Hellfire Jones and the Angel Invasion

Chapter 3

                                                                              MITCH:

The door swung open. The president and his goons had found us. I never thought I'd die in such a horrible manner. True, I still didn't know how I was going to die yet, but I never thought it would be because I discovered deep state secrets that the president was involved in a satanic cult. I always hoped my death would be less satanic and more painless.

"What's this? Duck and Cover?" a familiar voice asked. April taught me that ducking and covering was nearly useless without wearing a tinfoil hat for protection. This was quite embarrassing.

I peered through my impromptu fort of pizza boxes to see my friend, Faizan, standing at the door.

Faizan was the first person I met when I put up the sign with the drawing of the cat inviting people in for cookies. Technically, he didn't read the sign. When I was putting it up, I realized that I didn't have any tape and he just happened to be walking by. I asked to borrow some, and he said that would be no problem. He also told me that I had drawn a cute squirrel. I would have pointed out that it was obviously a cat, but when you are needing tape you really don't want to start needless arguments.

What Faizan lacked in art appreciation, he made up for in cookie appreciation. His favorite are my peanut butter cookies with sea salt. You don't encounter many peanut trees near the ocean, but the unlikely combination works. I was now prepared to bake him all the cookies he wanted in appreciation for him not being a black ops assassin sent to kill us.

"Hey, dude," I greeted weakly.

"You have an olive in your hair," he observed. "And something moldy. Maybe it was a pepper once. You should probably get rid of that."

I always considered the idea of cutting and styling my hair to be quite bourgeois, but in the odd situation when it became infested with ancient pizza toppings, messy hair could be a hassle. It was a painful endeavor but I managed to pull all the greasy ingredients out. Faizan was incorrect. It was a mushroom not a pepper but, in its state of decomposition, it was really hard to tell the difference.

I'm sure Faizan never had this problem. For one, his apartment is impeccably neat. For two, his hair is impeccably styled. For three, he's just impeccable. He certainly wasn't like that at all six years ago when I met him. He was a poor disheveled student newly immigrated from Pakistan. Now he's a rich computer programmer more Americanized than any American I know.  He was much more genuine before, but you've got to accept your friends though all their changes.

"April. Is that you?" Faizan asked, staring at the blanket. The woman under it muttered something unintelligible. Under the covers, she looked like a sad scared Charlie Brown ghost. A ghost that's afraid of the living. Someone should write a story about that.

Faizan was usually smiling, though it was hard to tell with him wearing those fashionable masks everyone wears these days. I don't get the point of spending money on stuff you really don't need. I've worn this same T-shirt for five days straight. Now that's value.

Anyway, I could tell Faizan wasn't smiling because that's not the kind of thing one does when they say something like "Someone blew up Danny's Bar. It's gone."

"Wait. What do you mean gone?" I asked.

"An explosion or something," Faizan explained, pacing the floor. "People automatically look at me suspiciously when things blow up-which happens a lot these days- so I sure as hell wasn't going to stick around. I know you hang out there, though, so I wanted to make sure you were okay."

I didn't know how to respond. Shock. Disbelief. Those words don't come close.

"I almost went in there," I finally said after an eternity of silence. "I was right at the door. I could see Danny and Sheryl sitting there laughing through the window."