“Who are you, where you come from?” one of them yells out.
“I’m just looking for a safe place running from marauders, what’s going on here?” I ask.
One of them steps forward, a white man with a dirty bandana on his head. He’s tall, strong built but not athletic, the kind of man that once he gets a hold of you there isn’t much light left for you in this world. Should you be quick and light on your feet he’s not insurmountable.
“Truth be told, we got ourselves a minor inconvenience. You see here, this shop be the last place we got to get food. Problem is, Rodney done locked hisself up in here and ain’t comin out. Now usually we’s all sharin’ between ourselves of what’s left since the incident. Rodney got hisself some ideas bout taking it all on hisself. Now we’s all gathered here but it’s locked on the inside o’ the gate, we already did shatter the windows, but ain’t gettin in,” he explains.
I come closer and look at what he’s described. It’s a normal, but packed, corner store with a metal gate—near the top of the gate are slitted openings through which arms can reach, and shattered store windows. I imagine they threw rocks through the slits in an attempt to entice Rodney back out. People yell out to Rodney on occasion, mention a crushed skull, and the rights of man, etc. All are fairly intent on letting Rodney now the present impropriety of his behavior, but to little avail. Further inspection finally yields the culprit sitting with his back to the stacked goods eating what looks like canned peaches. It looks quite delicious to be honest.
“How long’s this been going on?” I ask.
“Long ‘nuff so as we gettin’ real hungry. We been travellin’ from town to town see, and finally Rodney cracked.”
“Well I got an idea, but it’s risky and messy.” From the darkness of my mind, out of some obscure problem solving region an idea arises for which I take no credit for, but was in fact a rather brilliant thought-idiotically gifted at the same time. Maybe it was partly a desire to just do something insane, maybe I genuinely thought it would be helpful, and partly because things just mattered in an altogether different way at this point in humanity’s life that I actually thought we should do it. What happened next is one for the history books. When humanity gets restored to the glory it once had or alien historians document the occurrences that took place at these coordinates, what happened on this day will have its own chapter, and a bio all about me and my extraordinary exploits. I tell everyone to start shitting into a bucket and putting anything else nasty they can find into it. As we’re doing this I notice an old newspaper on the ground, trodden by foot but still legible. I pick up it the headline is “Climate Change now thought to be central factor in spread of disease,” I don’t think much of it but subconsciously I feel an old cynicism rise up in me. We just couldn’t live peacefully on this rock and just had to fuck it up. Well this is the finale of post-industrial society, it isn’t what it was cracked up to be.
The yokels in this part of town follow along with what any rational agent would take as lunacy and actually start shitting in a bucket. Some of the younger members of their party find a dead rat, bird, and vomit to add to our witch’s brew. I spit in the bucket not really wanting to actually get close to the concoction we’ve made. The questions start coming at me from our new potential friends.
“Biological warfare fellas, you smoke him out for lack of a better term,” I tell them. At first a skeptical grimace ripples through these people and slowly knowing smiles show their jubilation.
“So we gon’ throw all this shit at Rodney? Hahaha, this gon’ be good, real good!” yells a woman with a face that has felt the winds of many moons.
“That son’fo’bitch gon’ see why you listenun to us!”
I peer into the bucket from afar on tiptoes. A real witch’s brew, a miasma of gunk and goo fit only for a soul bent beyond death. Mary and Jesse stand nearby-smiles blazing-their white teeth a stand out component in an otherwise grim globe. I reckon that’s what kids are into these days, what a time to be alive.
“Alright you hooligans, now all you have to do is go and show him what’s at stake. A simple question will suffice, would you like us to throw this at you?” My eye closes slightly, like Robert DeNiro with a grimace to match.
“I’ll throw it,” chirps an eager redneck and he whoops and hollers towards the store gate. As he descends upon the store, like a centurion coming upon a castle to siege, he says “Rodney, you stupid motha’ fucka’ you gettin’ what’s comin’ to ya.” With his feet spread apart, mouth agape smiling.
“I ain’t comin out,” says the beleaguered Rodney.
It’s at this point that our American centurion with the bucket whips it forward, a perfect trajectory of liquid suffering gently cascades over the gate and into Rodney’s once sanctuary. A shriek pierces our ear drums like a bat twisted in two. Rodney yells with indistinguishable ferocity; a string of unknown adjectives said with such panache that one had to smile that such a game wasn’t illegal, not anymore. Judge, jury, and executioner—a quick witted industrious person could really make a name for themselves in a world like this.
Moments later the gate flies up and he scuttles out like a rat escaping a flooding drainpipe. “FUCK YOU BASTARDS,” he garbles covered in crazy goo and in that moment everyone descends upon him, violent intent in the air.
“Don’t, you already got what you wanted!” I yell hoping to avoid bloodshed. I hadn’t foreseen the moral weight or the political intrigue that would lead to murder. A woman with a bat runs at him and I take out my Swiffer and jump into her path, she draws aback confused. Behind me two men make their way towards Rodney with chains ready to whip his stinking body into a carcass.
“Please, don’t!” I yell as they raise the chains.
Rodney bewildered with the new chain of events, suppliant with hands drawn together in prayer. The chain swings up, my heart jumps, and in that moment the man vomits. The other man covers his mouth and retreats, Rodney saved by the utter wicked pungency of our biological weapon. My body relaxes as they realize he’s got a defense matrix of their own creation and laugh. Some rush into the store to get water, snacks, medicines, and anything else of value.
“Thanks stranger, you don’ right by us,” a woman tells me. Jesse and Mary stand astounded, unsure of exactly what happened, knowing only it was great fun. I nod and we start to head back to the car.
“Uhhh, you know, have a good day guys,” I say while the kids wave and the crowd jeers us on, we get in the car and start cruising on.
Day X: Jesse, Mary and I drive on and on. To where we go, only uncertainty is certain. A train headed into a wall that speeds up is foolish because eventually it crashes, we’ve already crashed so we may as well accelerate. The rednecks were kind enough to give us a nice re-supply which the kids munch on, without greed—a kind of serenity has taken over their minds; I wager it’s on account of having me around.
With the windows down we feel the cool drizzle coming in, refreshing on a hot day. The sun shining, trees dancing with the wind, and the kids smiling in my rear-view mirror renews the wellspring of goodness in my heart.