He is brilliant, yes, but evil. So evil I despair comprehending him. This man doesn't want murder his father and possess his mother; he wants to murder God and possess the cosmos. ÜÜ ÜÜ ŚÄŻŪŻ ÜßÜÜŽŽž ÜŻß ÜŻß ÜßÜÜŽŽž ŽŪŽÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄæ ³ ŻŪŻ ŻŻ Ž ŽŽ ŽŽ ŻŻ Ž ŽŪŽ ³ ³ ŻŪŻ Üž ßŪ ßŪ Üž ŽŪŽ The Execution of Chance ³ ³ ŻŪŻ ÜŻß ŽŽ ŽŽ ÜŻß ŽŪŽ ³ ĄÄŻŪŻ ÜŻŻŻÜÜÜŻŻÜŻŻÜ ÜŻŻÜ ÜŻŻŻÜÜÜŻŻ ŽŪŽÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄŁ ßß ßß Volume I, File III [110294] Writer: Mephistopheles "I'm in love, man...really, love...ha..uh.." Nelson finally succumbed to the slight overdose and slipped from his drug-induced state of holy love into the footspace below the passenger seat. His staring eyes took in all the glove compartment had to offer a man of Nelson's appetites, dreams, and cheap taste in acid. Evidently not much. I took it in stride and directed my rage at the cab driver tailgating me, a fat man, probably deciding whether to take home a pizza or one of the women standing in the shadows of the building we were passing. He slowed. I accelerated, not wanting to see the face of the girl who would approach the window. I took my foot off the gas when his headlights disappeared from the mirror. "Did you see her?" "No." Nothing but the top of his head showed from the pit where he was huddled. Streetlights would regularly illuminate his face. A new aspect of Man every light. I kept my eyes on the road. Cracked pavement. A fucking concrete river. My eyes glazed over. Nelson's shouting woke me. I barely swerved around nothing. The street was deserted. Nelson was hungry, and scared. His hand gripped my jacket, a skeletal claw in the harsh light. A place loomed up ahead. "Drive-thru" shined in the dark. "What do you want?" "A cow. No mayo." He giggled. "One hamburger," I called out to the speaker, my voice hollow in the night. "Would you like some fries with that?" The voice was barely understandable. "No. One hamburger." "A shake?" "No." "Onion rings?" "A hamburger." Nelson appeared to be trying to grab his tonsils. "Fried apple pie?" I stomped on the accelerator and tore out of the lot. It was just as well. Nelson had forgotten that he was hungry. He climbed up into the seat and found that he could see again. I rolled down my window and spoke. "We're leaving. Tonight." He looked numb. "Who called us?" I looked sharply at him. He was in a stupor. Eyes dull. Cheek muscle twitching. I couldn't answer. "Is Cheryl coming?" "No." City limits. I stopped. The open road ahead. The crescent moon was a blade, poised in the blackness, awaiting my decision. Cruise control. I was still alive. Half a tank got us three hours away. No map. Nelson must have had some shit on him when we left. He was still gone throughout the afternoon and evening. Another damned neon sign denoted a motel. We checked in. I let him sign for the room. Mrs. and Mrs. Barton we were. The motel St. Thomas. Shag carpet, green blankets. Smelled like beef stew. Nelson rolled up in a blanket on the floor. The shower beckoned to me. The bathroom had a tub. I hadn't taken a bath since I was twelve. I lay in the water with all but my nose under, trying to decipher the sounds water makes when it knows you're listening. The hot shower was a baptism. Need to shave. No, beards are nice. Jesus had one. Toes were visible under the bed. His shit, a few orange and blue tabs, was in an ashtray between the two beds. I lay down and stared at the one working bulb in the ceiling fan until a huge purple spot was scarred onto my retina. I was disappointed as the spot faded over the thirty-twos minutes in which I occupied myself by watching the crimson digital clock display change from minute to minute. Watching the minutes change was stimulating. Every ten thrilling. The hour joyous. I felt a sense of accomplishment at having scrutinized time, watching it inch by. I turned on the lamp and winced at the glare. The ashtray. After all, the world turned for half an hour without exploding, and if that's not celebrating, then what is? Turning off the light, I lay there in my clothes for another few minutes before I reached out to the ashtray and dropped one into my mouth. The taste was horrible. I gagged and spat it out into my hand. I flicked the soggy cigarette butt to the floor and reached out again into the darkness, feeling carefully to make sure that I had a pill in my hand this time. There's magic in acid if there's magic anywhere. Opinions differ, however, on whether it should be classified as magic of the benevolent sort that lends visions of Glenda, the Good Witch of No Direction in Particular, or of the divine voodoo kind that Nelson prized so highly. The kind that changes you a little each time, until you have to spend the rest of your life figuring out who the hell you are or just take more acid and hope that your personality goes full circle and returns the way it was. The pill slipped down my throat of its own accord. I felt my consciousness float a little, just bobbing along in the shallow end, then finally rising up out of me.. I couldn't handle it.. I sat bolt upright, banging into my astral self. My consciousness flew against the opposite wall, and after a number of painful ricochets, fell back into me. Through the blissful haze that is possible only when one hasn't watched the news for a few weeks or has taken a drug, I leaned over to look under the bed, blood rushing to my head in a very pleasant sort of way. Nelson looked back at me, gave me the saddest kind of smile, then closed his eyes and died. Sleep came quickly. (\___ ___ ___/) ŚÄ\___ ___/ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄæ ³ \\__\ /__// TNH BBS. [2112] WHQ. NUP: Woodstock. 817.346.3370. ³ ³ \__\ /__/ SysOp: Mephistopheles CoSysOps: Delirium, Sputnik. ³ ĄÄÄÄÄ\_____/ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄŁ [2112] Productions, All Rights Reserved.