Sept 25th, 2313

Sept 25th, 2313

Sept 25th, 2313


I just envision a guy in his late fifties named John, dressed in a postal uniform, wandering aimlessly in the front yard of the house, where the real bad guy has his wife hostage. John’s got a loaded magnum, dangling in his hand. Sirens everywhere. News reporters. Cameras rolling, as the sound of a helicopter pumps the silence like a wave machine, over and over.

The screams from the house have stopped, the shoot out. The fire. The snipers. The Swat team. The renegade heroes. The model citizens, with their pocket revolvers. Everything is still. Except John, wandering, like a zombie, deaf from the ringing of an AK-47 just inches above his head, bullet shells leaping into his lap like popcorn.

Chaos brings a certain perfume that will stain the Cop who sits behind the plexiglass riot shield, loading up his shotgun. He will reek of it. The whole damn scene will reek of it. The entire suburban American town will reek of it. The Smith family. the Banisters, The Butlers and the Jones.

They’re all watching.

While John, sick of it all, deaf and half dead, wanders out into the front yard, into the open, out from the bush he’s been hiding in. He’s with a purpose, and has a passion he hasn’t felt in years, yet he’s empty. Knowing that it’s over. Not his job, but society. It’s over. Game over.

It’s almost like John’s just begging them,

“Shoot me, please.”

And unaware that’s he’s not the kidnapper, they do.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s