Star-Spangled Apocalypse

by Harmon Cooper

“Let me explain: you have your larger chains that span the globe, like our former employer McStarbucks, and then you have your smaller chains that are just regional. If you just drink coffee from one chain your whole life, then you will never understand the caffeinated properties associated with other coffees in other coffee shops. Like is a latte from Crunkin’ Cronuts the same as a latte from McStarbucks? You tell me.”

  “They’re different.”

  “Some people – most people, really – spend their entire lives understanding either one group of texts or simply one text. This is like a person who only goes to one brand of coffee shop over and over again, consuming the same skinny vanilla nonfat latte with one sweet and low steamed to 170 degrees. And of course, bro, metaphor intended. Or is it an analogy? You get the point.”

  Virgil took one last toke and flicked the joint out the window, holding his breath for what seemed like a minute before finally exhaling the last bit of smoke.

  “A person who visits other coffee shops – a polytheistic coffee connoisseur like yours truly – has gained knowledge and experience from these other places and spaces,” Virgil explained, his eyes now glassy. “Maybe, like, this person will end up always visiting various shops, or maybe this person will end up back at the same old chain, having tried other varieties and found they preferred the first. But at least he or she – no discrimination there – has tried the others.”

  “Nope, I can’t get behind that. Religion ain’t small enough that you can fit it into a coffee cup and serve it for a couple of bucks at 170 degrees. It just seems too simplified; I mean what does that make us as baristas?”

  “Former baristas.”

  James cringed. Their decision felt increasingly stupid as the minutes passed. To counteract his doubt, he took a swig from his flask.

  Virgil closed his eyes as a smile crept across his face. “Crap…what was your other question? Oops, I remember the question now: so, what does that make us? Got it, yo. Since we worked at McStarbucks, we were definitely part of the largest chain. I guess you could say that we were like coffee priests, imams, deacons, bishops, pastors, preachers – that sort of thing. Larger coffee chains have their issues: management, product unity, training, and profit, which is similar to larger religions like Christianity, Islam, Hinduism. The big ass religions.”

  James flicked his cigarette out the window and focused on the road.

  “Mom and pop coffee shops have their own issues. First of all, the fact that it’s difficult to reap a huge profit therefore it’s harder to spread regionally. Secondly, it’s easier for a workspace violation to occur or some shit in a mom and pop shop because there isn’t upper management to instill values and regulations. It’s also harder for mom and pop shops to survive in tough times without external support. These are the same issues experienced by smaller, less global religions. But here is the real kicker…”

  “The real kicker?” James snorted. He remembered some of the East Texas boys from the countryside being called kickers. James wasn’t a kicker – nope, he didn’t live on a farm growing up – but he had plenty of friends who were.

  “It all boils down to this: all coffee shops, no matter how expensive or exclusive, all make their profit off the same thing, the coffee bean. Just like religion. No matter what it’s masked with or who follows it they are still selling the same thing. It’s just a repackaging scheme.”

  A repackaging scheme?

  “The coffee bean is the answer to our lack of energy, and religion is the answers to our thirst for knowledge about who we are, or at the very least, what we should do while we are here. Hell, at least coffee hasn’t moved in the direction of prosperity gospel…or has it?”

  “Prosperity gospel?” He shook his head again. “Virgil, shut the fuck up for a second. Check it out.” James pointed to a broken-down vehicle with two women standing by the roadside.

  Chapter 8: Amita and Hope

  James checked his reflection in the rearview mirror, adjusted the collar of his work shirt, and motioned for Virgil to follow. He sniffed his armpits, shrugged, and got out of the vehicle.

  “You coming?” he asked his counterpart.

  Virgil glibly scratched his stomach and attempted to straighten the wrinkles from his shirt as he hopped out of the jeep.

  It was James who made first contact.

  “Ahem, you girls in need of some help there?” he said, doing his best to maintain pristine masculinity.

  “Girls?”

  “Ladies,” Virgil corrected him. “Do you, um, ladies need help.”

  Whatever, James thought as something buzzed in his pocket. He pulled out his phone to see yet another message from Bill the McStarbuck’s store manager: WHERE ARE YOU? WHAT HAPPENED TO THE STORE? I’M ALERTING THE POLICE THAT YOU ARE MISSING.

  Fuck, James thought as he deleted the message.

  The two college aged females exchanged glances.

  One resembled a dreadlocked Scarlett Johansson yet shorter, with a hint of caramel coloring and less curve to her thighs. She wore a thin t-shirt with Buddha on it that read “Rub my tummy for good luck,” a tattered khaki skirt, and faded red Converse shoes. On her right wrist was a large lotus tattoo with deep red petals.

  “We’re coming from Austin,” Virgil said, his voice wavering. “Because of the missile attack.”

  The dreadlocked one glanced to her friend and smiled back at them. “Austin? Us too! We saw the fire and were like oh nooeeez! It definitely looked like Armageddon to us, so we decided to hop in my car and head out to my family’s ranch outside of Lampasas. But now my car is fucking up! Maybe my fault. The check engine light has been on since like last September.”

  She giggled.

  “Ya’ll think that it’s Armageddon too?” James asked, reaching into his shirt pocket, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Before lighting one of his Skydancers up, James waved the pack towards the two women.

  The female without dreadlocks obliged.

  “My name’s Amita,” she said as she bent over to use James’ lighter.

  “James.”

  Amita wore a turquoise headband that matched the stars on the legs of her yoga pants. A sudden burst of wind blew her dirty blonde hair over her to the right side of her body, revealing a long peacock earring that nearly touched her shoulder on her right ear.

  “What’s your name mean?” Virgil asked.

  “It means faith. My mom studied Arabic in college.” Amita pointed to her dreadlocked friend who was standing near Virgil. “This is Hope, by the way.”

  “Faith and Hope. Cool names.”

  “It’s Amita, and what’s your name?” Yoga Pants asked.

  “Virgil.”

  “Cool name,” Hope said. “What brings you out this way?”

  James looked away.

  “To be honest,” the younger barista bit his lip.

  “Yes?”

  “All signs point to the End Times.”

  “Like … the End Times?” Amita asked.

  Hope nodded. “We think it’s Armageddon too, at least I do! The sky was practically on fire!”

  “She does more than me,” Amita said. “But seriously, whatever happened in Austin was fucked.”

  “It was terrible!”

  James cringed at Hope’s voice; it was too scratchy and high pitched for his taste. Amita didn’t seem too bad though, younger than him by at least ten years, and sure, he was no George Clooney, but considering the part of Texas they currently stood in, he was practically a male model.

  James briefly imagined what she’d look like naked. As he did so, Virgil explained why he thought it was Armageddon and Hope continued to interrupt him, practically finishing his sentences with her hippy bullshit.

  “Yeah, for real! Like, it is definitely Armageddon, most def. The Mayans said so, or at least, some indigenous tribe did.” Hope pointed to the sky and spun around. “Luckily, we’re almost to my family’s ranch which is totally huge and can accommodate us until the spaceship comes to get us.�
�� She snorted. “I mean, who knows at this point. Ha!”

  My god, woman, you’ve lost your damn mind. James took a long drag off his coffin nail and ashed it.

  “Spaceship?” Virgil asked, considered what she had said. “I mean, it’s a possibility, that’s for sure.”

  Fuck, Virgil, you’ll say anything to bang this one, won’t you? James thought as he grinned at Amita.

  “You guys didn’t know? That’s what all this is about.” Hope laid out her extraterrestrial evidence, all of which sounded like a load of horse shit. “I mean,” she said, her face growing red from talking so quickly, “there were like twenty books written about it! I can show you some if you want. Also, the sky, and that TwitchTube Red documentary.”

  “I saw that one!” Virgil said.

  Hope wiped a bit of sweat from her brow. It was warm out, but the clouds overhead kept the true Texas heat from reaching the four. “Hey! Do you guys think you could give us a ride to my ranch? I can show you more info there and we can eat. I really, really need some food.”

  “Uh… what about your car here?” James asked as he wondered what the hell all the alien talk was about.

  “Oh, no worries, we have another vehicle there at my family’s ranch. I think the engine’s shot anyway. It was all smoky!” Hope headed toward the car to grab her bag. “I’ll call someone to come get it. Don’t worry.”

  Call someone? James shook his head as his phone buzzed yet again. It was either Bill or a news update. It couldn’t be anyone else.

  ***

  “So, I have roughly three ounces of chronic sealed in this airtight Tupperware container, about an ounce of dried shrooms, fifteen Modafinil, some synthetic Mescaline pills, a half vial of LSD, some high potency salvia, a piece of Ayahuasca – although I need a MAOI inhibitor to actually make it work, Vicodin, a half dozen tabs of ecstasy, three hits of Molly, some Mugworts to make tea out of if necessary, a few other smokable herbs including–”

  “Goddamn, man.” James looked in the rearview mirror at Virgil, who sat in the backseat next to Hope. Amita was next to James, one hand out the window as they traveled.

  Hope started laughing. “No worries, Jamesy. If we get pulled over, Virgy and I will take everything!”

  Jamesy? Virgy?

  Virgil laughed cautiously. “That’s a terrible idea.”

  Damn hippies.

  James took another swig from Ol’ Faithful. He offered the flask to Amita and she declined. She wasn’t the prettiest woman in the world, but he definitely wouldn’t mind saving the human race with their offspring.

  As he glanced over at Amita, she looked towards him with a thin smile on her face.

  Flirty smile or not? Time will tell.

  As he drove further into the middle of Nowhere, Texas, he tuned out Hope and Virgil, both of whom had clearly taken a liking to each other and were discussing various alien and shaman ideas in the backseat while Virgil dutifully rolled another joint.

  Every so often, Hope would look up from Virgil and give James some sort of driving direction.

  The ranch wasn’t too far off the main road, but to get there they had to bypass Lampasas completely. As he approached Hope’s ranch, he rolled down his window and let the clean hill country breeze infiltrate his senses.

  Compared to the city, there was something crisp and refreshing about country air, and in a way, it made him feel young again, like he was in Huntsville in his childhood home along Highway 30, watching eighteen wheelers and the occasional college student commuting between College Station and Huntsville.

  Those were the days.

  As they neared the ranch, Amita explained to James how she and Hope had been friends for about a year now, had met in an art class at Austin Community College, and that both were originally from Austin. Hope grew up in Tarrytown, Amita in the Wells Branch area.

  “Check me!” Virgil attempted to blow smoke rings with each exhale from the joint. Every failed attempt was met by screeching laughter from Hope, who had now scooted next to him, her legs on his lap.

  “Not impressed,” James started to say, but it came out as an incoherent mumble.

  The road that turned into Hope’s ranch was windy, full of hard soil, and littered with sharp rocks. As they passed a small clearing of trees, it became evident how wealthy Hope’s family really was.

  The ranch was a sophisticated, sprawling estate with a manicured garden set behind a pond filled with lily pads. The house looked to be the size of a small grocery store, with a huge front porch, white picket fence, and beautiful gardens to the side and around the house.

  James guessed that there were at least seven bedrooms in the three-story mansion, and possibly some sort of secret lair filled with dominatrix gear, gold bullions, diamonds, a getaway motorcycle, mysterious Mason books, and possibly a weapon cache.

  As he threw the jeep into park, James looked at Virgil in his rearview mirror, quick enough to watch Virgil’s mouth drop and his right eyebrow raise.

  Yep, it’s a mansion, Virgil, he thought as he turned the vehicle off.

  James got out of the jeep and went around back to get his knapsack, which contained the alcohol and his cartons of cigarettes. His phone buzzed, and he checked it quickly, noticing it was at 50% now. He turned the phone sideways, so he could better read through the cracked screen.

  Don’t let them take your freedoms, the email subject read. He selected it to open the mail.

  Tucker Jones here.

  I know you saw what happened yesterday to Austin, Texas, and you’ve probably heard about the mass shooting in Santa Fe, New Mexico, that happened last night. I’ll start with the second topic, because the liberal mainstream media has already sunk their teeth into the first (vampires that they are).

  Before the libtarded lefties try to come up with some excuse or push forth some new law and take away more of our freedoms (and you know how much I love freedom), I think we need time to process what has happened. Ten people died in the 60th mass shooting this year. But you know what? Those people died for a reason, and that reason is our freedom, your freedom and my freedom, our freedom to own and shoot military grade assault weapons, just like the second amendment promised us.

  The left wing nutjobs will say all sorts of things about bump stocks, automatic weapons, silencers, grenade launchers, but you and I know the truth. If you outlaw guns, only outlaws will have guns. So nothing would change. A background check for a mentally deranged person won’t stop that person from getting a gun. And get ready! LEFTIES will throw what happened in Australia at you, tell you that Australia successfully banned weapons. They’ll tell you other countries have successfully banned weapons and most of these countries rarely see mass shootings.

  You know what you tell these damn libs? You tell them to open the goddamn window and take a breath of fresh air.

  Smell that? That’s the price of freedom right there, and those ten martyrs in New Mexico, they deserve to be honored, not used as some platform for gun control. (Don’t let them win an argument even if they seem right and there is logic behind what they are saying!)

  Gun control doesn’t work, just ask all the countries that have gun control. You bet your bottom dollar that those poor Aussies want to shoot something and what can they do? Shoot an arrow? That’s not how I get my rocks off!

  I’m fired up about this! The president is doing all he can to keep the lefties out of the rulebooks for the nation, but he’s so wrapped up in the phony Russia investigation that it is hard for him to focus on this fully.

  Go outside right now, weapon in hand, and fire your gun at the sky, folks! God gave us guns, God gave us this great nation, founded in his name, and by God, we will protect ourselves from the mainstream media, those fascist left wingers, scientists of all sorts, AND ANYONE THAT TRIES TO TAKE OUR FREEDOM.

  -Tucker Jones

  James nodded. He liked it when Tucker was fired up.

  Tucker said things in ways that James couldn't. He spoke for him in that way, and James
had tried to mirror the way Tucker argued, but it wasn’t as easy as it sounded.

  ***

  The whole décor of the mansion puzzled James.

  Upon entering through the massive front doors, he had noticed your typical Texan ranch home styling such as horses, men on the cattle ranch, barbed wire, bulls, and several stuffed deer with dull looks on their faces.

  Hope’s room was another story entirely, a cringe-worthy affair that reeked of the time that comes with elitism and the problems associated with too much drug consumption. It also reeked of incense, immediately causing James to sneeze violently.

  “May all gods bless you,” she said with a stupid grin on her face.

  In an effort to be universal, Hope had collected a replica of every major religious figure she could get her hands on.

  The blasphemous little libtard, James thought as he took in the Mithraic figures, Buddhist thangkas, Greek and Roman Gods, Christian symbols, Stars of David, a star inside a crescent moon, images of aliens and large cloth mandalas swirling into eternity on nearly every visible surface.

  He scoffed at the large pyramid painted on the wall next to Hope’s bed with a single eye above its apex. On the opposite wall was a large Mayan painting complete with exact replica of the Mayan “wheel of time.” The floor was covered in cushions and beanbags in an effort, as Hope put it, to “make it feel like heaven” and “so my feetsies feel good.”

  Virgil pointed to Hope’s miniature statues, trying to name all of them. “That’s Krishna, and that… Well, it’s not Buddha numero uno but it’s one of them. That’s a statue of Apollo, a Sikh’s sword, a chakra chart.”

  It was about this time when James decided to take a quick nap. He didn’t want to get into it with these people, he was clearly outnumbered, and after last night’s terrible rest, he figured a little shut eye wouldn’t hurt anyone.

  He asked Hope the direction of the nearest bedroom and she pointed down the hall. Amita followed James out of the room, stopping in front a large bathroom and instructing James that she was going to take a long bath.

  He almost joked that he would love to join her, but stopped mid-sentence when he noticed the corners of her mouth starting to frown at him.