Kyle, a young man of little means with a serious addiction, walked up to the food truck hiding a gun in his jacket pocket. He knew this dude made a lot of money because people lined up around the block to get a burger around lunch and in the evening. The idiot only accepted cash.
Uncle AL’s was the name pulsating in red neon from the sign atop the truck, but it wasn’t the dude’s name. Kyle couldn’t remember the dude’s name, but he remembered asking the dude if he was Uncle AL one day and he replied:
“Nah, I had an Uncle AL who was one-a my favorite people, so I named the truck after ‘im. I mean, he was a real piece-a shit, but he was a lotta fun, ya know? Anyway, my name’s—”
But then Kyle couldn’t remember. Like with so many things, his dope-addled brain picked and chose what was important. For instance, the fact that this dude, whatever his name, was stupid enough to accept only cash and keep it on him all the time, all by himself in his food truck named after his beloved piece of shit uncle—that was relevant, especially considering Uncle AL’s hospitable but gullible nephew also did not pack heat. Another tidbit he naively passed along to Kyle one day.
“Yeah, no need for that shit, man. City crime don’t scare me. Where I come from, violence is the order-a the day. This shit here is weak.”
Kyle was about to call this dude on his bluff. It was late but the night game was still playing out, the crowd yet to disperse for any midnight snacks. Usually, he’d expect to see someone on the streets but there was literally not a soul other than Kyle and Uncle AL’s nephew.
Just the right time to strike.
When he walked up to the window, the dude was smiling, and the neon light from the sign made his eyes look red.
“Hey, there, Kyle! Wanna burger or did ya have somethin’ else in mind?”
Kyle pulled the nine out of his pocket and stuck it in the dude’s face. “Yeah, all your money, old man! Now!”
The dude grabbed his belly and laughed.
“What the fuck you laughing at, huh? Money, now!” Kyle said, but he was shaking. He’d never popped anyone before, but he wasn’t afraid to do it, yet for some reason he just—
“Can’t pull the trigger, eh, Kyle?”
“What the fu—” Kyle started, but then he was looking down on himself from above. The dude—
“My name is Damien, ya dopehead! Damien Daimon. Antichrist. Been watchin’ ya ready to make this move for a while. Fuckin’ dummy. I told ya I ain’t afraid a nuthin’, and you’re about to find out why.”
Kyle watched the hand holding the gun turn the barrel back toward himself.
“You see that? Total control, my puppet. Total fuckin’ control,” Damien said.
Did he say he was the Antichrist? Kyle thought.
“Yup, and I can read your thoughts too, buddy. In fact, if you’ll look at my face, you’ll see I ain’t movin’ my lips. Talking right to your narrow little mind.”
Damien was telling the truth—smiling big, staring at Kyle as he opened his own mouth and inserted the barrel of the gun, pointing it at an angle that would shoot the bullet right through his brain.
Damien’s eyes weren’t red from the neon light. Not a reflection, no, not a reflection at all.
It was fire. A dark, crimson flame spurted and danced from the edges of Damian’s eyes, licking his brow without burning the skin. Blood fire, Kyle thought.
“Fire and brimstone, baby, fire and brimstone. Ya know, Kyle, I don’t much take to a captive audience these days, and I also don’t much go for the damnation racket, so I’m gonna give ya a chance here. Ya ready to listen, boy?”
Yes! Kyle thought. Yes, please, I’ll listen!
“No worries, Kyle. I gotcha. I was born into this world to destroy it. God’s plan, actually, though they often like to blame my pops. Anyway, I was groomed from day one to assume a lot of power and lead a lot of people into a lot of immoral behavior; and it was all supposed to be a shit test, to see who would really be good and fight the evil and who would cave to the pressure to chase power and greed when World War III started, but ya know what, ya dummy? I said fuck that. Fuck being a patsy for God. He wants to destroy the world he created, then he can goddamn it Himself! That’s what I thought then, and that’s what I think now!
But wouldn’t ya know the trickiest trick of all, Kyle, my buddy, my pal?”
Kyle was terrified. He did not know, but he hoped the knowledge would save his life.
“Oh, yeah, baby, it’ll save more than ya fucking life, if ya only listen. The trickiest trick is that God, that supposedly honest, righteous, demanding all-father, tricked the trickster. The whole thing, this whole stupid mess we been dealin’ with all these years, all this global strife, all this idiotic factional bullshit, all this war and hate and death… it was my shit test, Kyle, and I passed it. I passed it doing the one thing I was born to do: defy God.
You see, I figured if I follow through with my destiny, it was his plan, so I would still be serving him. Fuck that! No! No, I said, and I settled down to do the most borin’ job I could: flip burgers on the street for chump change! And, buddy, I was so smug all these years, thinkin’ I’d foiled that cockmonkey creator, tyrannical motherfucker that he is!
But all this time having regulars come to the truck, shoot the shit with me, just gettin’ to know ‘em as normal folks… well, I took a shine to ‘em, and realized that in defying God I saved humanity… which is exactly what God knew I would choose.”
Now Kyle was really confused.
“You’re confused? Me too! But hey, buddy, you been coming here, casin’ me for months, and lemme tell ya something: I peeked into that mind of yours, and you ain’t a bad kid at all. Just a dummy because ya didn’t learn right growin’ up, like most of these other dummies. So this is what you’re gonna do—and I ain’t gonna make ya do it, you’re gonna choose it because I gave ya a fuckin’ chance!—you’re gonna pop the clip outta that nine, throw it in one dumpster, the gun in the other, and walk home and hug your ma and tell her you love her. You don’t know it yet, but she’s already got the cancer and she’s only got months to live. You’re gonna kick the dope and take care-a ya momma and come to terms with that ugly monkey on ya back.
Then you too can save humanity, just by being a better human. Alright?”
Kyle was suddenly in his body, holding the gun in his mouth. He almost reflexively pulled the trigger but could feel one last merciful tug on his finger from outside.
Damien chuckled.
“Son,” Damien said out loud in a concerned voice—but his eyes still laughed, “ya don’t have to do this! Life is worth living if ya only live it!”
Kyle, still shaking, but with his finger now on the trigger guard instead of centimeters away from initiating certain death, pulled the gun slowly from his mouth. He popped the clip, put it in one pocket, and the gun in the other, with the full intention of ditching them as he was told.
“You’re right, Mr. Daimon, I’m going to walk home now. See my ma. Is she really—?
“Yeah, buddy,” Damien said. “She’s known for months but didn’t want to tell ya cuz ya gotcha own problems. And do me a favor from now on.”
“Yeah,” Kyle said, tears spilling down his cheeks. “Anything.”
“Call me Uncle D, and come back for a meal anytime, for you and your sainted ma. On the house.”
“Okay, Uncle D. Be seeing you,” Kyle said through a sob. Then he turned to walk away.
“See ya, bub.”
Damien watched Kyle go, knowing his ma had a place in Heaven; and as for Damien Daimon, Antichrist, well… he was better off taking it easy, flipping burgers and saving lives, right here on earth.
Heaven’s too cold for the light of the fire, but the burgers always turn out just right.
***** * *****
Rommentary:
Yes, Rommentary is a portmanteau of Rommi and Commentary. I’ve officially been a dad for twenty years now. I am certified and branded for the joke and welcome you to groan!
“Uncle AL” is a reference to Aleister Crowley, the self-proclaimed Beast. I spent years studying his life and work as a solitary practitioner, and what I found there was pretty revolting, though not in any of the ways various commentators—detractors or pundits—have conventionally thought. If you want to read a clever poem about Uncle AL, click the link in the story.
“Heaven’s too cold for the light of the fire” is a line from and link to my latest single, SO(U)L BURNS ALIVE, complete with a Rommentary on why I chose The Raft of the Medusa by Theodore Gericault for my cover art.
Even the Antichrist gets bored with the game, folks. Damien is a long way from pissing off Gregory Peck. (Of course, it’s not the same Damien, but we get the reference, don’t we? I hear Stephen King muttering something about levels of the Tower…)
Mind you, dear reader, that I am not a literal believer of anything. I remain a cynick and a skeptic; but come along with me here for a little theological thought experiment:
Imagine you’re playing one of those open world RPGs—the Elder Scrolls series is my fave, Morrowind to Skyrim anyway—and you suddenly realize that the character, whose every action you direct, nevertheless bears a consciousness completely independent of you.
The character you created believes its own story. It believes it has free will and is making its own choices.
It has no idea you exist, and there is no way you can convince it that you do. No way into the game. You’re stuck on the outside, looking in, knowing that every action you choose for it has an indelible, very real-world consequence for the character, which it will never be able to comprehend as merely the whim of its creator.
Would this knowledge change the way you played the character?
