Apocalypse at Harpers Lane

by Mackenzie Mazerolle

  “Son of a bitch...” Jack feebly mutters to his unknown conspirer. Something than catches his eye, not in peripheral, no delusion. Cold, now wet, yes… It was snow.

  Blessing? Or was this more punishment Jack felt very much unjust. Watching the snow progress, the temperature drop and the lack of any given divine blanket, he had the answer to his question.

  THREE

  Nothing becomes more surreal for someone who acknowledges every footstep they make, to fly thousands of miles across the continent in the run of a nights sitting. I doubt I had ever walked as long as I sat, but someone came up with the brilliant idea to build this plane (albeit the seats could be something a little better), the view is unmatched. Less, of course, you’re beyond the well do-er’ and right up in space, to which case I would wonder why you waste your time reading about being on earth.

  Once above the clouds, a welcoming distance makes itself known between me and whatever problem the government felt I had back home. Surely they don’t have those where I’m going.

  . . .

  It’s been a long ride, I haven’t slept. The lack of lights below, the snow and our velocity tell me I’m close to wherever it is I’m going. What a relief, I mean nice view and all while it was still daytime. Get high and late enough though and it all looks the same...Black.

  FOUR

  A slick white blanket of snow now covered the once golden desert. Thick grey clouds covered the warmth of the sun, Jack praised the infinite gasoline he could burn and drank remorsefully the bitter whiskey. Drunk and hung-over too many times over as it was, his dry lips cracked as his body left its blissful state of hydration. Funny, Jack almost thought, the worst of this curse he bears being what is so praised back home. People line up around the world and work their weeks away for such a serpent moonshine. Arrogant bastards, he thought. Yet another bliss he began to long for.

  Time was ticking too slowly in this place. The supposed death that followed his clearly immortal being was almost shortcoming. Jack longed for some sort, any sort of satisfaction, as did he then sought. Another violent swing from his bottle, the neck replenishing as he screws the cap… He proceeded to drive, as pointless as it was far out into the deep white.

  The tracks left behind Jack could see were leaving him quickly. Vision blurred as the brewing storm spread its worth and the bottle dried (or at least should have). He was now on a different kind of mission, drinking as belligerent as the storm howled at him, what a feeling it started to become having nothing to lose. A rightful fear conjured up the depths of his aching stomach, a sense of pleasure he did just have. Unfortunately, as seeming rule of thumb in this place, a counterweight must be given. At that Jack, tucking his whiskey into pocket opens his door while at a fair speed. The snow was ever rising; however, this was not his concern. Lunging himself undoubtedly into the passing snowfield, Jack could almost hear the buzzing from the mysterious mortars from afar. The car exploded as Jack rolled to a stop.

  Without admiration for the brilliant light from the spectacle of his avoided death, Jack rose in haste. Not for concern for backup mortars but the ensuing projectile vomit. Jack noted to himself, diving out of moving cars while drinking limitless whiskey equals ill-advised. Wiping his face from what was simply more whiskey, he counted himself a hat-trick in regurgitations within this dream.

  Mortars carried on their aimless show, blasting snow from the ground back into the storm. Of course, this did nothing but good for Jack. Clearly whoever was after him was losing grip of the situation. Tracking the origins of the pursuing explosions he made his way forward. Dry far beyond any sense of comfort the whiskey continued to flow as it was the only form of warmth he knew he would have. Dying, or whatever it was, did not matter. A score now became more and more apparent to settle. It now came to light his prison may not be in spite of his own mind, someone or something else must have a deviant hand in this. He would find them, or it rather. They would cost themselves just the same as they think to have cost him.

  FIVE

  ‘A battle than we shall have’; I say to my long since seen friend. The arrangement; individual alter egos, be all you can in a bar rally to see who’s the better man (figuratively speaking obviously). After all, there is no better man between friends. Is there?

  Night one; no go. Apparently, my alter ego is no more successful than me. Gerry, I called him, like a sailor of some ship. Maybe that was it; I should have said I owned a boat… In winter? Nah, all the same, it’s too late now. My friend reaps his rewards as when morning comes, my presence becomes unaware as I read on the window edge of the hotel window. Moans and pillow-side praise fills the silence between the paragraphs, even as I flip the pages I feel the need to remain silent as to avoid an incredibly awkward interruption.

  Night two; why bother. My hair is shaggy, not in the attractive sense for I lack both the appropriate age and era. Beard, long yes, but greasy, and worse is straggly. Would you (assuming female and mutual-type) come home with me if by first glance I strike as someone without a home? Alas, what can you do with times like these while living in places like this?

  Day three; no more games, on our final stretch, driving utmost class in perspective of most a man. Very big and very blue, any vehicle I feel past the two thousand is a spaceship as it was… This was no exception. Few more hours I’m told, and we arrive in a small town by the name of Shaunovan. From here we pass forward to a nearby and even smaller location, Boomtown I’m told it’s called. Between its description and the thinning highway, I see myself far away from everything I know. Maybe now, I’ll get that peace and time to work out my (hopefully imminent) success story. Speaking of success, I wonder for a moment how the poor bastard that ruined my van back home was holding up. My concerns stay enough at ease, victims these days fall hand in hand with lottery winners when it comes to the lawsuits they dish out. I doubt very little the man anywhere else than floating in a swim-up bar in some southern continent, desperately trying to escape the heat and nagging of his erratic, foreign mistress.

  SIX

  “Show shues, you cocksucker! I’ll trade your bloody whiskeyy..” Jack grunts, clearing his throat swings back another.

  “Take yer damn whiskey and ye.. ye gimme sommme daamn show shues..”

  Poetry and optimism, now completely torn from the man allowed the deceitful whiskey to do its bit. Jack fell to his knees, cursing God and all who believed in his wretched existence. No, he then argued, such a foolish concept must only come from threads of fiction. Only man could manifest such cruelty on his fellow brother. Now the only question was why him, what could anyone possibly have against him?

  He tried to picture people he knew, past scenarios or encounters where an individual would feel contempt towards him. Nothing came. What did this mean? What kind of person, doesn’t know anybody?

  A soul thirsty grumble perpetuated from the pits of his stomach. Was that the feeling of death, or of life?

  “Jack...” He continued;

  “Jack-“

  ... At last! Inspiration rises out from the depths of the frigid field below him.

  “I don’t have a family name!”

  The excitement began to rise, so long now since been real, an almost uncomfortable rush of energy flowed in his veins.

  “Jack Nobody. I am nobody. Here, is nowhere. Time somewhere waits for me. Underneath lay a man on a bed… That man is nobody. The respectable Mr. Buckingham, Joseph Buckingham. So noble, so righteous no more, only in the state of trying to be righteous should he ever remain! “

  Jack Nobody continued to rise until standing upright, he made his way forward. Nobody was going anywhere, the only place to go while caught in a world that didn’t exist. Realizing this seemed to change nothing except a sudden seize of sobriety.

  Smiling a firstly known noble smile, no cynicism lurked on its edge. The clouds began to dissipate. As if literally personifying to Jack’s revelation, the surrounding snow desert qui
ckly melted. He noticed nothing, caught in a victorious rant his words he spoke aloud;

  “Goodbye cruel world, if even a world at all. This is my suicide note from the other side, telling those who dream that I’m coming back. Who, you will ask, and I’m sure through humble curiosity. I respond as kindly as you may receive, my name is Joseph Buckingham, but your friend can call me Joe Pig.

  . . .

  Day eighteen in Boomtown, I do believe my time here to be up. It’s overall been great seeing as I’ve always been fond of the old westerns. The simplistic livelihood, I often imagined myself within its desperate domain. Modern-day complexities become incomprehensive humor when your life consists solely of dirt, sand and gunpowder. Freshwater was the only God a traveler would know to worship.

  Personally, I would be the unfortunate outlaw. The one who had made mistakes when younger, in reality, they were unavoidable. But unfortunate things always have and always will attract itself to the better of man, if not only to test him. My character, however, will be the medium between the two. Once considered great, man dries up in a drunkard slew as the bottle claims his life. A real pity, as seen by others, but to the particular morally possessed individual he dies with much glee. Young or not, I would find a letter for scripture and tell my finders I did not die in vain, or otherwise, unfortunately. I died concealing a gift you animal would of have on a platter. For that, I thank my years wasted under inebriation for all the lives it saved. I curse it all for giving me the wrong skills at the wrong time as well while I bid you fools adieu (This, of course, being the prime apes from a different era).On that note, many years have since passed to which I wonder, did he get it right this time?

  Enough talk about godly configuration and past lives. Money is to be made. My latest story titled; the Golden Nugget… Fairs well enough I suppose. I warn it does lack much of a punchline. All I can really hope for falls between two things; One is that people may take into consideration the weight of paradox, for it weighs heavy on my mind. Other than that I leave to your own discretion what it means to separate ones’ self from the equation. If that’s not enough, try relating your own image to less than nothing. I’m sure if anyone was crazy enough to go through with such shameful acts, it is someone reading my book.

  On a more positive note, I feel I should mention the recent news from back home. The man from the bicycle crash seemed to have snapped out of his coma. Great news all around, really… My charges were dropped, my license is still suspended but they did say they would give back my van. It’s still very cold here in Saskatchewan, but I do imagine by the time I make it back to the Atlantic spring would be coming near. Does strike me as funny though, had not known I put the ol’ boy bedridden. However, all is well, what more be there to ponder.

  Ps, see you soon, Monkey town.

  Chapter Four

  Mistaken Identities

  The eager students at UNB waited patiently but far from discrete. It had been three months since their already fresh from the tree professor took ailment. Rumors of a drug addiction spread like crack to an orphanage, premature conspiracies than sat weight as Mr. Buckingham walked into his Tuesday morning class. His hair was far longer than the time should have permit and his beard, tamed, but in most cases nonexistent. His clothes, appearing to have lost the appeal of fitted comfort loosened up the grip. He wore baggy sweaters instead of blazers, his pants clearly had a weeks’ worth neglect.

  Silence remained the classrooms only vice, almost shocking to them to see someone so excited to be at work.

  Mr. Buckingham writes across the top left corner his first instruction, writing simply Joe Pig. He then spun rhythmic like a half circle facing the mass.

  “It’s truly something special to see you all here today. It does me nothing but satisfaction to see, despite my neglecting toward your inquiries you remain intrigued about the significance of thought. Would I be wrong to state so?”

  No reply from the classroom, nor’ denial.

  “Outstanding, so let’s begin our lesson.”

  Students begin to whisper assumingly behind Joe’s hearing. Questions about what drug he possibly would be on, all while unknowingly amusing their gossiper’s sharp attention.

  “Ars longa, vita brevis... Ideas anyone… How about a language? It must sound familiar?”

  “Espanyol, Mr. Pig?” A boy named Stanley said, everyone in class knew he was the mocking type though Joe carried on without flinching;

  “No Mr. Fern I’m afraid not. I wouldn’t scrutinize you for guessing that for it and many other languages that we use today originate or at least leave vague similarities to the language in question. That’s why even modern languages one can find similar to other languages also still used today.”

  “It’s Latin, Mr. P Sir. The phrase originates from ancient Greek physician, Hippocrates.”

  “Spot on Miss Polanski, would you by chance be familiar with the rest of that particular verse? In English, that is. “

  “I’m afraid not Mr. P”/

  “Pig,” ‘He interrupts;

  “Call me Joe Pig, Kendra, and fear not I will educate you.”

  Intimidated, slightly in a peculiar way, Kendra perked her attention to this seemingly reinvented philosopher. Was that charm? Is it possible the man possesses the ability to both refers to himself as Pig as well maintains such a positive charisma about himself?

  “It goes as follows; (The) Art is long, life is short.

  Judgment difficult,

  Opportunity, fleeting,

  Experiment; dangerous”.

  “...Anyone care to take a stab at it?”

  “...Very well then. Let’s start with the first phrase, shall we?”

  Silent, attentive and perhaps a bit overwhelmed... Respect it seems has been had;

  “Firstly, I should ask you to look at this in the perspective of a mantra. If you aren’t familiar with mantras worry not, I shall enlighten... If I say orange you, consequently (in majority cases), will think of the color orange. Or perhaps the fruit itself, regardless the mind does seem to respond to words and correlating them with images, by then you’re ready for all kinds of senses to go off depending on the content. Nine out of ten times you throw an idea in front of a starving brain you will see it latches on like a leech to an athlete. This isn’t new a new concept for you all know of Hitler and his objective to infect the nervous minds of his own people.”

  Not one person to break the silence yet must be damn near convincing today...

  “But that’s not what I’m trying to do, invade your mind. All I may do is provide to you the means to manipulate your own. This particular passage is a fine example of what I like to call a ‘Psycho Mantra.’

  Preparing his breath for following words, the bell rings loud and clear above his moment.

  “Alright class, we’ll wrap this up tomorrow. If you feel into it, write me your thoughts on today’s lessons. It is after all the point of the class is it not? “

  Joe’s sense of humor was always dry, at best, but in all regards (too which he preferred), it was harmless.

  “Have a good evening, Joe Pig. It’s great to have you back.”

  Ahh, such a pleasant tone Joe thought. This was not for her physical attractions but for the rarity in which a maturing adult could speak to an elder (Even if only older by some), all while maintaining an equal sense of compassion. No fear, no prejudice. Simply two runners in a race with nothing better to do than avoid the race.

  “As to you Miss Polanski and thank you. Spectacular women that Polanski… A hopeful sight indeed towards these generations at the rising, well mannered, smart and strong-willed, just what you hope to see.”

  “Excuse me... Mr. Pig,”

  “... Oh, Stanley boy, what can I do you for?” Strange, he seemed a little more excited than he ought to be. It was a good class, but this boy looked distraught from it.

  “Actually, I have something for you
. “

  Stan lifts what seemed to be a script of some sort. The quality seemed very raw and questionable to its eligibility.

  “What’s that now Stan?”

  “It’s a book... I don’t know many people that read. I know you like books; this one really, changed my life... I thought you should have a look.”

  “I appreciate the consideration, However, I don’t imagine I’ll/”

  Stanley quickly paced his way out of the classroom. Disturbing kid… While reaching to pack the odd manuscript handed to him, the title caught sight but was not recognized until he was in the hallway.

  “The seventh floor... Peculiar, as well irksome… Might just be a good read.”

  Chapter Five

  Floors One & Two

  Dear friends and humble listeners, I feel something within me twist into a fate less agonizing. Not to believe, the prospects of my ambitions in vain, the fact remains even if only to I that I have literally allowed this story to devour me. There is nothing left after the end finds its way as it does every living thing. But for me, I know there is no turning back, all those bridges have successfully been smashed to bits. No more phone calls, no more grocery list’. My only investment now remains obscure within the personalities only recently been conjured. Where my anecdotes fall short, understanding to what I ultimately have to say remain in the yet unknown actions of these proclaimed heroes. What heroic deed, you should ask? Perhaps the indignation of cruelty shall prevail and teach their just as relevant lessons of our nature. On the other hand why not the naive? It is not arrogance, it is innocence. In another sense of seeing purity, has irreversibly become the new forbidden fruit. It is for that reason I may not proceed with you from here on in. All my lessons without the tainted scorns of their experience rest in the unguided wisdom of those to follow.