At 11am today, my neighbor’s house caught fire. I found out when the second police car flew by my house, followed by two fire engines. The fire was fast moving starting in the kitchen and traveling up the stairs to the bedroom. This type of fire produces thick smoke, displacing all oxygen. Those that do not or cannot escape usually die within.

On this day, fire officials entered the kitchen from the broken (from the inside) picture window. They removed my neighbor (condition unknown) and then went back in and removed his dog.

The dog’s name is Midnight.

Midnight could have easily jumped out of the first floor window to safety at the onset of the fire. My neighbor most likely could not escape on his own (wheelchair bound) instead opting for breaking the window to give Midnight his chance.

Midnight chose to stay.

In doing so, he died at the scene.

All in attendance witnessed the definition of loyalty.

My neighbor found Midnight as a stray puppy, raised him, fed him, and took care of him for thirteen years.

Midnight could have left, but loyalty kept him beside the only friend he had, even if that loyalty cost him his life.

It took four hours for the smoke to clear and the last firefighter to leave the scene. By tomorrow, the story of the fire will begin to fade.

The story of Midnight will not.

I’ve been talking music lately with a youngster and it’s got me thinking… reminiscing more like, about the music I love. And I do love music, maybe more than anything. You kids today are soooo lucky, and soooo spoiled. I can’t imagine being a kid and having every song ever written at my Spotify or Apple fingertips, and what gibberish that ability might lead me to listen to?

You see, when I was a kid you had to patiently seek out music on the radio, or maybe television. There were always relevant musical guests on Ed Sullivan and Hee-Haw. Or you could tune in to “The Johnny Cash Show”, or the “Glenn Campbell Good-time Hour,” where you knew you’d find interesting and diverse music, but mostly you tuned your radio dial in quiet desperation… flipping past the latest, current, costumed thing like The Village People or Kiss (I apologize to those of you who are fans of these bands. No really! I am truly, truly sorry) until you found something to revel in, something that fucking moved your everlasting soul.

That was the music I was in search of when I was thirteen and the lights went out in my bedroom. I didn’t really care if it was rock, or pop, or soul, or disco. I just wanted it to make me feel something. It might make me laugh (The Streak), or cry (Cat’s in the Cradle), or think (Ode to Billy Joe), or dance (Proud Mary), but it had to make me feel alive. And once you found it you had to wait for it… and wait… and wait some more until you heard it again, usually at the very worst possible time, when the song was already half-way through, and you’d have to beg everyone in the room to shut up as you cranked up your single speaker, AM only, transistor radio, and of course you were always the youngest one, so no one paid any mind to your “ridiculous” pleadings.

And records cost money. They were precious. You might ask for The Eagles’, “One of these Nights” album for Christmas and get KC and the Sunshine Band instead, because “the department store was out.” And you also wanted a book. Your single, working mother couldn’t afford both, so you read your book and you listened to KC and the fucking Sunshine Band until you knew every word to “Shake Your fucking Booty.” Trust me when I say it was a difficult time, a time when one was literally forced to thank God for an older sister whom one hated, and who hated you, just because of her record collection.

Because you see, when something is rare you value it more. When I finally scored that Eagles album it was like owning the Mona Lisa. I lovingly cared for it. I only handled it’s outer edges, and I routinely changed my turntable’s needle, and I never, ever failed to return it first to it’s original paper sleeve, and then to it’s cardboard jacket if something, say by chance an afternoon baseball game, called. That Eagles record stayed in playable shape right up until CD’s came out, when it was retired to memory where it’s songs still haunt my showers to this day.

But please don’t take this as complaining. I am forever grateful that I was born in the age of radio, and of recordings. I truly don’t know how people survived before Barry Gordy and Sam Phillips saved this rockin‘ world, but they thankfully did, those Neolithic souls, somehow struggling along in their music-less lives so that we could live in an age where we are mercilessly bombarded with music, good music and bad, and where I, for one, love every damned song someone feels the urge to sing.

I

“Ensign!”

Commander Franklin always spoke to me in terms best described as harsh. Today was no different. I was only a few moments into the first watch when I instinctively responded.

“Sir, yes sir!”

“Ensign Hollister. You are hereby relieved of your duty station. You will report to the auxiliary bridge and wait for further orders.”

With that, Commander Franklin turned his attention to a new ensign and began his systemic destruction of ego he was so famous for. This gave me the briefest time to exit the Commander’s proximity and transverse the red line of urgency (Morovian for shortest distance between any two points) to hurry and wait. I am positive that phrase did not originate with our people, but I have no proof to think otherwise. Since entering the service on my day of ascension, I have been innerlocked (Morovian for axially stowed) aboard the Nibiru for nearly two standard years. I have not seen a star, a planet, or another ship in that time. I have stood watch waiting to actually see something worth watching. Until now, all of my effort has been in vain; until now.

It takes only twenty standard moments to traverse the red line (no axial gravity here for the Nibiru creates radial gravity by rotating) and enter the auxiliary bridge. I find Lieutenant Briggs there, alone, with sealed orders. I can only suspect they are for me.

“Ensign”. His commanding voice foretells of something worth hearing and foreboding. “As of this moment, by the power vested in Captain Seech, you are promoted to the rank of Lieutenant Junior Grade.” I am astonished and almost fall out of attention. Almost. “With this promotion comes your first off ship assignment. You are to depart, at once, via a one man civilian shuttle, to the coordinates programmed within. The trip will be long, your supplies few, and your fuel insufficient for a return. Your orders are to gather intelligence on the second planet of the Glieset system. Pay close attention to the single remaining sanctuary city, Darch. You are to investigate the city, the inhabitants, and their way of life. You will disclose your status as an Officer of the Consortium. This will almost be under a first contact protocol.”

Lt. Briggs let the word “almost” hang in the ether as if he wanted to scrutinize my face for a reaction. Ensign Hollister may have fallen for such a trick. Lt. JG Hollister did not.

“We estimate you will have one standard year to collect your data. At that time, representatives of the Consortium will return and exchange you with another during your debriefing. Afterward, you will be assigned to duties normally associated with an officer of your rank. Do you have any questions, Lieutenant Hollister?”

“Only one sir. When do I depart?”

II

Lieutenant Briggs has no sense of humor. He does a flair for the dramatic. I began my journey on self-imposed rations for food and fuel. I kept life support at a minimum to conserve both and spent the time reading and sleeping. I expected numerous mission reports to brief me on what to expect. The sum total of what the Consortium decided to avail to me about Darch could be condensed to a single word.

Hot.

Since the First Pegasi Excursion, the inhabitants of the Glieset system either volunteered to fight or dug in to resist. Orbital bombardment with mass-drivers terraformed Glieset-2 to a waterless desert. Both population choices seemed futile in the aftermath. What was a nearly agrarian world soon became a memory of its past glory. The few remaining people wrote poems about their plight in the hopes someone of importance would remember and offer assistance. No such person ever read a single word of their desperation. However, since I had nothing but time, I did.

On what was once the River Shallz

Between the lands of the Palatine Pfalz

Meandering amongst the mangrove groves

Laid the City of Darch and all of its woes

It was all I could take to suffer through the first verse. The poem continues for another ten. In retrospect, the inhabitants of Glieset-3 suffered through an atomic holocaust of unimaginable horror. No survivors meant no poems. In that small difference, the remaining inhabitants of Glieset-2 lived a charmed life.

The heat of Darch seems almost splendid by comparison. Records indicate an average daily high of 35% above human body temperature making all sources of surface water non-existent. If Darchers remained, I hypothesize they must spend most of their life subterranean. That meant a limited amount of sunlight for photosynthesis, thus a limited population. If I was to make contact with any population (it had been nearly two generations since the last conflict), I would first have to find them.

Four sleep cycles later, I entered orbit above Glieset-2. I spent half of my remaining fuel maneuvering to scan all geographic features of what remained on the surface.

It was not much to see.

Indeed, Darch was the only surviving city, if you can call what remains a city. As per the poem, the dry banks of the River Shallz scored the land leading to Darch. I found no vegetation or signs animal life. An overly thorough search pattern indicated no recent signs of human activity. I am almost relieved neither the Morovian Consortium participated in the bombardment nor I would ever encounter someone who believed we did.

Without fuel to choose otherwise, I decided to land in what looks to be the city square of Darch. The site is flat and paved with stones suitable for a makeshift landing pad. My shuttle lands with insufficient fuel remaining to break orbit, but more than enough for shelter and life support for half a Darch year.

I have provisions aplenty, a variety of low tech weaponry (firearms, bows, swords, and a few grenades) to dissuade the natives, and bivouac supplies, and two transmitters (one I keep on me, one I leave in the shuttle). Missions such as mine do not permit the deployment of Consortium high tech grade equipment should the entire cache fall in enemy hands. I hope this could not happen. To ensure it did not happen, I booby-trapped the remaining shuttle supplies with two of my grenades. If I could not occupy my shuttle, no one else would.

With night quickly approaching, I settled in for a planet side sleep and set my sensors on auto. The last scan reported 1.05 Morovian normal gravity and 98% Morovian normal atmosphere. Note to self, zero percent humidity and a night time low of 105% body temperature does not constitute Morovian normal atmosphere.

I found my handgun, set a mirror to see the door from all blind spots, grabbed a blanket and went to sleep. I have an entire Darch year to unravel anything remaining to unravel.

III

I awoke to a stuffy cabin atmosphere and a blinding sun that seemed to permeate the skin of my shuttle at well past an annoyance level. I heard myself utter “Welcome to Darch” as I prepared for the scorching morning of Day 1 of my assignment.

I exited my shuttle confident in my traps and my plan for the day. My backpack is balanced, my rifle visible, and my front pack filled with supplies for five Morovian sleep cycles (maybe only two on Darch). Since I landed in front of city hall, I decided to spend the day there browsing through any and all records I could find. In the time before the First Pegasi Excursion, Glieset-2 was a temperate agricultural planet of nearly ten million inhabitants with no visitors other than the commercial shuttle traffic from neighboring Glieset-3.

When the attacks began, Glieset-2 was hit immediately. Then Glieset-3 was surrounded and ordered to surrender resulting in four billion residents deciding on a first strike before facing the inevitable.

According to the records, the missile barrage from the surface was intense. The first wave destroyed nearly 10% of the invading fleet.

There was no second barrage from below.

The attacking fleet permitted the few satellites of Glieset-2 to record what came next. In a blink-of-an-eye, twelve descending missiles detonated simultaneously over Glieset-3 in an atomic devastation reminiscent of ancient vids in the early years of Morovia and her abundant wars. Not a single person of the planet survived. Not a single invasion force landed. For these people, the First Pegasi Excursion ended in less than one cycle. For the survivors of Glieset-2, it had just begun. With all major cities annihilated and all water evaporating, the remaining population gathered what they had and moved to Darch, the first and only declared sanctuary city on the planet.

Why was Darch spared? I continued reading the records and could only uncover theories. One person said it was out of compassion. Another said the attackers ran out of rocks to hurl at the city. I continued reading until I found what I believed to be the real reason.

The invaders spared Darch because Darch wasn’t worth the effort to destroy.

From the city plans, Darch may be a sanctuary, but it doesn’t qualify as a city. Most of the residences are adobe. None of the buildings rise above three floors. There is not a single electrical station listed anywhere (pre-attack) in the entire city. Darch was a large town before. Darch is a ghost town now.

And Darch is hot and getting hotter by the moment.

With a quick time check, I gather all I have yet to read and move quickly back to the shuttle.

Or what is left of it.

My grenades did not explode, but my provisions are gone. The fuel is gone. All of the weapons are gone. Even my blanket is gone. All that remains are the supplies I have packed upon my person and a spatter of blood, from an ill-advised encounter with my broken mirror.

So, whoever it was, was clever enough to disarm a series of explosives, but became injured by a mirror. The footprints outside indicate a single barefoot human. They also indicate a direction of travel, to the underground shelters I read about earlier. Whoever it is, is hurt and on the run. Unfortunately, whoever it is, is also clever. I have to go after him, if only to retrieve all that I lost. However, this is his home and he (how do I know it is a he?) knows his territory better than I.

Damned if do. Damned if I don’t.

Note to self: Research the previous expression, in terms of origin and original meaning.

A quick equipment check, as I move to descend the stairs into what I do not know.

IV

I have a flashlight, but chose not to use it. If I were him, I would use the bow in the dark and shoot at anything that moved. Instead, I opted for a diversion. I crept to the first flight of stairs, acted like I tripped, cursed, and froze. I could wait him out, if he was curious. If he wasn’t, at least I was out of the direct sunlight and heat.

It took only a few moments to see I was right.

His first bow shot was very accurate. Had I remained where he thought I was, I would be dead. His second shot was for insurance.

I kept waiting. And listening.

What he heard was the trickle of my canteen water, silent in a normal conversation, deafening in this darkness. I bet he could not resist investigating a leaking water source. He had my hardware, but on Darch, hardware is useless and water is king.

So he came to me. Bow in hand, shotgun slung over his back. Either he did not know how to use the latter or he was worried someone may investigate if he did.

Either way, my knife would solve both problems.

He took his time doubling back. This one was experienced. I heard his steps as his feet crunched the dust below. I would have stepped in my descent tracks. He would have also if he had not initially run down the steps.

Moments passed slowly. My tongue began to swell from my own elevated body temperature. I strained to hear every sound. He was human and a male. The slow draw of air through his teeth emitted a small whistle in his labored progress. I concentrated on that whistle. He was almost there, almost in range. I tightened my grip on the knife’s leather straps. I would thrust upward to avoid his parry. It was all so easy.

Until I heard her.

And then nothing.

V

My prison cell is cylindrical and I am not bound. The light is low, low enough to recon the cell dimensions, too low to catalog details.

My beard is thick and my hunger is strong. I am left with shoes but no other clothing. My head lingers of a concussion one sleep cycle removed.

I am no longer bleeding through the field dressing I don.

This combination of circumstance and inventory keeps me bewildered. Somebody wants me alive. For how long and why are the questions still unresolved.

Unlike my last encounter with the citizens of Darch, I found answers to my questions quickly.

Within moments of regaining consciousness, the man who stole my supplies opened the metal panel in the cell door and inquired about my health. His voice seemed a bit nervous, a bit rehearsed, and a bit forced. He may not be alone or acting in his own best interests. However, he does speak the trade language of this sector and I can understand more than just his words.

“Do you have a name?”

“I am an officer of the Consortium, Lieutenant Hollister, Junior Grade. I want to speak to someone in charge.”

“For now, you are a guest of the citizens of Darch. We regret our first contact with you, but you have supplies we require. We distribute all resources evenly for the greater good.”

“Then why did you leave me with my shoes?”

“If you are a Lieutenant, then you will understand the purpose of an interrogation and the results of lying during one. On Darch, there is but one penalty, exposure. I am going to ask you a series of questions. You are going to give a series of answers. When you lie, the ceiling will open permitting sunlight and the associated heat to enter. Each incorrect answer will correspond to a larger ceiling opening and an increase in the temperature. You have the entirety of your cell to move about to avoid the inevitable. However, the entire room will soon surpass livable conditions if you cannot be truthful. If you fail to answer each question to our level of satisfaction, you will become burned, dehydrated, and dead.”

“I understand torture. What I do not understand is the need for the shoes.”

“Since you are in relatively good health and could resist even a prolonged exposure, we have

given you the shoes to resist the effects of the floor during your question and answer period.”

“I still do not understand. You seem to be hurried. Don’t my shoes work against your schedule?”

His voice waivered prior to his answer to my question. I believe he did not wish to answer, but answer he did.

“For expediency only, we have placed a large lens suspended from the ceiling. Such a device will intensify the absorbed heat of the contents of the cell. This will include both you and the floor. Thus, your incorrect answers will result in your hastened departure. I am certain you understand the nature of the shoes Lieutenant Hollister.”

I was now certain of the nature of my shoes.

VI

I awoke as bewildered as before. The difference is, this time, I understand the nature of my predicament. While no longer thirsty, I am severely burned over 20% of my body and moderately burned over the rest. I most likely will not live in time for Consortium help to arrive.

My captors enter my room and move to sit in the chairs. I must stand. He was correct. The shoes did provide an oasis from the heat. Nothing provides any relief from the pain.

This time, she does the talking.

“We have studied the transcript of your interrogation and have more questions. Some of your answers cannot be corroborated. It is in your best interests to clarify your answers.”

With that, she rose and injected me with a pain killer from a prepared syringe. I can offer little in the way of resistance.

“This will ease the pain enabling you to speak without too much trouble. The effects are temporary, but the doses are many. Please advise us when you are ready to begin.”

I re-explained to both of them that I had no idea of the current state of Glieset-2 prior to my arrival. I repeated the Consortium was not responsible for the destruction of the inhabitable planets of this system or the subsequent formation of the only sanctuary city, Darch. I told them (for the first time) I tried to read that poem about the city and found it boring and not worth my effort. They wanted to know about my transmitters and why they could not adjust from the single frequency each was assigned (another Lt. Briggs precaution). All of this was trivial. All of this was leading to something else. Who would go through all of this work for so little gain? If the situation were reversed, Commander Franklin who have his answers in mere moments.

“Lieutenant Hollister, could you please explain the nature of your mission? I know we asked before during your last session, but we feel you are still holding back information. For example, if you found no life on Glieset-2 or in Darch, what were you to do? You did not have sufficient supplies to last the entire year. You told us you would be here, prior to transmitting your report to the Consortium. Did you believe you could live off the land on a barren planet? Please elaborate.”

I did not have an answer for her. I did not even want to answer her. Part of me was hoping I would find a thriving civilization hidden somewhere on Darch. Part of me wanted to do anything to for an adventure and prove my worth. My superiors must have viewed me as expendable. I did not want to explain this to the two of them.

The pain was returning and I needed to rest. Without a new injection, the latter could be horrific. With a new injection, I was merely buying time.

So I told them the truth. I was expendable and not expected to return. But, as an officer, I would perform my duties as expected and transmit my report as ordered.

They seemed pleased with my answer and she empathically rose to administer another injection.

“This one, Lieutenant Hollister has both a pain killer and a stimulant. It looks as if your require both.”

I let the elixir course through my body. The effect became systemic and I felt better for the temporary relief it brought.

She waited until I became stable again before she continued.

“Lieutenant Hollister, why is it your Consortium equipment did not register the two of us in Darch? We are as human as you are. We have to exit outside, albeit infrequently. Certainly, as your shuttle’s computer records indicate, in your search pattern should have detected us. Why did it not?”

I was pacing back and forth thinking, ironically, about that poem when she spoke. Without even trying, I began mouthing the words,

On what was once the River Shallz

Between the lands of the Palatine Pfalz

Meandering amongst the mangrove groves

Laid the City of Darch and all of its woes

In what was once a beacon of desire

With nights of stars and days of fire

When too many fires burned the land

Left too few people to understand

Perhaps I was in a delirium, maybe initiated by the pain killers or the stimulants. I did not even want to recite that poem, but I did and for the next few moments, they listened and took notes.

Then she tapped my burned shoulder and asked the questions again.

Her touch sent pain surging through my arm. I screamed from the contact and screamed again from screaming. My burns do not permit normal movement or even the normal response to normal movement. She realizes the extent of how I suffer. That touch was not by chance.

Once I began to recover, I let her have her answer. It did not have to be true. It did not even have to make sense. Nothing on this world makes sense. I don’t condone, but I do understand why Glieset-3 and its inhabitants were destroyed. They had a large technological population and could resist an occupation. But Glieset-2 was an agricultural planet with a small population. It had everything an invading force could desire. There was no reason to destroy paradise.

“Lieutenant Hollister, why did your shuttle not detect our presence?”

When I hesitated again, she arose with a new syringe.

To avoid more pain, I made my answer clear. It was a lie, but I was clear none-the-less.

“Perhaps my shuttle did not detect your presence because, perhaps, I was scanning for the wrong type of life.”

The look on their faces indicated they did not expect my answer. I was on to something. Something just out of reach. For the first time since I landed on here, I had a modicum of power.

I used this respite to figure my next move.

They budgeted their time to confer with each other.

A few moments of awkward silence before he spoke. “If we repaired your shuttle, healed you, and provisioned you with fuel and supplies, would you promise to never to return here or speak about what you have seen?”

Now I had to think about their offer in a serious manner. Even if their offer was true, the Morovian Consortium would not believe any tale I could conjure for the time spent in Darch. They would send another and another until they became satisfied Glieset-2 was indeed uninhabitable and Darch posed no threat. I told the two as much during my interrogation. They looked as if they knew my answer before they even posed the question.

“So, whether we heal and release you, your consortium will eventually come to Darch. Is that correct?” I could only nod in agreement.

This time, ignoring me, she spoke to he. “It is time to send the transmission.”

For the next precious moments, I heard my voice, send a transmission of my mission success by which I did not find any population in the sanctuary city of Darch, but I did discover underground storage tanks of water and seeds to rebuild once the heat of the scorching passed. I spoke of the future for Darch and my own injuries that I would not survive. With that, the transmission to the Consortium concluded.

I had to inquire with a single one word question. “Why?”

She decided to speak for the both of them.

“Here on Glieset-2, very few of us survived the bombardment and even fewer made it to Darch for shelter. The lucky among us did not find a sanctuary city. Instead, we found a different type of death.”

Now he spoke in earnest. “Those that destroyed Glieset-3 and attacked Glieset-2 are known as the Karcz. They are a silicon based life form with simple goals. They consume human hemoglobin. They feast, in particular, on the iron in its variable oxidation state. They have traveled far to find a place where they could continue to dine at their leisure.”

Now they alternated.

“Glieset-3 had too many people to live off of. This population would eventually use its technology and discover the Karcz and kill them. For that reason, the entire population had to be exterminated. However, Glieset-2 had a population of a more controllable size. A population to be herded in a sanctuary city, to be managed, to be culled when necessary.”

“It has been two generations since the bombardment. The Karcz have dined well. So well, there is a need to recruit new feedstocks for their growing population. We made a deal to delay our culling to after the conclusion of a normal lifespan in return for our assistance in bring additional provisions to Darch. See, the Karcz thrive in heat and have become pleased with our arrangement. You might say we are symbiotic.”

Now I had to interject. The pain was building again and I do not trust her with her syringe collection.

“You are telling me everything I went through was all a ruse for this Karcz? Where are they? Are they hiding? I want to speak to them now?”

Both he and she smiled. I was suffering and dying. I had trouble breathing and what remained of my skin was slowing bleeding. I could not run or fight. But, I still had to know.

“Lieutenant Hollister. You already have met the Karcz. You might even say they know you intimately. The Karcz are sub-microscopic in size. I injected you with them. As we speak, they are scavenging your iron rich blood, inventorying every vein and artery in your body. You are feeling the effects of their efficiency, but only for a few moments more. Soon, you will be an appetizer for the future feast of Consortium soldiers, speculators, and their families. The Karcz will grow as an invisible population among the unknowing who will listen to your report. On behalf of the Karcz and the two of us, we all thank you Lieutenant Hollister. None of this would be possible without you.”

I tried to reach out to grab something, anything.

As I fell, all I could think about was that poem.

The perfect new Olympic endurance sport would incorporate a track that is approximately 1 meter wide by 100 meters long covered in Legos of various size and shapes. The competitors would then walk barefoot on the Lego covered track. The competitor who makes it the farthest wins. It would definitely be more interesting than the winter Olympic sport, curling.

The sport I have in mind, whilst requiring real athletes, I think would truly be just as comical. Essentially it is a guessing competition, each country willing to compete must send in two or more athletes, with the correct skills for one particular event. For example, one country might send in seven Olympic level netballers, the catch is however that no one knows which sport is going to be chosen until the event. Therefore, you may have five pro wrestlers attempting a swimming race, or two gymnasts attempting a horse-riding race.

Equipment would of course be provided to the participants however it is unlikely they would be trained in the specific sport.

Of course, you could do this with non-athletes however, athletes who specialise in certain areas, might be even more amusing.

And of course, you may get a scenario where the sport picked is say a team sport, such as netball and one country sent in only two athletes, technically they would still have to play, which would be rather interesting to watch.

Of course, athletes would have the option to opt out, but then they'd be missing out on the fun. Heh.

Though day bleeds into day and all grows old

though darkest night now ever closer seems

I cannot help but speak to you so bold

while whispr'ing words of love as if from dreams;

Twas not so long ago our eyes first met

or far the day eternal love was vowed

when burdens of shared life were not ours yet

Nor heads beneath the weight of sorrow bowed;

The days of strife and anger are now gone

behind us days thought never to survive

our ugly duckling love became a swan

so "we" and "us" yields joy to be alive;

In sleep entwined we feign what is to come,

our hope to be found thus when we succumb.

“It is important to review the details of the contract before you sign.” I should have paid attention to those prophetic words. I should have never agreed to listen to the pitch in the first place.

“The party of the first part, that is you, Mr. Smith, also known as the payee, agrees to the following. By pressing (or activating) the red button, you are solely responsible for the death of one person on Planet Earth. You will never know who this person is, where they are, or exactly when or how they died. They may be an infant, a child, a woman, a man, or geriatric. They may die even if you do not press the red button. But, they will die if you do. The party of the second party, the person to die, also known as the damned, has not agreed to anything and is not even knowledgeable of their part in this contract. They will never know the connection of your action and their death. They will never be informed of your participation. No one will ever inform them or their family of these details. Essentially, they will know or learn nothing.”

I was just about to leave, when he continued.

“Upon pressing the small red button, you, the payee, will receive one million dollars in one hundred dollar bills immediately. Upon payment, with no receipt, our business will conclude and you agree never to speak of your participation in this arrangement to anyone, at any time. Do you understand the exact details of the contract? If so, Mr. Smith, please affix your signature to receive your money. The sooner you sign, the sooner you will become wealthy.”

That was it. All so tidy. I press a button, someone dies, and I am rich. It was all so easy, so sterile, and so antiseptic. No one would ever know. Could I live with murder? Worse yet, could I live with being a paid murderer? One million dollars to blindly kill someone with friends, a job, a family. I needed the money, but did I need it that badly? I have bills. I have a family. I want to be important. I want it all. But, is it worth the price?

I took a few deep breaths. Press the damn button! Press it! What was I waiting for?

It was one of those weird out-of-body experiences where you get to see yourself. The paramedic finally gave up with CPR. I heard him tell the other paramedic to note the time of death. He even confirmed my stroke and seizure for his report.

I saw my own death and no one saw me see me die.

I take that back. Someone saw me.

I saw the contract man walk up to me (or what was left of me) to inform me of my official passing. He informed me that he also represented a group of people who he offered the same red button contract. I believe, apparently, in my hesitation, another payee acted to receive his one million dollars and kill before I could act to receive my million dollars and kill.

I asked him who the other payee was. His only reply, “As per the contract, we never inform the damned the connection to such action and their untimely death. However, we will inform you of your required presence in accordance with your agreed recent moniker.”

I never saw the two demons approach to take me away until it was too late.