MergePunk: An Ooorah & WattpadPunkFiction Anthology

Epilogue: The Divide

Epilogue:

The Divide

"Sheeyit, what a ride," I say, coming back from whatever trip that was, back to the old man's blue robes and crooked yellow grin.

I steady myself by gripping the pot—despite the heat of it; maybe because of the heat, what with the nasty cold pervading this desolate shithole of a world. Staring into the bubbling liquid, the bobbing chunks of cactus meat, I ask, "It all random? Or is there more meanin' to it all? Life, I mean. The Merge."

After a few seconds pass with no response, I look up at the old man.

But he's not there. The old man is gone. Nothing left. Only the empty space between us, emptier now. Only the bright blue ice. Only the purple cactus. Only the dead sky. And only pseudo-snow shit blowing all across this empty planet.

Was there ever an old man to begin with?

I look down and the barrel's gone. No more fire, no more heat. No more salvation.

There's a stabbing in my heart and a flicker in my EYE as it dawns on me there's no more Merge, either.

Then I cease to exist, too.

***

Eyes bleary, Righteous Reginald Sawyer, Jr. lifted his head off the bartop and tried to decipher the blur of browns and greens before him.

"How's yer trip, fucker?" A grumble from Reginald's left. Familiar. A friend.

"I forgot who I was," Reginald said. "I was somebody else every single time, and saw so many different worlds." He blinked and things cleared up. He saw the saloon around him, its walls adorned with complex-patterned wallpaper that gave him a headache, and all kinds of shiny green computer tech. Oodles of fancy bells and whistles, magnifying glasses and chipboards. The saloon was empty save for himself, his friend (whose name he still couldn't remember) and four other strangers.

The strangers were in mixed states of druggedness: some still out for the count, some coming back like he, Reginald, had—disoriented, a few screws still loose. Murmurs from the worlds explored tagging alongside like old tattoos.

"What the hell is it?" he asked his friend. "And who're you?"

"D'vision," the burly man said, smiling.

Reginald didn't know if that was the name of his friend or the name of the mindtrip he'd just returned from.

The look on his face must have spilled his thoughts, as the big man in the tartan-patterned-flannel getup let out a great big laugh. Then he took out a vial of green powder from his coat. He held it up to the LED lights, shaking it back and forth. The powder moved like a liquid, rolling through the vial as he rotated it. "Nasty new substance d'veloped by yers truly." He put the vial back in his coat and held out a hand for Reginald to shake, which he did. "Name's Hector Claus. Ya know me well, Reggie. We go way back. Some fuckers call me Santa."

"Why...?" Reginald said automatically. His head still felt like he had a bullet lodged inside it, and his eyes couldn't quite focus. He felt sick, like he might spew at any second.

"Fuck if Ah knows. But it sticks."

"I need some air." Shaky, Reginald got up from the stool and stumbled towards the saloon doors.