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He is brilliant, yes, but evil. So evil I despair
comprehending him. This man doesn't want murder his father
and possess his mother; he wants to murder God and possess
the cosmos.
ÜÜ ÜÜ
ÚÄÝÛÝ ÜßÜÜÞÞþ ÜÝß ÜÝß ÜßÜÜÞÞþ ÞÛÞÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿
³ ÝÛÝ ÝÝ Þ ÞÞ ÞÞ ÝÝ Þ ÞÛÞ ³
³ ÝÛÝ Üþ ßÛ ßÛ Üþ ÞÛÞ The Execution of Chance ³
³ ÝÛÝ ÜÝß ÞÞ ÞÞ ÜÝß ÞÛÞ ³
ÀÄÝÛÝ ÜÝÝÝÜÜÜÝÝÜÝÝÜ ÜÝÝÜ ÜÝÝÝÜÜÜÝÝ ÞÛÞÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ
ßß ßß Volume I, File III [110294]
Writer: Mephistopheles
"I'm in love, man...really, love...ha..uh.."
Nelson finally succumbed to the slight overdose and slipped
from his drug-induced state of holy love into the footspace
below the passenger seat. His staring eyes took in all the
glove compartment had to offer a man of Nelson's appetites,
dreams, and cheap taste in acid. Evidently not much.
I took it in stride and directed my rage at the cab driver
tailgating me, a fat man, probably deciding whether to take
home a pizza or one of the women standing in the shadows of
the building we were passing. He slowed. I accelerated, not
wanting to see the face of the girl who would approach the
window.
I took my foot off the gas when his headlights disappeared
from the mirror.
"Did you see her?"
"No."
Nothing but the top of his head showed from the pit where he
was huddled. Streetlights would regularly illuminate his face.
A new aspect of Man every light. I kept my eyes on the road.
Cracked pavement. A fucking concrete river.
My eyes glazed over. Nelson's shouting woke me.
I barely swerved around nothing. The street was deserted.
Nelson was hungry, and scared. His hand gripped my jacket,
a skeletal claw in the harsh light. A place loomed up ahead.
"Drive-thru" shined in the dark.
"What do you want?"
"A cow. No mayo." He giggled.
"One hamburger," I called out to the speaker, my voice hollow
in the night.
"Would you like some fries with that?" The voice was barely
understandable.
"No. One hamburger."
"A shake?"
"No."
"Onion rings?"
"A hamburger." Nelson appeared to be trying to grab his
tonsils.
"Fried apple pie?"
I stomped on the accelerator and tore out of the lot. It was
just as well. Nelson had forgotten that he was hungry. He
climbed up into the seat and found that he could see again.
I rolled down my window and spoke.
"We're leaving. Tonight."
He looked numb.
"Who called us?"
I looked sharply at him. He was in a stupor. Eyes dull.
Cheek muscle twitching.
I couldn't answer.
"Is Cheryl coming?"
"No." City limits. I stopped. The open road ahead.
The crescent moon was a blade, poised in the blackness,
awaiting my decision. Cruise control. I was still alive.
Half a tank got us three hours away. No map.
Nelson must have had some shit on him when we left. He was
still gone throughout the afternoon and evening. Another
damned neon sign denoted a motel. We checked in. I let him
sign for the room. Mrs. and Mrs. Barton we were.
The motel St. Thomas. Shag carpet, green blankets. Smelled
like beef stew. Nelson rolled up in a blanket on the floor.
The shower beckoned to me. The bathroom had a tub. I hadn't
taken a bath since I was twelve.
I lay in the water with all but my nose under, trying to
decipher the sounds water makes when it knows you're listening.
The hot shower was a baptism. Need to shave. No, beards are
nice. Jesus had one.
Toes were visible under the bed. His shit, a few orange and
blue tabs, was in an ashtray between the two beds. I lay down
and stared at the one working bulb in the ceiling fan until a
huge purple spot was scarred onto my retina.
I was disappointed as the spot faded over the thirty-twos
minutes in which I occupied myself by watching the crimson
digital clock display change from minute to minute. Watching
the minutes change was stimulating. Every ten thrilling. The
hour joyous. I felt a sense of accomplishment at having
scrutinized time, watching it inch by.
I turned on the lamp and winced at the glare. The ashtray.
After all, the world turned for half an hour without exploding,
and if that's not celebrating, then what is?
Turning off the light, I lay there in my clothes for another
few minutes before I reached out to the ashtray and dropped one
into my mouth. The taste was horrible. I gagged and spat it
out into my hand. I flicked the soggy cigarette butt to the
floor and reached out again into the darkness, feeling carefully
to make sure that I had a pill in my hand this time.
There's magic in acid if there's magic anywhere. Opinions
differ, however, on whether it should be classified as magic
of the benevolent sort that lends visions of Glenda, the Good
Witch of No Direction in Particular, or of the divine voodoo
kind that Nelson prized so highly. The kind that changes you
a little each time, until you have to spend the rest of your
life figuring out who the hell you are or just take more acid
and hope that your personality goes full circle and returns
the way it was.
The pill slipped down my throat of its own accord.
I felt my consciousness float a little, just bobbing along
in the shallow end, then finally rising up out of me.. I
couldn't handle it.. I sat bolt upright, banging into my astral
self. My consciousness flew against the opposite wall, and
after a number of painful ricochets, fell back into me.
Through the blissful haze that is possible only when one
hasn't watched the news for a few weeks or has taken a drug,
I leaned over to look under the bed, blood rushing to my head
in a very pleasant sort of way.
Nelson looked back at me, gave me the saddest kind of smile,
then closed his eyes and died.
Sleep came quickly.
(\___ ___ ___/)
ÚÄ\___ ___/ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿
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