The Mirror

Epilogue:

The white glare of a hospital's bright florescent lights starts headache's throb
EKG machine's sharp electric 'beep' chimes in
On my back every square inch of the hospital's white ceiling stabs its fluorescently glaring icepick into newly opened optic nerves
Thin, clear plastic tube pulls on my nose as a wider one pulls on the inside of my throat as I try to turn my head
Another beep chimes as the tube in my throat tickles the gag reflex
Retch is miraculously blown away by a sudden rush of cool air as the air-conditioner starts blowing directly on my face
Eyes rove to find my savior
A long stand of dust grabs my attention as it waves, hello, from its tenuous hold on the dusty grate of the air condition vent's cover
The large dust bunny is as big as the clump of hair my sister leaves in the shower
The desire to vomit returns.
I look away from the dangling dust-bunny
Periphery notices it as it happens
Long spindly leg pushes out of the vents as if it was passing right through the metal grate
Five other legs that emerge from the black rectangle in a movement similar to that of a hermit crab exiting its shell
A beep arrives before it was scheduled.
Free of the vent the bug drops down to the floor
Another 'beep' from the machine above my head chimes the arrival of fear.
With a tube in my throat, one in my nose, and an intravenous drip stuck in my arm, I cannot even look for help
Horror holds me still as three long legs covered with long orange fur reach across the bed to pull up
A cluster of seven eyes stare with dead-blackness as its triangular-fanged circle of a mouth oozes sticky salvia
The chime announces a double blast: 'beep-beep'
The tube does not swallow as I try swallowing terror
Hands narrowly escape out from underneath the bug's encircling maneuver as legs encircle me so its rotten pumpkin of a body can settle on my chest
Breathless terror is squeezed from my mind as I feel its hug
Serenity is a still heart
Eyes and mouth disappear as the creature closes them
Tranquility ignores the missing beep.
A new sadness washes over me as I come to understand how lost the bug is.
Raised hands slowly fall as panic ebbs away
Cautious touch feels its skin to be that of a slightly deflated leather ball
A leathery skin covered in an almost invisible layer of soft peach-fuzz
It begins to mewl as curious fingers find spiritual relaxation by kneading its lumpy body
That the bug is as harmless as a lost puppy becomes a happy thought
A happy thought elevated higher by the humor of knowing exactly what mom will say when I try to talk her into letting me keep my new pet.
Its eyes open as the humorous idea forms in my thoughts
A signal I feel to be its accepting, yes; in the same instant I instinctively know it will understand me
Even if I can only think of asking it the question
A question I speak as if I was meeting a foreign exchange student on the school's playground:
'Do you wanna be friends?'
Its barbed tail pricks a needle into my thigh as the shrill electronic wailing of an EKG machine continues...

My hands are still on my chest as the final piece of missing memory fades
The sensation of the bug's leathery skin replaced by the sticky wet denim fabric of a jacket perforated by the double-tap of a .40 caliber semi-automatic pistol fired by an agent trained in its use
Sticky fingers mindlessly doodling the return of self-awareness
High above
Where my eyes are resting in cool darkness
The church's unpainted peaked-ceiling soothes my spirit into releasing the last of its heartburn
Curiosity looks at fingertips now dry
Sit-up reveals the church to be empty
No Federal Agents
No future President Swanwick
Just rows of empty pews and a set of front-doors, closed tight enough to allow only the thinnest slivers of white light to sneak past the old wooden doorframe.
Diffusely colored illumination filling the Church entering as it is filtered by the tall panes of stained glass lining the church's main chapel
I stand-up to question reality more accurately
Finger finding the holes over my un-beating heart.
Jack reads my verdict from memory: 
'Stop right there you fucking Zombie!'
The joke was always a good one
Humored smile forms as spirit tells me it has turned out exactly as Jack foreshadowed
But gallows humor fades as soon as I find her at the start of my search for the truth behind this moment's awkward silence:
She's up front
Sitting midway in a pew
A pew three rows back back from the pastor's pulpit
Head down
Lost in prayer
Reading her bible
Or maybe just sleeping...
Spinning glance looks for anyone else who may be passing eternity in sanctuary's quiet respite
The sanctuary is sheltering only us two
Self-awareness for my condition tells me, I am still in possession of: a pack of cigarettes, lighter and a candy-bar
But Bruce Wayne's metal credit card is gone
Gone the way my wallet is gone
Mythical awareness of an impending need re-searches pockets:
Empty
Coin-pocket:
Empty!
Literally penniless, in the same way I sent Lex Luthor to hell without even his expensive watch as a bargaining chip; I look again at sleeping woman
Knowing the warning to let sleeping dogs lie
But also knowing I have no coin for the mythical ferryman; I consider her
Evaluation focusing hope on her white dress-suit
A white dress-suit trimmed in solid back framing to highlight its richly textured fabric
A fabric sporting a pattern of pink-squares with black-shadowboxes
It is a dress designed to garner an entire room's attention.
The only real question being the same as every other potential suitor:
Will she be interested in my attention?
Hands try to smooth hair as tongue tries to erase cigarette breath and the dryly stale taste of death.
She is still looking down as I reach the end of her pew
Perfectly coiffed and color restored hair had given her the hat-less appearance of middle-age
But the view from the side, reveals the frailty of old age
A frailty testifying to the fact this woman may have been approaching eighty when she fell asleep.
Aware of the shock my appearance poses, I enter and sit; silently hoping my presence will rouse her from slumber.
I look over when it doesn't
Notice:
Heeled black shoes prop knees higher
Knees naturally held together by practiced primness
Long-fingered hands hold open her leather-bound Bible, palms-up
A karat-plus diamond stands alone where once a wedding band accompanied it.
I slide closer.
Black-leather strap holds a similarly metaled platinum-watch to her wrist.
I slide closer.
Pearl stud earrings grace her profile.
I slide closer.
Black clutch purse hangs by her side.
I slide closer.
A run in her stockings, maybe started on the day she last put them on, has started down at her ankle.
I slide closer.
The skin of her bony hands is paper-thin.
I slide closer.
She is frowning.
I slide closer.
Her bible is open to Deuteronomy, her thumb covering the beginning of Chapter 11
And like the oldest hen in the henhouse, she does not protest the theft of her bible until I am tucking it next to the hymnals stored in the back of the pew in front of us.
I beat her to the draw with a truly empathetic touch on her hand:
'I'm sorry'
Fingertips stay delicately pressed on the back of her left hand as she withdraws her attempt to retrieve the Bible.
'Sorry to wake you up'
Breaking physical contact only when her hand arrives back at her lap
'Please forgive me, Ma'am.'
Practiced southern graciousness masks her shock:
'Oh yes, child, you must know your face is, indeed, a fright.'
I nod understanding:
'Yes, Ma'am, I know, and I do apologize for startling you, like I did.'
She is startled again by looking around
Twisting her stiff body to make up for her stiff-neck
I say what I can guess to be true:
'All your friends have already gone home.'
Her mouth reveals dentures as she looks back in dismay at being abandoned, but then notices her hands
Held-up so she can see it for herself what she is not believing
She squeezes them to make sure what she is feeling is real.
A smile forms in her expression as she re-squeezes her hands again and finds herself free from the grip of arthritis
Seeing her on the cusp of realization, I make my move:
'And I am so sorry to bother you with this...'
She stops her reach for her bible as I make my intentions known:
'But do you have any change on you?'
Hearing me to be only a beggar causes her to take a second, more curious, look at me; this time it is not the scar, but the denim jacket and long hair which she notices:
'Yes, you most certainly do not want to be caught by the sheriff wandering the streets without money in this town.'
The smile for an elderly black woman telling me, in the South, I am also persona non-grata is real as I agree:
'Yes ma'am, I am with you, one-hundred percent, on that fact.'
She is already reaching for her purse
Opening it up by the gold plated clasp now wearing down to dull brass
I let my words kiss her as she reaches into her purse:
'That is a beautiful dress.'
She dismisses the compliment as she revels in it:
'This old thing?'
She is thumbing bills, counting the number of low-denomination bills in her possession as I let her know she is not fooling anyone:
'Chanel, isn't it?'
She looks up to let her astonishment out:
'Oh, child, your mother must have given you her good-eye...'
She takes second look at my long hair and lets her small-town wit become acerbic:
'Although what your father gave you, remains a mystery.'
I say it in joy for the sparkle of combative youth returning to her eyes:
'Ma'am the only question is why isn't a woman dressed as fabulously as you, not living in Gotham where that dress surely belongs?'
She takes her hand out of the purse as she surrenders to the astonishment she sought to contain as she basks in the continuing string of compliments
Adding an extra dose of primness to our banter:
'And how, pray-tell, did you know I bought this in Gotham?'
That I have only guessed Gotham because it is the fashion capital of America is not something she needs to know.
I side-step her question by continuing to double-down on the original compliment:
'Well, you sure didn't buy something that beautiful from Woolworths.'
She is back in her wallet smiling the effect of some long overdue adulation as she digs:
'This is so true.'
I touch her hand as she goes to pull out her entire collection of bills:
'No Ma'am.'
She looks up with her generosity halted.
'Do you have any coins?'
She leans back to question the idea:
'Child, if all you need is a dime for the town-circular, the University is not a long walk for a young-man such as yourself.'
I offer her an out, in order to get the obligatory offer out of the way:
'If you don't have any change, that's okay, I was just asking.'
Happy from the compliments and now the saving of her money, she digs elsewhere:
'Oh, I may have something...'
It jingles in tune with the sound of her voice:
'Yes...'
She starts digging it out:
'How much...'
With her ready, I go for the hook:
'Let's play a game.'
She looks up to question the idea.
'I don't need it all, but please just dump it out so I can see how it may play out.'
She is already turning her little wallet coin-purse upside down
'Child, you can have all this change.'
It spills out into her hand, but even though she is waiting on it, some escapes
I put a hand down to stop a coin from rolling behind her.
'Thank you, ma'am, but I am tired of holding my hands out for charity'
Another shake of her purse drops the last of the coins out as I continue:
'And I like talking to you, so let's have fun.'
A slight touch to her hand encourages her to set down the coins that did not slip through her fingers
I put my finger on the shiny-penny as it tries sliding away
Looking up to tell her what version of poker we are now playing:
'The game is: I am going to get you to hire me as your attorney...'
I hold the wayward penny up so she can value it correctly:
'For this penny as my pay.'
She dismisses it as being worthless:
'Child do not make a fuss over that penny.'
That when I see it:
'Oh, look at this!'
She is already doing just that as I hold the rarity up:
'A Mercury-Dime'
Reflex causes her to reach for it, but she stops as she notices the firmness with which I am holding it.
So, with her attention on it, I remind her, that, as with her dress, I am capable of valuing things correctly:
'I think this may be America's most beautiful coin.'
She nods a concerned look that I may now ask for the old, but mint-condition, dime.
Seeing the thought on her face, I go hand it to her, then stop when she reaches for it:
'Ma'am, you really should keep this separate or you may give it to a teller...'
She looks into my eyes at the sound of the word teller
The happiness in my voice wanes:
'By mistake.'
The idea of how she, not only got the dime from a teller who did not know the dime's worth, but also did not point that fact out to the teller, is all I need to know in order to value the coin correctly.
Something I let her know, I know, as I go to hand it to her:
'And we both know this is worth more than a dime.'
She nods cautiously as she takes it.
'In fact, I wouldn't put that back in your coin purse'
Point to her dress-suit's breast pocket:
'I would put it there for safe keeping.'
Happy to have it back in her possession she does as I suggest with her mind trying to rebalance the first-impression my compliments have made.
As she struggles to interpret the conflict within her, I start organizing the coins in the space on the pew between us; hitting her with the disarming charm of absentmindedness:
'A lot of collectors have Wheat-penny-nostalgia, but I think the Lincoln Memorial makes this the best-looking penny since America's Indian-Head penny.'
I hold up the trophy so she may have one last-chance to revalue it:
'And this one from 1969 looks brand-new.'
She says it as if she was correcting me for forgetting how old I was:
'Child, what year do you think this is?'
Without a desire to raise an alarm by telling her it is 2016, I skip ahead to tell her the rules:
'So, like I said, the game is, I get you to hire me as your attorney for the fee of one-cent.'
Her instinct tries to rebuff me, once again:
'Child, I do not need a lawyer.'
Hearing it as a challenge accepted; I put the shiny, 47-year-old penny down so I may put an index-finger-claim on a nickel from 1967
With the stakes announced, I make my opening move while looking her in the eyes:
'What was the bible verse you were reading when you fell asleep?'
Her mouth falls open as she looks to her bible to see where her memory has failed her:
'I...'
I slide a nickel towards me as I answer the contest question:
'You were at the end of Deuteronomy chapter 10.'
She says it like she remembered:
'Yes.'
I put my finger on a wheat-penny from 1956:
'What was point of the sermon?'
Annoyed by event's sudden turn against her, she protests:
'You can have all the change.'
I slide the penny towards me.
Then put my finger on a quarter from 1966, before looking up:
'Shall I tell you?'
Irritated with the firmness of my challenge, she pulls rank by reminding me of my lower-class-status:
'The deacons would never have let a ruffian-looking-you into the chapel for Sunday Service.'
Unable to contain my smile at having accomplished exactly that feat only moments ago; I accept her dare as I put a middle-finger on the penny from 1963 that was right the next to quarter, as I double-down on my bet:
'Ma'am, the answer to the question is also the reason why you fell asleep.'
Her flippancy calls my cards down:
'Well, if you think you know, then let's hear it.'
That I know, is due to how more than one itinerant, African-American preacher, who found themselves in my parents all-white church gave the same speech, because it was not hard to guess our church was not as welcoming to black people as the shared faith would suggest:
'Your pastor was preaching against the evils of racism by using Deuteronomy Chapter 10, versus 18 and 19 to remind everyone how the tribes of Israel were commanded to not discriminate against strangers because they were once, themselves, strangers in Egypt.'
She palms my hand with suddenly felt empathy after I slide the two coins towards me:
'Child if you dropped out of the seminary then you need to return to...'
She stops talking as we catch stares
Then tries to pick back up, even though she can see she is not correct, in the same instant she can see she is correct:
'You need to return to God.'
She withdraws her hand as soon as she sees I am still delivering my sermon against her pastor:
'Ma'am by preaching about the evils of racism, in this church, your pastor was, what they call, preaching to the choir.'
She tries to defend her pastor by punctuating her denial with a dismissive headshake of, no; as she rebukes the idea, I have the authority to rebuke him:
'It was the anniversary of Doctor King's assassination.'
I put a finger on a nickel from 1962, as I keep my momentum going:
'How many white people were in attendance?'
She lets it slip:
'My husband had...'
She looks away as she stops from saying her husband had already passed-away, and so, fumbles her recovery:
'The Hutchinsons and the...'
I cut her off from trying to make up a family name:
'Your husband wasn't racist was he?'
She leans-in to question my implied accusation at close range:
'Do you not know a black-woman when you see one?'
With a Southerner's knowing smile, I slide the penny towards me.
'Even a racist man can see how beautiful you are.'
Seeing it again as a game of flirtation, she slaps my hand with youthful vigor:
'Oh, child you are as scandalous as you appear!'
With both of us on the verge of laughing, I put my finger on the quarter from 1967:
'What does Jesus look like?'
She looks up with her smile cut away by the unexpectedly sharp question.
Then after a long look of renewed uncertainty as she examines me; she looks up to the stained-glass window behind me
I wait for her to tell me he was a white guy with red hair because that is who is depicted on the stained-glass window... And maybe even in a painting in one of the hallways of her home...
But when her gaze falls back down to see a vaguely similar, me, she finds herself at a loss for words.
Stumped by the question's purpose, she is unable to protest as I slide the quarter over towards me.
Taking stock of the remaining game-pieces, I see the most relevant are: the shiny penny from 1969, a half-dollar from 1967, and a quarter from 1961.
Put my finger on the quarter.
Look up to her:
'Do you think you would know Jesus if you met him?'
Her stare lingers on my face, before traveling a circle over my shaggy hair laying limply on the collar of my jean jacket, then back up my green eyes, then down to my smile to find her answer:
'Hippie-child, what I know is that I will slap you if you say you are Him.'
A knowing nod cannot stop the chuckle from slipping out as I push the quarter to her side.
Seeing it once more as being only good-natured humor, she lets her smile beam along with mine
As she basks in a righteously won victory, I grab the half-dollar from 1967:
A Kennedy half-dollar
A coin that is 80 percent silver
A fact that makes it a real coin, which will, lamentingly, provide none of the fun that I expected to have had by trying to get Charon to take a 5-Year coin from alcoholics anonymous.
I hold half-dollar up so she can see it:
'Ma'am, do know what the real point of this game was?'
Her smile fades as she realizes she has no clue what my game is:
With a suddenly weak spirit she admits it meekly:
'No.'
I lean back to stuff the silver coin into the Levi's 501 coin-pocket.
'The point is, you should never let a lawyer see how much money you have.'
Hearing it as only a punchline she cackles laughter with her spirit fully renewed:
'Oh, child you're a devil!'
Her humor stops abruptly as I scoop-up the penny of our wager:
'So, am I hired?'
Her mouth falls open.
She shakes her head, no, as she feels it was all only a mean-trick being played on her
Her rebuke for my tasteless joke is sharply delivered:
'I do not care for this game.'
I look over at her bible
Read the faded gold-leaf embossed name on it:
'I didn't either, Mrs. Thomas...'
Look back to her as she stands up:
'In fact, the more I tried to get out of playing the game, the harder the game got.'
Overwhelmed she looks over her left shoulder and towards the Church's front entrance before revealing her plan as she looks back at me to dismiss me with strained formality:
'If you will excuse me.'
She gasps a true shock as she turns to the right, and catches sight of what had been sneaking up on her.
For a second we both stare at the reddish-black light rolling like a heavy fog out of the hallway which leads deeper into the church's administrative wing.
Atop the door frame, a sign glowers a suddenly relevant warning:
Fire Exit
I hit her as stands mesmerized by the warm glow of a distant inferno:
'No, I am, not him.'
Alarm spins her back to face me.
As she looks over her shoulder to take a second look at what people thought Jesus looked like in the 1840s, I throw a thumb over my shoulder so it may point at the stained-glass depiction of a sermon on a hill:
'Nope, not him, either.'
Without an ability to understand, she searches my appearance for it
Noticing for the first time the two stained holes punched in my denim jacket
Her posture falters as she comes to understand the violent end I have met.
I am just waiting of her crumbling certainty to look up and face facts:
'But now you understand why you no longer feel pain.'
It knocks an exclamation out of her in the same step it knocks her back:
'No!'
I slap her with the obvious:
'You can't run from this.'
I twist to point a finger towards the white light growing brighter outside the front door:
'And you are on your way to face the one who is, I AM.'
The one-two almost knocks her down
With her wobbling, I try to set her straight:
'Ma'am, you must know your expensive jewelry and fine-clothes testify against you.'
Immediately her right hand protectively covers her big diamond:
'This is my engagement ring!'
I shake my head, no, as I look closer at the watch-face's blue-color, a color officially known as 1837 Blue:
'No, Ma'am, young couples don't start out buying both a ring and watch from Tiffany'
She protests:
'Yes, I upgraded, but it is still worn as a symbol of...'
She stops as she sees me patiently waiting for her to stop digging her hole.
Muttering it to herself:
'I shouldn't feel guilty for this.'
With her proving tougher than expected, I hit her as hard as I can:
'Did anyone in this church ever lose their land or their house to a bank?'
It is a physical jolt
She groans a protest as she leans over as if to say, she knows the remark was a low-blow:
'My husband was not that rich.'
With her down, I show her the way out:
'Do you really want to walk out of here with your pride intact?'
She shakes her head, no, as she keeps looking down in hopes of finding a way out:
'Child you are exhausting me.'
Not hearing a, no, I press-on:
'Ma'am both choices will accept you.'
She looks up to see what instinct is also telling her is true:
'But only one will forgive you.'
Her frown forms as she looks down at her Bible, no doubt cataloging her own list of failures.
Spun in circles, she looks back with her face pleading for empathy.
With her looking for truth, I give it to her:
'And you don't need me, to tell you which one is best.'
It is something she hears as truth and nods readily:
'Yes... I...'
Looks away to the light of the front entrance
Begins to pull of her ring as she looks back to me:
'You are right about all of this'
The watch is next:
'All this adornment...'
Earrings are last:
'Has always produced nothing by envy in this town of small people.'
Pearl earrings fall like a discarded candy wrapper onto the bench.
With it all dumped onto the pew she looks to me:
'Well, ruffian, what are you going to do?'
My smile gives me away:
'I'm gonna slip out the back while you got him distracted.'
Her hand is up to give a slap:
'Oh, you rascal, this is all a game!'
As she steps-in to actually hit me, I see in her eyes, the red light behind her, reflecting from my eyes
Her playfully slapping hand hangs in the air, then waivers meekly as I show her the shiny penny with a bluntly spoken:
'Is it?'
The idea that she lost a lot more than a penny staggers her backwards
A denial of actually hiring me, forms in her mouth, but her will fails to produce the conviction to protest the facts of what has just happened between us
Consumed by a growing doubt, she feels something worse drawing closer
Throwing a glance over her shoulder, she sees the red is growing brighter
Panic turns her away from me without a backwards glance.
Not taking her eyes off the red glow until she is free to make haste upon exiting the pew.
Wanting to skip judgment's formality, I look down as her steps reach the Church's front entrance.
Close my eyes as light floods in
Knees bend as it pierces my skull
Head down, the rows of pews cannot shield me from the light entering from the main entrance
The glare diminishing only after mind screams protest against its warrantless search...
He is just standing there.
Wearing the image of a man who could be the man who claimed to raise me, if that man had not let himself become fat after securing his trophy wife
He is an exact copy of an image I have seen before:
In another mom's photo
In another family's house
A blended family-photo on a coffee table
Only this time, there is no hyperaware weapon of mass destruction hiding as a human boy
Nor is my heart warmed by the happiness of a woman who was finally delivered from her barren womb, as she was gifted the last son of Krypton.
An orphan of an older creation than the confused petri-dish of rebellion that became Earth's unanticipated fate.
And so, I know, I am not just standing in front of a resurrected Johnathan Kent, but am in the presence of divine intervention
A means justifying the end of ensuring the last child of Krypton landed in, not just good hands, but the best of good hands
The only question being:
Is turnabout fair play?
For there are more than two sides to the game being played on Earth
And one group, in particular, detests the idea Man has only two choices
And the goal of this third party is to send both sides crashing down into oblivion by injecting chaos into their plans...
That these thoughts are being pulled from me is the realization my judgment is occurring
It is only as I hear my own confession rolling out as a villain's monologue that I begin to understand the strength of his superior spiritual nature
And in this moment of clarity, I remember the motivating wrong that was committed against me so long ago
The comparative wrong of how Kal-El was delivered to the Kent's but I was delivered to the Durden's
The thought is a wake-up slap
Wrath draws and shoots from the hip with a thumb-flicking of the shiny penny:
'You lost this one.'
The arc of the spinning penny ends mid-flight as the coin disappears.
Age-line under his lower lip increases as disappointment signals the initiation of a frown
A gesture I interpret as the emperor giving the thumbs-down gesture to show there will be no mercy
But having made it this far by following the straight line of good-intentions, I fire my own judgement of why he is finally paying attention to me:
'Good thing, for you, that I was the one who got to her, first.'
The rebuke erases the shadow of his doubt
The shimmering image of Johnathan Kent closes his eyes as his frown spreads; pushing the corner of his mouth down
His pause is for my affect
A chance for me to accept that I have chosen the wrong path
A chance to ask for forgiveness
But my entire life is only the culmination of a childhood spent being the last player team-Captains would pick to be on their team
That I was picked by a remnant of an even earlier creation than Krypton because no one would notice my presence until it was too late, simply makes the joke of being the one who scored the winning-run in a championship-game, all I need in order to hang-on to the nothingness I have just won for myself.
And even if none of what I have done has benefited me; the fact that I feel no shame is, itself, irrefutable evidence against whatever contrition I may offer on this day of judgment
Knowing then I am already guilty of rebellion
And standing with my back to the abyss
I encourage him to deny the injustice of favoritism:
'Or are you the only one who gets to make a difference?'
Lightning strikes from the roof as he opens his eyes
In the physical realm it would move so fast as to just be lightning
But in a sanctuary established under divinity's authority, I have time to see the tip of the bolt is the blurred image of an hourglass...
Instinct's warning should be for my own self-preservation. 
Periphery triggering its alarm too late to leap clear of the little white car charging at me from the side
All I can do is try to leap upwards as Candice's VW Golf rockets out of the driveway in reverse then cuts sharply to point her car's rear end in the direction I was running.
Just as the old single-story house has resisted development; first by being a realtor's office and now by being a hair salon; I too stand in the way of progress as the little VW spins
Only this time
I leap too late
The front corner panel catches my leg
Bone's snap is covered by body's thumping roll across the car's low sloping hood
Tires screeching covers the howl of pain just as the car's velocity rolls me off the hood and into the street
Candice screeches to a halt
Rolling cry, cries out in pain as the broken leg twists like rubber as panic scrambles to roll clear of the right front tire now pointed at my head
Pained cry, cries out to the woman who thinks nothing of keeping two or three men strung along at any one time:
'Candice!' 
Candice's tires squeal a short burst of no-regrets until car's traction control system can compensate for the panic in her right foot
Ignoring the sound of the little engine over-revving, I start crawling for the sidewalk
Ignoring the solitary figure of a dark space-knight who has not fled the conflagration at the end of the block
Ignoring the detonation of high explosives that drives her into the pavement with a crisply sharp:
BAM!
Ignoring the shockwave blasting down the street
Tears of pained frustration roll out as I pull myself over the curb
But I cannot ignore the roar filling the sky above me.
Falling Air-force jet, both engines belching fire and black smoke, screams down like a flaming butcher knife
Pilot's glossy-black helmet sunshield staring directly at me as the wingtip's fallen end narrowly clears the old TV antenna standing on top of the faded gray roof tiles
Moving shadow blinks a blocking of sunlight in the instant before it dives into the gas station across the street
The plane's low diving angle and forward momentum carry the explosion into the limber yard behind the gas station
The wall of fire billowing up from the gasoline and aviation fueled fire is the most beautiful thing I will see in this version of my life
The bone sticking out of my calf catches the broken sidewalk as I try to crawl away from the searing heat
I howl more as the spewing torrents of fire from underground fuel tanks begin to shower me with liquid fire.

End of Book One.