Writer's Journal

The last thing I remembered was talking to the receptionist at work on his wireless phone, informing her that yes, he would in fact be there soon, he wasn’t just going to not show up.

Now, I was being shot through a tube of black metal. There was no explosion, just a puff of ozone and condensed air. I sailed through the air, hit a wall, and slumped down onto the ground.

“Ah, told you it would work!” a voice shouted.

I felt rough hands grab my by his left shoulder, and another pair of hands by my right.

Another voice, deep and froglike, responded:

“Yeah. This is easier than coming to collect ‘em, now that I think about it.”

I raised my head.

“H…What?” I ask, glancing around.

We were in some industrial setting, and overhead was an overcast sky. Everything was lit with a sickly green light.

In contrast, the two men holding me by the shoulders were wearing immaculate white suits and sunglasses. It was impossible to identify their race, and they were more androgynous than masculine, now that I considered it. I had assumed they were men by default.

“Oh, boy,” the second one said, “he’s awake.”

“Good thing you were on that cell buddy-boy,” the first one said, smiling inscrutably. His grip tightened, “got your wallet.”

“Hey…” the second one began.

“Save it. He’s bound to have something.”

I stained, reached by back pocket, and pulled out my wallet. The first one, the one with the higher voice, reached in, and tugged out the photographs of my family I kept in there, and all my photo ID. He stuffed them in his mouth, and began to chew noisily.

“Hey!” I began, protesting.

He handed the wallet to his companion, who only took the money inside. The other one, at least, was polite enough to tuck the wallet back into my pocket.

The first one swallowed.

“Hits the spot.”

“What the hell is going on?”

“You can’t tell? At this point? You’re dead.”

“Like hell I am!” I shouted.

My head suddenly hurt, and I could see stars.

“Yeah. You’re dead. And if you know what’s good for you, you wouldn’t give us any lip.”

“If you knew what’s good for you, you’d also have looked both ways crossing the street,” the froggy one said.

I slumped, and they began to carry me, dragging the toes through the accumulated dust of centuries. I couldn’t move any of my limbs; speaking was possible, as was looking, but anything below the neck was gone.

“How did I die?”

“Combination of a broken neck and a bus to the face, I’d say,” Froggy responded.

“Guess that explains it. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”