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The thing the Doctor said to Mike was this; after he snapped the x-rays up onto the highly polished lightpanels he turned stroking his nose and pointed to the x-rays and he said it.
There’s a large tumor there. There. See it? In that space there. That dark blotch.
I see, said Mike. So what does it mean?
It means your behavior and perception is altered. It must be removed—
No! said Mike, waving his arms—no surgery. No braining the pillow in this house of games. Wrecking balls swinging would be dangerous yes, but not this tumor. I think I’ll keep it. What do you say, Doctor?
I have spoken, said the doctor gravely. It needs to come out. But the decision is yours.
Having said this, the Doctor stepped back arms folded and disappeared through the wall next to the x-rays, nodding straight-lipped and wide-eyed as he melted into the wall. His blue eyes were the last to disappear, hanging there a moment, two cold blue dots, and then they melted back away into the beige painted wall and the Doctor was gone.
Mike took a last glance at the x-rays and then he was gone down the hallway with the creaking floor and out the door and out into the sun. He found his sedan across the crowded lot. He got in.
Bosh, perceptions altered, he thought to himself. Just as I could I would renege on such a promise. It couldn’t be kept. It could never ever be kept, in this life.
Never, he said, pulling away in a cloud of fumes. Pan sat in the back, goatfaced, holding his flutes, scratching at his belly with the other hand.
Black are the heavens that hang above on the day you’re told you have a brain tumor—
Hold it, said Pan, shutting off Mike’s words. His cloven hooves beat time on the floorboards as he lifted the flute to his mouth and played a tune that was in time with the rumbling of the sedan’s wheels and the pinging of its engine.
Where do you want of me? asked Mike.
Pan lowered the pipes. The silence filled the car like cement just poured in would fill it.
Let me off on the corner of bumbershoot, said Pan.
Pan’s goat smell filled the car and Mike screwed up his nose but he dared not tell the great God Pan he stinks. Mike sniffed back his nose and the goats stood all around going by, all in the fallow fields all around and he drove quickly through the goat fields until he got to bumbershoot street and its tall green sign. He pulled over onto the rocky shoulder. Here, he told Pan. Bumbershoot street.
Thanks for the lift, said Pan, brushing his hand down his beard. He was always merry and playful even though he was always after one or the other of the nymphs but was always rejected because he was so ugly. He got out into the deep lava flow rolling by and melted quickly out of sight, screaming. Mike nodded gravely.
It was his choice to get out here, he thought. And so, he had to pay—
The blacktumored x-rays still hung on the lightpanels, heated.
—with Gary Alan, muttered Mike, scratching his side. Best show on TV, that show with Gary Alan. The way he kicks the shovel blade down and the handle just shoots up into his hand. If it was me, it’d just smack me in the face. He saw the show across the windshield before him as on the other side of the back of the big fourdoor the door opened and Dionysus got in. God of the vine. He struggled his way in past the clots of vines filling the backseat and sat straight on the seat cushion and put his hand on the frontseat and spoke to Mike.
Together you rotten apple so if you can, said Dionysus.
What, said Mike, turning around and brushing aside the vines to see.
Never mind. Want some wine? said Dionysus. He held up a goblet with green gemstones studded all around the rim.
Mike pulled the big sedan back out into the traffic. Blue cars went by. And green.
I’m not supposed to drink and drive, protested Mike.
Well, said Dionysus, there are two sides to the fruits of the vine. The jolly joyful part and the dangerous frightening troublemaking part. Your laws must be slanted the way they are because of this. But there’s a case to be made for thinking that drinking will cause you to drive more joyfully, thus more safely.
No, said Mike. Being too joyful behind the wheel is what causes accidents.
So. Dionysus put his hand on the side of his face. I see. I am learning something today. You’re saying it is proper to be dour when driving and then you will not have accidents.
No—not dour, and not joyful, said Mike, waving a finger. But something in between. Besides wine does more than just make you joyful your senses are dulled and your reaction times are slowed and that is the real cause of the accidents- -not being joyful.
Dionysus drained his goblet and filled it again from a large brown bladder of wine he had hung to his side. The vines curled about him.
You should clean this car from time to time, said Dionysus, brushing aside the vines. Say, I’ll get out there—by that pole there. That silver pole. That tall silver pole. That tall silver pole with the red flag waving from it. That pole there—
All right, all right, said Mike.
The car pulled to a stop by the pole on the left and Dionysus got out the door to the right and all the vines went out with him, and as he stepped away from the car door all a great writhing bundle of vines a great blue tractor trailer came by at eighty miles an hour straight into Dionysus and Dionysus disappeared in a flash and a great cloud of leaves fluttered down all around.
The blacktumored x-rays still hung on the lightpanels, heated.
Mike gripped the wheel and checked to see if he was sober. For sober is that proper state, in-between. He rapped his chicken-bone on the doorframe and saw the road forked here and the hills went up to the right and sloped down to the left and he decided to go down the hill to the left but Eros got in first, his hair flowing and his loincloth rippling in the wind of his coming. The back seat turned to a luxurious red velvet gold-trimmed ornate couch as Mike quickly drove away. A great swarm of bees engulfed the car, buzzing loud as a freight train.
Rumbling bees scare me, thought Mike. Got to get away.
He pressed his foot harder.
The great cloud of bees fell behind as the sedan gained speed and finally the great cloud of bees was gone. Eros stretched on the red velvet, lounging.
I need sex, said Eros. His golden skin glowed.
I need sex.
So what do you want me to do about it, said Mike, visibly worried and clutching the wheel like a wild-eyed fiend.
The blacktumored x-rays still hung on the lightpanels, heated.
Eros leaned forward into Mike’s ear and whispered.
You need sex. From sex flows love. I am the God of love. You’re funny that way you know not believing things fully this way that way like you do your driving, so confidently, so smoothly—
I don’t know what you’re talking about, said Mike, shaking his head. But what you said is wrong. Sex flows from love. Not the other way around.
Then fill up the gas tank of love, guy, exclaimed Eros, and he threw himself back onto the red velvet, laughing. Bring me the head of Buster Brown! Bring me the head of Buster Brown, he cried. He kicked off his red velvet shoes and waved his long slender legs in the air.
Buster Brown? thought Mike.
The big sedan tooled smoothly around curve after curve. There’s a time and place for everything and everything in its place. Buzzards. I saw a buzzard once. The buzzard stood in the road not knowing the sight of it would amaze people. But Buster Brown? I don’t know—
The car struggled against Mike all the way, but he got it around all the downhill curves and the road was straight now going between fields of tall cactii. Mike chomped his bit. The cactii kept growing on either side.
—bring you the head of Buster Brown? I don’t know—
Eros suddenly sat erect.
Shut up! he cried—I’ll get out there, he said, pointing to a particularly tall blazing green cactus by the side of the road about a half mile ahead. For this is the thing dreams are made of, he added, as he pulled back on his velvet shoes. Mike pulled the big sedan over and it stopped up short in a cloud of dust. Eros popped out the back door and the back seat became a back seat again complete with the holes dug in it by the small black dog Mike used to take for rides. Scratch, scratch scratch with the jet black claws. Eros walked a short way into the cactii and then a large winged buzzard came by and lifted him up easily in its claws and flew him off to its nest, to feed its young.
Help me, screamed Eros. Help me—
His voice faded as the dot disappeared in the sky.
The blacktumored x-rays still hung on the lightpanels, heated.
Mike leaned back, blinked, and wiped his eyes.
What have I seen—
A tiny baby appeared swathed in cotton blankets on the back seat propped up by a pillow. I am Hebe, said the baby in a clear adult voice. Goddess of youth. Mike turned around and gripped the wheel and the air in the car smelled sweet as a baby and he pulled away from the curb and soon they were roaring along hammer and tongs between great soaring walls of vegetation. Hebe sat in the back seat and turned into a young woman. The baby blanket lay folded in her lap and she sat nude on the rough back seat. Mike blinked—multicolored backseat weave fun furry trips the dry ones trips the wet ones trips trips, he said, and went on further, because she sat there naked. But she didn’t care, just raised her hand to quiet him and looked him in the eye and spoke.
There is an age at which you are too young to drive this car, said Hebe, shaking back her hair. What age is that? she asked, breasts jutting.
I don’t know, said Mike. Thirteen, fourteen maybe—but the law says you need to be seventeen. In this state, that is.
A great jet roared over low followed by another then another then another. Hebe put her hands over her ears.
What was that, she asked thinly.
Jets, said Mike. The car bounced over a crack in the road bouncing Hebe in her seat. Mike looked away.
How old do you have to be to drive jets? asked Hebe.
I’m not sure, said Mike. I’ve never driven a jet. Jetsonic. The power—the meat of the light fantastic—
He went on as they jetted along the blacktop, skimming the surface. The green leafy walls on either side turned to wide grassy fields with the horizon rolling along in the distance.
Still talking, Mike half turned around and shut up when he saw Hebe had turned into an old bent crone with a faceful of wrinkles and gnarled liver spotted hands and flat breasts flapping down the front of her wasted body.
I thought you were the Goddess of youth, said Mike. There were no curbs here to trip over. So what happened? I trip up the stairs and the cat and dog food always goes flying, but you—
You can be young at any age, said Hebe. Shakily she raised a crooked finger pointing to the fields ahead.
I’ll get out there.
Where?
There, she said, and he pulled up to the side of the road just as she aged so much that she died and she fell out onto the shoulder in a heap of rags and flesh and dust after opening the door with her one last reflex.
Goddess of youth, breathed Mike.
The blacktumored x-rays still hung on the lightpanels, heated.
Through the still-open door two got quickly in after kicking Hebe’s tiny body to the side and they had sour looking faces, and clenched fists, and black sunken eyes and hard set straight lipless mouths. They were an older woman and a younger man.
Who are you, said Mike, dropping the car into drive gone gassy gassy gone gone as the back door slammed shut. I mean, who are you gassy gassy gone gone gone to space in the mists of the timeless void—
Shut up, said the woman. I am Eris—Goddess of discord. And this is my son, Strife.
—stomping on iron ground strumming a guitar mindlessly and clashing the cymbals loudly and crying afterwards at all the pain you’ve caused—
Strife leaned forward, hair hanging in his eyes.
You were told to shut up. Why won’t you shut up? Look at the road. Its so straight. It should be all spirals and all corkscrews like when you screw a corkscrew in a cork and it comes out pop, pop pop, just like that, pop—
Shut up son, said Eris. You’re as bad as our driver here. Her tangled tresses puffed out hugely. What you’re saying’s not true not true at all the lying cats got your tongue again got it by the tip with its teeth and its bleeding, be careful—you’ll end up with a bloody tongue again—
But Ma—
She shook her head violently and her hands turned to claws.
—never mind but ma here! she cried, slapping Strife on the back of the head. He cringed away.
Why’d you hit me, Ma, you’re always hitting me—
She turned from him and leaned up against the front seatback, looking out the wide curved windshield.
The road is so long, so black, and so straight, she sighed softly into Mike’s large right ear. Mike held the wheel steady—the mountains went by craggy and broken on either side. He spoke.
Have to be careful here of falling rock—
—so long, so black, so straight—
Eris leaned forward and clamped her hand on the wheel and pulled it violently to the side sending the car veering toward the rocky shoulder and Mike slapped her hand down and barely kept the bouncing car right side up must always be right side up you know—shiny side up, greasy side down, cried Mike, fighting the wheel.
Right—there’s a right side, and there’s a wrong side, said Strife from the back seat. Drive more carefully! he half-yelled to Mike. You’ll kill us!
But she’s the one—
Yes, said Eris—drive more carefully! Or you’ll kill us! But we’ve had enough anyway—there, there, there, we want to get out there by those jutting broken rocks our cave is nearby—
Right, added lying Strife—our cave is nearby.
Up there, she said, and she waved her hand with her finger pointed toward the place she wanted Mike to stop and he stopped and one of his front wheels bumped hard over a large rock. They piled out of the car in a tangle. Their smell lay pungent in the car. They went up the rocks climbing like spiders. Loose shards slid and bounced down to the shoulder. The very strife of them, the very strife and discord of them has broken all these rocks, said Mike. I’d better get out of here before I die. Because all the others died, but they haven’t. Unless they’re going to die after I pull away. At any rate—it’s a bad sign I haven’t seen them die, like the others. It’s not right somehow—
The door slammed shut. He pulled away. Soon he was on a long bridge over the blue tossing sea.
The blacktumored x-rays still hung on the lightpanels, heated.
—it’s not right it’s not right it’s not right—
A figure stood hitchhiking. Mike pulled over to the side of the bridge. The sea tossed wildly below throwing up whitecaps. Mike leaned at the hitchhiker.
Gordon? said Mike—Gordon Gillman? I thought you were dead.
Nope. Not dead. Not by your Harry crackers. Can I get a ride? Can you give me a ride? Will you give me a ride? Could you would you should you give me a ride—
Sure, said Mike. The steel bridge trembled from the surge of the stormy sea. Gordon got in all in white—suddenly followed by a blue bearded gentleman in a dark suit with a golden-handled cane.
I am Thanatos, said the gentleman wearily. God of death.
Oh no, said Gordon, and he rolled himself up into a ball on the far side of the back seat from Thanatos. Pointing his cane at Gordon, Thanatos said I am here to take this man he got away from me somehow before but now I am here to take him to the gates of the pit where he belongs—
The blow was not fatal, said Gordon, his head poking out of the ball he had become. Look at me here. I’m here alive, as alive as can be—
Mike drove off. They rumbled gently along the bridge.
Yes it was a fatal blow, said Thanatos. You’re not alive. You just feel alive. Thanatos’ eyes were black holes like in a skull. Mike gripped the wheel, eyes straight ahead, listening, guiding the car when there’s things like this happening around you all you can do is guide the car. Rattle trap shakey bakey. And listen.
No it wasn’t a fatal blow, said Gordon, whitefaced and bugeyed. If it was how could I be here—
But the Cuban hit you hard with the crowbar—
Yes but not hard enough. Look.
Gordon tilted his head. His bald head had a wide crease across it that looked as though it had bled a lot but it had stopped bleeding now thank heavens thought Mike who’d always cared about his car seats and wouldn’t want to get blood on them. Thanatos waved the cane in a frenzy.
Yes it was hard enough. You’re mine. Come. Come to daddy, come now come and I’ll just pick you up like a big white rubber ball and we’ll go down the big crystal stairs to that wide red-hot stone gate—
No! exclaimed Gordon. Mike. Hey Mike—
What, said Mike, his face set straight ahead.
Tell this fool I’m not dead.
I thought you were, said Mike. The papers said you were— You’re not helping! cried Gordon. The car shuddered over an expansion joint in the bridge. The front wheels shimmied like they do when they hit a bump like this so Mike hit the brake slowing down and the wheels straightened out and Gordon tucked his head back into the white ball he’d become and Thanatos pointed with his cane right by Mike’s ear to a spot on the side of the road ahead by a pole set into the railing of the bridge like flock rubbing at the distaff side. You see the crunch. You see the crunch but it doesn’t matter the rattlers gather all around and one at last rears up to strike you and you are very very very afraid—
Shut up! said Thanatos harshly. Here. Let us out here.
Mike shut up and they pulled up by the side and the stainless steel railing went all across and Thanatos gathered up the white ball from the backseat and got out and walked along swinging his cane with one hand and dribbling the big white bouncing ball with the other. The car stood still parked at the side as Thanatos got further and further out along the railing and then leapt over it off the bridge after throwing the ball down into the tossing whitecapped waves. Mike sat open-mouthed. He ran his tongue along the curve of his upper row of teeth before dropping the big sedan down into drive and pulling out onto the road again. The bridge stretched to the far horizon. The water did likewise on all sides. Mike didn’t remember ever being on a bridge like this he couldn’t remember having driven home this way but the car knew the way so it must be all right.
The blacktumored x-rays still hung on the lightpanels, heated.
Well, those two must be dead now, he muttered. No need to worry about those two drowned rats. Drowned rats suck up to the meals in front of you and in back of you and behind you it doesn’t matter where the meals are the drowned rats will find you—
A few miles down the road a voice came from the back seat.
Say—driver. Shut up a minute. You’re ten miles an hour over the speed limit.
Right. Ten miles an hour, crackled a second voice.
Better slow down, whistled a third.
Right, droned the first. Mike’s foot went on the brake and he turned around and three ugly blotch-faced pinch-faced women sat in the back seat all dressed in blue and gold and white with long golden hair down to there oh down to there— Mike didn’t know what to do or where they had come from so he pulled over to the side and stopped again by the railing. The sea below was tossing even more strongly now.
How did you get in my car, said Mike.
Never mind how that happened—-it just happened, said the first woman. All I know is it’s illegal to just stop on the shoulder here on a bridge, unless you’re broken-down. She had a large wart in the middle of her left cheek that wiggled as she talked.
Yes it is, said the second. She had a scar down the center of her long nose.
Better start driving, chimed in the third. Her head was larger than normal and she had a unnaturally jutting chin.
Who are you, said Mike, turned around.
Drive and then we’ll tell you. Right now you’re breaking the law.
Right—can’t have you breaking the law, said the second.
We don’t speak to people who break the law.
So drive, said the third.
The women’s black eyes set hard in their faces and with six eyes boring into the back of his head Mike dropped the big sedan back into drive and pulled out on the road. He took her up to cruising speed.
You’re over the speed limit again, said the first.
Yes—you’re breaking the law again, added the second.
Better hit that brake, said the third.
No speed limit signs were coming up so Mike slowed down to about forty and half looked back and asked them What’s the speed limit here? There are no signs.
There were signs but you didn’t pay attention to them, said the first.
Right—you should read all the traffic signs—its the law.
But we’ll let you off this time. The speed limit’s fifty—and turn back around and face front. You’re to keep your eyes on the road.
It’s the law.
Mike kept the car at about forty-five and his palms were sweating and he felt a drop of sweat running down his side under his shirt.
Who are you, he said loudly, glancing in the rearview mirror.
Keep your eyes on the road, we said! they said in unison.
We are the Erinnyes, said the first.
Right—otherwise known as the Furies—we punish crime, added the second.
That’s right, said the third—and if you must know everything like you seem to want to do, we were born of the blood of Uranus when he was castrated.
Mike winced and bit his lower lip hard.
My name is Tisiphone, said the first.
And I am Megaera, added the second.
Call me Alecto, said the third. The car kept moving toward the horizon and Mike said Glad to meet you—my name is Mike.
A good name.
A nice name.
A strong name.
Sure.
Suddenly the tossing waves disappeared and the bridge expanded out to either side and they were tooling along between wide, long fields of wheat. The fields waved and rippled in the breeze. The sky lay blue above them. They rode along in silence, Mike being careful to watch for any traffic signs and careful to keep the car under forty miles an hour—or had they said the speed limit was fifty—it didn’t matter he’d just keep it at forty and he’d be safe Toby inside says so Toby inside knows all things no matter what happens to this mortal body, Toby will live forever—
Shut up and let us out here, said the Furies in harmony.
Pull over, said Tisiphone. Here—here, on the shoulder. It’s legal here.
Yes its legal here, insisted the others in unison.
Mike pulled over. The passenger side back door opened and they piled out in a tangle of skinny arms legs and flying hair and ugly faces glaring and too-long fingernails clacking.
The blacktumored x-rays still hung on the lightpanels, heated.
The door slammed shut. The Furies were left in a pile by the roadside and Mike smoothly pulled away, glad to be free to drive normally, not paying attention to traffic signs or signs about whether or not to use the shoulder and all those other other things young people highly renovate ventilated rooms in frame houses for and the pound, pound, pound on the joists and timber framing and beams—
The car jounced over some tracks. Again, three women appeared but this time hitchhiking on the side of the road this was a day for hitchhikers this was a day for it yes.
The blacktumored x-rays still hung on the lightpanels, heated.
Three plain women in plain-looking ankle length gowns of a brownish color, each with cropped hair and high heeled boots stood by the side of the road. One held what looked to Mike like a big spool of twine or thread twine is big thread is small it might be twine or thread, he muttered—the middle one held what looked like a ruler, one of those kinds that carpenters use that fold up and fold out that you never see any more, like Mike’s dad used to use in the musty cellar to measure pipes to run out the new sewer line and put in the new gas burner, and the last one carrying a large pair of scissors just dull black scissors not golden or silver just dull black not with any molded plastic handles either but just a plain pair of scissors—the kind you hardly see any more that your grandmother might have had in her heavily beaded sewing-basket—
All right, said the first of the three, sliding into the back seat. You don’t have to go on and on like this,
Mike realized he’d been babbling again so he shut up and let all three of them get in. They sat in the back neatly lined up and proper with their things in their laps and their hands folded over their things like the dog folds one paw over another when he’s pretending to be good when he jumps up in the chair when the master’s husband comes in the room talking—
—but who are you, said Mike, without stopping to take a breath, even as he realized that this was the first time he’d asked any of the many people who’d been in his car today who they were—or maybe it wasn’t—it didn’t matter—.
The rightmost woman looked up and raised her spindle of thread in front of her to quiet Mike. She had a painfully deep dimple in her chin. Mike fought an urge to stick his finger in it.
I am Clotho the spinner, she said.
The middle woman leaned forward and she had one blue eye and one solid white like it was blind.
I am Lachesis, the measurer, she said.
The leftmost woman raised her scissors before her, not in a threatening way, but gently, saying I am Atropos, she who cuts thread. Her face was perfectly round and flat as a frying-pan.
Drive off now, said the dimpled woman. The three leaned back and Mike once more pushed the lever down into drive and the big sedan crunched through the stones of the shoulder and went out on the smooth blacktop picked up speed but for some reason Mike could not bring himself to go any faster than forty. The tires smoothly hummed along. Suddenly the first woman writhed easily and snakily over the seat into the front passenger side and started measuring off lengths of thread along Mike’s arms legs and body. He flinched back.
What are you doing, he said.
Spinning out the proper amount of thread for you, she said. Then, holding the thread in several places to mark the lengths she’d measured off, she slithered back into the back seat snake-like and leaned to the middle woman who began measuring the lengths of thread with the folding and unfolding ruler she carried. The two of them said numbers back and forth.
Ten—
Forty—
Five and six—
And twelve!
That comes to—
Never mind, said the one, shielding her eyes.
Yes, said the middle one, folding her ruler. Never mind. The third flat-faced one spoke.
Just for the record, she said, I have the number. I’ll remember. I always do.
That’s right, she always does, said the middle one with the solid white eye.
Good. So that’s done, said the first one with the dimple.
All right see now, said the flat-faced woman. Let me see the thread let me cut it—
No! said the dimpled woman, clutching the spool of thread to her breast. Not when we’re moving along at, at—
Forty miles an hour, said the white-eyed woman, glancing over Mike’s shoulder.
What were they talking about?
The blacktumored x-rays still hung on the lightpanels, heated.
What are you talking about, said Mike, half looking back and forth between the road and the women as though the car needed no driver to pay attention that’s how straight the road was that’s how good the car was it’d just go straight on and on forever and forever and forever—
No! Not forever! exclaimed the flat-faced woman with the scissors. She snapped them open and shut a few times. The slicing sound of the metal edge sliding back and forth in the smoothly humming car sent goosebumps down Mike’s spine. Clutch the merit of it and it’ll never get away. The calm before the storm the storm the calm before the sturm und drang. Flash the popeyed buttertool. To the hilt, drive it in to the hilt to kill him, kill them, pull it out and put it back in once or twice. To the hilt to the hilt to the hilt to the hilt—
Alecto grabbed the length of thread from Tisiphone and opened her scissors and put them on the thread.
I’ll do it—regardless of how fast we’re driving and how much this driver babbles.
No, said Megaera. Look. There are several feet left yet to where I finally marked the thread. Its not yet time to cut it. The number hasn’t been reached yet—remember I told you I had the number—
Yes, said the others.
Well. leave it to me. I say he’s got many months yet to live. Aren’t you glad son?
Mike shut up and straightened and pointed to the center of his chest.
Me? You talking to me—
Yes, said Megaera. And even though Alecto here likes to be quick with the scissors, on this fine day you are saved.
For we are the Fates, said the dimpled one. I reel out the length of thread representing the length of your life—
And yes, said the white-eyed one—then I measure that length of thread to see just how long your life should be.
Then, snip! said the round-faced woman. She opened and closed the scissors. I cut the thread on the spot that’s been marked when its time for you to die. My job is simplest of all. But must be done with precision.
They leaned forward at him and all spoke in unison now.
So do you see how lucky you are, human. This day you shall live. Now, they said, raising their crooked fingers to a spot coming up by the side of the road. We want to get off there. Pull over.
Mike pulled the sedan over and the three got out. The flat-faced woman slammed shut the door and Mike quickly pulled away leaving them standing in a cloud of dust. He drove now between fields of blazing flowers. The wild colors made him shield his eyes. He noticed on the back seat a length of thread. Guiding the car with one hand, he leaned back and got the thread.
This might be my life-thread, he thought. And as long as I have it and they don’t, that fat round faced one can’t cut it. I can live forever if I keep this thread.
Live forever.
The blacktumored x-rays still hung on the lightpanels, heated.
The car bounced along the uneven road and there were no more hitchhikers. In the distance a palace appeared with golden spires and turrets and a great golden wall around it and in the front of the wall the gate was lowered and there was a wide moat of pure mercury around the palace and Mike drove his car up the ramp through the gate and stopped up by the tall wide golden ornately carved front door. He stepped out holding the thread. He went across the golden pebbles and turned the golden doorknob and went through the golden doorframe. Outside the walls other cars went by the run down shack and they often thought, who could live there? How could they live? Inside the run down shack Mike got down a golden cigar box from on top of a tall glass fronted heavily gilded and ornately hand-carved cabinet and put the thread in it, coiled. He put the box on top of the cabinet way to the back toward the wall so it couldn’t be seen.
The blacktumored x-rays still hung on the lightpanels, heated.
After turning the heat on under his stewpot on the pearl- inlaid stove he sat heavily on his golden chair by the jewel- encrusted kitchen table. The chair creaked loudly as he sat back and put his feet up on the table and leaned back and locked his hands together behind his head.
There. As long as I have that, I’ll live forever.
The tumble down shack stood leaning crazily about him and he thought, no more doctor. I’ve got a brain tumor? Well its not hurting me. I will live forever.
He sat silently at last. Questions still arose as they always did but when you’re resting like this questions are harmless, they just came up and hit you and kept drifting up past you and spread out across the ceiling like smoke and then they disappear, making any answers meaningless. He fell asleep, surrounded by questions like they were big soft pillows packed comfortably in all around him. A nurse came in the room and switched off the lightpanels. The x-rays became cold in the darkened room. The stew sat bubbling over growing hotter and hotter as the moments, seconds, minutes, hours, years, decades, and centuries passed slicing Mike’s tomorrows and nows into dimly remembered yesterdays as they always do and always will, forever, one thin slice at a time.
This too is the work of the Lesser Gods.
