The Fortuneteller

By R. R. Stark

* * *

He whose mind remains closed, the door to the truth will be shut.

The outlandish, overdressed, gypsy fortuneteller with gobs of makeup all over her face had told Dexter Langley the sun would never rise again, that the Earth would be wrapped in eternal night, and that soon the world would freeze and all creatures -- including humans -- would die.

Well!

That warm Sunday afternoon in New York City he had stepped into the gaudy yet strangely ethereal little Palm Reading parlor of Madam Sophia to get his palm read, just for kicks. He wasn’t in the least bit superstitious. He figured she’d tell him crap he wanted to hear, like that he'd get a promotion and find his one true love, then he’d happily pay her a few bucks and be gone.

However, he wasn’t at all prepared to hear the fate of the whole fricking planet, which included the whole human race -- and himself along with it! He was offended to say the least. He figured Madame Sophia was a typical charlatan, a genuine scam artist, so he decided not to give her wild prediction any credence. Why let a psychic swindler’s ludicrous words haunt him for days to come? It wasn’t worth squat to waste his time and energy on. He had better things to do.

Dexter Langley was an intelligent, modern man, a rational thinker in a long line of rational thinkers. Like himself, his father and his grandfather and great-grandfather were financial executives by tradition. That type of career requires a lot of rationale, intelligence, and logic -- but no room for superstitious hogwash. Langley was a corporate business executive in a prestigious financial firm called Howard & Associates. Besides, he was a hard core materialist, and a firm believer in grey matter, not ethereal ooky-spooky fortunetellers or any other supernatural mumbo jumbo. Anything of the occult was sheer crap as far as he was concerned. This solid world he had been born in, raised in, moved in, and breathed in, was all too real to him. Nothing else was real. What he saw around him with his own two eyes was all there was. He was an agnostic on the verge of atheism. He assumed God wasn’t real, but if by chance He was, the old boy obviously wore pants. Beyond that, he had no religion. Except making a buck. A lot of them, actually. Yes, he worshipped money.

So this intelligent, rational businessman currently rationalized that this two-bit psychic hustler in gaudy, frivolous gypsy apparel was a genuine authentic fraud of a broad. So, he, in good humor, paid her the average fee, fifty bucks for the amusing fun, since he could easily afford it. Then he left the shyster’s occult parlor and forgot all about it.

Down the sidewalk he strolled. Next he decided to visit one of his little red book girl friends that evening -- if he could get their names straight. Often he got them mixed up, which would get him kicked out of some gal's bed.

Alright, he was a rationalistic snob and a lecherous playboy.

Strangely enough, he found himself turning down the wrong street and wound up at some lowlife tavern in the bad part of town. Otherwise, he was virtually lost. But he decided to slug down a few drinks, then find his way back to some recognizable main street.

The old redbrick building fancied a sign over the inconspicuous door, “The Thirteenth Story Basement.” Dexter found himself guzzling down some wretched drink, cheap whiskey mixed with mud probably.

“Hey, barkeep.” Dexter barked. “What’s this disgusting crap?”

“Death’s Bite,” snarled the pudgy, grimy ogre.

“Figures.” Dexter mumbled to the scarred, tarnished counter. Well, he was starting to get a good buzz out of it, so it wasn't too horrible of a concoction Then he tossed his head up. “Say, buddy. Didja know the sun isn’t gonna come up any more?”

The rotund bartender chuckled, “It never does down here, bub.”

After sever more shots of Death’s Bite, he didn’t realize it was 2:00 a.m. The bartender, for the millionth time, tried asking Dexter nicely, in a steely gruff way, to please leave his establishment NOW! Or he would hastily call the cops to drag his smelly carcass off the premises and into detox.

“Go ‘head and call ‘em!” Dexter threatened, belching uncouthly. Then he slithered out of his seat and under the table, out cold.

Dexter Langley regained consciousness much later, or something remotely like consciousness. He found himself inside a reeking dumpster in the back alley behind the tavern, severely hung-over and smelly. He felt like a fleet of garbage trucks had run over him. Well, they probably did. By his watch it was 6:03 a.m. The sun should pop up any time now, he figured. Besides, this was Monday, the beginning of the dreaded work week. So he decided to go home, shower and shave, then go to work as usual.

Now it was 6:32 a.m. Since he would just get lost wandering around on foot, he found his way home via taxi, to the Gentry high-rise. He showered and shaved, drank a ton of hot black coffee to fight off the hangover. With his twelfth cup he nibbled indifferently on a toaster pastry.

7:09 a.m. He realized something seemed strange. But what? He looked around his apartment. Hmmm. No morning light blazed in from the windows, especially from the eastside living room.

Well! He shrugged. So fricking what? He’d go to work regardless. Whether or not that nutcase Palm Reader was accurate didn't matter anyway. A weird lucky guess? Who knows? If she was right, he had the convenient advantage of knowing mankind’s fate while everyone else didn’t. He smiled slyly while adjusting his tie in the bathroom mirror. He felt rather optimistic in a pessimistic sort of way.

Dexter donned his thin trench coat, left his seventh level apartment, went down the elevator, crossed the main hall, left through the front double-doors, and trotted down the cement stairwell, and stepped into a strange new world. He walked and whistled to work as he strutted down the empty sidewalk at 7:34 a.m. under a stark, inky black sky, perfectly calm, figuring the sun had quit its job for good while he kept right on with his. He didn’t see even one car move down the streets, only the usual parked cars. And he saw not one living soul anywhere around. Evidently people thought it was still night, so they just didn’t get out of bed yet, he presumed. Only he alone knew what was going on. The sun was gone, we'd all freeze and die off completely. He smiled wryly and shrugged, snickering, “Well, we all gotta go sometime.”

But then wasn’t he just having fun humoring the insane prediction that crackpot fortuneteller told him? Surely he didn’t believe a word of it! Not Dexter Langley, the most materialistic, rational man in New York! Yeah, he could have fun with the crazy notion-but he’d better not get too caught up believing this total crap!

But then again, something was definitely wrong. The sun was late that morning. Maybe the occult swindler was on to something.

Nah! After all there were always rational explanations for such phenomena. But he couldn’t think of one. He was no rocket scientist. Just a financial executive. So he shrugged it off.

He arrived at the hundred some odd story glass and concrete building where he worked, the Billington Building. He pushed through the revolving doors and sauntering into the lobby, where no guard greeted him, no receptionist eyed him smilingly, no one walked about in a hurry as usual; only ghosts of his memory.

He shrugged, “Oh well.”

He also noticed that none of the bright fluorescent lighting had been turned on yet throughout the building, only the dim security lights for nighttime that were sparsely scattered here and there remained. He shrugged again.

7:58 a.m. He stepped into the elevator, punched the eighty-ninth floor, and gleefully whistled to the elevator musak version of the Beatles “Here Comes the Sun,” tapping his foot along with it. For some reason the idiotic elevator musak went on twenty-four seven. Why, he didn’t know. On the eighty-ninth floor he skipped out, down the stark empty hall, also lit dimly, and arrived at the door of his business, Howard & Associates. Hmm. The door was locked. Evidently Shirley the secretary was late or something. She always unlocked the door. He had a key, being a topnotch executive, so he unlocked it and entered, switching on all the fluorescent lights in the long room of many rows of cubicles. Well! He was the first here. So fricking what? He shrugged it off, as he tossed his trench coat onto the coat rack.

It seemed eerie when he walked by terribly empty cubicles, where computer screens were black as night, and the silence made the whole office seem deathly ominous. You could hear a pin drop on the carpet it was so horribly quiet.

Dexter shrugged. Actually he expected as much. It was now 8:07 a.m., which meant he was a little late. So was everyone else. He would have been surprised if the usual crew showed up in spite of the devastating earth-crippling catastrophe at hand. So he ambled to his cubicle, plopped down, and fumbled through some papers, pretending to look busy, his normal routine.

Then it hit him. Where was the fresh coffee? Shirley always brewed it first thing in the morning for everyone. But she was nowhere around. Nobody else was either. He had to make the bloody coffee for once in his life since Shirley was probably out with the flue or whatever. He hated making coffee! It was always Shirley’s job anyway; she was the office secretary, and it was one of her duties. Oh well. It was a lowly job but some fool had to do it. Might as well be him. At home he simply stirred instant into hot water. Here at the office you had to commit to a whole dreary ritual, requiring the explicit knowledge of exactly how many scoops to put into the filter, waiting patiently for the water to percolate through the bloody machine while you wash out ceramic mugs dirtied from the previous day, and so on. That’s why they had secretaries. Right?

Suddenly the phone rang.

He picked it up. “Howard & Associates.”

. . . . heavy breathing . . .

“Hello?”

“Uh, yeah . . . Dex?”

“No! It’s Santa Claus!”

“Ha ha. Say, this is, uh, Harvey.”

“Hi, Harv! How’s it hanging?”

“Oh, uh, fine. Say, where’s Shirley? She usually answers the phone.”

“She also usually makes the coffee.”

“She makes a mean pot!”

“Yeah, I miss her already.”

“So . . .Where is she?”

“You got me. Probably sick.”

“Oh. Say, do me a favor and tell the boss, uh, that, uh, well, that I'm sick Bcough, coughB okay? I’m not coming in.”

“Yeah right, Harvey. You’re sick. So am I. We’re all sick! Either that or the sun forgot to rise this morning and we’re all freaked out! So let's all stay home in bed and sleep it off! It's probably just a fricking nightmare! It'll pass!”

“Huh?”

“Or will it?” he said sinisterly.

“What are you babbling about? You sound delirious, Dex. You’re sick too, right?”

“Yep, sure am.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, don’t worry about it, Harv. No one showed up for work yet. Everyone’s probably sick in bed. Except me. Lucky me. Guess I’m lucky, huh?”

“What?”

“So have a good night’s sleep, take the whole bottle of aspirin, knock yourself out good, ‘cuz the sun won’t be up when you get up!”

“You’re crazy, Dex!”

“Yeah. I know. Good-bye.”

Clang. He hung up, laughing.

Just because he knew mankind’s fricking fate, as if he held it in the palm of his hands, he felt on top of the world. He never much cared about anything anyway, being an atheist, or whatever he was. He didn’t care to be labeled, that was for anally-retentive, categorically-obsessive geeks. All he knew was, life sucked. That was his rule of thumb. He’d die with that.

Ri-i-i-i-i-n-n-n-g-g-g!

Not again.

“Howard's Joint. Yellow.”

“What? Who’s this?”

“Dexter Langley, Dick-brain!”

“Oh. This is Pete Whimbley, uh, calling in sick – cough, cough. So--”

“Yeah, I hear something’s going around. The Albino Pink Flamingo Flue Bug or some crackpot thing.”

“What?!”

“Yeah, and the whole fricking world’s grinding to a halt!”

Clang!

Now, back to rifling through his papers B oh, and he had to get up and make that fricking coffee sooner or later. He didn’t want to go through caffeine withdrawals just yet. He hated those bloody caffeine-deprived headaches.

R-r-r-ri-i-i-i-n-n-n-n-g-g-g-g!!!!!!!!

“Yeah!”

“This is Mike Smith, and, uh, I--”

“You'd better be calling in sick, ‘cuz the world’s ass is in a bloody sling and shoved up where the sun don’t shine! So get outa my face, ass-wipe!”

SLAM!

Dexter laughed maniacally like some demented madman -- that he was quickly becoming.

9:42 a.m. He finally got around to making that fricking coffee. He added an extra scoop. He felt like a strong cup of joe today. Waiting for the machine to drip, drip, drip into the pot took too long as he stood over it and whistled “Here Comes the Sun.” But finally he got a full pot, filled his mug up, and returned to his dreary cubicle, to do nothing important but fill space. He took a sip! Hell! That was some strong crap! It could grow hair on your rear!

He had gotten several more sick calls from more sickos, whom he cussed out and burned their ears with the ravings of a deranged lunatic. At first he enjoyed it, but after a while, it got old. And it was almost high noon and no sign of the rising sun yet. By now he was absolutely certain. That crackpot fortuneteller was definitely on to something -- something big. If she was so awfully right, why didn’t she announce it to the whole world? Hmm. And who would believe a raving gypsy lunatic? He didn’t at first either, till it all hit the fan.

12:00 p.m. Finally, it was lunch time and his stomach growled. Yes, the harassment he shoveled out got wearisome, so he got sick and tired of all the annoying calls.

R-R-R-R-R-R-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-N-N-N-N-N-G-G-G-G-G-G!!!!!!!

“Sonovabitch!” Dexter spat.

R-R-R-R-R-R-I-I-IB

“Okay SLIMEBREATH! This better be real good! I'm fricking sick and tired of you bastards calling in sick--”

“Ahem! This is Mr. George Howard, if you don’t mind! And who the hell is THIS!?”

Dexter froze, especially his lips. Then after stammering and stuttering, he finally got out, “Hi, boss. Real good to hear from you. But it’s just me, Dexter Langley.@

“Phew! Glad to hear that,” Mr. Howard said, relieved. “For a moment there you sounded just like my dear old deceased Dad B uh, before he was deceased. God rest his soul.”

Dexter chuckled. “I hope not. I mean B I don’t mean that God isn’t resting his poor soul -- that is not that his soul is poor, that is to say--”

“Never mind, Langley.”

“But I just didn’t want you to get the wrong idea--”

“Forget it, Langley!”

“Sorry, sir. And I’m also sorry your dad is deceased. I mean, that’s horrible.”

“Just shut up!”

“Sorry -- again.”

“Anyway, I’m surprised anyone at all showed up for work today -- er, night, uh, whatever this is. Some unusual weather condition, I presume.”

“Yeah, what I surprise.” Dexter smiled slyly. “But here I am. Lucky me.”

“You’re a genuine die-hard, Langley. Doing a bang-up job. Say, since you’re there, work on that obnoxious Sanderson Contract.”

“Oh, you mean the one that’s relentlessly pushing the Solar Energy Proposal? Of course! A perfect time for that!” Dexter snickered, rubbing his clammy hands together.

“That’s right. You know what to do with it.”

“Ha! I sure do! Now that it’s all clear!” And he thought to himself, I’ll shove that proposal where the sun doesn’t shine!

“You see—cough, cough—I’m a tad under the weather. I’m staying home today.” Mr. Howard’s voice sounded hoarse all of a sudden.

“Sure, boss. Take all the time in the world, till doomsday for all I care. I’ll hold the fort for you.”

“You’re a topnotch guy, Langley. Remind me to give you a promotion!” Someone should have told that to the fortuneteller.

“Great, boss. About time.” Yeah, now that the world was going to freeze over and all living creatures were scheduled to die by an extreme case of frostbite. “Say, boss, have you heard the latest urban legend, that this crazy two-bit fortuneteller predicts the sun won’t rise this morning? Then it comes true and we all freeze our asses off!”

Mr. Howard chuckled weakly, “Yes, ha ha, you’ve always been the funny one. Well, I hope this fricking weather clears up soon. Heavy cloud coverage, I expect.”

“Yeah, boss, real heavy.”

“Okay, gotta go. But see you tomorrow. So, bye for now.”

“Yeah, bye-bye.” He meant that sincerely as he hang up.

Well. No one believed it. Even when it was staring them blatantly in the face. Even though it was now – let’s see, 12:18 p.m. -- and yet too dark to see the light of day, too dark to see that it was stark raving dark in broad daylight, to bloody dark to realize the sun wasn’t going to come up that day or any other day.

Hmmm. Then he wondered. Was he the only fool in the whole city -- or whole world even --who went to work that day? Because he was the only one, as far as he knew, whom a phony baloney fortuneteller informed that this world-stopping catastrophe would strike. So. Being well in-the-know, as it were, and in advance, he was mentally prepared. Or was he?

However, he began to wonder if this whole fricking fiasco wasn’t actually happening to the whole world and all humanity in it. Maybe this was just happening to him! Perhaps he was merely dreaming it all. Or maybe he had entered some weird nightmarish dimension of darkness! Perhaps his highbrowed, stubborn ways lead him down this wretched path of dark horrors!

Nah! How egotistical is that? It happened only to him? And who was he? Somebody special? Surely this plight befell all mankind. He felt at ease with that thought. He didn’t want to be alone in this fricking mess.

Anyway. Dexter Langley had work to do. He had no time to contemplate the current crisis. He dug through his file cabinet and pulled out the manila folder for the Sanderson Contract, then idly thumbed through it.

“Hmm. Hmm. Hmm. Yes. Hmm.”

Originally, Howard & Associates would NOT support the Sanderson Solar Energy Proposal; an ingenious solution for a safer environment and a better world. According to this contract, there would be gazillions of solar powered homes and businesses, and solar powered automobiles, and solar powered stadiums, and more. Cities would run on central solar power plants. Manufacturers could even make solar powered pencil sharpeners and solar powered tooth brushes. This fantastic proposal would open the door to the future of mankind! If only we had a sun in the sky to serve as a reliable resource! HA!

Well, Howard & Associates was an old-school firm that backed fossil fuels and nuclear power and other ambiguous modes of conservative economic expression. So they detested anything new and especially anything solar. Until now.

Oddly, solar energy was not new at all, but the idea of using the sun as a resource was naively new to people, in spite of the fact the sun had been around for billions of years. A rather strange irony. Why it took mankind till the 20^th Century to figure out we could actually use the sun was an enigma. Perhaps people still retained that dimwitted Neanderthal brain that couldn’t think itself outside a dark cave. Alright, harnessing solar fuel and making it an enduring energy source day in and day out was the difficult problem, and very costly. For example, on a cloudy day or at night, there was no sun to give you energy, whether for fuel or lighting or warmth or whatever. And manufacturing solar fuel collectors and solar storage units was very expensive, and very impractical on many levels. Howard & Associates didn’t want to support something too expensive to maintain. It had a strict budget to keep. And since that particular resource just happened to take a sick day, or even several of them, that made matters even more perplexing.

The Sanderson Corporation needed the backing of at least ten major financial companies, and Howard & Associates was the last one left on the list, so naturally they hesitated and dragged their feet all the way. However, all the other businesses had accepted the proposal. Unfortunately, the decision had to be unanimous in order to initiate it. So without Howard & Associates, the Sanderson Corporation's Solar Energy Proposal would be doomed.

So. Dexter decided to make a radical change for his corporation’s standing, for at the last board meeting which was held last Friday, they agreed to contact the Sanderson folks and tell them an affirmative "NO!"

As things stood now, that would be no fun anymore.

Dexter would be generous and give the proposal a good go-ahead now -- in spite of the fact that the world was irreparably doomed in general, if the Sanderson Corporation wasn’t.

Dexter chuckled maliciously as he rubbed his hands together again like the demented madman he was swiftly becoming.

He turned to his computer, flicked it on, got online, went to his email inbox and typed in the personal e-mail address of Mr. Anthony Sanderson himself. Then he typed out this heart warming letter:

To the Sanderson Corporation:

Dear Mr. Anthony Sanderson;

Good day to you! And isn’t it a beautiful sunny day indeed? We have thoroughly studied your Solar Energy Proposal and we have seriously considered its worth and merit, and especially its immense value to the world as an extremely viable solution to countless problems mankind in general faces. Perhaps without the beneficial use of solar energy by all people the whole world would soon come to a grinding halt. For we at Howard & Associates now realize the sun is a very important commodity and an essential asset for mankind presently and in the future. Therefore, the Board of Directors voted unanimously a resounding “Yes” for your wonderful proposal. With ten mega corporations backing you with the required funds, your innovative company can now initiate this immense project.

In conclusion, we are happy to be a part of this grand world-changing undertaking. The future of mankind is clearly ready for solar power! And in this day and age of new beginnings, it’s certainly the perfect time to initiate it! May all mankind embark into this new Solar Age!

Sincerely, Dexter Langley, Howard & Associates

Laughing maniacally, he clicked SEND. He glanced at his watch. 1:03 p.m. And by now all citizens of planet Earth -- especially the Sanderson Corporation -- realized the sun had fizzled out, kicked the bucket, went out to pasture, keeled over, sunk to the bottom of the ocean with a millstone around its neck. Or whatever other clichés should apply.

Dexter wondered how the board of directors and Mr. Sanderson himself would react to this positive yet sarcastic and timely letter. He had a vivid if not overactive imagination. So he could well imagine what the response might be. Something like:

Dear Howard & Ass-holes!

What kind of a sick, perverted joke is this?! We know that you would attempt to stop us at every turn with our Solar Energy Proposal. And now you literally hand it to us in the affirmative on a silver platter -- right when the sun itself blinks out! What gall you have! You sick, insidious, vile-minded bastards! You horrible sons of bitches! Every single one of you! Go to Hell and never return!

Mr. Anthony Sanderson Sr.

President/Owner, the Sanderson Corporation

Well. Dexter Langley would love reading an e-mail from them like that! A sulking letter of total defeat. Or even a far more vile version. He wasn’t picky. In fact, he was feeling rather perky now, as if he himself were in control of the sun and all those who once worshiped it. While he gleefully envisioned the Sanderson Corporation’s ultimate anger and frustration via e-mail, that twisted vision began to dwindle when he began to suspect that no such response would arrive, for by now he would have heard something -- on a normal business day, that is -- and it was now 1:42 p.m., a time when the sun would normally be leaving its high zenith point and beginning its slow descent downward across the face of the light blue sky-except the sky was pitch black and starless. Hmm. Starless? No sun and no stars either. Gazing out one of the many large windows, Dexter noticed this for the first time. How odd. What could this mean? It was bad enough that the sun failed to rise this morning. Just as that phony gypsy fortuneteller had predicted.

He imagined that classic rock tunes like “Here Comes the Sun” would rapidly become blasphemous to the new eternal night worshipers -- if this were the way all mankind evolved. Except they would die out first, freeze to kingdom come.

He also realized his stomach was growling, and his mug was empty. Perhaps if he strolled to the sandwich machine down the hall, made another batch of coffee, then strolled back, he’d have that response from those Sanderson jokers.

So he got a plastic-wrapped corned beef on rye, nuked it for 30 seconds, made some real strong coffee, putting in two extra scoops, waited for the machine to percolate and fill the pot, then filled his mug. He strolled back to his cubicle with his late lunch and hot mug of joe, and plunked his rear down in his seat. It was 2:07 p.m. He glared at his open inbox. Still no response from those Sanderson jerks! What was this? Their own sick joke? Holding out, driving his patience to the max? Or worst.

What if no one had showed up over there? No! He couldn’t accept that! His cutthroat attitude couldn’t allow that dreaded thought! Surely, at least one fool, just like himself, had gone to work over at Sanderson’s.

So. He decided to call the bastards!

He searched for their number in his rolodex, found it and dialed. Smiling, he heard the dial tone, feeling hopeful. Ah! Someone picked up!

He barked, “This is Mr. Langley of Howard and Ass-”

But he was cut off by a monotone, digitalized voice: “This is the Sanderson Corporation. We cannot answer our phones at the moment, because we are either: a) in a very important meeting, b) out to lunch -- if it is lunchtime -- or c) closed for the day, due to: no. 1: a holiday, no. 2: a power outage, no. 3: a company picnic, or no. 4--”

SLAM!

“Because your all fricking sick in bed ‘cuz you’re freaked out ‘cuz the sun’s never gonna come up again!" Dexter shouted.

R-r-r-r-i-i-i-i-n-n-n-n-g-g-g-g!

He yelled something fouler than is printable here while he yanked the cord right out of the wall and threw the phone into his waste basket. Then he realized other phones at the other desks could ring too, so he wasted time by yanking all the phone lines from the walls and tossing all the phones in various waste baskets. Looking around, wearing a wry smile, he felt triumphantly satisfied.

Then he thought, what if the Sanderson company would try to contact him by phone?

No way. Clearly no one showed up over there. Not one bloody fool. So he shrugged that crazy idea off.

2:23 p.m. Bored, Dexter played hoop-wad, a solitary game whereby he crumple up important work orders and tossed them into his waste basket, from at least six feet distance. Any closer would be considered cheating, according to company rules. He got a few in, whereas most lay on his cubicle floor. He decided if he could get seven in, then that meant this whole crazy thing was just a silly fricking dream, and it would all fade away. No six. Or maybe five.

Holy crap! What was wrong with him? Was he loony? That was magical thinking, or stupidly hopeful. And such a childish notion was essentially more superstitious crap. Dexter was an intelligent, rational businessman after all, not one to cave under pressure and enter weird supernatural ways of thinking. Not Dexter Langley.

It was 3:16 p.m. Alright. It was obvious now. If they wouldn’t (or couldn’t) contact him by phone, certainly they wouldn’t use e-mail either. Especially if all those Sanderson idiots called in sick today. He didn’t expect a response any longer, and especially not at mid afternoon. So he closed his inbox, went offline, went to All Programs, then Games, and played Solitaire. Bored with that after thirty minutes, he played 3-D Pinball, and then some other stupid games for a while. Eventually, he felt hungry again. It was way passed break time. He wanted to order pizza. Except he had killed all the phones. Okay. He could use the pay phone down in the lobby. Wait. What was he thinking? As if any of the pizza joint were open on a day like this. Or night, or whatever it was out there he stared at through the large office windows. All dark as black ink outside. Black as sin. No stars and no sun. How dismal. Not only that, but none of the other large skyscrapers or any other buildings were ablaze with their main lights in those millions of tiny windows. He could only vaguely see the sparsely sprawled out, dim security lights. Only a window here and there glowed faintly. Everyone remained in bed! Why? Because the sun didn’t rise yet! It was still nighttime as far as everyone knew. What did people think? That their clocks had malfunctioned? Or they were just too scared out of their minds to know what to think or do? Hard to tell. Whatever the case, no sunrise was scheduled today B nor on any other day for quite a while, most likely.

Then his rational mind kicked in. Something was wrong here. He considered: the sun doesn’t actually “rise.” In reality, the Earth rotates on its axis, which creates the repetitive effects of day and night. So, logically, this could mean that the Earth had suddenly stood still. Wait. If that were the case, there would be an eternal night side and an eternal day side.

Alright, exactly what did the crackpot fortuneteller say? That the sun would never rise again, the Earth would be wrapped in eternal night, that it would soon freeze, and all people would die. The whole Earth, not just one side of it. Now. He wasn’t sure what could have happened scientifically, but surely nothing supernatural could happen. That was absurd! That would defy his rational mind. Fortunately, he did find this subtle error in her own prediction, that the sun didn’t actually “rise” at all as she suggested. So she was a phony after all. Ha! She should have said that the sun flat-out won’t shine at all, or that it had burned out, or was blocked by some mysterious barrier, or something on those lines. He considered going back to her lavish parlor and experience the pleasure of correcting Madame Clair de Loony Tunes. He grinned wryly.

Nevertheless, that didn’t solve the real problem at hand. Could it be the sun had gotten too old and simply snuffed out like a candle flame? Yes, that made sense. Perhaps the sun burned out all together.

Wait. And all the stars too? Hmm. That didn’t sound right either. Maybe a giant black cloud covered the whole fricking planet, cutting off all sunlight. That would easily explain how the world could be enveloped in this strange forever darkness, in which case its fragile inhabitants would wretchedly freeze to death. Hmm. That would have to be a pretty big cloud, actually, if it were right next to the Earth, blocking the whole sun. Or what if that cloud was much further away, like directly concealing the sun? Nah. That would have to be an even larger cloud. Sounded just as preposterous. Dexter Langley was a businessman, not a scientist. He dealt with hard facts and cold numbers, not vague theories and assumptions, or even stupid superstitions.

Hmm. Something technological maybe. Perhaps a huge alien spacecraft in the Earth’s orbit eclipsed the sun, which would slowly kill mankind off from his necessary heat and light and life-giving golden orb. Then they would swoop down and devour us like some smorgasbord feast. Nah! Sounded like rubbish out of science fiction, a time-wasting literary genre he despised with a passion. Besides, he knew reading was worthless anyway. With the exception of the Wall Street Journal. However, TV was better and more educational, he firmly believed.

Alright. Let’s not get sidetracked. He had to figure out what the hell was going on out there.

Once again, he reluctantly contemplated that he alone slipped into some convoluted nether region, but that was too supernatural and his intelligence would not allow that ridiculous notion. If anything, he knew bloody well the whole fricking world slipped into that fricking nether region, not just him. So, how could that have happened? Hmmm. But now he got a mega-braincramp over it. So he decided to drop it for now.

Dexter felt a cool draft in the air. But the windows were sealed shut. Not made to open in this temperature controlled environment. And the thermostat registered up to 70 degrees -- well, last he checked. He looked again, and it was dropping. Fast. Because now it read 57 degrees. Hmm. Must have something to do with the sun not rising (correction, the sun being blotted out, or blocked out, or burned out, or whatever!), thereby the Earth being cut off from its necessary heat. The colder it grew outdoors, it would obviously creep indoors. A building with tons of glass windows was poor insulation nevertheless. And this, like all the other buildings, had tons of glass. In despair, he stared out of a wide sheet of said glass, feeling its icy coldness as he pressed his hand against it.

Through that clear glass he glared into the horrid blackness. Then he yawned. Auto-suggestion? Perhaps the appearance of nighttime induces that sleepy-time reflex. Hmm. Oh well, it was 4:37 p.m. Nearly quitting time. He had a long, hard day at work; clearly he was honestly tired. Tired of this freaky nightish-looking daytime scene outside. So he found himself crossing his arms down on his desk, nestling his head into them, and then he fell asleep. Evidently he needed it. Strange circumstances such as the sun not rising, or being blasted out of existence or whatever, was quite taxing on a body. He proceeded to have a bizarre dream. The gaudy gypsy fortuneteller was staring him right in the face, right into his very eyes, right down into his very soul (which he denied having), then she said musically, “Like the first falling leaf in Autumn, you have been chosen.” Then she smiled slyly, adding, “I shall see you soon.” The face disappeared. After that he slept soundly, as if under a spell.

When he woke up, yawning, stretching his arms out. He half-expected sunlight to pour through the big windows. But no. The same old inky darkness of the new kind of daytime. He felt very rested. Hmm. Must have taken a nice little cat nap. What, an hour? He looked at the wall clock. What?! 11:16?! Holy crap! But a.m. or p.m.? He felt disoriented. His cheap watch didn’t even indicate which. Nor did it display the date. Well!

It had to be p.m., allowing him roughly eight regular hours of sleep. That made sense. But there was no change outside. It was officially nighttime now, so he felt better. But the thermostat now read 49 degrees. Too chilly for the indoors! Maybe this weird phenomenon would pass and at dawn the sun would rise after all, or cease being blocked, or blink back on, or whatever. Besides, he also noticed the air was very chilly now. He put on his suit coat, shivering. Checking the thermostat on the wall, it read 49 degrees. Sheesh! The frigid eternal night freeze was creeping into the whole fricking building now!

Dexter was getting awful disgruntled over this whole bloody thing now. More so than his growling stomach. Which he quickly soothed with another bland vender sandwich and hot coffee, topped off with a Snickers bar for dessert. As he sat munching away at his cubical, he had a sudden memory flash of that weird dream. It was just a dream, wasn’t it? Was that loony fortuneteller playing remote control mind games with him now? As if insinuating she even possessed such sinister psychic powers! And exactly what did she really know about this weird new extended nighttime the whole fricking world had been submerged into? Especially since she didn’t even know the sun doesn’t literally “rise.” But it clearly hadn’t yet anyway. Not today. Had it been just a prediction she made, now coming true? Or was it actually some evil plot? Hmm.

Alright. The mystery of this whole fiasco was getting on his last righteous nerves -- what little nerves he had left, mostly shot to hell now. He had to find out what the fricking hell was going on. He decided to pay that fake broad Madame Fraud a little visit.

* * *

11:39 p.m. He donned his thin trench coat off the rack and left down the hall. The journey eight-nine flights down the elevator -- along with that infuriating musak that now blared John Denver’s “Sunshine on my Shoulder”-- was very annoying. Finally he reached the lobby, crossed it, stepped through the revolving doors, and out onto the stark empty sidewalk out beneath the dark night sky, and into the icy cold. He hugged his arms around his chest. He could see his breath. Not a good sign. His flimsy trench coat wasn’t nearly warm enough. A brisk breeze whipped sharply against his face while his teeth chattered. If it was only 49 degrees and descending inside the building, he was afraid to know how cold it was out in the raw outdoors. He'd better rush home and get his heavy winter coat and knit cap. And wool gloves.

As he turned a corner he saw a great light! What the hell? And voices hollering. Down an alley he saw a huge bonfire and people tossing wooden furniture into it. Hell! They had broken into Talbet’s Furniture Mart! Crazy fools! They had torn down the rear double doors and the thieves were hauling long couches, china hutches, dressers, chairs, tables -- mainly wooden items -- and tossing them one by one into the fire. Why? To keep warm and to have light, naturally. One old fellow held a long fireplace poker out into the flames, a sirloin steak dangling at the end. Some kids toasted marshmallows on ends of coat hangers.

Dexter shook his head and hurried on. He passed a residential street and saw a whole house was on fire, and people were hollering and whooping it up as if it was some kind of party, celebrating the end of the world? Well, why not?

In fact he almost stumbled into some long-bearded, homeless geezer holding a large cardboard sign that once announced, “The End Is Near!” But it had been painted through in bold, blood-red paint, blaring, "THE END IS HERE!" The ole guy unblinkingly cried. “The world is over! This is the End Times! Prepare for Armageddon! The end is here!”

Dexter ran on down the street, seeing more bonfires in the streets, houses on fire, trees on fire, and the whole fricking city was on fire! Hell, some crazy lunatics had even set Central Park on fire! The whole expanse was a massive roaring blaze of brilliance! The whole fricking city had gone mad! And it was only the first fricking day! What would happen on the second and third days? And even a week from now, or a month? By then he figured all creatures would freeze to death. So. Would he go the same way? He suddenly felt horrified. He decided when he couldn’t handle it anymore, he’d take a whole bottle of sleeping pills, go silently in his sleep, laying in his bed, playing soft music. Or maybe even “Here Comes the Sun” over and over again. What a depressing thought!

Finally he reached his high-rise . . . Hell! Some idiots had set it afire! The whole spire looked like a giant candle! The whole top was on fire and gradually creeping downward! A genuine towering inferno! Things were getting seriously out of hand!

He panicked. What would he do now? He had to get a coat somewhere. Even if he had to steal it! Something he figured he’d never do. Until now.

Dexter was freezing to death! Just like the fortuneteller told him all mankind would do. He knew that Covington’s Coat Outlet was just three avenues down the street. He ran for it, dodging drunks, homeless and rioters. Some idiot tried grabbing his trench coat off him. At first he pulled away, resisting. Than he thought twice, ripped it off his own back and tossed it at the guy.

“Thanks, puke-head!” the man snapped angrily.

Dexter ran on, ducked down the back alley behind Covington’s. He came to the back door which was still locked. Ha! The first here! Evidently people forgot about this place! He had it all to himself! He found a long pipe, bashed at the lock, broke it and darted in, through a back hall. Good, the lights were all on.Then he stopped. He gawked into the large store of plumb empty racks and shelves. No clothes or coats to be found anywhere! In fact he observed that the front glass door was shattered to pieces! Shards lay all over the tile floor. The mob had gotten in the front!

Dexter sighed in despair. He shuffled down a hall, into a john, released his bladder, flushed, then wandered down into some executive’s office and sat in the cushy chair. It was cold in here too. It was cold everywhere! What a fricking nightmare! If only he could just wake up soon. Or was that just a vain hope? Or maybe it was just a streak of bad luck. But for the whole world? Hmm.

It was dark in this little room, save for the hall light faintly streaming in from the open door. He saw a small lamp on the desktop and flicked it on. Ah. He saw a closet. Dexter got up and opened the closet. Eureka! He found a long heavy fur-lined leather coat. He grinned and grabbed it off the hanger. He found leather gloves and a knit cap inside the big pockets. Talk about luck! He put them on.

Dexter sauntered out the back, bundled in warmth. Unfortunately, he still had nowhere to go, his high-rise burnt to a crisp by now. If those idiots had left it alone, he could have hung in there a long time, holed up at home, with a reasonable stockpile of food in the cabinet, tap water to drink or make coffee with, several warm blankets to bundle up in, and plenty of DVDs to watch on his wide-screen TV. And he could play video games too. Yes, he could have been content to live through the last days of Earth. Outlasting everyone else even! Become the last man on this fricking planet! But, No-o-o-O-O-O-O-o-o-o-o-o!!! Some fricking lunatics had to burn down his building!

Any sense of hope seeped out of him as he had to face cold, grim reality. He suddenly realized he was homeless. He had few friends, and they lived too many miles away. He had nowhere to go-except that despicable fortuneteller that started this whole fricking disaster in the first place! That’s where he started out for when he left work, so he might as well keep on track.

Dexter looked at his watch. 12:32 a.m. In several hours he’d see if the sun would rise finally. He had to hang onto some shred of vain hope after all. But the air got colder and colder. Fast! That icy breeze cut at him like razor-sharp knives, but at least he wore a warm coat. Now, which way to that crackpot palm reader?

Dexter ducked down this street, that alley, and finally found it. Strangely, this neighborhood was quiet, as if protected from looters and rioters and other lunatics. Hmm. Curious.

Well. Anyway. He came to the door, but all was dark inside, and the usual “Closed” sign hung inside the door window. Figures. So, now what?

He shuffled away, head hung down. It was 1:48 a.m. and getting colder. Then he stopped. He pressed his back against a brick wall, slid down, and sat there, synching knees tight to his chest, held firm by his clamped arms, head down. He felt a horrid gloom. He would die here. He’d sit here and die here. What else could he do? Freezing to death was inevitable.

Wait! He could have sworn he heard something. Voices? Chanting? Very distant. Somewhere down below. At basement level perhaps. Hmm. He turned back and returned to the door. He turned the knob, just to see if it was unlocked. Nope. Locked. What was he thinking anyway? Then he had a hunch. Even though hunches were irrational, but what else could he do? With ungloved hand, he felt under the welcome mat, felt under a rock, and then above the door ledge. Nothing. Then he had another hunch. He turned the corner and snuck through the back alley where the rear of the fortuneteller’s parlor would be. He came to the door there, jiggled the knob Blocked! Wait! Under the mat -- no. Under a rock-- nope. Above the door ledge. Voila! A key! Yes!

Alright. He looked around. No one in sight. He stuck the key in, turned, it gave. He slowly opened the door and entered, cautiously closing it behind him. Those chanting voices were clearer now. There was an oil lamp burning in a niche in a little hall for light, though meager. To the right was a closed door, perhaps to the basement, for it seemed that the strange, ominous chanting emanated from there, in fact it was all female voices. Dexter came to the door and slowly opened it, and proceeded stealthily down the rickety stairs. Finally he reached the bottom. It was warmer in here. At last! But he was an intruder here. No time for counting blessings just yet.

The chanting female voices echoed louder and resonated like a pulse through his body, words in some foreign tongue. As he stood in the shadows, he spied a large open area filled with black robed and hooded figures, all standing, facing a stone altar upon a dais, its grey surface covered with purple, orange, red, and black lit candles. Behind the altar stood the leading lady, directing the chanters, motioning her arms back and forth like a maestro, but in a weird undulating manner that was hypnotic, so Dexter had to avert his eyes. A few oil lamps gave meager illumination, but since he was behind all of them, no one saw him -- yet. Ah. He noticed a wood stove in one corner. Heat, thank God! If there was a God at all. And at World’s End?

Finally the chanting stopped. Then the dark robed lady announced, “Lady witches of all grades, let me welcome the leader of our beloved Dark Cloud Coven, who is known by all covens of the Black Craft across the world as the Grand Mistress Indigo!”

The group did a five second little chant number while the one lady stepped down from the dais while another stepped up, facing the altar and the quieting crowd of lady cultists. She pulled her hood back and her long black hair billowed down to her waistline. She had heavy dark makeup on, and looked like the Devil's wife. Dexter lurched back. Holy crap! It was that phony baloney fortuneteller, Madame Sophia! Most likely she was scamming a whole multitude of women folk now! Sheesh!

Then she stepped up close to the altar, arms raised high, and called, “We give praise to you, oh Dark Goddess of the Indigo Reaches. We honor you in celebration and ceremony this night, this long awaited forever night. For we faithful witches of all lands have succeeded in ushering in a new era on your behalf, O Grand Lady of the Dark Night. For all witches in all lands have gathered in their dark circles and evoked the Grand Dark Word of Power, for we have used our unholy black magic to open the very gates of darkness which now encompasses this entire planet. For the vast fabric of your midnight cloak has now manifested, a cloud of darkness that enshrouds this whole world. Hence, we have initiated the Inharmonic Disconvergence throughout the whole planet as you have directed us, O Dark Mistress of Chaos, we, your steadfast servants of the shadows. Aye, we have accomplished our duty of devouring the Day, for we have delivered the long awaited Eternal Night unto the whole world forever! For now your vast, heavy shroud surrounds this tiny orb like a thick cloud of chaos! We shall live in darkness from now on as we were meant to from the beginning of time!”

Dexter was enraged, so he self-righteously darted into the midst of the multitude of dark robed female cultists, blurting, “Hey! You can’t do this! No way! You can't just cut off the whole fricking world from the sun! Or the stars for that matter. This is totally wrong!”

The crowd of female cultsters cackled.

The Grand Pooh-bah Mistress smiled wryly, “Aaah! Our worthy sacrifice has arrived. I have been awaiting his entrance.”

The dark robed witches turned now and all glaring eyes were upon him. They all looked like unblinking zombies, ready to stare him to death with those ominous dark eyes of doom. He felt goose bumps well up all over his skin, neck hairs prickling, and his spine tingled eerily. He was scared B to death!

The fortuneteller continued. “This man is a nonbeliever. He denies the existence of God and our Dark Goddess alike. We may have no quarter with the Male God, but we at least acknowledge His existence. But our fair Lady of Darkness is truly superior indeed!”

“Oh yeah?” Dexter shot, feeling his self-important anger well up from his ego once again. “So what if I doubt God's existence? But I never heard of your bloody goddess bitch before! But I do believe in people. Especially myself. Ha. I’m people. Why, I'm the best person I know. Hey, I’m the only one who figured out what the hell was going on in the whole world, remaining cool, calm, and collected while the rest of the fricking losers across the world are going mad! Yeah, mad as hell!”

“You pitiful fool,” the Head Bitch snapped. “It was I who informed you of the world’s fateful demise. You figured nothing out on your own. Credit is not due to you, you miserable wretch.”

“Uh, well, I handled it pretty well, anyway.” he grinned weakly. “I was, uh, mentally prepared, you see.”

“Mentally inept, rather. If you were smart, you would not have come back here. But, you did, at my command. You see, on that day when you came here for a simple palm reading, I implanted a telepathic message into your subconscious. And behold, you obeyed on cue. For here you are!”

“Hey! I came here of my own accord!” Dexter blurted foolishly.

“You were suppose to think that, fool!”

Then he remembered that weird dream about the fortuneteller, declaring that he was chosen, for something or other, then she had said, she would see him soon. Hmm. He forgot about that part.

She nodded, “Oh, yes, I visited you in a dream, just to be sure.”

“I don't believe any of your supernatural crap! So there!”

All the dark robed cultists laughed at his close-minded stupidity.

“What you believe has no weight whatsoever, little worm of a man.”

Still feeling all superior and self-righteous, Dexter blurted, “Uh, anyway, I demand that you put the sun back, right now!”

The Grand Mistress laughed. “You pitiful, conceited wretch! You have no power and no authority. However, we do!” Then she faced her followers and called, “You see? He is a perfectly worthy sacrifice, for he is too unworthy to be one of us. Especially because he is a man! A stubborn, self-absorbed, materialistic, chauvinistic man! And such a man as this is the perfect sacrifice, just as our Dark Lady has bidden us to find. My sisters of the indigo night, we shall leave this dense world and ascend in our astral forms to live in darkness forever! But first we must sacrifice this despicable wretch of a man to the Dark Goddess!”

“No-o-o-o!” Dexter hollered as the ladies in black picked up the chanting again while they crept in closer around him. They tightened themselves around him like a noose around a neck. His struggles were futile as they grabbed his arms and legs, lifted him up, carried him somewhere, then shoved him into a pine box. They slammed the lid down and hammered it tight. Extreme panic! Dexter screamed and kicked and pounded to get out. Now he really hoped this was a horrible nightmare he’d wake up from -- and awfully soon! But then it got really hot as the ladies set torches to the coffin, catching it on fire. What could he do now? Pray? Not much hope in that, since he was a close-minded atheist that leaned toward agnosticism -- which wasn’t much different. But, he figured it was time to change his unbelieving ways. So he chose to pray to whatever God might be out there to save him, pants or no pants, just in case the Big Guy was real, which he heartily doubted.

This was not the way he had planned to go. Actually he never really planned how he’d go, or for that matter, never planned on going. But now it was too late, these wretched witch-bitches decided his fate for him. As the fire ate through the soft wood, the smoldering heat suffocating him, he lost consciousness.

* * *

He found himself literally leaping out of his skin the heat was so hot. Rather, he astral-projected out of his body that turned into a wretched flaming carcass. Death by cremation was never his idea. But then he never had any idea of how he wanted to die. He didn’t want to die at all! Now it was too late, and here he was zipping up into the dark cold night sky, up and up and up. Hmm. Perhaps he was Heaven-bound. Had God saved him after all? If there was a God. Did last minute conversions count? And did he really convert, or was that prayer just a desperate outburst of panic?

Then, as if he had just sprouted cement overshoes, he began to plummet back down toward the Earth, down and down and down. Then he saw a wide fissure open up in the ground below with some kind of eerie orange light glowing from it. He slipped into it, continued to plunge further down, perhaps toward the Earth’s core itself! Or worse -- Hell!

But he didn’t believe in hell -- or heaven. It was all supernatural mumbo-jumbo.

Then he hit bottom. Rock bottom. He found himself in a long, long cavernous tunnel where he saw a long, long line of losers just like him. A man in red overalls, horns, goatee, and a pitchfork came along and poked him in the ass.

“Get back in line, you damned fool!”

Dexter climbed to his feet and got in line. “But I just got here! I just dropped in.”

The devil dude craned his neck and looked up into the high shaft. “Oh, I see. You’re all dropping like flies lately. That figures.”

“Are you the Devil himself?”

“Nope. Just a sub-devil, a chief petty officer. But I am still master to you, damned wretch!” he threatened with his pitchfork.

“Sorry, sir. I’ll behave.” Dexter crouched and trembled, but he was glad to be out of that flaming pine box. Out of the fire, into the oven.

In spite of another hunch as to where he most likely was, Dexter asked the stupid question, “So, where am I?”

“Hell. Where else? Duh!”

“Well, I got news for you, bub. I don't believe in heaven or hell.”

“Guess what?” the devil-bub grinned slyly. “Hell believes in you!” He laughed maniacally. Then he said seriously. “Anyway, this place you see is just for appearance’s sake, because too many poor wretches actually believe in a physical hell. The illusion of eternal damnation seems to please them. Idiots!”

“Oh, I see.” Except he really didn’t. His rational mind couldn’t wrap itself around a ghost of an idea like that.

The chief petty officer devil added, “Actually, hell is a state of mind.”

Dexter’s brows jutted. “Is that a fact?” He looked around him and asked, “Where am I really then?”

“In your mind.”

Dexter’s knees suddenly weekend. “Oh hell.”

“They’re all stuck in their wretched little minds where they all created Hell. Idiots!”

Well! So this was Hell. Or his state of mind B whichever. He figured all along he’d never make it to Heaven, being a nonbeliever, and God, who probably didn’t exist anyway, wouldn’t accept him in his current state anyway.

The Dark Bitch surely didn’t. So if Hell welcomed him, so be it. At least it was warm here. Not like the recently frozen over Earth. He’d make do.

Trying to see the end of the line, which was impossible, he asked, “What’s this line for? What’s everyone waiting for?”

The sub-devil replied with a sinister grin, “Ever since the whole fricking Earth froze over, Hell’s gotten more popular. The Lake of Fire has a new appeal now. The damned people can’t wait to jump on in! Why, it’s a damned resort now! A hot summertime haven away from Heaven!”

Dexter recalled all the fires the people had started throughout the city as the temperature all around them had been dropping rapidly. Yes, they’d all welcome Hell now, and most likely people started committing suicide to get there.

The sub-devil continued, “But mostly, desperate people are getting away from the approaching chill above to come down here below-in droves!”

Just then several more poor fools dropped down through the shaft, smashing to the rocky floor.

“See?” the grinning sub-devil pointed his pitch fork at the newcomers, then he poked them maliciously as they yelped. He bellowed, “On your feet, damned fools! Get in line!”

If for anything, to make idle conversation, Dexter said to the pitchfork-toting red dude, “Well, it’s a sorry thing, what those cult bitches did to the Earth, eh?”

“Not really. It makes good business for Downstairs here! And people used to talk about Hell freezing over! Ha! The wretched Earth beat us to it!"

Dexter moaned. He wasn’t exactly ready to jump into a lake of fire. But it was either that or freeze to death back on Earth. Oh well. He attempted to mentally prepare himself, like before, get all psyched up, imagining these flaming pools would be like sitting in a hot tub. Being surrounded by heat and light didn’t sound so bad, sun or no sun. He missed it anyway.

He figured whether or not he had run into those loony ladies of Darkness, he’d end up here anyway, sooner or later. So, he’d make the best of it. He had fire and light here, the Earth had cold and darkness. So he had it made!

Rubbing his hands together, he chuckled. “Okay, boys, I'm ready to go! I’ll do a walloping cannonball into your fiery Olympic pool!”

“Hey, jerk!” the sub-devil scolded, threatening him with his pitchfork. “Wait your turn!”

As if Madame Sophia -- or Grand Mistress Indigo, or whoever she was -- began laughing triumphantly in his face, he was suddenly chilled by a horrible thought. What if Hell was next on their agenda? What if those sinister dark bitches aimed to snuff out this last refuge of heat and warmth? Which became heaven to him and all the other damned fools now. Hell would become a cold dark place. Yes, he figured Hell itself would soon freeze over after all.

Just when he was getting used to the damned place!

Well!

* * *

Copyright 2006-2012 by R. R. Stark

Zircon Publications