He woke the next morning with a cranium of quartz, or granite, and it was cracking. All he could remember was staring up at a capsuled sky, the night previous, the low clouds disrupting, or ruining, light drops, barely noticeable, his view of stars, and the planets that’d be visible. Was it Jupiter this month, or Mars, some other in another galaxy? He remembered them talking, joking, drinking their Racers, but he just thought, about the next day, all the classes he’d teach in Fall. And it was nearing. He needed more coffee. He was giving himself notice. And that’s all he could do, was try to remember. A disappointment, he thought. He was supposed to stay in, finish the novel. But he was distracted. “My goddamn fucking distractions,” he thought. But there was no value in the dwell. Just drink coffee, he thought, that would make it all better. And tonight, he would finish his chapter, the last one in his series. He was actually going to finish something. He couldn’t believe it. Kerouac would be so proud.. his wife, son, Mom, Dad. And Them… They wouldn’t know what hit, the size of the ordinance that had defamed them and directly struck. Mike was ready for the fallout. It was part of the story. It had already been written. He’d pick a nice red to open, not so much to celebrate but to keep this series in stream. His students would have a REAL writer as a teacher, or “professor”… whatever they called themselves in recent.
Like the penny dreadfuls of old, Mike would keep his pages raining on the populace. And he didn’t care if people read– well, he did, but he wouldn’t allow the worry of potential of them NOT reading hold him anymore. He had a war to fight, and there’d be no more distractions. 8:52.. to work… Keep the story going, he thought…..