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 Proto-Satan 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.
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