Resurrection

Chapter 19 : The Joshua Tree

The migration patterns of the nomadic tribesman can be echoed by the children of Israel throughout history- the life of the wandering global citizen. The temptation to live a life of perpetual movement was often beckoning with the promise of more vitalistic free-will. I wasn't actually raising my hands up in prayer at this point, but only rejoicing at the opportunities that lay ahead. The only thing that remained, anchoring me before the voyage with the barnacled shackles of inept reality, was the decaying life of a bitter bartender.

Flashes surged through my head. I could barely blink and a heavy migraine jolt rattled inside my mind as I was hit with a series of dark scenes. Playing inside my mind's eye with a smattering of Peckinpah, Carpenter and Easton Ellis homage, were the less than subtle images of Adam's restaurant massacre. He believed it to be a dream, yet these were the crossroads of one plausible reality. His descent into admirable darkness was continuing to thrive even without the influence of your dearly devoted narrator. Flashing at the same time as these images was another scene: a hellfire that cleansed the world of Adam. If I was a gamer, this would appear as a split-screen. A fork in the road offering a variable timeline. This was my very own choose your own adventure novel playing out before me. My brief moment of 'shining' fleeted out just as the migraine ache was beginning to ease. Clearly I had to make a decision, but this was certainly not an agonising ordeal, rather a smorgasbord of causality and destiny.

***

Looking on from a short distance, I noticed the last of the exhausted staff members climb into a black cab and head home. There was still one lonely light glowing in the back, beckoning me towards my destiny. I walked around the bins, nearing the woodpile and waited for a moment. The thud of steel capped boots echoed loudly on the cement floor and the metallic crash of the backdoor seemed to announce his arrival. In all his self-imposed glory stood Manager. He fumbled around inside his pocket for a lighter. It was during this time, he finally managed to notice my presence. He abruptly withdrew his hand from his pocket and raised it up towards his face in some seemingly prompted reflex action.

"Hell Adam, you scared the shit out of me." He put his hand back down.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" he gasped.

"Okay, relax. I'm just here to talk." I explained.

"You know the bar's closed." He remarked.

"Like I said, I'm here to talk."

"Well what the fuck do you want to talk about? Your job?" He asked nervously.

"Can I have a smoke first? I know that's why you're out here." I commented.

He seemed to relax a little more.

Manager fumbled around for his lighter again. A slight wave of euphoria was beginning to wash over me as I let my own hand move downwards, shifting behind my back to feel the embrace of the shiv Adam could only dream about. This was the moment Arthur yanked Excalibur from the rock, superhuman power pulsed through me as I started my roleplay. I wanted what was left of Adam to see, feel and generally taste all of this moment.

I moved forward with a cigarette, letting my head dip downwards, anticipating the movement of Manager bringing his head downward to offer the lighter. This was the last shuffle of Eddard Stark, Ann Boleyn's final act, Manager awaiting the proverbial guillotine. A wondrous melting of Déjà vu immersed itself around me as I sliced the exposed neck in front of me.

Unlike Adam's premonition, this was much more neatly executed, as I delicately swished the blade through the air like a surgeon with a favourite scalpel, before skipping back long enough to allow the gush of blood to miss my black leather hush puppies entirely and spill onto the concrete. He tried to gargle out some noises but I knew this would be short-lived. He spilled forward, but I couldn't help but plunge the blade again into the base of his skull as he collapsed in front of me. With some splendid luck he managed to turn his head at the last possible second before he hit the deck, allowing me the chance to watch the light go out from his eyes.

These moments have inspired some of the finest literature as our tormented protagonist feels their soul splinter into fragments, knowing they have taken life and been ill equipped to understand the beautiful gravity of the outcome.

It's a hell of a thing, killin' a man. Take away all he's got, and all he's ever gonna have.

This moment continued to define me and I could only bathe in it for a short time. The sense of self and life is only at the needed crescendo when the dull notes of other warblers are abruptly silenced. Gaps and silences were now my flourishing narrative.

Parting with this bedazzling corpse was such sweet sorrow as I set about my next task.

It didn't take long to find enough fuel to set this place ablaze. The problem with this logic was the motivation behind it and it would not take a genius to work out the signs of foul play. So I skipped my initial plan and moved towards the kitchen.

Knowing snippets of how a host brain works was all part of the perks of possession. While Adam would casually look around the kitchen, his subconscious would pick up on gas connections, ignition switches and other potential fire hazards. It was quite easy to keep the gas pumping and set up ignition. I just made sure I was well within a safe distance away. I also had to play the role of the cleaner, sanitising any lurking remains of DNA evidence as I cleaned up all the blood and shifted Manager's body. It's amazing how efficient ammonium can be in masking our own discretions. With reasonable doubt, it wouldn't take long for a coroner to realise a homicide had taken place, but with a bit of lady luck on my side, people would assume the famous fire of the Rabbit's foot was merely a tragic accident. My craftwork of anarchy, aiding the production of Demonic chaos was like the work of a film editor: If I do my job properly, no one notices. If I fuck up, everybody notices. All I needed was time before I reached maximum notoriety. I wasn't for praying but I needed to acknowledge the maker.

All glory to the maker.

This thought kept repeating in my head as I turned back to hear a slight whoosh of air before the Rabbit's Foot erupted in flames. Tongues of fire shot upward into the night, bursting through the pitch black and cleansing all of the paddock around it. Smoke permeated the surroundings, providing me with deep breaths of glorified peace. Beams and timber crackled in the moonlight, each a fitting scene for my golden phoenix to rise up from the ashes. The phoenix will start a new legacy.

All glory to the maker.