July 4th, 2041, 4:48 P.M.

Rick reclined in his hard wooden chair, Molly chirped on his shoulder. He poured three shots of Bacardi Coconut Rum into the amber coffee cup as he held the downward-reaching neck of the gay giraffe before him.

“Yeah, girl, I wish that motherfucker was here too. Asshole spent fifty years practicing for combat and then curls up and dies on a couch in the middle of nowhere. What the hell.”

Rick looked at the old picture form a half century ago of that skinny, long-haired fucker he had befriended in middle school when they were alone and hated by one and all, misunderstood and filled with hate for the world against which they both stood, tiny and quiet in its all-devouring shadow.

“You liked your rum, didn’t you, Jim—fuck you wherever you are. I’m joining you soon. You’d like that wouldn’t you? Meeting on some black diamond bridge over Hel’s abyss—sick fuck.”

Molly screeched and alighted on the picture frame and pooed down the back of it as she looked at him, quizzically concerning his getup.

Rick had changed his wife beater and flared jeans for an old Halloween costume of the New York Mets, complete with cleats and tights. To this he added a blank white hockey mask, the aesthetics of which had always pleased him. Of course he had that old practice bat, that unbreakable chunk of heavy wood in his left hand, his Mets cap on his head. His brown face was looking good and his old Spalding backpack was loaded. He had also his $1,200 skateboard from 1998, which he could still ride. However, the cleats would have to be exchanged for his climbing boots with the rock guards if he was going to keep the board under control.

Off came the cleats, tossed in the corner of the impeccably neat room.

He now understood—never having been much of a drinker—why a man who hated the world drank—it eased the contours and contrasts in the mind and helped plan its demise. He lit up a blunt after changing shoes and had a drag with Molly before that picture of his long-dead deserter friend. Molly took a hit and then fluttered over to the 5-gallon bucket of fun and landed, skittering and off balance on the haft of his old camp axe...

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