across the street and the imposing capital building on its opposite end. In front of the window was the center piece of the room, a mahogany desk so large it may have doubled as a boat. Leather couches and upholstered chairs were situated in front of the desk in such a way that a person sitting in any one of them would have been able to give their full attention to the senator while seated.

A small but fully functional bar rested unobtrusively in one corner of the room, readily supplied with everything from scotch to grapefruit juice. Lining the walls were rows upon rows of tall bookcases, stocked from end to end with an impressive range of books, and above these hung a variety of old style paintings, portraits and pictures. The walls were painted a sharp forest green, the carpeting beige.

“Very impressive, senator,” said Charlie, still scanning the room. Templeton shrugged modestly.

“I’m happy with it. This was been my home away from home for the past fifteen years. Just about all of the other senators and congressmen have their offices over at the capital building just down the way,” and he pointed out the window, “but I really prefer working away from all that fuss. The capital building is like a bee-hive for humans, always people in and out, tourists mostly. Things are a lot more quite over at this side of the pond. It is unusual for a high ranking politician such as myself to work outside the capital building but due to my seniority in the house, I’m allowed such extravagances. Can I offer you a drink, Mr. Marley?”

“Thank you, no. There’s really no need. I haven’t been thirsty, or hungry for that matter, since I died. Alcohol does not even effect me anymore. After my first visit with the doctors, I went through five bottles of brandy without so much as a hiccup.”

“Horrors!” Templeton exclaimed. “To be deprived of one of the greatest pastimes of humanity. I feel for you, Mr. Marley, I truly do. But to business, to business. Please, take a seat, make yourself comfortable. Mr. Cross, a gin and tonic if you will.”

“Of course, sir,” replied the young man, making a bee-line for the bar.

Templeton led Charlie to one of the oversized chairs facing the huge desk and then took his own chair. The two men regarded each other for a moment, the senator peering past his steepled hands placed against his mouth. Shortly, Cross delivered the senator’s drink, then sat on a couch across from Charlie, producing a pen and pad of paper from the folds of his blazer.

“Mr. Marley, as I said…” Templeton began but was quickly interrupted.

“ ‘Charlie’ to my friends,” explained the old man.

“Charlie,” smiled the politician, “as I said down in the lobby, I am prepared to do everything in my considerable power to assist you. Now Mr. Cross here was able to give me the bare-bones of your situation as he heard from you downstairs but I think best if you were to explain everything to me.”

“Everything?”

“Yes, everything. Every detail, every little fact and facet, every minute action, deed and happen-stance. I want you to leave no stone unturned. Tell me everything.”

And so Charlie Marley began his story anew, starting with a brief prelude to his own life before leading up to the event of his death. As requested, he made sure to include every small and seemingly irrelevant account. During the long confession, Templeton interrupted seldomly, cutting in only a few times to ask a question or otherwise probe Charlie’s memory a little deeper. The senator would occasionally jot down a note or two but it seemed that Sebastian Cross was writing down Charlie’s entire conversation verbatim in a strange sort of short hand, scribbling with a mad efficiency.

By the time Charlie had finished, the shadows in the office had grown long, the sky outside darker. Templeton leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. “An incredible story, Charlie,” the senator remarked, “truly incredible. A tale of loss, rebirth, struggle. Epic, simply epic. And having heard the entire story, I am extremely confident that we can get you that death certificate, that holy grail that you have journeyed so far to find.”

Charlie was overjoyed. “Oh, I just knew that I was making the right decision coming here. Do you really think you can do this?”

“Of course, of course,” Templeton laughed. “Listen, Charlie, I’ve been working in this town for forty-five years, thirty of those years as a senator. That’s a lot of time to earn certain favors, to make certain friends. I couldn’t begin to tell you how may favors are owned to me. I believe that I even have a couple first-born children promised to me.”

“Five of them, sir,” added Cross, not looking up from his note writing. “In fact, Franklin’s wife is due next week.”

Templeton nodded his approval. “So you see, Charlie, it would be a simple matter for me to just pick up his phone,” he stroked the receiver for emphasis, “and make a call or two and have one bonifide, completely legal death certificate bearing your name delivered to this very office.”

“Why, that’s just marvelous,” Charlie beamed, eyeing the phone expectantly.

“However,” the senator added ominously, sliding his hand away from the phone, “quid pro quo. One good turn deserves another, as they say. Before I do this thing for you, Charlie, there is something I very much need for you to do for me. Something very important.”

“What could I possibly do for a man such as yourself,” asked Charlie, brow furled in confusion. “I don’t have any money or influence. And I’m a little too old to be making first-born children for you to take.”

Templeton gave a soft chuckle. “No, nothing like that. I’m thinking more long the lines of you… providing a service. I’ll let Mr. Cross explain this. He has a talent for simplifying complex matters.”

The senator allowed his large frame to fall back into his large chair, relaxing. To Charlie’s left, the assistant scooted across the sofa a bit, bringing himself a bit closer to the old man and began to speak in a clear, confident voice.

“Mr. Marley,” he began, “do you now how government officials come to office?”

“Of course. They are elected by the will of the people expressed by popular vote.” Both Cross and Templeton gave sheepish grins.

“Well, that’s a rather simplistic explanation of a much more complex process. You have to look deeper than that, however. Have you ever considered what drives the will of the people? What influences, both internal and external, motivate them to vote one way or the other?”

“I suppose… that perhaps… religion maybe?” stammered Charlie, struggling for the words as he considered the question. “Their own beliefs? Personal beliefs?”

“Issues, Mr. Marley!” boomed Templeton dramatically. “It’s all about issues!”

“Issues?” repeated Charlie, not sure if he understood. “Yes, I suppose that that the issues of the day do play a large part to play in the decision making process.”

“They are the only part in the decision making process, sir,” Cross stated flatly. “Political careers can be made or shattered based solely on the issues that they stand for, for the issues that the populace hold most dear.”

Charlie was nodding in understanding, then said, “But issues are finicky things, aren’t they? What may be a heart felt and beloved issue for one may be a non-issue or even vial concept for another.”

“Exactly!” both Cross and Templeton exclaimed in a duet of excited. A long silence followed.

“I do not understand, I am afraid,” Charlie said softly after a moment. Cross smiled.

“You hit the nail on the head, Mr. Marley. Issues drive the political machine but the people rarely agree, en masse, on any of them. Some folks are fervent supports of such things as abortion, legalization of marijuana, stricter immigration controls, health care reform, gun control, increasing our military. However just as many people are just as passionate about supporting the very opposite of those things. How can a public servant possibly stand on any one of these platforms when there a millions of people ready to knock him off it? Speaking publically and from the heart is one of the most dangerous things a politician can ever do.”

Charlie’s head was buzzing now. He understood what Cross was saying but how he could do anything about this truth was beyond him.

Eyes squinting in deep thought, Charlie asked, “Are you asking me to… speak in favor of health care reform? Or increasing our military budget?”

“No,” Templeton said plainly, “old issues, all old issues and nothing that you can do about those anyway.”

“So…”

“So,” replied Cross, his face breaking out into a wide smile, “we, the Senator and I, are asking you to become an issue.”

“What!”

“Yes,” Cross nodded, “you heard correctly. Once in a very great while, perhaps every other generation, an issue presents itself to the country, even the entire world. A great issue, one that is absolute and immediate, one where there is no question about right or wrong, one where the truth of it is undeniable. Sometimes it is recognized very quickly, such as World War Two, and acted upon very quickly. Sometimes, such as our history of slavery, it takes centuries to realize and overcome. But would you, Mr. Marley, agree that slavery is evil?”

“Well of course I do,” the old man replied, his voice sounding hurt, almost insulted. “What kind of human being would think that is was not.’

Templeton patted Charlie gently on the knee with a soothing gentleness. “We all did, Charlie, we all did. It’s hard to believe but one hundred and fifty years ago, in this very land, keeping slaves was no more egregious than owning a microwave is today. But we have learned, evolved, have we not?”

“We have,” said Charlie.

“And every man, woman and child deserves basic human rights,” said Cross, “do they not?”

“They do,” said Charlie.

“Including the dead ones?” asked Cross with a knowing arch of an eyebrow. Then the pieces of this puzzle began to piece together within Charlie’s mind.

“I see,” he said, “so you want me to become a spokesman of sorts regarding the rights of the deceased.”

“Very much so, Mr. Marley,” replied the Senator with almost a pleading tone in his voice. “We would like to present you to the people of this nation as a symbol against the age old discrimination that your kind has suffered. How people afflicted by the stagnation of death have been ignored and dismissed for centuries, how your rights and dignities have been tossed aside the moment you go “belly up,” as they say. Your story will be told and wept over by the multitudes, your voice shall be heard and your rights discarded… no more.”

Charlie cocked his head slightly as he considered. “And you would act as, what, a champion of this… issue?”

“Indeed,” Cross replied for Templeton. “The Senator would act as your ‘champion’ as you so eloquently put it. He would provide the resources and experience required to get your sad story to the masses. He would act as the mouth piece, the man behind the scenes, working tirelessly to see that the proper legislation is passed to secure the God given rights and protections that you and yours deserve.”

The old man was nodding. “This sounds a good and fine but I think there is perhaps one small detail that you perhaps not taken into account. All of the doctors and city officials that I have met with all seem to agree that my case is unique. As far as I can tell, I am the only one of my kind. So when you speak of all the other… decedents that I would be representing, it would appear that there are none. Only me.”

“An affront to one citizen of our great country is an affront to us all,” Templeton proclaimed. “And yes, while you may be the first to suffer from this… affliction, you may not be the last. I see it fortuitous that we have found you when we did. We are in an excellent position to ‘nip the situation in the bud,’ as they say. I ask you, Mr. Marley, should we wait and wait until this problem becomes pandemic? Should we wait until more people like yourself begin popping up all over the country, a whole class of citizens, all of them disillusioned and disenchanted, forgotten and forbidden, chastised and chastened?”

“No, I guess not,” Charlie said softly, considering the implications.

“Then if not now… when?”

By this point, Charlie’s brain was reeling. In all this time, he had only been considered with his own situation, his own misery. Had he really been so selfish as not to consider there may possibly be a much bigger picture he was failing to take into account? These two men had now made him realize something he had never considered… that he was still a citizen, he still had rights and that he had an obligation, both to himself and to those who would come after him, to fight this injustice.

And damn it all, fight he would!

“Very well!” Charlie exclaimed with blazing eyes and a firm voice, his back straight and his hands clenched. “Senator Templeton, Mr. Cross, I would be honored if you would allow me this great opportunity. From this point on, Charles Marley is a victim no more!”

Templeton and Cross jumped to their feet in unison and began to applaud the old man before them with  massive crashes of their hands.

“Such bravery,” Cross exclaimed. “Such selfless bravery.”

“Bravo, Charlie!” Templeton bellowed, “Bravo and hear hear!” Only after a solid minute did the pair become silent. “Now, Charlie, here is plan as I see it, in brief. First come the press briefs, public appearances, speeches. This will be your part in this drama.”

“Yes!” Charlie replied.

“Then,” Cross continued, “with the full support of the people, the Senator begins the process of writing and pushing through the new legislation through the House and the Senate, legislation that any lawmaker in their right mind would be a fool not to pass.”

“Exactly!” Charlie cried.

“Finally,” Templeton postulated, “with wide and wild support of the people behind me, I win the next election in a landslide. And then, my dear Mr. Marley, you will receive with great pomp and ceremony, your bonafide  death certificate!”

“I receive my death cert…!” Charlie’s eyes went wide as his voice caught in his throat. “Um, did you say the next election? But that’s not until next year?! I have to wait until next year?!”

Cross’s face became suddenly somber, his tone delicate. “Yes, Mr. Marley, I am afraid that we would require your services until the end of election. I know that may seem quite a long ways away but please consider the alternative. You may choose to go this alone and try the normal channels but you yourself have seen how slowly and inefficiently the wheels of bureaucracy turn. How far have you gotten in the past three months? Nowhere… other than here where you find yourself presented with a golden opportunity, a guaranteed opportunity. I implore you not to pass it up. Please also consider that your sacrifice of a single year of your death will produce security and freedom for all deceased individuals that will last the ages.”

Charlie allowed this to sink in. After a moment, Senator Templeton approached him where he sat and extended a beefy hand. “Do we have an agreement, Mr. Charles Marley?” he asked simply.

With a sigh and a nod, Charlie stood and accepted the hand. “We have an agreement, Senator Templeton. We have an agreement.”

“Excellent,” Templeton beamed, giving the cold hand a couple firm pumps and then releasing quickly. Then he turned and began to stride to his desk in purpose, barking orders on the way. “Sebastian, find accommodations for Charlie here. A suite at the Plaza should do nicely. Also a stylist for him, we need to make him more presentable. I like that Hanson woman from Styles PR, I want her. Also a dialog coach, acting coach, personal trainer… just tell the folks at Styles to bring everybody, now. I need a speech in two hours, give it to Barnes, fill him in, something sweeping but wrenching. I want tears in the people’s eyes, tears I tell you. On second thought, you write it yourself, you are better at pulling at those heart strings. Make a call to the press, I want a full network conference tomorrow at noon, a matter of national importance. No, a matter of national pride. Better yet, a matter of national tragedy. All the networks, plus print and radio! I want at least an hour, no less. Also I want one of the director’s from County General Hospital there. Maybe Clarke… no, make it Schlitz, he’s more European. I want Schlitz with a full battery of medical equipment at the press conference. Noon tomorrow!”

“Tomorrow?” gasped Charlie. “Is it going to all happen that fast?”

“Indeed it is,” answered Cross, not looking up from his pad has he wrote with manic energy. “But don’t you worry, you will be perfectly prepared for the press conference tomorrow. You won’t have to say or do much, this is just a preliminary introduction. All we want you to do is stand there and let the Senator do all the talking, answer all the questions.”

“But I thought that I would be… you know, the voice the quite dead masses.”

“And in time you will be,” replied Cross as he pulled out his cell phone and began punching numbers, “but as of right now, you are very much not qualified. But don’t worry, the Styles Public Relations firm is the absolute best in the country. We will have you ship-shape and ready to go by next week.”

Charlie slumped down on the couch and began to rub his chin. “Oh, lord, what have I gotten myself into.”

Templeton chuckled. “The wonderful world of politics, Charlie,” Templeton chuckled. “The wonderful world of politics.”

Has Charlie just made a deal with the devil? Or will Templeton deliver on his promise? Tune in next Sunday for Part Three of The Life of Charlie Marley, D.O.A.!

It was one of those interminable long days for Mary Schmidt. She sat alone at the single seat of the information kiosk centered inside the volumous lobby of the records building, quietly applying the finishing touches to what she considered a very fine example of fingernail painting. Her work day was more than half over and so far she had assisted only three people and answered five phone calls. It was not as if this building regularly saw a massive amount of traffic, most of the people who came in were frequent visitors, usually politicians, lawyers, professors and genealogists, people who already knew the wheres and whys of this place and required little help. But today had been particularly slow, no doubt due to the hard cold outside. What little daily paper work she was required to complete she had filed within the first hour of her shift and so she had occupied the past two hours painstaking brushing on Black Raspberry Luster gloss to the tips of her fingers, waiting for her work day to end.

She was so intent in this that, despite the relative quite of the lobby, she failed to hear the Charlie’s approach to her desk. Ever the gentleman, Charlie allowed a minute for the young woman to acknowledge his presence. When it became clear to him that she too deeply focused on prettying-up her hands, and would be for some time, he cautiously cleared his throat.

Mary looked up at her visitor, eyes wide with faint surprise, quickly moved her numerous painting supplies aside and smiled graciously at the pale faced man standing in front of her. “Hello. Welcome to the Federal Records Building, sir,” she chirped, “is there something I can do for you?”

Charlie smiled back as warmly as he thought he could. “Yes, hello, my dear. My name is Charles Marley and I… well, I…” To his horror, he realized he had not given any thought on how to broach his special situation or even what it was exactly he was looking for here. “You see, my dear, I am looking for… well, I guess you could say that I am looking for something along the lines of death certificates.”

Mary nodded with understanding. “That shouldn’t be a problem, sir. We have half a floor with just those in it.” She began to reach for a visitor’s guide but Charlie stopped her with a gesture.

“No, no. The problem is that there is no death certificate yet for the person I’m looking for.”

The young woman arched an eyebrow. “I’m sorry. There’s no death certificate… yet?”

“Yes, well, you see, there is this person, a person whom I am representing, who… passed away some weeks ago and the local coroner is refusing to issue a death certificate for him.”

Mary was trying to get a handle on the situation. “Sir, it’s not uncommon for the issuance of a death certificate to be delayed if there is, say, an unknown cause of death.”

“Oh, that’s not the case,” Charlie said, shaking his head. “Four doctors and two coroners all agree that the cause of death was natural. His heart just gave out. Old age, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, sir,” said Mary in an effort to be sympathetic. “But if all the doctors agree on the cause of death, why haven’t they issued a death certificate? Did the body… disappear?”

Charlie thought hard about how to word an explanation. “No,” he said slowly, “there just happens to be contrary evidence that this person is really dead.”

Now both of Mary’s eyebrows were rising to her forehead. “Contrary evidence that your friend is dead but they all agree he died of natural causes? I apologize, sir, but I just don’t understand.”

The old man’s head slumped down in exasperation. He had tried this strategy before, several times in fact, of trying to get to the point while at the same time avoiding it completely. It never worked before and he should not have expected it to do so now. Despite himself, he felt those dreaded two words being forced into his mouth. Those two damnable words which never failed to produce less than satisfactory results to those he uttered them to. He said them nonetheless, quietly but directly.

“I’m dead.”

The blank expression which Mary wore was one that Charlie was well acquainted with. She nodded lightly, trying to comprehend what this old man in the tweed suit was telling her. She nodded for a long moment, then asked in a small voice, “Dead tired?”

“No, just dead,” he barked, a little too sharply, a little too loudly than he should have. “I am deceased. I am no longer alive. I have passed on… well, as you can see, I may have passed but I didn’t go very far. I have shuffled off this mortal coil and am no longer among the land of the living.”

“Well, many people feel that way about living in the capital,” Mary said, hoping against hope that this was what this man meant. Out of Charlie’s line of sight, one of her beautiful fingernails began inching towards a small red button hidden beneath the desk.

“Look, Mary,” Charlie began, referring to the name plate set evenly at the top of her desk, “please allow me to explain my situation to you?”

“Sure,” Mary agreed, her voice almost imperceptible, “Okay.”

Charlie leaned forward on the desk, folding his hands. “Some three months ago, I woke up one morning feeling not at all well; lethargic, general stiffness in the joints, a numbing sensation throughout, abnormally pale in appearance.”

“Flu?” Mary asked wistfully.

“So I thought. Anyway, I went to see my doctor that very day and what a trial that was. I thought he would check my tonsils, tap my knee, write me a prescription and it would all be done with inside an hour. Eight hours I was there! All kinds of tests and proddings, many of with I considered at the time to be a bit on the invasive side. I began to suspect something when my doctor had to get a second opinion on a thermometer reading. I saw three different doctors that day and at the end of it all, they had all agreed that something during the previous night I had suffered a fatal heart attack and died peacefully in my sleep.”

“And I take it you disagreed with their diagnosis?” Mary asked, her finger closing in on the hidden red button.

“In the strongest sense I disagreed! I mean, the mere fact that I was sitting there arguing the case of my death should speak volumes of my take on the matter. But they had all the evidence. All their tests revealed that I had no pulse, no respiration, no response to stimuli and my body temperature had fallen to sixty-eight degrees. I showed all the classic signs of an acute case of death.”

“And what happened then?” Mary asked, her finger a hair’s breath away from the button.

“Well, the three doctors ran me over to the coroner’s office to have a death certificate properly filled out and completed but she refused to give me one. She said that when a corpse walks into her office demanding a death certificate, she is rather reluctant to hand one out. She said that it could ruin her reputation to permit a walking, talking dead person to be interned.”

“So what did they do?”

“The only thing they said they could do was write me a prescription for cyanide in case I started to feel better.”

Mary’s finger mashed against the button with such energy that her precious fingernail splintered. Somewhere in a back office, an angry buzzer sounded and two security guards were quickly out the door, heading for the lobby.

“So what did you do?” the receptionist asked, doing her best to conceal the sharp pain stabbing at  her injured finger. Until security arrived, she thought I best to keep this man talking, to keep his interest on the story instead of her.

“Well, for the next month, I consorted with all sorts of people; medical specialists, politicians, local officials, even a hack named Merlin. They were all very sympathetic about my loss but insisted that there was nothing they could do. No one would allow me to have a death certificate issued. The doctor types, while admitting that I was dead, refused to get me one, claiming I was a bit too active to be considered legally deceased. The politicians declined claiming that my situation would mess up their census numbers, possibly effecting the amount of federal money they would receive. I spoke to a couple lawyers but right off the bat they said that the dead have no legal recourse. Then the bank somehow got wind of everything and had me evicted seeing as how I wasn’t ‘living’ at the house anymore. So I’ve been trapped in this bureaucratic whirlwind ever since.”

“Why that is just terrible.” Mary was struggling to keep an even tone but her eyes kept flashing over to the large stairwell to her right, hoping to see the dull brown of security uniforms come rushing towards her. The stairwell remained empty. She needed to stall this guy for just a little longer. “So, what brought you here, Mr. Marley.”

Charlie’s expression suddenly brightened. So caught up in his own story he had almost forgotten the reason for his long trip to the capital and now this dear woman seemed so eager to help him, so understanding. More often than not, the people he had told this same story to ended up calling security before he could finish his tale of woe.

“Well, Mary, one of the lawyers, even though he could do nothing for me, suggested I come here and dig up some old family records. He thought that if I could establish a genealogical pattern, I may convince all those doctors and administrators that I have some sort of claim to my death certificate.”

Mary was growing increasing impatient and her damaged finer, pain or not, convulsed repeatedly on the security call button. “And what are you trying to establish a genealogical pattern of, exactly?”

“That death runs in my family. My mother, my father. My grandfather has suffered from it for many decades. Both sisters, God bless them. This lawyer recommend I try to gather as much evidence as possible to prove that I am genetically predisposed to death.”

Mary’s restraint was hanging by a thread. She was seriously considering simply bolting from the desk and locking herself in on of the offices when a booming voice banged across the lobby.

“What’s all this, then!”

The two of them snapped their heads in the direction of the voice. Almost at the bottom of the stairs trotted a bear of a man, dressed in a security uniform. Pinned on his barrel chest was a gold star, the carefully polished surface catching the dull light. Behind him, trying to look severe, was another guard, a much younger clone of the older guard.

The two men approached the kiosk, the elder guard regarded Charlie with a sharp eye. “Is everything okay here, Mary?” he asked, not looking at her.

“Everything is just fine, sir. I was explaining to this young lady…”

“Mary?” the guard asked, cutting off Charlie.

“Hank, this guy says he’s dead,” she blurted out in a rushed panic. “He says he’s been to doctors who say he’s dead, all three of them and the coroner was a bitch who won’t give him a death certificate so they gave him cyanide and now here’s here to get his dead parents and grandfather and sisters to prove he is too!” She stopped abruptly, almost panting.

Charlie and the two guards looked at Mary stupefied. Hank finally turned to the old man and asked, “Is… any of this… um, true?”

“Well, I would like to think that my version of events was a bit more eloquent than hers,” Charlie explained haughtily, “but essentially yes, I am here to get records of deaths in my family.”

“And that little bit about you being dead and all?”

Charlie shrugged. “I may have mentioned something about the fact that I am recently departed, yes.”

Hank regarded Charlie with a long, head to toe look. “If you don’t my saying so, sir, you’re looking kinda healthy for someone who has… recently departed.”

“I have been getting that frequently as of late. The fact of the matter remains that I am deceased and I require certain information here that may ease my passing. Now I believe that I have been more than patient, I am not making a scene nor causing any sort of trouble so if you do not mind, I have some rather important business to attend to.”

The senior security guard gave a sideways glance to his counterpart, gave him a curt nod. “Chris, make a call to Hillside. Tell them to hurry.” In a severe manner, the younger guard marched up to one of the phones at the information desk and began punching buttons.

“And just who is this ‘Hillside’ you are calling for?” Charlie demanded, his voice louder, growing more urgent. “See here, I think I have been perfectly reasonable with you people..”

“Oh, yes,” chimed Hank, hand slipping to the canister of mace at his waist, “perfectly reasonable.”

“… and if you folks are not in a position to help me, then perhaps I think it best if I should just leave.” Charlie took a step back from the desk.

Hank advanced towards Charlie, holding out a beefy hand. “Sir, just relax. We do want to help you. There’s just some people I think you should talk to, is all.”

Over his shoulder, Charlie could almost make the low key conversation security guard Chris was having with Hillside. He distinctly made out the words, “old man,” “completely gone, and “wagon.”

All of the activity at the information desk had begun to draw the attention of a small crowd of people, most of whom were early workers making their way home for the day. The sight of a pale old man being slowly rounded up two security guards in front of a receptionist who looked like she was about to pass out from panic was enough to draw the attention of even the most apathetic metronaut. People began to edge their way closer to the scene of the action, catching bits and pieces of the conversation.

Charlie had had enough. He turned towards the doors, preparing to storm out of this place. Before he could even put his foot out, however, a heavy hand fell on this thin shoulder and tightened firmly.

“I think it would be better if you waited a bit, sir,” Hank said. Chris had finished his phone call and, seeing his superiors actions, rushed ahead to block Charlie’s escape. The small crowd around them tensed at this new turn of events but drew in closer all the same.

Charlie gave a hard twist of his body in a futile effort to dislodge the guard’s grip. “Unhand me at once!” he bellowed. “I demand the respect due to the honored dead!”

On hearing his cry, the people in the crowd began to murmur to one another.

“What’s going on here?”

“Look’s like Hank has himself a lively one!”

“Did that old man say he was dead?”

“How can he be dead if he’s walking and talking and stuff?”

“Maybe he uses that botox.”

“Well, he does kind of look deadish.”

Hank made a quick survey of the situation. He wanted to move this old man away from the lobby but, while the crowd was not large, the thickest part of it had gathered directly in front of the only office door on the ground level. He would have felt more comfortable moving him to the security office upstairs but decided not to risk it. It would not look good on his record if he allowed a struggling old codger to take a spill down the stairs.

“Chris,” he barked, “how long until Hillside gets here?”

“They said they had a unit in the area. Be about two minutes.”

“Two minutes until what, exactly?” Charlie fumed.

“Until you get the help you really need, buddy,” replied Hank.

“Hey,” someone shoot from the crowd, “did you say you were dead, gramps?”

“Yes, damn it!” blasted Charlie, “Thirteen weeks dead!”

“So how come you ain’t buried yet?” someone else asked.

“Because I do not have a blasted death certificate yet. You cannot bury a body, apparently, without a bloody death certificate. It is not legal, I suppose.”

“Well, why can’t you get one of those things?” inquired a woman.

“Isn’t it obvious!” answered Charlie.

“How come you’re not, you know, dead dead?” another person asked.

“How the hell should I know? I just woke up one morning like this. I might as well ask you how you came to be alive!”

“Now that’s a personal matter between my mother and father.”

For the next few minutes, the crowd continued to lodge question after question at Charlie and as the two guards seemed content with simply holding him near the information desk, he answered all of their questions patiently, eagerly even, making sure his voice was loud enough so that everybody could hear.

“What does it feel like to be dead?”

“Rather like spending the entire night watching infomercials. It’s rather numbing.”

“Have you spoken to God yet?”

“No, I figured He’s much too busy to concern Himself with my personal dilemmas. I have been thinking that maybe I slipped his mind and he just forgot to collect me.”

“So what are you going to do if you get your death certificate.”

“Be put to rest, I hope. I have an entire family waiting for me on the other side.”

Charlie was so completely engrossed in all this banter that he did not notice one man in particular, dressed an expensively cut business suit and with an intelligent glint in is eyes, make his way to the front of the crowd. He listened for a bit, then turned to another man and asked, “What’s all this about?”

“This is great stuff. That old guy right there says he’s been dead for like three months but no one will give him his death certificate. Says he keeps getting the run around from the doctors and the government. You can’t help but feel sorry for the guy. Anyway, Hank and Chris are making sure he doesn’t wander off, probably waiting for the cops or something. Boy, just listen to that old man go!”

The young man did listen for a bit longer, paying close attention to Charlie’s sad story. He scanned the crowd, watching their faces. Every man and woman was enraptured, hanging on the old man’s every word. A few of the more emotional types even had tears beginning to well up in their eyes. He looked again at this old, well-spoken man and then a light seemed to flicker from behind his sharp eyes, catch fire and begin to burn. With the fluid motion of a skilled gun-slinger, he whipped a cell phone from his pocket and placed a call.

“Sir, it’s Cross,” he said when the other end of the call was answered. “I think we’ve found something we can use. Get down to the lobby as fast as you can.”

Hank, meanwhile, had let his guard down for the time being. This old man wasn’t resisting in any way and was now cheerfully chatting with the people in the crowd. The guard was leaning leisurely against the kiosk as his cohort drew up beside him and whispered in his ear.

“Don’t you think we better do something about this, boss? I mean, this crowd is getting bigger. What if he starts creating a scene?”

Hank snickered. “Why sure. You mace him and I’ll club him with my nightstick. Just relax, kid. I don’t think he even knows we’re here anymore. We can’t do anything until Hillside arrives anyway so let him carry on. Speaking of which, look who just pulled up.”

Chris turned to where Hank was pointing. Through the glass of the front doors, a large van had just come to a stop, the words “HILLSIDE MENTAL HOSPITAL” printed in sweeping red letters on its side. Two burley men dressed in drab white orderly uniforms exited the vehicle and made their way quickly to the doors.

“Okay, this is it,” nodded Hank. “You take his left side, I’ll take his right. Let’s get him out quickly.”

“You got it, boss,” agreed Chris.

The two guards moved efficiently, drawing up to flank Charlie on both sides. The old man, still fielding questions, did not notice their approach until two pairs of hands fell squarely on his shoulders.

“Okay, sir,” announced Hank, interrupting Charlie in mid-sentence, “you’re done lecturing for today.” To the crowd he barked, “Show’s over, everyone. Make a hole, we’re coming through.”

Charlie tried to resist as the two guards egged him towards the doors which the two orderlies were holding open. “Stop, stop, stop,” he cried, “haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said. There’s no need for this sort of treatment!” Looking ahead, he noticed the van parked on the street, the sign printed on its side and the two men waiting to take charge of him. “What is this? You think I’m crazy? I’ve told you, I’m dead!”

Amid the disappointed hisses and catcalls of the crowd, Charlie was propelled forward with speed, the two office guards almost lifting him off his feet to keep him ahead of them. “I’m sorry to have to do this to you, sir,” Hank said with sincerity, “you seem like a harmless enough guy but you need help. Just go with these men and I’m sure you’ll be feeling better in no time at all.”

They had almost reached the door. The orderlies reached out, ready to take a hold of Charlie, a slight smile on their ruddy faces.

“Hold it right there, gentlemen!” rang a clear, commanding voice from behind them. Hank turned his head in annoyance, ready to tell whomever to mind their own business. But when he saw who was approaching them, his surprise was such that he dropped Charlie to his feet.

The man coming quickly down the stairwell was a portly but distinguished looking fellow, his round face a stern mask of confidence and experience, a figure that everyone who worked at the records building, indeed by almost everyone that lived and worked in the capital, recognized at once.

“Senator Templeton?” Hank blurted in surprise.

Upon reaching the foot of the stairs, the senator was quickly intercepted by the hawkish young man from the crowd, cell phone still in hand, who then whispered some words in his ear, pointing to old man sandwiched between the two guards every now and them. Templeton nodded severely the whole time and after about half a minute, the advisor drew away, allowing the senator to approach the two stunned guards.

“You did a fine job here, gentlemen,” he said to the guards upon reaching them, his fleshy face blushing with the exertion of rushing down here from his office, “but I believe everything has been taken care of.”

Hank shook his head in confusion. “I’m sorry, sir, but what has been taken care of?”

“This… situation,” Templeton explained with a generalizing wave of his hands. “You performed quite admirably. However, I believe that everything is in order now so if you would be so kind as to release mister… mister…”

Charlie had been just as stunned as the guards, if not more so, over this sudden turn of events but he did not fail to recognize this turn of fortune, apparently in his favor. “Marley,” he said quickly, “Charles Marley.”

“Of course, Mr. Marley,” the senator said through a large, professional smile. “The two of us have much important business to discuss. So if you would allow…”

Hank was shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Senator Templeton, but this guy is a total fruit cake. You should have heard him just a minute ago, going off how he was dead and how the system has failed him. All kinds of crazy talk. He needs to be committed, for his own sake.”

Templeton was wringing his hands eagerly, the smile on his face now so large it threatened to split his head in half. “I’ll hear nothing of it. One man’s insanity is another man’s dream, as they say. Besides, just look at him. Such an elderly gentleman could not possibly pose a threat to a fly, much less himself or anybody else.”

“But, sir…” Hank implored but was interrupted by the senator, his voice now under his breath.

“And besides, Hank, I would consider this as a personal favor to myself.” Templeton punctuated this last bit with an expansive wink. Hank had to consider this for only a brief moment, knowing full well that the gratitude of a senior senator could be very generous, while their dissatisfaction very vicious.

“Let the man go, Chris,” Hank said firmly.

“Do what?” the younger guard cried in disbelief.

“Don’t make me say it twice.” The edge in Hank’s voice was unmistakable. Reluctantly, Chris removed his hold on Charlie and backed away.

“And what about us?” asked one of the orderlies as if still trying to get a handle on the situation.

The senator dismissed them with a wave. “Consider this a drill. Excellent response time. And close those damn doors, will you! It’s freezing in here.” Their disappointment obvious, the two orderlies walked away, shaking their heads.

“Will there be anything else, sir?” asked Hank, his tone indicating his uncertainty.

“If you would be so kind as to disperse this crowd, I think we will be done.” The older guard hadn’t noticed that there were dozens of people still clustered around the scene, all wide eyed in anticipation. Hank motioned to Chris and the two of them moved into the throng of people, barking orders.

Templeton nodded at this and at last turned his full attention on Charlie, beaming. “Well, that was certainly exciting, wasn’t it, Mr. Marley.”

“I suppose that is one way of looking at it,” replied Charlie wearily. Templeton chuckled at this.

“If Mr. Cross hadn’t called me when he did, I fear that the circumstances would have been not to your liking, yes?”

Charlie’s eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Cross is…?”

“My assistant, as sharp and wily a man as ever you’ll find.” As if from thin air, the young, well-groomed man that had been at the senator’s ear materialized at Templeton’s side, smiled brightly at Charlie.

“Sabastian Cross, at your service, Mr. Marley.” He extended a hand, which Charlie accepted in a firm handshake. The younger man could not help but notice that the hand he held was cold and dry.

“And I’m at yours, Mr. Cross, as well as the senators. I’m very much in both your debt. As lovely as this Hillside place sounds, I’m sure I would have found its facilities less than luxurious.”

“I’ve no doubt of that,” joked Templeton. “The place is a zoo, full of poor souls whose minds have been destroyed by too much liberal propaganda. I would have hated to see you sent there.”

“Well, I thank you again but I am afraid that I must beg your leave,” Charlie explained. “I came here with a purpose and in all the hub-bub, no one ever bothered to direct me to the death records.”

Templeton waved his hands dismissively. “Mr. Marley, believe me when I say that you could spend a week in those records and not find a thing you are looking for. In my vast experience, I feel that this type of endeavor is not one that you should tackle by yourself.”

“But no one is willing to help me,” Charlie explained plaintively. “I have seen everybody and their brother and I end up getting thrown out on my face.”

“Until now,” declared the senator magnanimously. “From this moment on, I will dedicate myself to the sole purpose of obtaining you your much sought after death certificate.”

It took a few minutes for Charlie to find his voice. “You would do that for me?” he stammered in amazement. “But why? I mean, you don’t know me from Adam.”

Templeton drew up to Charlie’s side and wrapped an large arm around his shoulders. “Mr. Marley, I see here an opportunity that could prove to be mutually beneficial. I can do for you if you can do for me, as they say.”

“But what could I possibly do for you?” Charlie almost laughed. “I mean, you are a senator and I’m just an old man. Not even that, anymore. I’m just a dead old man.”

“Mr. Marley… Charlie,” Templeton cooed, “if we could go up to my office, I think we could discuss our plans privately and in detail. There is so much we need to talk about. What do you say?”

The old man was beside himself. For so many weeks, now, he had been searching for such a man as this: powerful, influential and eager to help. He could spend years scouring the country looking for an ally such as this. He would be a fool to pass up such an opportunity as this. With barely a moments hesitation, he nodded.

“Senator Templeton, I strongly feel that this is an opportunity that I could not possibly refuse.”

“Excellent!” the politician barked. “I’m so happy. Now if you would follow me, we can discuss our new relationship at once. Mr. Cross, if you would join us.”

As the senator and the old man made their way across the lobby, Cross following behind them at a respectful distance, a knowing smile on his lips.

What could a senator possibly want from an old dead man? Could there be an end in sight for Charlie? Tune in next Sunday for Part Three of Charlie Marley, D.O.A.!

      It was a cold day in the nation’s capital; cold, gray and bitter. A thick layer of uninterrupted clouds hung in the air, low enough to scrape past the tallest buildings in the city and filtering the sun’s light into a dreary dull hue. A steady brisk breeze pushed the icy air through the busy streets, forcing pedestrians to bury themselves deep into their thick coats. The cars and trucks that crawled along the roads belched out thick white plumes of exhaust.

      The mass of people that crowded the sidewalks walked with hurried intent, rushing to return to work after their lunch or make a meeting or just find a warm building to escape this wicked cold snap that had enveloped the city. They shuffled about, eyes downcast, their minds barely concious of their surroundings and concentrating simply to get to their individual destinations. Had the weather been but a trifle warmer or the general mood not as pressured, perhaps someone may have noticed the old man sharing the sidewalk with them, moving along at a laggardly pace. Perhaps someone may have noticed that, unlike his fellow pedestrians all dressed in their fullest coats, wool scarves and knit caps, he wore only a conservative light brown tweed suite, seemingly oblivious to the anger of Old Man Winter. And perhaps someone may, just may, have noticed that his mouth failed to produce the tell-tale misty puff of breath.

       Charlie walked slowly along the avenue, hands in his pockets, his eyes watching the pavement scroll by. In his mind, the old man was going through the events of the past twelve weeks, recalling those haggaring events which had brought him over a thousand miles from his home to this place in a last ditch and desperate effort to settle this matter once and for all. Over the past three months, he had seen a multitude of educated and influential people from his home state and none of them, not a one, had been able to help him with his condition. A dozen doctors, a couple of coroners, a plethora of professors, the city administrators, councilmen, county clerks, even an assistant to the governor. The only thing Charlie took away from these people was a sad head shake, an apology and a list of names of other professionals who might be able to help him. He had felt like a ping-pong ball being played around with by a few dozen players, batted from one person to the next and back again.

      Not even Merlin the Psychic, whose advertisement Charlie caught on television late one night, could offer anything to end this nightmare. During that hour long phone call, all Merlin the Magical (as he liked to call himself, along with several other monikers) could advise was, as Charlie was a Virgo, he would come into good financial fortune once Jupiter and Saturn were properly aligned. Charlie sneered at this, recalling how a week afterwards, the same day these two planets were “properly” aligned, he received his phone bill with three hundred and fifty dollars owed to Merlin.

      Charlie paused as he noticed a troop of dried brown leaves, urged on by a gust of wind he could not register, tumbled along the sidewalk towards him. Upon reaching his feet, they seemed to break from their determined forward direction and began to dance around him in a tight circle. Suddenly, a flash of images arched across his memory. As the leaves spun around him, he had the sudden recollection of being eight or nine years old at Manning Park in the town of his childhood. His two older sisters, Nora and Colette, both now gone, had him on the merry-go-round, spinning him around and around as fast as they could push the giant wheel. Charlie had been terrified he might go flying off, was in pain as his own body weight was pushed against him, laboring his breathing, and was sure that at any moment, mother’s lunch of grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup would be spun out of his stomach. And the young Charlie was laughing, laughing as hard as a child could. The sight of the world going by in a blurred panorama of color and the intense giddiness in his head and the sound of his sisters’ own fits of laughter at the torment of their little brother. The boy had still been laughing as he lost his lunch once his sisters had stopped him. And he had not stopped until they made it back home, Charlie staggering the whole way.

       The leaves broke away and dissipated, each one going in another direction. If he had been able feel such, Charlie was sure he would have been disappointed at this abandonment. Instead he only felt that ringing numbness which had occupied his body since waking up that morning over three months ago. His moment with the leaves now past, he looked around, surveying the area to get his bearings. Then, to his surprise, he realized he was now standing in front of the very building he had spent a good portion of the morning looking for.

      Not ten feet away from him stood a large granite sign set into the ground, looking for all the world like a massive tombstone. In large, gold embossed letters were the words “FEDERAL RECORDS BUILDING.” Charlie looked up at the massive building that the sign was presenting. He was not impressed.

    The building was a gaudy monstrosity of dingy limestone, outlined in a tacky gold relief. It was if some failed architect had made a heroic attempt of matching his creation against the other, more grandiose and prestigious Romanesque style buildings down the street, tried to amplify that design and then fail completely. The brochure of local landmarks that Charlie had been using as a guide to find his way here mentioned that the Federal Records Building was “unique in appearance” but who ever had written it had obviously never seen it personally.

      This building was hideous.

      Despite Charlie’s reservations concerning the taste or even sanity of the building’s designer, this was where he needed to be. Somewhere in this architectural horror Charlie hoped to find the evidence he needed, the proof required to finally end his dilemma. This was his last and only hope.

      Charlie took a deep breath, patted down what little hair remained on his head and brushed the little creases in his suit out with his hands. Forcing a smile onto his lips and straightening his back, he walked up the many steps leading to the front doors and entered.

What terrible plight has befallen poor Charlie? Has the old man found a solution? Tune in next Sunday for Part Two of The Life of Charlie Marley, D.O.A.!

The house on Corning Street was quite small and looked as though it had not been lived in for some time.

It was not as though this was one of the more prosperous neighborhoods in the city, merely one of those thousands of suburbs in the country where those families who crawled through life earning poverty wages could not help but gravitate towards. All the houses that lined these streets were small but the people who lived in them coexisted in a sort of unspoken yet universal testament to put their best face forward and refuse to allow their properties to fall into disrepair. By no means immaculate, every lawn was never-the-less trimmed, every coat of paint clean. Despite the hardships that all these residents faced in life, they took no small amount of pride in what little they could call their own.

However 1201 Corning Street was truly a blight against this testament. Much smaller than the other residences, its outward appearance caused even the most stout-hearted person to consciously avoid it, not so much out of fear as from sheer disgust.

The beige paint that covered the house was buckled and blistered, peeling off in large patches like a diseased skin revealing the dark wounds of rotted and insect infested wood beneath. Lining the base of the house was a thin string of roofing shingles which had either been ripped free by wind or simply slid off their weak fastenings. The screen door that opened to the front door was shredded and rusting, the whole thing hanging limp to one side on a single, corroded hinge. The small porch which led up to these doors was a minefield of weak boards, certain to collapse at the slightest urging and throw a transgressor below into a dark hole filled with fat rat’s nests. Of the two front facing windows on either side of the porch, one was cracked and splintered, covered by a thick film of dirt and grit. The other was gone altogether and replaced by a single thin sheet of sun-bleached plywood.

Half way up the small and cracked driveway was a badly dented and rusting Volkswagen Beetle, minus three hubcaps and the right door handle, a wide black trail of dried oil snaking from somewhere underneath the vehicle, down the driveway and disappearing into the street.

The patch of lawn out front was a wild thatch of tall browning weeds, the grass having been forced back into the parched dirt long ago due to neglect and the dry California weather. The only tree on the property, resting at the head of the driveway, was now only a thin and brittle skeleton.

In short, the house was in complete shambles, a chagrin of modern architecture, the ultimate symbol of suburban decay. It was a run down shack that would be certain for condemnation if only the city authorities would find the time or inclination to come to this part of town and sign the order for its destruction.

But none of that mattered because in that shanty, a miracle was at work. Inside, a divine act of creation was nearing completion and once finished, 1201 Corning Street would become the focal point for human kind. Here, the people of the world in all their shapes and sizes, beliefs and capacities would flock to pay homage at the center of enlightenment. Kings and queens would leave their palaces, prime ministers from the parliaments, presidents from their capitals in a pilgrimage of awe and respect. Popes and caliphs, senators and dictators, the masters of industry and the possessors of genius; all those who mattered and all those who did not. All of them would come and bend upon a submissive knee to pray here at the house of God.

At the moment, however, this place seemed quite unlike the house of God and anyone under this impression who ventured inside would doubtlessly think, “the Big Man is in desperate need of a maid.” Despite the rank appearance of the exterior of the house, it gave no indication of the horrific condition within. Inside, the air was stale and thick. Piles of empty TV dinner boxes spotted every room, along with moldy food trays and heaps of bare chicken bones which covered the floor, accompanied by empty, tarnished soda cans. But these were not the most unusual, or abundant, clutter in the house. Covering every area of flooring, inches thick in some places, three feet in others, was paper. All kinds of paper. There was plain white typing paper, college ruled, wide ruled, colored construction paper, sheets of cardboard, even pages torn from texts. They flooded every room, hugged every corner and ever niche, crawling in like a white wave from the bedroom to the bathroom, spilling into closets and pantries, lapping into the small kitchen until finally building into a massive crescendo in the largest room of the house, the living room.

And on every piece of paper, from top to bottom, back to front and edge to edge, were calculations. Mathematical calculations so compelling and so complex that the combined might of every great genius that has walked this earth, past and present, could only shrug at their intricate meanings. The numbers and symbols seemed to fold into themselves and exploded into never before imagined numerical devices and precepts. Yet even for the common layman to gaze at them brought a strange sense of serenity to the soul. Interwoven into each equation seemed to be the primal meanings of music, art, literature, politics, philosophy and medicine; the very spark of the human condition. Looking at a page, one could easily forget the hellish conditions in which they lay, open, exposed and ignored.

Lambert Simms was without doubt the single most intelligent essence in the universe. This was no simple boast, only a simple truth. Of the countless worlds in an ever-expanding universe, the repository of unlimited intellect found itself here on a blue and green planet, on the continent of North America in a small poor suburb in southern California, in a body known as Lambert Simms. His mind was conscious from the very moment of conception while still deep inside his mother’s belly. At once, his intellect began to grow at an exponential rate, doubling, redoubling and then doubling in on itself once more, fed not by teachers or textbooks and even experience. His mind was fed by some great outside force, even as his body grew at its nominal rate inside his host mother. By the time he was born, calculus and imaginary numbers were but mere playthings to him. Every language in the world, modern and archaic, were known to him. In his head, music that would have made the great classical masters weep floated and resounded. The mysteries of the universe were being made known to him and still his mind continued to absorb the never-ending stream of knowledge that flooded into it.

Yet all throughout his life, Lambert had never made his astounding abilities known. It would have taken him but five minutes with a knowing physician to describe a cure for disease. Not just cancer or diabetes, AIDS or Alzheimer’s, but all disease. To a historian, he could detail the mysteries of the ancients. So much he could have done and could still do for humanity. Yet he remained mute.

During his infancy, he played the part of the gibbering infant. Throughout his schooling years, he forced himself to perform moderately, not even bothering to attend university. He worked at several menial and unattractive jobs; a janitor, fast food, a gas station attendant, never for more than a year at a stretch. His reasons for all this were simple and direct. He wished to remain anonymous, an average and hidden man.

For now.

For Lambert, ultimately, did not just wish to be known, he wanted to be revered. To have revealed his true talents to the world by simple displays of his massive genius would have turned him into nothing more than a global media freak. His only testament to life would be headlines reading “NEWBORN INFANT KNOWS TRIG AND CALCULUS” or “TWELVE YEAR OLD UNRAVELS MYSTERIES OF THE PYRAMIDS.” He would become a puppet of daytime talk shows watched only by bored housewives, his every move and every aspect of his life would be reported by ever-hounding news people. Instead, he vied for a more profound impact on the world that would elevate his status to that of godhood in an instant. His anonymity would also allow him the time and privacy it would take to complete his life’s work.

From the very instant he was created, there burned deep inside him an underlining and all consuming raison d’être. He knew that it would be his lot in life to decipher the mathematical answer to life. The formula for existence. The single and decisive conclusion to all. It would be through the successful completion of this all-important question that he would smash his way into the heart and soul of the entire human race, not over the span of years but in one definitive and undeniable heartbeat. Where, in a single moment, his revelation would cause all the gods and goddesses of history, real and imagined, to throw their heads back in anguish and in a collective and cosmic scream of divinity, bellow their ultimate demise to be replaced by the one true master. Lambert would become a living God!

At this moment, however, Lambert was not a god and in fact, he was a pitiful sight. His dilapidated body sat alone, hunched over a simple wooden table. His black hair was matted and infested with lice. His unblinking blood-shot eyes rested in a pair of sunken dark holes. Every now and then, parched lips would pull back in a sneer, revealing two rows of uneven, pitted teeth. The filthy tank top he wore hid a disgustingly thin torso, ribs poking out like thin rafters. His arms and legs were like the branches of a sapling, veins bulging from the pale skin wrapped tightly against them. Such was the price this mental marvel paid for discovering the universal answer.

Lambert had been preparing himself for this endeavor all the twenty-five years of his life but, sensing the time had come to actively pursue it, had begun stocking up on his supplies needed to accomplish it only three years prior. He had bought this property, cheaply due to its location, and pre-paid for the expected electric, water and gas bills for the next five years. Despite his intelligence, he was not clairvoyant and could only guess at the duration of his trials but expected five years to be ample time. His next stop was the local office supply store where he cleared their stock of all the paper they had on immediate inventory. Sensing he would require even more paper, he next went to a bookstore and bought several hundred volumes as a back-up supply of writing material.

The paper and books he stacked in neat piles against every wall in the house, leaving only the smallest of spaces in the living room to place his small table. He piled the boxes of pens and pencils, also purchased at the office supply store (several dozen grosses in fact), within easy reach from his chair. He then purchased an industrial sized freezer, also placed in the living room, and with a special order from the grocery store, was stocked fit to burst with a few hundred white portion chicken TV dinners. A small mountain composed of cases of bottled water and soda pop erupted from the center of the kitchen. Then it was a trip to a pawn shop to buy a cheap revolver and a case of bullets.

His sanctuary fully stocked, Lambert made one last trip, driving down the street in his beat up Volkswagen and stopping at a house having a garage sale. There he made what he considered to be his most important purchase; a simple ten-digit plastic desk calculator bought for a single dime. His preparations completed, Lambert went home and, after making a quick adjustment to the cheap calculator, retired early that evening, time enough for one last dream. He rose early the next morning, had a fine breakfast of steak and eggs. After cleaning and placing away the dishes, he had then walked quietly to the table in the living room and sat down. He placed the calculator within easy reach of his right hand, placed the loaded gun further up, spread a clean white sheet of paper to his left, took a pen in his long fingers and began seriously to think.

Since that time two and a half years ago, Lambert’s life was an existence of continuous, perpetual hell as he worked on the answer to life. The process began with Lambert acknowledging the data that entered his brain from that great unknown source and breaking it down into simple numbers, zero through nine. These numbers he would enter into the plain brown calculator with his right hand. These simpler calculations acted as a key to the next step, allowing his mind to shift gears and upgrade these pure numbers into something altogether fantastic and he would scribble down these incredible equations onto paper with his left hand. Each equation led fluidly into another and once the sheet of paper was filled, he would toss the paper to the ground, reach for a fresh one and continue on. Each step in this filtering process was critical.

During this time, there had been no sleep. None. Such was his mind that he had almost perfect control over his own body and he could force it on almost indefinitely. However, the fiery desire of this quest could only sustain his body for so long. It still required sustenance and when he could no longer ignore the pain in his belly or the burning thirst in his throat, he would wrench himself away from the table, throw open the freezer and grab one of the TV dinners or dashed into the kitchen for a soda. Lambert did not even heat the dinners, he had no microwave, and he would simply leave it in the open and when the food had thawed enough to chew he ate quickly and while still working. He did this only sparingly, once every few days, his cells miserly absorbing whatever nutrients were required to keep the body functioning, no more. After the first two weeks, his hands and fingers had developed thick numbing calluses from the incessant writing and tapping on the calculator. After the first month, he had worn away the white printed numbers on the keys. Not long after, blisters and boils began to form along his underside, wounds developed by the constant pressure of his own body in his seated position. Lambert had prepared for this, having also purchased a large quantity of antiseptic cream.

In all, Lambert Simms had never spent more than three minutes at a time away from his work. Any longer might disrupt the steady flow of information that he continuously processed and interpreted. Any longer and he might realize the absolute horror and pain of his situation and simply surrender to it. Only five times in the past six seasons had he been unexpectedly interrupted by prowlers at his front porch. During those times, Lambert had heard heavy and unsteady footsteps at his front door, followed by the jiggling of the door handle, perhaps burglars hoping for an easy score or drug addicts looking for a quite place to forget themselves for a few hours. On those occasions, Lambert had grabbed his revolver, point it into the air and fired off a round, screaming “I’ll kill you all!” The report of the gunshot was always more than enough to deter anybody from entering. And in a neighborhood such as this, the sound of a single gunshot was not enough matter of concern for others to bother the police with.

This is how Lambert, the greatest intellect in the universe, elected to carry on his life for the past quarter of a decade. His mind never tired, never rested, its burning desire forcing the body on and on through unspeakable sufferings. Lambert had no idea when it would all finally come to an end, even concluding that it may never. However, on this, the seventh day of the seventh month of the second year, Lambert’s goal was all but finished.

Lambert had just finished a particularly complicated equation, one that had taken him three months to decipher, when the most incredible and unexpected event during his odyssey occurred. Lambert stopped.

His right hand suddenly froze over the keys of the calculator, his left hand ceased in their endless scribbling. Lambert stared at his hands, eyes wide. For the first time in his existence, his mind was completely blank. And for the first time in more than two years, his body was seized by a true emotion. Terror. With a whimper, Lambert spun in his seat and plunged himself into the heaps of paper on the floor. He grabbed sheet after sheet, scanning each equation written on them, mumbling the whole time, “Must have made a mistake. A mistake somewhere.” For three minutes, he reviewed his work, proof reading them for the slightest miscalculation. As he knew, however, they were all correct. Lambert Simms was incapable of making a mistake, not with the knowledge he possessed.

Finally, he lay back and let the fog of fear lift from his cooling mind, mentally exploring the possibilities. Then it occurred to him.

He was done. His work was finished. His mind had shut down because there was nothing more to consider. His head slowly turned to the small table, holding the precious calculator. He was done. The mathematical answer to the cosmos lay exactly where it should be, in the small ten digit screen on the cheaply made machine. With one push of the equals key, that one button he had never touched, there would appear a number. That number would act as an access code, a key that would unlock The Final Answer in his mind. With one quick and easy gesture, the billions of numbers that he had been adding, subtracting, multiplying and dividing for the past 982 days would be totaled.

Lambert stared at the small calculator for a moment, a smile spreading slowly over his face. Suddenly, his frail body surged with the energy of pure ecstasy. He leapt into the air, flinging his brittle arms around, dancing in a mad circle about the room. He whooped and yelled and laughed and cried. For several minutes he continued in his wild gyrations and bellows of joy, then collapsed to the floor, exhausted. He took another minute to regain his breath, then looked down at the debilitated condition of himself. Disgust rose in his throat but it didn’t matter. Soon he would be worshipped and revered by the whole of humanity. It would be no large matter to build his body back up again.

It suddenly dawned on Lambert that this was the longest break in work that he had ever allowed himself. He was no longer a slave to this dream, his mind no longer crunching impossibly complex calculations, equations and concepts, smashing the elements of existence to their most basic elements. His brain began to cool, no longer being pushed to its limits at that fever-pitched pace it was so accustomed to. He allowed his mind to wander wonderfully, to imagine. He saw himself in a light spring rain in Trafalgar Square in London, allowing the water droplets to cascade down his brow and into his open mouth. Then he was in an open air café in Nice, delicately sipping a cappuccino. Then he shot over to Munich in the middle of a festival with as much freshly brewed beer as he could drink, dancing and cavorting with a dozen young ladies. He then stood atop the world, twenty-nine thousand feet in the air looking down at the world from the summit of Mount Everest. Lambert could almost feel the wet rain on his body, taste the gently bitter cappuccino, hear the pretty fräuleins whispering into his ear, and see the world stretched out before him from the roof of the earth. He would have all of it and more.

He rose up from the floor and slowly walked towards the table, taking his seat. He looked at the calculator and the last ten digits on the screen looked back at him.

“I beat you,” he croaked, his voice raw and cracked. “You almost killed me, you bastard, but… I beat you!” With deliberate movements, Lambert extended a bony finger and prepared to push the equals key, his eyes fixed on the screen, greedily awaiting that final string of numbers that would deliver him into godhead.

A split second before Lambert could depress the button, the small screen suddenly went blank. The long number displayed on it simply disappeared with no muss, no fuss.

Lambert’s eyes bulged in surprise, his mouth went wide. Quickly he pressed the equals key. Nothing happened. He jabbed at it again. Still a blank screen. In manic desperation, he tapped at the key over and over with increasing force. The calculator remained silent.

With a cry of utter anguish, he snatched the contraption up, turned it over and ripped off the battery panel. His battery was in place and in working order. His battery, the battery he had replaced the original one with, the one of his own design and make which would power the calculator for dozens of years. Slowly, he turned the calculator over again and stared fixedly at its face. The screen was dead. With dreaded carefulness, he pushed the “power-on” button. The screen came alive now with a single digit displayed. A zero.

Then he saw it.

And when he saw it, he let the calculator slip from his fingers and fall onto the paper covered floor. Something in his mind cracked and a child’s voice welled up in his brain. “We can still do it!” the voice screamed at him. “We did it once, we can do it again! We can do it again!”
Instead, Lambert Simms allowed his right hand to snake across the table and take hold of the revolver with its last remaining bullet.

For all his intelligence and preparation, for all his mental might, Lambert had never before seen the three words printed plainly on the bottom left corner of the calculator. Now the image of those three words would become the last thing to burn itself into his mind’s eye.

“AUTO SHUT OFF”