![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
new short story contributed to some zine in my town. Finished that book i was working on. I should probably post it here so you can read it...i got lazy. i'll do it eventually. but it's available for purchase, of course, if you want it...
I Light a Nat Sherman D.L. Manetti
In his last moments, Baxter died a proud and honorable death. True, he did not take to the idea at first. He wailed (not too loudly) and wailed trite pleas before suddenly coming into possession of his dignity, but most die this way, under my hand. Baxter saw me on the elevator. If he sensed something strange, his face did not betray it. He walked calmly to his room, I followed closely behind. Perhaps he thought I was a hotel employee, or a helpless old man, deranged or delusional, another guest looking for his room. When he tried to close the door I kicked it open firmly and locked it quickly behind me. He jumped back, shaken, knowing then that the jig was up.
“My name is Simon, and I am here to serve your death warrant.”
He begged me to spare him, he offered twice what I had been paid, as if money was even a consideration. Then, he did something I hadn't expected. This man, Baxter Gates, he ignored me completely, he eyed the ceiling hungrily with a million mile stare to the heavens, he begged God to spare him.
We're all reduced to this in the end, its petty and primal, like the ancestral joy we take in making fire. Only interesting in point of fact because Baxter Gates, the man, is a renowned scholar on the subject of atheism.
So it jarred me. I put my duty aside. I clasped my hands together, and smiled.
“Mr Gates,” I said, “Then we will wait. We will wait for this God you suddenly believe in to spare you, if that is your wish.” He nods vigorously.
“Very well. Normally I would never do this, normally your warrant would be all that is required to fulfill the contract, besides your boon, which I will receive before the end, but yours is a curious case, fascinating really.”
“besides my what?”
“Your boon. Your permission to fulfill the contract. As I was saying. A man of your stature, of your position to debase himself like this. Yes we shall wait. If only for my amusement or to prove a point, we shall wait. Do you really believe God will do this for you, after the time you've spent decrying him?”
“Well, I've had no reason to believe until now.” I chuckle, a sound like a rattlesnake, warming up on a limestone hotbed.
“How fragile our human assumption! What reason do you have now? No reasonable God would do this.”
“He Would.” I let it sit at that. While we wait, I pull out a Monday New York Times crossword and puzzle over it.
“What's a four letter word for Master Work?”
“Go to hell.”
“That's too many letters. You've got thirteen minutes.”
“Why do you do this? Don't you fear for your soul?”
“You didn't fear for yours until I challenged it. No, this is just my job. You, for instance, are a philosopher, of sorts. I get the warrant, I fulfill the contract, that's all.”
“But why me? Who could want me dead? What have I done to deserve this?”
“Ah, the old familiar argument. Look, my employer never provides specifics, and I never ask. But none are blameless. We've all got some secret in our past, some decision we made that seals our fate. You, you're all the same. What reason have you of justifying your existance, proving your worthiness of life?”
Silence settles as nuclear ash, infectious as we radiate with it.
“Nine minutes.”
“What are you so worthy to live?”
“I'm not. Look at what I do for a living.”
“So this is my fate?” “It is.” “Nothing I can do will change your mind? I could pay you thousands of dollars, a million even.”
“This is my duty, and questioning and undermining faith was yours.”
“God,” he cries (not too loudly), “God forgive me, aid me in my time of need.”
“Mr gates, Have some dignity.”
“You know, you're right. God isn't going to save me. He doesn't exist, and I was right all along.”
“Five minutes. Opus, Baxter. A four letter word for Master Work. You don't get it. God is not some paradigm for you to analyze and tear down. (S)he is not subject to your tests and validations, if (s)he exists at all, it merely...is.” He nods, dumbly. He sits upright, leans his head back and closes his eyes. I have seen this many times. This is Baxter Gates coming to his ultimate serenity, secure in the knowledge that he will die...
...Flash of blade to throat, slow trickle to gush and still Baxter does not move. He opens his eyes wide, questioning why I would strike early.
“Four minutes for the body to bleed out, Mr. Gates.” He laughs. Through the blood, the wound which he makes no attempt to clutch at, he laughs.
“Best joke...I've heard...All year.” and then, with that same peaceful smile,
“Simon, I grant you, my boon.”
Time for my smoke break. I light a Nat Sherman, New York Cut, and sit across from him, watching. Yes, in his final moments, Baxter Gates died with dignity. When he is passed I shut his eyes, then step onto the balcony. From this height, the city looks magnificent. A Master Work, as it were, if all the world were engineers. I flick my cigarette into the skyscape, not looking at where it may land. Withdrawing the moleskine memo pad from my pocket, I cross Baxter Gate's name off my list.
