= The Cop =

A short story by Brendan S


"It was the perfect opportunity."

"Dude, can that dude really fly..?" One of them laughed.

"No, he can. He really can."

"I tried to run him over, and he flew like a fucking vampire."

"Hahahahaha. That's him right there..?"

I was sitting in the seat, at the Mcdonalds table near M. Staples -- the individual who I eventually found, through my psychic and clandestine, and "underground" (meeting thugs, gangsters, hackers, and criminals on the street to find out the truth) -- who had tried to run me over, was a skinny, short, and hat-wearing redneck who laughed with his friends.

That day, the world ended, though.

"You're schizophrenic..?"

The policeman asked me.

His familiar vibe.

The tone of his voice.

The sedating nature of a protector in my midst. A fellow protector.

Keep me safe.

"Yes." I lied.

They put me on thorazine, and I woke up in the observation unit of the Acadia hospital in 2012.

When Matt "actually did" run me over, I died, and traveled to another universe.

I was a cop when I died.

So in this universe, we have powerful laws, much like Hell itself.

Prison warders, war, and fighting everywhere.

A veritable valhalla, all because I was a cop when I died.

This is my world.

My rules.

My matrix.

I can do anything here.

It's my own heaven.

My own prison.

My own beautiful prison.

Matt looked scared after he watched some of my telekinesis videos, when I found him at the dispensary that was locally poisoning teens.

He wasn't amused, when I had nothing to say about how great and awesome his "girlfriend" was when I knew he raped the girl next door.

I'm not so amused, but I know everything about you all.

I keep a good head-count before I go to sleep.

AND my princess is always accessible to me.

She is about thirteen. Or fourteen.

I don't know.

But she loves me more than I Love Her.

And yet, for the many crimes I have committed, and corruptions under my name as an agent, you all have sinned the same.

You all have sinned the same, and vivacitol, you all die with me.

We fly together.

In this Hell.

That you Created.

* * * * * * *

"It looks like a smiley face."

"God, it's disgusting."

Another cop walked around the trail of remains in the road.

"Look."

"The head makes an eye, here."

"The foot, another eye."

"This piece of whatever .. gore .. a nose."

"And the rest of his remains forms a smile."

"Oh my God."

"Look."

They took an aerial shot of the remains, and it was put in the newspaper, to a lot of vomiting obituary readers.

No one knew what to make of it.

* * * * * * *

"He was stalking me."

Jordan confessed.

"Look."

It was years later.

She handed the small blue notebook to her friend.

"It's called Diaphanous."

"It's a poem about another world."

"Now look at this one."

She had stolen the notebook from Brendan, when he kept visiting her at the community house where she lived.*

In this hell, he knew everything.

He could see it all in his imagination.

And she said, "It's called VIVACITOL."

"It's about a man who dies in the road and his remains form a smiley face."

* * * * * * *

"Kid was a genius."

"He was really smart."

"He could create worlds with one sentence of his thoughts."

"I don't know why he died."

"I remember this Rage Against The Machine shirt he always used to wear."

It was of a skeleton, holding a microphone, with the words


Who Laughs Last.


- Brendan S