Obviouslygonnadiesoon

"It is my fate to save the world!" Sam proclaimed, raising pleading eyes to his parents.

"It so very much isn't," his father said.

"I'm not even convinced the world needs saving," his mom added. "Honestly, things are fine the way they are."

"Yeah. Lord Terror isn't that bad, when you think about it."

"Right? I mean, he's done some good things."

"He's called Lord Terror for God's sake!" Sam, protested, banging his fists on the table. "He's so obviously evil!"

"Now, we don't go accusing people without proof. Not in this house, Sam."

"Without proof… what do you… I… he publicly announced that he wanted to destroy all of mankind as soon as he took over the government!" Sam exclaimed, getting up from his chair. "His campaign slogan was 'DEATH TO EVERY SINGLE THING RIGHT NOW'."

"Don't raise your voice to your father," Sam' mom warned, with a finger up in the air.

"He killed a batch of puppies with a mace in his acceptance speech as emperor of the world! How is that not evil!?"

"I mean, let's be honest, who likes puppies, really?"

"They do bark a lot, honey, your father has a point. Maybe you should just let this go, Sam."

"What? No, they – I – you can't -- are you seriously condoning puppy murder right now?"

"We just think this is none of your business, honey," Sam's father said, keeping his voice down. "Lord Terror might not be the best leader we could hope for –"

"He exploded the moon last week," Sam deadpanned, eyes on his father. "Like, we don't even know how the Earth's still functioning right now."

" – like I was saying… he might not be the best leader ever, but maybe we should wait before we form an opinion or start rebellions or, you know… put our lives on the line."

"What your father is trying to say," Sam's mom added, careful, "is that everyone deserves a chance before we attack them. Even Lord Terror. We don't know for a fact that he'll be a bad leader."

Sam looked from his mom to his dad in disbelief. He grabbed the remote and turned the TV on.

Onscreen, a newscaster addressed the public with a somber expression: "—Lord Terror has just announced a new law that punishes smiles with death by chainsaw decapitation. Anyone caught smiling without proper government authorization is subject to –"

Sam turned off the TV. "Okay, he's killing people for smiling. Can I please go fight him now?"

Sam's father exchanged glances with his mom. Finally, his dad spoke up. "Sam, this has got to stop, okay?"

"Why!? Why are you so determined to keep me from fighting Lord Terror? Why won't you –"

"BECAUSE WE SAW WHAT HAPPENED TO CEDRIC, OKAY!?" his mom bellowed, unable to keep it together any longer.

A deafening silence took over the room.

"What?" Sam asked, after a moment.

"Cedric Diggory? That idiot who lives next door that thought he was the main character in his story!?"

Sam remembered him. A tall kid that kind of looked like a vampire. Disappeared one day without trace after trying to fight some evil lord named Bloudevort, or whatever.

"Your mother is afraid you're falling for the same trap Cedric fell, sixteen years ago," his father explained. "You think you're the hero of your story."

"What? No, I –"

"Cedric also thought he was the hero. His parents tried to talk him out of it. They tried to warn him. They said 'you barely showed up until the fourth book, honey, you're obviously going to die if you try to fight that noseless man.' But he wouldn't listen. He was convinced he was the chosen one. he was convinced the story was about him."

"That's ridiculous," Sam said. "Harry Potter was the chosen one, everybody knows that."

"Yeah, in hindsight. But back then, Cedric was convinced he was the main character."

"He thought he had plot armor. That he would survive anything."

"Turns out, nope. He was merely a turning point in the story. A death meant to up the stakes for the main character."

Sam looked from his father to his mother. "No.. but… I'm the main character in this story!" he said. "I've been here from the start! I even have the most lines!"

"Honey...."

Sam frowned. His parents were throwing weird glances to one another.

"What?" he asked, careful.

"Sammy, You just think that because you've only been alive since the start of the chapter."

"What?"

His parents exchanged glances again. "Honey… look up."

Confused, Sam turned his eyes upwards. There, right above his "It is my fate to save the world" line, he spotted the letters, bold and imposing and menacing:

Chapter 32 – A random idiot dies trying to fight Lord Terror

"No… no, it can't be…" Sam said, turning his gaze back to his parents.

"I'm sorry honey…"

"We tried to tell you…"

"You're just a comic relief death in a dark comedy story..."

"No… no, you're wrong! I'm going to prove you wrong! I will fight the evil of this world and I'll come back with the head of Lord Terror in my bloody, victorious arms!"

And with those words Samuel Obviouslygonnadiesoon marched out of the room. And then he went to face Lord Terror and he died horribly and, at the end of chapter 51, Lord Terror was finally defeated by the actual hero of the story, who was called Benjamin, in case you're interested.

And all was well.

Well, not for Sam's parents, they were forever crushed by the death of their stupid son. But you know. For the world in general and all.

The Answer Bar

"Forty-two", the barman says, rolling his eyes so much they almost disappear inside his skull. "Now for the love of God, ask me something original."

"Huh," I say, a little disappointed that he didn't appreciate my little reference. Though, he would not be wrong. This is the bar where you can get answers to all of your questions. "All right. Who wins the next World Cup?"

"Argentina", the barman answers, still drying the glasses. "Look, you want a drink or not?"

Damn, I wish I knew if that's true, I think.

"I'll have a beer."

The barman rolls his eyes again. "This is not a movie, son. What kind of beer?

"Well, what beer am I going to have?" I say. Two can play smartass at this game.

The barman puts a Heineken in front of me. "There," he says.

"Well, there's no way you could get that one wrong now, is there?" I say, taking a sip.

"Stop asking stupid questions," the barman replies. "You don't get to be a wise guy if all you do is ask stup –"

"How should I end this story?" I ask, slamming the bottle against the counter.

"Beg pardon?"

"This story," I say. "I usually outline a bit before I start, but this one I just started writing."

“Huh…” He eyes me carefully, then rests the glass on the sink in front of him and throws the dish towel over his shoulder. "You're going meta already?"

"Got you there, didn't I?"

"I mean, well…" he starts, frowning at me, "you don't have anything? A general idea, a vague notio –"

"Nada. I'm literally typing as I go."

"Jesus… Aren't you nervous nothing will come out of it?"

"Usually I'd be. But this time I know it'll be something good, cause you're here," I say, spinning my fidget spinner.

“You hate fidget spinner, dude!” He exclaims.

"Shut up, it's my story," I say. "So? How do we end this?"

"What? Now? I gotta answer now?"

I sigh, looking away, then at him. "Dude! It's right in the title! The Answer Bar! Get your shit together. Give me something here."

"All right, all right, how about…" He thinks for a moment, scratching his beard. "You get attacked by bears."

"Nah. No good. I hate it. Try again."

"Come on! Bear attack! It's gory, it's funny. It's got you written all over it!"

I shake my head. "No. Come on. What else?"

He sighs, scratching his head.

"All right, a demonic squirrel with a bazooka that –"

"I don’t like that, too. Next."

The barman's eyes are fixed on me now. He's taking this very seriously.

"You are carried by eagles out of Mordor into –"

"No."

"You are the last Horcrux, and Volde –"

"Nope."

"The Terminator –"

"Nah."

"Matt Damon and Danny Trejo –"

"Jesus, dude,” I say. "I gotta tell you, I expected more."

He looks pissed now, the barman. He looks at me, then down at the floor, then back at me.

"You're out?" I ask, smiling a confident smile.

Slowly and sadly, he nods, defeated. "I'm out."

"It's fine", I say, with a chuckle. "I was lying before. I know how I'm going to end this story."

He looks up at me, teary-eyed and trembling. "You do?"

"Yeah, I do."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

I shrug. "I was having too much fun."

The barman sighs, pissed off. He grabs a glass from the sink and starts wiping again. "Well, do it, then. Go ahead."

I put out the cigarette on the counter, down the last of my beer and get up from my stool. "Well," I say, looking around. "I had a blast here at Answer Bar. Thanks for having me."

"Whatever", the barman grunts. "Come on, let's see that big ending you got planned."

I smile. "I'll see you around, I guess," I say. He nods, grumpy.

And then I'm attacked by bears.

The barman, he drops the glass and goes, "YOU FUCKING ASSHO –" but the story is over already.

Therapy

“Come on in.”

I walk into the therapist’s private office – well, I think it’s his private office; his name was on the placard outside in small, bold black letters. This therapist was supposed to be one of the best around, at least according to my friend Sig. Then again, Sig still thinks I wanted to see a therapist for mild trauma. When I’ve told people about my… condition in the past, they didn’t react very positively.

“It looks like you’re drifting off.” The therapist’s voice cuts through my thoughts, startling me slightly. I look back at him, a rather kindly looking middle-aged man, with a presence that seems to have patience beyond measure.

I breathe in, and speak: “Sorry about that. I-I’m fine now.”

The therapist paces around, observing me. I self-consciously straighten up a bit, and he smiles. “You don’t need to tense up, Mr. Jackson. Please, sit, and tell me what’s going on.”

I sit down on the leathery couch provided, and the therapist seats himself on a wooden chair. “Um, I’m not sure how to say this, but, well, I see things.”

“What kind of things?”

“People,” I reluctantly reply. “I see people who… aren’t there. They’re usually very nice, friendly even, but, well, they aren’t real.” The therapist makes a move to speak, but I blurt out “but they feel real! I know they aren’t real – my family, the doctors, they tell me they aren’t real – but they seem real to me until someone points it out. Then, well, they disappear over time, and someone else always seems to appear.”

“And how does that make you feel?” Oh come on, I think, first the couch, now this cliché?

“It makes me feel, I don’t know, um, upset?”

“Are you asking me how you feel, Mr. Jackson?” The therapist’s face glows with a half-grin.

“It makes me feel upset,” I state firmly.

“Or does it make you feel alone?”

My heart skips a beat. How could he possibly know that?

The therapist looks at me, chocolate brown eyes piercing through my inner being. “Irony of ironies, yes. You envision friends and acquaintances, a veritable parade of people in your life who are kind to you, but you feel empty and alone. These visions are temporary, unfulfilling.”

He’s hit a nerve, and he knows it. I don’t like it. “No, it makes me feel upset!” I shout, but I know he doesn’t believe me. He’s just waiting for me to calm down a little so that he can tell me… wait.

Those brown eyes soften into a smile again. “Yes, Mr. Jackson, you’ve almost grasped it.”

“Y-you’re saying – but I saw your name outside! And why would you help me end the hallucinations if you’re one, too? Won’t that make you cease to exist?”

The therapist sighs wistfully, looking beyond me. “Existence is a tricky thing, Mr. Jackson. As you’ve pointed out, people keep appearing and disappearing to you, but none of them display the typical symptoms that a therapist could diagnose you with – no anger or paranoia, only a desire to befriend.”

“You – they – are driving me insane!”

“You’re doing that to yourself, Mr. Jackson. We embody the void you refuse to fill, trying to offer you advice along the way. Open yourself to the world again, and you’ll be fine.”

“What do you mean we – no, no no no no no, is Sig a hallucination too!?”

The therapist stands up, and motions me to do the same. “Your time is up, Mr. Jackson, and I believe mine is as well. Don’t wait for others to come to you – seek them out yourself.”

I slowly walk out, blinking the wateriness from my eyes. The door closes behind me, and I turn around suddenly, hoping for some confirmation that it was real, that I wasn’t crazy. To my disappointment, the bold black letters spell out something else: “FOR LEASE.” I try the door handle, but it’s locked. Maybe it was always locked.

I go outside to the busy street, and signal for a cab. When I turn around, I accidentally bump into a pedestrian.

“Hey watch it!” she huffs, crossing her arms and glaring at me.

“I’m so sorry! I-I’ve just been a little distracted today.”

She looks like she’s going to say something, but then stops, the corners of her lip twitching upward. “You’re just lucky that you’re cute.”

For the second time today, my heart skips a beat. “Oh, um, well…” This time, she grins at me. Why is she smiling?

“How about,” she begins, before getting interrupted as a taxi pulls up to the curb, “how about you make up for it sometime?”

I’m not sure how many beats my heart has skipped now. I start to duck my head and move towards the cab before the therapist – no, the memory of today’s hallucination – pops back into my mind. Don’t wait for others to come to you – seek them yourself. I turn back to the girl.

“Sure, I-I’ll try to do that. Um, this sounds a little weird, but… how do I know if you’re real?”

She smiles at me, then pulls out a slip of paper and a pen. “Oh, you’re good. If this doesn’t magically disappear by tonight, call me, okay?” She folds the slip of paper in half, then hands it to me before hopping into the cab.

I unfold the piece of paper. Ten digits, two dashes, and a name at the end: “Anna.”

            ***

From a small window in his office, the therapist watches the scene unfold. Content with his last patient, he walks back to his desk and presses a button, swapping out the name signs again. A few minutes later, someone knocks on the door.

“Come on in.”

Love and Death

The first time Death met Emily, she told him to go fuck himself.

"Your little engineering project is going to put me out of business!" Death had yelled, after materializing himself out of thin air inside her office. "You arrogant mortal!"

"Fuck off," Emily had replied, apparently unfazed by the presence of a superhuman entity in her workplace. "I got shit to do."

"Whatever," Death replied. "You think you're the first person to try to conquer death? Sisyphus sends his regards, bitch!"

And Death vanished in a puff of smoke.

Emily, Death had learned a few months before, worked for Pattern Corp, a giant Silicon Valley company working on uploading human consciousness to computers so as to render humanity immortal. She was the chief engineer in the project, and her ideas were getting everyone in the field excited about the prospect of technological immortality.

Death, naturally, was kind of pissed off, because if she succeeded, it meant he was gonna be out of a job.

"Whatever," Death had said to Satan, on a bar in Hell, that night, "She's never gonna succeed anyway. People have been trying to cheat me for centuries."

"Dee, buddy," Satan replied, ashing his cigarette on the floor, "you need to learn how to stop caring. You let mortals get under your skin too often."

"Well, fuck, man, everyone hates me," Death replied. "You don't know what it's like! Doctors, philosophers, physicists – they're all trying to get rid of me! You don't know that kind of hatred!"

"I'm Satan!"

"Exactly! Only religious people hate you. I'm hated by everyone."

"Ah! Forget it, Dee. Here, have another drink on me."

And Death did try to forget it. But more and more, as the years went by, Emily seemed to be getting dangerously close to succeeding in her project.

A year after their first meeting, and in the same week she had been featured on the cover Times Magazine, Death showed up in her office again.

"So? How's your little vendetta project against me going?" Death asked.

"Just fine," Emily replied. "We're testing consciousness upload on rats with great success."

"You know, it's really ungrateful of you mortals to demand immortality from the cosmos. Why can't you be happy with the time given to you?"

"Why did the universe make us in such a way that we are conscious of you?" Emily replied (she was, in addition to an extremely accomplished Engineer, also a Philosopher, graduated in Harvard). "That seems extremely unfair."

"Oh, unfair my ass!" Death said. "Let me look at your papers."

He turned her laptop his way and started going through the lines of code.

"You know, I don't see why you're so upset," Emily said, as he read on. "If I manage to pull this off, you get permanent vacation."

"That's not how it works," Death said, still reading on. "If you succeed, I die."

"Well, whatever. I hate you, and most humans hate you too. It's not our fault you come here all the time and pull us off one by one towards the… the… whatever it is that happens when you take us away."

Death turned her laptop back towards her and looked up.

"What does happen after you take us away, anyway?" Emily asked.

"Nothing," Death said, still thinking about what he had read on the computer. "Eternal nothingness."

"Hah! And you expect us to accept this? Well, fuck you! I'm working on technological immortality and when I get it, we won't be at the mercy of your cruel, nihilistic hands, asshole!"

But Death wasn't listening. He was worried. He read her code and, being an accomplished engineer himself (being a supernatural entity, he was an accomplished everything), he was starting to realize – she was close to figuring it all out.

And more than that -- he was also impressed with her work (though he didn't admit it that night). Emily, it turned out, was smarter than he gave her credit for.

In the following years, he showed up to her office more and more, and the animosity between them started giving way to an almost friendly banter. He'd show up, they'd have coffee, she'd show him her progress, he'd mock her, tell her she'd never beat him, she'd tell him to shut up and go drag some old ladies to the beyond, they'd discuss Philosophy and then he'd leave.

One time they even spent the night together, though there was no funny business – it was just that it was late and Hell is kind of dangerous after the subway closes. Death slept on the couch.

This weird relationship went on for years. Until...

Until the day Pattern Corp went public with an official press release:

[PATTERN CORP SUCCESSFULLY UPLOADS FIRST HUMAN CONSCIOUSNESS INTO COMPUTER.]

Death read the news on Google, at Satan's office (no one else in the beyond had access to the Living World Internet), and he was devastated.

"This is it," Death told Satan. "I'm out of a job."

"Oh, come on. It was bound to happen. They're self-aware creatures, of course they hate you." Satan patted his back. "I thought you were used to it."

"It's one thing to be hated… but now I'm useless…" Death lit a cigarette and looked up at Satan. "What will become of me?"

"I guess you'll… die." Satan shrugged.

            ***

Death finally showed up at Emily's doorstep, one rainy night after her shift. It was a year now since they had last seen each other – he had stopped showing up since the press release.

"Oh… hi," Emily said, at his sight. "I missed you."

"So I guess you win," Death said, stepping in and taking a seat. "Congratulations."

"Look, Dee," Emily said, going around her desk, "it's not what you think."

"No, I get it. I've been hated my entire life." Death looked up at Emily. "I'm used to it. You're just… one more person who wants to see my end. Didn't know you were talented enough to accomplish it, though. Congratulations."

"Dee…"

"It's not my fault, you know? I didn't choose this job. I just… I do what I'm told."

"Dee…"

"You think I like being responsible for the source of all human anguish? You think I cherish the fact that billions of people suffer because of me?" Death shook his head. "It's a job, Emily. It's just a job. I don't take any pleasure in it."

Emily sat by his side, but said nothing.

"I thought you liked me," Death said, after a second. "I mean, I know not at first, but… after you got to know me. I thought you understood. That I'm not a bad guy."

"Dee…"

"You know even Satan gets less shit than me? There are Satanists in the world. There are no Deathanists."

"Dee, listen to me…"

"And what's gonna happen to me now!? You know after all these people upload their minds to machines, they'll all live forever, and you know what'll happen to me!? I'll die! I'll face the nothingness I've imposed on billions!"

Emily turned Death's face towards hers. She cleaned his tears.

"I don't wanna die, Emily," he said. "I wouldn't mind it before, because everyone hated me, but… but I got along with you. We had great talks, didn't we? About life and me and how you're a big selfish bitch and I'm an uncaring monster…" He paused. "I'll miss it. I never really realized how much it sucks not existing, because I had nothing to miss. But now I have -- I have you to miss."

"Dee…"

"And now… now… now it'll all be gone forever! Now I'll be… nothing! After people stop dying I'll stop existing! I'll ride towards that great endless void I've been pushing people towards my whole life! And I'll never…" He got the words out through sobs: "I'll never see you again."

"Dee, I'm going with you."

Death paused. "What?"

"The process. To upload your mind to the computer. It takes a year and a half." Emily smiled a sad smile. "It takes five hundred days to upload your mind to a computer. We can't do it in less time than that."

"What are you saying?"

Emily paused. "I'm sick, Dee. I just came back from the doctor. I have weeks to live. Maybe less."

"What?"

"I won't be able to partake in the immortality I created," she said. "It's ironic, if you have the right sense of humor, actually."

Death stared blankly at Emily: That woman – that mortal – he had come to know, despise, hate, dislike, kind of tolerate, like and then really like over the course of years. His archenemy and his only friend. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I'm your last job," Emily said. "You said you're riding towards the great endless void. Well, I'll go with you. We'll ride together."

He got up. He backed up against the wall. "No…" he said. "No, I don't wanna take you."

"You can't choose who you take, you told me that yourself," she said, getting up. She got close. "I'm ready, Dee."

On the computer screen behind her, messages from colleagues were popping up one after the other: Congratulations! You're a genius! You changed the world!

"I didn't tell anyone," she said. "You're the only one who knows."

"Emily, no…"

"Shh." She put her finger over his lips. Their hips touched. She put her arms around him and leaned against his ear.

"I'm gonna miss so much about being alive," she whispered. "You jerk."

"Emily, I can't take you."

"I'm gonna miss the sunlight," she said, her voice wrapped around a smile, "and the moon, and the way the cold wind feels on an afternoon's end at the beach. And the way my dog barks, and the way my children laugh and the way my husband smiles after I get home from work…"

"Emily…"

"And I'm gonna miss the ocean. Oh, Dee, the ocean is so beautiful, I wish I could just look at it forever. And sitcoms. Man, I'm gonna miss sitcoms. I'm gonna miss Seinfeld."

Death presses his eyes, bit his lips.

"And… and I'm gonna miss traveling. I'm gonna miss hotel rooms with chocolate bars on the pillows and tourist traps with overpriced wine in Europe. And I'm gonna miss meatloaf. God, I love meatloaf. And I'm gonna miss cold beer and warm hugs and fresh orange juice, Dee."

"Emily, no…"

"But I'm not gonna miss you, Dee. I'm not gonna miss you, because we're leaving together."

Dee held her by the elbows. Pushed her away. "Emily…"

They looked into each other's eyes. She had beat him, she really had. Humanity was immortal. He could feel himself vanishing, even now. Could feel his legs weaker, his body giving in, the room, the world, the whole universe around fading and crumbling and falling apart in a swirling maelstrom, coming down like an earthquake.

"Let's go," Emily whispered in his ear, as the world fell apart. "Let's go to that Great Nothing."

He held her close. He was scared. So scared. The world spun and the floor shook under his feet. Everything was colliding. Everything was falling apart.

"Hold me, "Emily said. "You shitty, shitty, awful thing."

"Emily," he said in her ear, his voice barely a whisper. "No."

"I really, really hate you, Dee" she said. "Asshole."

They held each other close. The walls collided. The room crumbled to pieces and gave way to a darkness darker than dark itself. The floor gave in, and they stood there, close together, embraced, and for a second they were the only two things that existed in an endless Forever extending in solid darkness eternal every which way.

Then silence. Her rhythmic breath. Her heartbeat.

"I hate myself too,' Death said.

And they fell.