Twenty Three

So Branches and Francois shambled down the street toward their home. Hopefully Susie and Billie would be waiting, dog biscuits and cat treats at the ready.

Branches looked down at his reluctant friend and said, “You know, kitty…I had an awful lot of fun today!”

Francois stopped, sat down and began to lick his paw. After a moment of quiet he looked up at the big dog and said, “Y’know something? I did too.”

The sun settled into the west as the two companions wandered onto the front lawn of 225 Maple Street. There, sure enough, were Susie and Billie, treats in hand. It was a Good Day.

Twenty Two

The planet spun slowly in an elegant ellipse around the dying sun, the only remaining witnesses possessing neural nets so primitive they would never register the beauty of the dance.

As Petra and her crew shunted their ship across a million paper-thin quantum universes, she fought a loneliness that permeated her being. She had left three of her crew behind; frozen bodies buried in shallow graves, each topped with a marker no one would ever read. She had disobeyed orders which, had she carried them out, would have left more behind.

What troubled her most was what she would do next. Her orders from Starmada were explicit, and if she failed they would cancel not only her life, but those of everyone under her command. Then they would find some other heartless bastard to carry them out anyway.

Safely ensconced in her own quantum universe, she prepared to activate the Superstring Engine; a heinous device which would collapse every other parallel universe to a quantum singularity. Starmada had enough enemies to contend with; they would brook no trouble from elsewhere.

As Petra contemplated the horrific and unforgivable crime against the Universe she was about to commit, a thought presented itself: What if a Petra from another continuum was about to do the same? She smiled quietly to herself, deactivated the Superstring Engine, and reengaged the Shunt Drive.

She may end up dead in another universe, but she didn’t care.

Twenty One

and the clowns!  What the hell were all these clowns doing here?  I just couldn’t look at them.  With every ounce of will I had, I wished them away.  As I’ve told you before, clowns make me itch.  Just the thought of them.  I mean, who the hell goes around in white makeup and baggy pants scaring innocent children at birthday parties?  Psychopaths, that’s who.

I said my goodbyes to Jennifer, patted Sparky on the head, and made my way toward the Valley.  I could only do so much for these people; now it was up to them.  My right arm still hurt from the beating it took, my pants were irreparably torn, and for some godawful reason my left shoe was covered in honey.  I never did find out how that happened.

As I increased the distance between me and the small group gathered outside the Langston Bar & Grille I thought to myself, “This wasn’t such a bad day; not such a bad day at all.”

Then I saw Billy.  Shit.

Twenty

He watched the strangers scud past his building far below, and wailed silently. He would move among them, but never be a part of them. After all he had been through for them, all the pain, all the sorrow, all the triumph, they would never know how his sacrifice had spared them.

Lost. Lost and alone. Lost and alone in a world he must always keep at arm’s length. They shunned him now; if they knew what he truly was, they would destroy him. He loved the world almost as deeply as the woman he had given up to save it, yet would never feel its comforting embrace.

He turned away from the window, lifted his gangly form off the stained, threadbare ottoman and scuffed across the carpet to the kitchen. Mac & cheese. He loved mac & cheese.