(Part 1 of 2)
The Mayans were right. The morons who believed them were also right. It was the aliens who had fucked it up. Apparently---and it was very nice of them to let us know this---the alien technician in charge of setting the alien reminder in their alien calendar had fat fingered the tens digit, and what was supposed to be entered as 2012 ended up as 2032.
But that, very soon, is about to be water under the bridge.
It's been five days now since their saucers darkened the sky and announced that all those bastards would finally get what they deserve---I mean, in their words, the beginning of the end that they were so regretful had to come to pass, but the budget had been approved and there was a lot of potential profit riding on the successful harvest of the byproducts of carbon-based life left to run amuck so, you see, their hands were tied.
Just like mine are. I rub my hands together and breathe on them, a humid mist forming in the frigid January air. Maybe I should have picked thicker gloves, but these are my coolest black gloves---I think they're real leather---and, to be honest, I didn't expect it to take so long to find his apartment.
The last thing any electronic ever played was the aliens' crocodile-tear-filled message, and then everything had gone dark. My town feels alien without Siri in my ear to tell me where to turn or to suggest a better route. Guess they designed this town with GPS in mind way back when, because none of this makes any sense. Why do all of these fucking signs have N or W or S or E written on them? What is that supposed to mean? I know that Josh's house is on the east side of town, but how am I supposed to figure out where that is without the compass app?
And it's not like I have any friends here I can ask, and I'm definitely not going to ask a fucking stranger. Condescending pricks.
I should have asked Mom, before she left. She went with my dad (ugh) and Veronica and Charlize (double ugh), my sisters, to spend their last few days on earth with family. Can you believe she asked me to go too? Why? What's the point? Why would I want to spend time with people who've always hated me?
No, I have something better in mind. Revenge.
But my hands really are cold, Jesus. No, it's fine. These gloves are great, they go with my outfit, and I've always been tough---tough as titanium nails. What's a few more hours of absolute blistering agony compared to my life. If I can cap this miserable existence off with the perfect revenge, then it'll have all been worth it. I'll bear this like I've borne everything.
I screw my face up with determination, tip my hat brim down, tighten the cinch of my trench coat, and bravely tuck my hands into my pockets.
It takes a few more hours, but I finally find it. Who knew it takes seven hours to walk two miles? God, life without a car sucks. I passed a whole bunch of losers on my way here too---some freaking love birds sitting at the park, stupid show-off dinner spread in front of them, big bottle of (I'm sure) cheap-ass wine, tears in their dumb, fake eyes; a family parked on their roof, telescope ready to watch the show, kids running around while their parents looked on with empty expressions to match their empty heads; some dumb-ass kid wailing about his mom his dad his mom wah wah wah, shut up! At least there was a store on the way that still had a pretty good unraided stock.
A world of fakers and nuisances. And it'll all be over in---I look up to the sky---a few more hours? They said the world engines won't start harvesting until the 6^th^. I'm not exactly sure how long from now that'll be, but I think I have a couple of hours at least after it gets dark. Which it isn't yet.
I really want to wrap this up right when they start to tear everything apart. I think that'd be most poetic. I look at the watch on my wrist---one of my dad's, seems expensive; he'd left it behind along with his guns. Its brand is some stupid foreign word, but it's still ticking along. Maybe it uses a battery the aliens couldn't deal with? Problem is, I have no idea what the digits and ticking hands mean. One of them seems to tell seconds, since it moves around pretty quickly.
But I don't need to know seconds. I need to know hours.
I spin around and plant my back against the wall, sliding down it dramatically (too bad nobody's watching), until my ass hits the concrete. I'll just wait a few hours after it gets dark, and then I'll take care of business. That's good enough.
Having my feet so close to my butt like this is actually super uncomfortable. I don't know the right way to describe it, but, like, it's really tight in my top and bottom leg? Like something's stretched to a breaking point?
It's obvious that humans aren't meant to sit like this, so I stretch my legs out---carefully. I don't want to scuff the polish on my black, calf-high boots.
I reach my thick brown (look, they didn't have any black left, okay!) mittens into my pocket and pull out a pack of cigarettes. It takes me a while to pull off the cellophane wrapper, and even longer to figure out how to get the lighter to work, and longer still to actually get the cigarette correctly lit. I'm sure I could do a better job with practice, but I was too busy looking after my health my entire life to try to look like a cool bad boy, alright? It's not my fault.
Turns out that was all wasted time. Cigarettes are disgusting. They make you choke, they burn your throat, and they taste like ass (not that I'd ever eaten ass, and I never would, because that's gross). Alright, well, the cigarette's not going to be part of my final scene. I flick it into a nearby tree lawn.
I have a much easier time with the contents of my other pocket. It pops open easily under my dexterous fingers, and the taste of its perfect blend of sugar and caffeine helps calm my nerves.
A long time later, I look at the watch again. The big hand's made almost a full rotation since I checked it last. The little hand hasn't budged. Does it measure days or something? Anyway, it's been long enough. Time to take care of this, and then take a piss, and then welcome the end of this shitty world.
The entranceway to the apartment complex is unlocked. I climb up the stairs, taking a break after each floor to make sure I won't fumble my big speech at the top. I walk up and down the sixth floor hallway three times before I realize the odd numbers are on the left, and knock on the door to number 623.
I can hear muffled voices from beyond the door.
"Who the fuck, now of all times?"
"It's fine, honey. It's probably Ms. Gere from 602. She probably forgot which apartment was hers again."
"And that all of this is going on too. Never thought I'd envy her."
A woman's voice and a man's. My hand tightens around the grip of the pistol in my pocket.
Shit! I forgot to take off the mittens. Fuck shit fuckity shit fuck! I slip my hand out of my pocket and grip the mitten with my teeth... and the door cracks open. Man, fuck you. I just needed two more seconds, and now you've made me look like a fucking tool.