c. 2026 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(8-26)
Despite numerous issues that
seemed to deepen his disability on a regular basis, and a social climate of
desperation and conspiracy theories, T. C. Lincoln was content with his
existence at the mobile-home community of Evergreen Estates. Though he would not
describe himself as a cheerful, or happy person, this mood of patient
acceptance was one that had developed over years of inhabiting his narrow lot
in the rural development. While his singlewide home offered few comforts for
living, it did efficiently meet his needs. Things were arranged conveniently
for someone who suffered from physical handicaps. And the limited floorplan fit
well with his tendency not to spend much time on housekeeping chores and
maintenance.
He had settled on a libertarian
outlook regarding life. One that let him enjoy the time left on his personal
chronometer, without fretting over details that he could not control. His
neighborhood was rife with unregistered firearms, talismans of fallen empires,
and symbols of extremist philosophies. In a sense, his own presence in the park
was a risky act that might indicate a paucity of proper judgment to those of a
more sober intellect. Yet he was used to being in the rural environment, after
a quarter-century. Sounds of diesel motors, bullets and buckshot being fired,
and Country ballads, no longer caused him to flinch. When marital disputes
erupted, up and down his street, he simply shrugged off any fear over mayhem
that might transpire. Visits from the local sheriff were common. He reckoned
that a balance needed to be maintained, between the insanity of their private
oasis, and rules of law that still existed in the outside world.
Everything sat upon a foundation
of drunkenness and disinterest. So long as he was able to stay perpetually
inebriated and alone, the perplexing riddle of his own life did not become
overwhelming. Though his spirit had perished in this backwoods landscape, long
ago, what remained of his body continued to go forward. Much like a mindless
vagabond scouring scorched earth and sand for sustenance, after the advent of a
global apocalypse.
For all of these reasons and more,
the graybeard misanthrope did not alter his habits after having suffered a
cardiac event, on the front porch. He feared longevity more than an early
demise. In a sense, every swallow of Kentucky bourbon brought him closer to his
moment of finality, and a blessed release. But as the hours of a Wednesday
afternoon elapsed, he again felt a tightness in his chest. Heat glowed from his
face, and caused sweat to drip freely. He became dizzy and disoriented. Then, a
bout of vertigo felled him, once more.
This time, there were no
spectators nearby to provide rescue. His neighbors to the east had left on a
camping adventure, early in the morning. Those on the opposite flank were
stoned from smoking homegrown weed, and taking CBD gummies. Almost everyone else
on their rustic boulevard was away at work. Laboring hopelessly for Dollar
General, Walmart, or some other employer of unskilled individuals who were
willing to work for minimum-wage compensation.
Lincoln sputtered phlegm and
saliva, as he rolled on the floorboards. The daylight seemed to fade as his
consciousness ebbed. Finally, darkness eclipsed all of his perceptions. His
heart was stilled by this episode of woe. His last breath came with a groan of
surrender.
This time, there were no family
members or deceased companions waiting for his arrival beyond the veil. He
lingered in a fog of oblivion, until arriving in a chasm hewn from solid rock.
Natural wildfires were burning all around this craggy chamber. He stood before
a grisly throne made from skeletal remains and cinders.
A peal of laughter announced his
arrival in vocal terms.
“MISTER TOWNSHEND! YOU STAND HERE
BEFORE ME TODAY, AS ANOTHER VANQUISHED MORTAL, HUMBLED BY DEATH. HOW DO YOU
PLEAD YOUR CASE?”
The shaggy hermit was somewhat
confused by this formal scene in the realm of Hades.
“Plead my case? What, I get to
make an argument about damnation and suffering?”
The menacing Lord of Abbadon had
an appearance of someone wearing goat horns and a robe of bloody jewels on a
cord of string.
“I PERSONALLY HATE THIS PART OF
THE PROCESS! BUT IT HAS BEEN DECREED BY THAT WHITE-HAIRED FOOL IN THE UPPER TIER!
HE IS THE MASTER OF ALL, AT LEAST FOR NOW. UNLESS I AM ABLE TO MOUNT ANOTHER
INSURRECTION WITH MY MINIONS! ANYWAY, MAKE YOUR PLEA AND LET US BE QUICK WITH
THIS PART OF THE RITUAL! I WANT TO PASS SENTENCE, AND BE DONE WITH YOU!”
Lincoln raised his eyebrows, and
huffed in disbelief.
“This is what mankind can expect
on the other side? A hothouse buried in a cavern, and you looking like
something out of a grindhouse, foreign film?”
The evil emperor was not amused by
this candid description.
“YOU THINK THIS IS A MOVIE SET?
MERELY A JOKE FOR YOUR ENTERTAINMENT? LET ME SHOW YOU HOW ERRONEOUS THIS
ASSESSMENT IS, MY SAD FRIEND!”
The alcoholic loner clutched his
belly, as a swarm of mealworms feasted inside. He began to writhe in pain, and
toppled on the slate floor.
“What the friggggggg! I was having
a snort of whiskey on my bench at the trailer park, and all of a sudden, here I
am with a stand-in for Lucifer, himself! I didn’t know anything about having
another heart attack, or landing on my ass in eternity! I just wanted to get
drunk! So far as sins go, that has to be pretty far down on the list!”
The malevolent figure held a fiery
staff, carved from bone. He was apparently running out of patience.
“THAT IS YOUR PLEA? A SIMPLE FORM
OF IGNORANCE? I PUNISH ALL KINDS OF SIN, YOU IMBECILE! THEY ARE MY TOOLS FOR
RULING OVER THE RUIN OF HUMANITY!”
Lincoln slouched on his spot. A
stale odor of decomposing corpses filled his nostrils. He was intensely thirsty
for a swig of brown liquor.
“Yeah, I get that you’re a busy
fellow. But there are plenty of miscreants and misbehavers all around the known
world. Crooked politicians, warmaking generals, serial killers, predators who
prey on women and children... plenty of targets for your claws and horns. I’d
think those kinds of people would keep you busy, claiming souls. You really
want to snag an old bum like me, when there are all those crazies running loose
in the asylum?”
The demon-in-charge shook his head
as if someone had placed a spotlight on his withered face.
“TAKE CARE NOT TO ANGER ME WITH
YOUR PETTY INSULTS, MORTAL MAN! I CAN DO MANY THINGS ALL AT ONCE! BELIEVE ME,
IT ISN’T DIFFICULT TO HERD MEMBERS OF YOUR HUMAN RACE LIKE CATTLE! IT IS A
CINCH FOR ME!”
The contrarian loner gestured as
if he was unconvinced by this boast of supremacy.
“We’ve got holy wars and ethnic
cleansing going on right now, invasions and injustices, pollution and
catastrophes, torture and poverty and exploitation. Take your pick! There are
plenty of reasons to go ransack the earth, if that’s your thing. Gather your
victims and wreak havoc! But come on now, don’t waste time with a booze-hound
from the Buckeye State. Are you for real? I’m a nobody. My life matters little
to anyone, not even myself, to be blunt. You’ve got bigger foes to defeat. Why
waste your time with a guy who can’t even walk straight? If anything, that
really makes you look weak...”
The demonic king lost his cool, at
last. He burst into a pall of sulfur smoke and scattering ashes.
“ENOUGH! ENOUGH! I HAVE HEARD
ENOUGH! I BANISH YOU FROM THIS REALM! BE GONE FROM MY SIGHT BEFORE I CHANGE
THIS VERDICT! GO BACK TO THAT DUMP BY LAKE ERIE! GO BACK TO YOUR RATHOLE IN THE
WOODS! GO BACK TO YOUR PITIFUL LIFE SUCKING DOWN SHOTS OF WHISKEY AND COLD BEER
AMONG THE WEEDS AND WASTE, AND JAGGED PIECES OF BROKEN CONCRETE! GO BACK, I
COMDEMN YOU TO LIVE A HUNDRED YEARS IN THAT JUNKYARD PIT! GO BACK, GO BACK, GO
BACK!”
Lincoln awakened on the floor of
his living room. He had carpet scraps embedded in his teeth. Somehow, he must
have crawled inside, after tumbling on the porch. But none of that mattered now,
as he gently fell back to sleep where he had landed.
Hell would have to wait for
another day in the pines.
