The Death-Moment (Part One)

All I ever wanted was the comfort and simplicity I rightly deserved. I’d grown accustomed to my habits and personal preferences, and I wanted everything to stay the same. Perhaps my placid satisfaction was my undoing.   

Perhaps not. 

Nevertheless, I was kept out of the loop of my future endeavors. And it was quite a big loop, most would agree, even all the kids who played everyday on their Hot Wheels track. 

After I would settle down for bed, after I stopped watching re-runs of Ancient Aliens, and closed my eyes to sleep, I would dream of aging. I know, it’d be easy to label me unusual for dreaming of coming closer to death. 

But most people dream of death in their own way. 

I wanted to be an ornery man complaining about the latest generation’s gall to be a little different. I wanted to give customer service an unreasonably hard time. 

I’ve done my time, and all I wanted was a little respect. 

Yet, as I answered my front door on the morning of Christmas Eve’s eve, I was greeted by an animatronic Jeffrey Dahmer. And as I stared into the cold, empty eyes of the electronically resurrected killer, I crossed my fingers and toes, desperately hoping I would fare alright. I was a middle-aged man and middle-aged men usually weren’t killed serially. 

They often inclined on doing the serial killing themselves. 

I won’t bore you with all the numerous, minute details about the surreal encounter, because it’s actually not important how I died. At least, in regard to the gruesome details and such. I’d rather forget them myself.  

What’s more important is what happened after.

But I can give you a little more:

The animatronic Jeffrey Dahmer, who showed up on my doorstep in Louisville, Kentucky, was part of Bud’s Famous Killers. Bud Gibbly was the owner of an extravagant collection of the world’s most famous serial killers, which traveled from town to town during the summer months. Bud was actually an extremely, insignificant man, and he might’ve known it, too.  

It’s not far-fetched to say that creating a gang of robotic serial killers was the only noteworthy act Bud ever did. 

But that single, noteworthy act was a doozy.

So, the animatronic Jeffrey Dahmer escaped from Bud’s gang, and, after wandering Frankfurt Avenue and Bardstown Road for hours and possibly attaining some slight sense of consciousness and freedom, found his way to my home. 

We peered into each other’s eyes. 

And then he killed me. 

And then he ate me. 

Officially, Leland Lewis was declared deceased at 9:34 AM, dead under unusual circumstances. All the police found were a couple organs that didn’t interest the killer, a few of my ugliest fingers, and half an ear in the flowerless pot next to the front door. The killer was probably a little upset, or as upset as a robot can get, that he wasn’t able to keep two intact ears.

My ears, I’ve been told, were the best feature about me. 

But the pieces of me that remained at the scene of the crime were enough to confirm my death, since it’s pretty difficult to live without a brain—no matter if it’s right or left. 

There are some things we all tend to agree upon, after all.       

And since he was an animatronic Jeffrey Dahmer, it’s possible that my bits and pieces could still be around, jangling around inside of his metallic shell, wherever the killer robot might happen to be. 

Because no one knows. 

So, if what’s left of my family wants to have a proper burial, and honor the man they both despised and loathed, they might want to hire an investigator. Or at least watch a lot of Forensic Files and give it a go themselves.

But that’s a lot of effort.

They’ll settle on cremating what they retrieved at the scene of the crime, instead of risking getting eaten alive, too. And I don’t blame them. 

Jeffrey Dahmer is, once again, at large.

*

Leland died but wasn’t gone for long. He took a moment to cool down (he got quite sweaty in his death-moment), and was carried out of the sleeping den and into the office of Dr. Wise-Man with relative ease. 

Sometimes the sacks twist and turn when you touch them for the first time. It’s always an inconvenience to the endlessly busy schedules of the Reckoners, as they’re informally called, and all too often an unruly sack is sent back indefinitely if it’s too unruly. 

But Leland didn’t have a bit of unimportance on his flesh anymore, and an ordinary Reckoner would overlook a bit of his unruliness, all because of the odd animatronic Jeffrey Dahmer incident.

The odds of another Jeffrey Dahmer attack after he had his death-moment decades before, were incalculable.  

Anomalies, like in Leland’s case, require an incident report. Usually the reports are bland and stale, but every once in a while there’s a fresh, wide-eyed Reckoner that likes to spice them up a bit—shoot for creative non-fiction and such. 

Leland’s incident report was summarized by Helen Sleep-No-More:

The deceased, Leland Lewis, came to a tragic, and unusual, end on the morning of December 23rd, 2018. Jeffrey Dahmer showed up on his doorstep. Yes, the same Jeffrey Dahmer that tested the people years and years ago. But this Jeffrey Dahmer was an even colder, calculated killer.

And I write this not in evaluation of the ethical deterioration of a twisted man’s soul! Our old Jeffrey indeed was a little warmer and had a few less 0’s and 1’s than the one that visited Leland. He was animatronic, and for some odd reason my fellow Reckoners and I are unable to find out how he found his way to Leland’s doorstep, or why he was around at all! 

Something odd is afoot. 

—Helen Sleep-No-More, Reckoner 3621 

Helen’s father was a historian and mother was a cartoonist. 

But, as Leland slouched in the cushioned chair in front of the desk of Dr. Wise-Man, he twitched and moaned, as most of the fresh sacks do after their death-moment. He opened his eyes slowly, and then suddenly, after a wad of the morning newspaper thudded against his brow in an attempt by Dr. Wise-Man to accelerate the process. 

Leland never noticed the article describing his death-moment on the front page of the wad of newspaper. The public was quite interested in an otherwise uninteresting process. 

*

“Leland,” a voice said. It was faint, as if far, far away. “Leland, I am Dr. Wise-Man. Wake up, son.”

I opened my eyes and gazed at the man sitting across from me. He was clean-shaven, and wore a black suit. Obviously he wasn’t God—or a god—he was too boring. Or maybe he wasn’t boring enough?

He wasn’t old, either. He couldn’t even have his AARP card yet. 

And everyone knows God is an old man and has a big beard, and He definitely doesn’t work in an office. Maybe from home, but never in a bland office building.  

Hmph. 

And as I was about to open my mouth to respond to this strange man claiming to be some sort of doctor, he held up his finger, and said, “Before you ask me, ‘Where am I?’, or, ‘Wasn’t I killed by an animatronic Jeffrey Dahmer?’, let me speak for a moment, please.” 

His speech bordered on the monotone, with brief interruptions of pitch fluctuations, as if purposely breaking his unstrained speech in conscience recognition of its monotony. 

“You’re sitting in an office on the 177th floor, Leland,” he said, pointing to the window. “Do you not want to hear what a man, who occupies a floor as high off the ground as this, would have to say?”

I nodded. 

“You’re obviously confused. Your last moment on Earth, your death-moment as we call it, you found yourself being stabbed and eaten—alive, at first—by a robot killer. It was quite painful, I know. We hope that the pain is at least partially forgotten. Not everyone is unlucky enough to go through that, so we’re especially sorry about it. But we, sadly, can’t take all the pain away. Memories are easy to tinker with, but exceptionally strong emotions prove more difficult. But we do our best.”

He wasn’t making much sense. I wondered who he meant by “we”, and I was getting progressively sweatier the more confused I got. 

But he went on as if he read my thoughts. 

We are the Reckoners. We take the fresh sacks, like yourself, and acclimate them to society. It’s odd and frightening for a while, but in time they get used to it. We all have to get used to it,” he said. “Go ahead, speak, ask me your question.”

“But where am I?” I asked. 

I was proud of myself for even getting those four measly words out. 

“Well, Leland,” Dr. Wise-Man responded, “you’re on Earth. Not the one you’re used to, but the real one. You’re finally out of our simulation.”

And that’s when I fainted. 

*

Perhaps Dr. Wise-Man was too blunt when he dropped the simulated bomb on Leland, but fainting was common for fresh sacks, and almost expected with those that had undergone a death-moment as unusual and startling as Leland’s. 

So, as the black curtain closed over Leland’s eyes, Dr. Wise-Man buzzed for the receptionist to come retrieve him and take him to the cooling-off zone a hundred floors down. It was all procedure, and Leland wouldn’t be of much use in explaining his death-moment anomaly, anyhow.

That was the doctor’s job. At least it was up to him to relegate the work to his underlings. 

He had read Helen Sleep-No-More’s brief report, but since his first meeting with Leland had ended so abruptly, he’d need her for a more substantial discussion. And no doubt Helen had been continuously at work, determined to discover the cause of the abnormal death-moment. 

She was top of her class, after all. Her life, before she died and woke again, was that of a workaholic, always pursuing a career that would lead her nowhere. But she always maintained an everlasting passion for her tedious work.  

Helen was an auditor, and a good one, too. 

“Dr. Wise-Man,” said Deborah. 

“Ah, Deborah, I was about to tell you to call Helen for me. I need to speak to her.”

“Actually, doctor,” Deborah said, “that’s why I called. Helen’s out here waiting for you. She said you need to come with her. She has something to show you.”

“Well, alright,” answered Dr. Wise-Man. 

He rose out of his seat to meet Helen in the lobby. Usually, his underlings came to him, and he would decide if he were to leave his office on the 177th floor or not. But he appreciated Helen’s initiative, so long as it brings about results and doesn’t waste valuable time. That’s what the first life was for. 

The second life is for getting things done. 

“Ah, Helen,” he said, shaking her hand, “have you gotten any closer to solving this little riddle?”

“Actually, I have, sir,” said Helen. 

“So what’s the problem?” 

“It might be easier if I just show you. All my work is down in the Maintenance Room.” 

Dr. Wise-Man was particularly frustrated he had to leave his office. Again, he was on the 177th floor. But he agreed to accompany Helen down to the Maintenance Room in order to see what she’d discovered about Leland’s mysterious incident. 

He turned to Deborah, and said, “Make sure Leland gets to cooling safely. He’ll likely be out for awhile.” 

Deborah smile and nodded, and Dr. Wise-Man followed Helen to the Maintenance Room, eagerly awaiting her results. 

*

I opened my eyes and saw a lot of people who looked as messed up as myself. We were all laying in chambers, and, as far as I could tell, I was the only one conscience.

The room was large, and we faced each other in the form of a circle, with some sort of elaborate console in the middle. 

I remembered the look on the doctor’s face as he said “simulation”, and I remembered the loss of blood to my head, and I remembered the darkness. 

Apparently I wasn’t in Heaven, or Hell, or a dream. Apparently I was finally in the real world. And I knew it had to be true, and couldn’t be a ridiculous dream, because all I ever dreamed about was getting older. 

Now I’m wondering if that will ever happen. 

But then I heard a door swing open, and listened quietly as the footsteps came closer. I remained still and closed my eyes, and the footsteps ceased. 

I heard someone fumbling with buttons on the elaborate console, and then I started to move.

The chamber I was restrained in lifted completely out of the ground and glided towards the middle of the room, towards the mysterious figure operating the controls. 

And then I opened my eyes to see a woman undoing the straps that restrained my arms and legs. She jumped, obviously not expecting my quick recovery. 

“You’re awake,” she said, still undoing my straps. 

“Too awake,” I said, still drowsy. 

“You’ll get used to it. But you have to come with me now.”

“Why the hurry?”

“Because they’ll be after you,” she said. “And they’ll be after me.”

“All I did was die,” I said, as she finished undoing the straps.

I tried to stand, but my legs collapsed, and she caught me before I fell. 

“You did much more than that, Leland,” she responded. 

“Who are you?”

“Helen Sleep-No-More. Reckoner 3621,” said Helen. She held out her hand and I shook it. “Now we better get out of here before the doctor wakes up.”

“Doctor Wise-Man?” I asked. 

“The same—are you coming?” 

“Yes.” 

She held out her hand, and I took it, and we ran out the door. We ran far away from the Cooling-Off Zone, and the Maintenance Room, and the 177th floor, and all the fresh sacks, and Doctor Wise-Man. 

For now. 

    

  

 

The Incredibly Impressive Skill

Ronald always hit bull’s-eyes. It didn’t matter how much grub he gobbled, or how many stouts he downed. He always hit the little red circle in the center of the dart board. Everyone loved him at Chester’s Grub & Pub.

Most nights, some of the regulars would challenge Ronald and try to get him to slip. They’d give him shots of tequila (without lime & salt), cover his eyes with a blindfold, move the dartboard across the room, but he always hit his mark. One time someone called him out for having loaded darts, as if that was even possible. Ronald got Jean, one of the bartenders, to kick the naysayer out of the pub.

They all truly loved Ronald for his improbably accurate darts.

But on a summer night, the longest day of the year, in fact, Ronald wasn’t the only one in the pub with an incredibly impressive skill. Over in a corner booth, Damon sat, and finished off a tall glass of the bar’s cheapest IPA, which really wasn’t all too cheap. He asked Jean for another.

Jean placed another glass in front of him, and Damon gave her cash for the drink, plus another dollar for a tip. He only ever paid in cash, claiming the best bank was under his ass at night.

“Say, who’s that guy in the other corner playing darts?” Damon asked Jean.

“Oh, that’s Ronald,” she answered.

“Don’t think I’ve seen him miss the center.”

“Yeah, he never does. It’s fucking crazy.”

Damon leaned back in his booth, sipping on his IPA, as Jean walked back behind the bar. Foam covered his upper-lip, and for some odd reason he refused to wipe it off until all the beer was gone. It would have been quite hilarious if he wasn’t so big and burly.

He slammed the empty glass onto the table, and left his booth. A regular was shooting pool at the pool table opposite where Ronald was throwing darts. Damon walked over to join him.

“Hey, buddy, mind if I join?” asked Damon. The regular nodded, holding out his hand to shake.

“Willis.”

“Let’s play, Willis.”

Minutes later, it was apparent to everyone in the pub that Ronald was no longer the only one with an incredibly impressive skill. See, Damon never missed a shot in pool. Like Ronald, he could drink and drink, or eat and eat, but would never miss a shot.

Sometimes he was humble and only made one ball at a time. Often, though, he enjoyed knocking a few in on the same shot. It was his incredibly impressive skill and he liked to show it off from time to time.

Obviously, Willis lost the game, and the next one, and so did everybody else that challenged Damon. They all regretted having wasted four quarters.

Ronald soon noticed nobody in the pub was paying attention to him anymore. He thought he wasn’t the jealous type, but the fellow playing pool taking his spotlight was making him feel funny.

He never felt this feeling before. It was rage—no, hatred. How could there be another as skilled as him at Chester’s Grub & Pub? Of all the places in the city, it had to be Chester’s! He had been coming here for years, showing off his dart throwing, getting laid from time to time because of it, and never had there been anyone else as impressive as him.

But now there was.

He had to confront him. He had to hear him speak—to see if he truly was as impressive as himself.

Ronald walked over to the pool table and pushed his way through the crowd. Everyone cheered as Damon defeated his latest opponent, Arnold. An old lady went crazy, lifting her pint up as the eight-ball fell into the corner pocket, splashing the beer on Ronald as he passed.

“Ay—who do you think you are?” yelled Ronald.

“Damon. And you?”

“Ronald—what of it?”

“Well you asked for my name it’d be rude not to reciprocate.”

Ronald didn’t appreciate Damon hurling fancy words like “reciprocate” back at him. Maybe he really was more impressive than him?

No, he couldn’t be, Ronald thought, nobody could be.

“You want to cut out the pool? You’re causing quite the commotion,” said Ronald.

“Not particularly,” Damon responded.

Ronald couldn’t take it anymore. He looked Damon in the eyes and he understood. He was impressive, and he knew it, and there was nothing Ronald could do about it. He couldn’t be more impressive than he already was. He’d tried before but concluded that his impressiveness was maxed out.

“You need to leave—leave now,” Ronald ordered.

Then, Damon responded with the vilest, most demeaning phrase that could ever be uttered in Chester’s Grub & Pub that summer night, on the longest day of the year:

“Am I just too impressive for you, Ronald?”

Nobody actually saw what happened next.

Many claim they did, but it would have been impossible because of Ronald’s dart throwing abilities.

All the patrons in the pub saw, after Damon uttered his terrible insult, was two metal darts stuck into Damon’s eyes, and then Damon on the ground jostling in pain like a dying beast, and Ronald walking slowly over to him, and Ronald pulling the darts out of his eye sockets, and Ronald walking out of the pub one last time, dropping the darts behind him as he left the room.

You see, Ronald always hit a bull’s-eye, and this time he got his chance to hit two. Ronald, the dart-throwing bull, might possibly be more impressive now than Damon, the pool-shooting bull.

They probably shouldn’t have ever let Ronald into the pub.