IN THE FUTURE WE ALL DIE

He's naked but for a lopsided pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses, a cigarette with ash an inch-long clenched between his yellow teeth. Holding a half-empty bottle of Woodford Reserve bourbon loosely between his thumb and index finger, dangling by his paunch, Darwin Dishwack staggers across the hotel room he's calling home for the next five nights.

He lurches towards the desk and pulls out the chair, its upholstery coughing dust as his bloated body slumps into it. Ash from his cigarette falls into his greying pubic hair as he throws his head back for a four-gulp slug of his amber booze.

Out from the drawer, which opens with a stiff squeal, he pulls a .45 Automatic Colt Pistol, its front sight winking silver through the cigarette smoke that dances in front of the deep, golden hue of the desk light. He flicks the safety catch and brings the pistol to his head in one well-rehearsed movement of his right hand, at the same time, removing his sunglasses with his left. With the barrel of the gun eclipsed by his temple, he looks at the intemperate picture his reflection paints in the lenses of his sunglasses.

“In the future, we all die.”

His hand is steady is as he pushes the gun forcefully into his skull.

“In the future, we all die.”

He slowly squeezes the trigger.

“In the future, we all...”

He hesitates.

His reflection changes. The skin on his face, craggy from a thousand late nights and lost weekends, begins to stretch and unwrinkle; the dark, drooping bags under his eyes grow tight; his hair thickens and returns to a shiny jet-black; he opens his mouth and watches his once receding gums wrap around his rapidly whitening teeth.

The transformation continues, his whole body becoming increasingly taught and smooth; his potbelly melting to reveal a lean abdomen; his flabby, sagging man boobs firming into solid pectoral muscles; scars from decades of drink and drugs and fags and saturated fats disappearing.

The changes gather pace, the severity of the metamorphosis increasing until the reflection he sees before him is that of his six-year-old self, dragging his feet along some vaguely familiar street, his mother pulling him by the hand.

In this forgotten scene from his childhood, a pallid building shoots skywards, overhanging at its apex, as young Darwin and his mother approach. The boy's eyes widen as he's forced closer, the mournful sound of an organ growing louder.

“But why do I have to go to church, mother? I don't want to go. I don't like it. It's scary.”

“How many times must I tell you, Darwin. You're a catholic child and all good catholic children must go to church; or face the consequences.”

The church grows taller and more imposing until young Darwin is standing in front of a fortified wooden door.

“Go on ahead, Darwin. In you go.”

With much effort, young Darwin opens the door, its hinges groaning with agony as he does so. Inside the cavernous church, there's nothing but darkness and echoes. A damp patch spreads across the boy's crotch, marking his grey shorts black. He steps inside.

“I know you're still in there. Do you hear me?”

Dishwack flicks on the safety catch and returns the pistol to the drawer in an equally well-rehearsed movement of his right hand, at the same time, placing his cockeyed sunglasses back on his head with his left. With a cloak of cold sweat and gusset of fag ash added to his ensemble, he answers his hotel room door.

“I left my bra, baby.”

A gaunt, dead-behind-the-eyes teenage girl with wild blonde hair flowing over a neglected fur coat ambles across the room. Mumbling to herself in Russian, she collects her underwear from the floor and walks back out the door without offering so much as a cursory glance in Dishwack's direction.

“Call me if you want to have some fun tomorrow night, baby. Usual time.”

Ralph is a halfwit with an underbite. He works the late shift alone in the hotel bar. From this position, he oversees a procession of travelling salesman chewing through savourless carveries and slurping watery pints of larger, drunkly disappearing to their rooms for a lugubrious wanks in front of overpriced pay-per-view porn; he witnesses weekend lovers checking in at 2am and out again before noon, without learning each other's surnames; he serves at the 24-hour home of stags and hens, adulterers and closet homosexuals. By the third night of Dishwack's stay, Ralph has almost memorised his order.

“Another Woodford, is it, Mr Dishwack? Neat?”

“Rocks.”

“I mean, rocks. Rocks, it is. Comin' up, Mr Dishwack.”

Ralph, with his bow-legged shuffle, moves to pour Dishwack's sixth bourbon of the evening, plunging a pincer full of ice cubes into the glass and placing the drink on a paper napkin in front of his only customer.

“How was the show tonight, then, Mr Dishwack?”

“It's not a show.”

“Oh, yeah, it's not a show. Forgot, I did. So. What is it again, Mr Dishwack?”

“I've been asking myself the same question.”

“But it's about, like, God an' that, isn't it?”

“It used to be.”

“Not anymore?”

“That war is won, Ralph. The enemy's dead and all the fun I used to have died with it.”

A roguish grin spreads across Dishwack's face and a flame ignites in his eyes, his dormant mind awakening, flicking through the folders of his memory.

“Plenty of fun to be 'ad round 'ere, Mr Dishwack? There's a club just round...”

“Not fun like this. Not like the old days. You're too young to remember, Ralph, but there was a time, not too long ago, when religion ruled the world. When those of us proclaiming religion as the main source of all the world's evil were very much in the minority. Indeed, I was subjected to death threats, fatwas and had seven-figure bounties placed on my head for saying so. Such fun, Ralph. When God was still great, still the arch-deluder; the omni-tyrant in the sky spewing hatred into the world. A time when theocrats presented assumption and interpretation as evidence; and not only was this deemed acceptable argument, it went unquestioned, unchecked. Unthinkable today, I know, but that's how it was. That's how it had always been.

“But I wasn't having it, Ralph. Up with that, I was not going to put. So I started a revolution. Of course, they'd send these religious apologists to duel with me, but I'd cut devastating swathes through their arguments. They had God, dogma, faith; I had wit and erudition, eloquence and style.

“It was me against the Almighty. Toe to toe. A bloody fight to death. And I won, Ralph. I succeeded where all the other great minds had failed. Me. Heavyweight champion of the universe.”

Ralph scratches his wrist to disguise the fact he's looking at his watch.

“That's cool. Another drink, Mr Dishwack?”

“But victory only brought misery, Ralph.”

Dishwack throws his head back and downs his drink in one. He stares at the trio of ice cubes left in the bottom of his glass, their translucent walls slowly growing transparent until each cube reveals an apparition within its four walls, moments from his life playing out across a microcosmic crystal stage.

In one, he's 26-years-old, rakishly and debonair, at a book signing for his breakthrough work, In The Future We All Die. The queue from the table at which he's seated snakes out of the shop, spills out onto the street and wraps around the block several times. Outside, press are being refused entry. Inside their peers accost Dishwack with microphones and dictaphones, shoot him with cameras and pepper him with flash photography. Within in each flash, he sees a review of his book: 'This book will change everything.' 'The revolution is here.' 'God is dead. And Darwin Dishwack killed him.'

In another, he watches himself onstage during a globally televised debate with the pope. He's relentless, flawlessly articulate and endlessly charming, coaxing involuntary laughter and nods of agreement from even his most ardent critics. His fluid words pound the pontiff's tired arguments into submission. Finally, after hours of discourse, the pope cracks and, in faltering tones, admits to everything from a Vatican child abuse coverup, to being wrong in advising against the use of condoms – stopping only a sentence or two short from renouncing his own faith.

Within the final ice cube, he observes himself at 36 years old with the leaders of every major nation in the world, overseeing a landmark UN meeting at which a treaty is signed to ensure, among other things, religion and state are kept distinctly separate.

“Good show tonight, Mr Dishwack?”

“Just leave the bottle.”

Dishwack, snatching the bottle from an apathetic Ralph, fills his glass until it overflows. Ralph, clasping ice cubes with his pincer, looks pleased with himself at having remembered how Dishwack likes his drink, unashamed it's taken him until the final night of the guest's stay to do so.

“You forgot your rocks, Mr Dishwack.”

“Not tonight.”

“Okay. Well, plenty of fun to be 'ad in 'ere tonight, Mr Dishwack. Friday's our busiest night, it is.”

Dishwack looks around the large, open-plan bar which, he estimates, seats at least a 100 people. To his left, a middle-aged couple wearing matching fleece jackets, sitting in silence with glasses of rose wine. Next to them, an ugly, overweight young couple without drinks, holding hands over the table, speaking in indecipherable baby voices that cause Dishwack to recoil in his seat. Elsewhere, a semiconscious old man, sporting gravy medals on his moth-eaten blazer, his equally lifeless whippet by his side; three pockmarked teenage boys, quaffing soft drinks and fawning over each other's comic book collections in reedy voices; and a haggard thirtyperson with drooping breasts and forlorn eyes, face caked in makeup, winking and raising a bottle of Bacardi Breezer in Dishwack's direction.

Dishwack grabs his glass, wondering how many more he'd need before he's ready to take this fluttering troll up to his room. Before he has the chance to take a drink, a picture hanging on the wall to his right catches his eye: a painting of two men playing chess. The man on the left is grinning through a furrowed brow, arched eyebrows and long pointed moustache; the other, a slender, almost cherubic man with flowing shoulder-length hair, is deep in thought with his chin resting on his fist.

Dishwack notes the man on the left is in the ascendancy; in fact, after a perfunctory scan of the board, it appears to be checkmate. He attempts to analyse the game further but his attention is broken by a wolf whistle. He turns his head to see an empty bottle of Bacardi Breezer being shaken is his direction.

Dishwack turns to face the bar once again, throws his head back and downs his drink. He closes his eyes and feels the booze glide to his belly, warming him as it moves. Just for a moment, he feels serene.

“Fuck you, you goddamn sonofabitch. I knew you'd say that.”

Dishwack snaps his head to the side to see who dares disturb this rare moment of tranquillity. Sitting in a booth, directly underneath the painting, two men face each another. The man on the left, shouting in an American accent, has dark, thinning hair which it's clear he dyes. He's wearing an ill-fitting blazer that doesn't match his trousers and a Hawaiian shirt open to the navel. In contrast, the man sitting opposite is dressed in a bespoke, navy three-piece suit. He has neat, side-parted hair and speaks with received pronunciation.

“I'm sorry, old boy. Did we disturb you? Come join us, won't you.”

“No.”

“Oh, I insist. Bring your drink.”

Dishwack looks at the ragtag group of drinkers around him and then towards Ralph who is attempting to build a house of cards out of beer matts. He picks up his bottle and glass and moves towards the table.

“Now, before we get bogged down with the frightful pleasantries have become custom in situations such as these, let me begin by saying I know who you are and I'm big fan of your work.”

“Not me. Judas.”

“Ignore my business partner, won't you. He such an old grump.”

“Old grump, my ass. Listen, what do you think of this hotel, son? Bit of a fall from grace for someone like you, ah?”

Dishwack is shocked but impressed by the stranger's honesty.

“You don't need to tell me what it is. Believe me.”

“It's a goddamn den of iniquity, is what it is. Full of sinners; adulterers and fucking faggots.”

“I'm afraid he's frightfully old-fashioned. Part of the reason the company's struggling, I suppose. He's so unwilling to change his ways.”

“Fuck you, you goddamn sonofabitch. I knew you'd say that, too.”

“Sorry. What are your names?”

“Apologies, old boy. I'm Nick. They call me Old Nick.”

“Mind your goddamn business – that's what my name is.”

“Well, Old Nick. Mr. Conviviality. I'd love to stay and engage in more bizarre and hateful conversation, but I've got a fine lady waiting for me over there. She's no looker, I admit, but I bet she's real goer. The desperate ones always are, you see. Good night.”

“Why, there's not a soul in here, old boy.”

Dishwack looks around at the empty bar. Ralph's house of beer matts stands half-constructed, but the barman is nowhere to be seen. The two annoying couples are gone. At the old-timer's seat only a discarded dog lead. Comic books but no geeks at another table. An empty bottle of Bacardi Breezer where his admirer once sat.

“I told you: I insist you stay and have a drink. We have important business to discuss. Old boy.”

“No, really, I think I must decline.”

Dishwack begins to scramble out of the booth.

“Darwin Dennet Dishwack, born 3 April 1967 in Portsmouth, England. Educated at Balliol College, Oxford. Preeminent ethologist and evolutionary biologist; religious tormentor; the man who killed God.”

“The sonofabitch who killed God.”

“Listen. If you gentleman are fans, I'm afraid you're about two decades too late.”

“You had disappointing sex – lasting six minutes 26 seconds – with a Russian prostitute named Erica on Monday; ate a rubbery steak for supper on Wednesday; and tonight you're not wearing any underwear because you can no longer afford a PA to pack your suitcase for you.”

“How do you know those things.”

“We know every...”

“Goddamn. Do you have be so fucking dramatic. This isn't the movies, Nick. Listen, you little shit. I'm the man upstairs, the big kahuna; the guy who you've spent you're goddamn life slandering.”

“And I'm his business partner. I have the offices down below, old boy. But we switch positions every now and again.”

“You don't think, for one moment, I'd...”

“Yeah, yeah. We've heard it all before, son. You're a smart guy. So let's cut the bullshit and get down to business, shall we?”

“We want you to come onboard with us, old boy. A junior partner, if you like. Our special little messenger.”

“Let's start this goddamn war all over again.”

“That's it. I've finally lost my mind.”

Dishwack takes a drink directly from the bottle, bourbon dribbling down his chin and onto his shirt.

“Or maybe you two are insane. Or maybe you actually are who you say you are – you do really exist. Why would you ask me, of all people, to help you enslave a world I spent so long emancipating?

“Does sound frightfully odd, doesn't it. And as we both know, neither God nor demon can overcome free will. But we can make suggestions.”

“Give him the goddamn deal.”

“You see, Mr. Dishwack. It wasn't really the cause you fought for – you don't care whether the world is in chains or not. You didn't even do it for the glory, because victory turned you into a worthless toad of a man. Just like you knew it would. You, Mr. Dishwack, thrived on the fight. You were addicted to the scrap.”

“We had high hopes for you, you sonofabitch.”

“Yes, old boy. A despot or fundamentalist or politician or something of the sort – a career in which you would have stirred our shit, as it were. You see, you're nothing but a supremely gifted backstreet brawler, Mr. Dishwack. Yes, you use words instead of your fists. But that's all you are. A simple backstreet brawler.”

Dishwack feels the old fire burning – the chance to do battle once again. This time, the menace is real. In a street fight of the mind, he's defeated every man brought before him. But what about the creator of men? He convinced the world God doesn't exists. Now he must show God the error of his ways.

But the words don't come to him. His rage is impotent. He takes another slug from his bottle.

“Maybe. But I'm punch-drunk. My fists are brittle. There's no fight left in me.”

“Clearly, old boy. Clearly. I mean, look at you. You're pathetic.”

Dishwack looks at his distended abdomen and weathered hands. He feels his aching muscles and crumbling bones. His head feels heavy, yet devoid of ideas.

“But we can take care of that, old boy. We do have the powers to do that.”

“It's not checkmate, by the way. The guy in the painting. He's got one more move, son. Look at the king.”

Dishwack looks up at the chess board in the painting above the booth for a moment. When he returns his gaze to the table, the two men are gone. He gets up and stumbles towards the bar, smashing his bottle on the ground. Grabbing a napkin and pulling a pen from his pocket, he scrawls: “In the future, we are all reborn.”