God, Martians, and the Apocalypse

“Fear God!” yelled Rapture Ron. He elevated his picket sign even higher. “For He shall smite the sinners of the world! Repent now! The end is nigh!”

“Yo dawg!” cried Martian Marvin from the same street corner. “Don’t listen to him. He crazy. It’s them aliens you gotta worry about.”

With a polite, unconcerned nod, Nicholson waited for the walk sign to illuminate. The fanatics persisted; he could feel their eyes searching his face for desperation or concern.

“Kneel before God! For He shall save your soul during the rapture!”

“Nah! Them aliens gonna make slaves of us. I got the probe scars to prove it, man.”

Nicholson smirked; the probe scars was a new one. Having walked past every afternoon for several years, Nicholson thought he’d heard every lyric of Martian Marvin’s apocalyptical song. The kid, a skinny runt from the ghetto, was obliviously intoxicated with the latest narcotic sweeping the city. His counterweight, Rapture Ron, was a sterling example of religious hysteria fueled by middle class boredom.

“Pagan blood will be shed! The end is near!”

“Martians gonna steal our planet, I swear.”

“Fear God! Fear the Apocalypse!”

“Nah. Fear them aliens, man.”

“Death awaits us!”

The walk sign flashed green. Across the street, intimately jammed between two high-rises, Rickey’s Tavern hardly attracted an unaccustomed eye; its sign was aged and illegible, there was bird shit on its bricks, and the windows were plastered with paper ads. But inside, the place was crowded.  

“Ah,” the bartender said, strolling to where Nicholson was sitting. “My favorite regular who never pays.”

“If it wasn’t for me,” Nicholson chirped, “this place would be empty.”

“If it wasn’t for you, I could afford a new car. You wanna see your tab?”

Nicholson looked around and said, “Rickey, you’re not thinking straight… I’m like your promoter. I tell people how amazing the beer is. Lo and behold, they listened. It’s a full house tonight.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. These kids are here for the game,” Rickey said, pointing to the new 50 inch flat screen on the wall. College kids were cheering the quarterback’s every movement.

“I believe you. The beer isn’t nearly good enough.”

“What’ll you get?”

Nicholson brushed back his John Cusack haircut and replied, “Anything on the rocks. Surprise me.”

“What a coincidence—I’ve been saving a bottle just for you.”

“Saving me some cleaning solution, yeah?”

Rickey grabbed a bottle and said, “It’d do you some good, I swear.”

“If I survived, maybe.”

“Some guy died after being served detergent. You hear about that?”

“Yeah,” Nicholson said and swallowed the amber colored liquid. The lump in his throat didn’t dissolve, though. “I heard.”

“I guess we all go somehow. Some ways better than others.”

“Yeah.”

Rickey served the college kids another pitcher and then asked, “So how’s our favorite lunatics?”

“Rapture Ron is preaching like he’s got a fire beneath his feet.”

“And his buddy?”

“Martian Marvin is fired up, too. They’re onto something.”

“What’s on your mind?”

Nicholson hesitated. “The apocalypse. It’s coming.”

“You still crooning that same song? You might as well join Ron and Marvin out there.”

“Wouldn’t make a difference. It’s not like anybody would listen. Hell, I don’t even listen to them.”

“So the world gonna end soon?”

Nicholson downed another glass. “Yeah. Probably.”

Rickey winked. “Prophesying of old age and death is nothing new.”

“It’s not like that. But it doesn’t matter. Forget I mentioned it.”

“You’re crazy, you know that? Clever, but crazy. You know to keep your mouth shut about crazy things. Except when you drink. You got no self-control when you drink.”

Smirking, Nicholson replied, “Yeah. Maybe I do it for the free drinks. You’re a sucker for conspiracies. Keep them drinks coming.”

Rickey dithered. “You’re on a torrid pace today.”

“I’ve got a bad feeling today.”

“Everybody here got bad feelings.”

“Nah. Seriously. I got a bad feeling. Like real bad.”

“It’s called life,” Rickey asserted.

“Right. So quit bothering me and add another to my tab.”

Whipping a towel over his shoulder, Rickey said, “You’re lucky our mothers were best friends. I’d smack you otherwise.”

“I love you, too.”

“Get lost, you drunk.”

“You’d miss me if I were—”

The college kids howled like a pack of wild dogs; having charged through the opposing defense, the team’s running back was tackled on the five-yard line.

Rickey muttered, “These kids are getting younger every day.”

“Only old guys say that.”

“I feel old. My doctor has me on these meds. They sure take the kick away. Tranquilizers, I tell ya.”

Nicholson jibed, “No wonder you’re balding. Experimental drug therapy. Will your balls fall off next?”

“Ah shut up. You’re in a nasty mood today.”

“I don’t know. I feel… what’s that word… apathetic.”

“Yeah, I hear ya. I don’t think nothing could bother me today. Except you.”

“What can I say? I’m a depressed alcoholic. Cheers,” Nicholson said tensely, raising his glass. There was an uncanny silence between them. And the college kids, anticipating the vital snap, were hushed, too; the tavern was calm like a storm’s eye, like a receding tide before a tsunami.

The ball snapped, the quarterback fired, the receiver reached out and—the television flashed to black.

Signal lost.

The college kids bawled as the signal lost danced across the empty screen. Then, cellphones began to ring; it was a cacophony of chimes, MIDI jingles, and pop sensations. Even Nicholson’s phone rang. Confused stares and angry yells propagated unimpeded, and as the calls were answered, electronic screeches spewed from their devices. Curious, Nicholson answered his; sure enough, there were squeals reminiscent of modem dial-up. He hung up but the sound persisted, as did everyone else’s.

“Hey Rickey,” Nicholson said. “Whatever you served me, it ain’t good for the brain. You sure it wasn’t the cleaning solution? Rickey?”

But Rickey wasn’t listening. He waded into the tumultuous sea of students and started smacking the television. By now, most people had removed the batteries from their phones; instead of electronic noise, boisterous, confused clamor prevailed.

As if an electromagnetic wind swept past the tavern, the power went out. The space was painted with evolving hues of slate grey, and outside, Rapture Ron scampered past the tavern with his sign fully elevated; Martian Marvin trailed, banging the windows and yelling, “Get out! Get out! Run, y’all!”

Tentatively, like probing a carnivore’s lair, a couple jocks stepped outside; they were swept by a sudden surge of panicking pedestrians whose screams were like dysfunctional war sirens. Glasses shattered and tables flipped as bodies rushed outside, and like shoals of hunted fish, the students darted in unison down the street. They were pointing to the western sky. As the tavern emptied, Nicholson remained seated. Rickey had stayed behind, too. Artificial darkness then crept along the street, wholly consuming the tavern.

Rickey muttered, “What the hell…”

“Should… should we check it out?”

“I ain’t leaving this bar. No way.” Rickey pulled a rifle from under the counter and tossed back a couple extra tranquilizer pills.  

Nicholson grabbed a bottle and poured himself a drink. “I… I don’t think a gun will do any good against Martians and God…”

“We got no idea what’s out there. Could be a hoax, you know.”

“Yeah. Just a bunch of drunk college kids. And Rapture Ron and Martian Marvin, well, they don’t see things straight. It’s probably just an eclipse or something.”

“Yeah. Sure. Except eclipses don’t spit fire…”

Flaming, hail-sized debris bombarded the chaotic, crowded street. As speeding cars plowed into barriers and pedestrians, horns harmonized like a train’s thunderous anthem; the undying blare accompanied a discord of screams like scuffed violin strings. Nicholson sucked a bottle dry, alcohol dripping down his face, and said, “I don’t suppose there’s a volcano around.”

“Not for a thousand miles,” Rickey answered, trembling. “What are we gonna do?”

“Start me a new tab. I’ll pay tomorrow, I swear.”

“Like hell you will.”

“Cheers to that.”

Rickey then loaded the rifle, marched to the door, and stuck his head outside. Face draining to white, he nearly collapsed.

“Oh holy mother of shit shit shit shit—” Rickey scrambled back behind the bar with the rifle held firm against his body. He said, “God damn those lunatics… They were right… They knew it all along… They knew it, god damn it…”

Inching toward the window, Nicholson watched the glowing embers drop like dying fireflies. It was hypnotic. Wholly sedated and wonderfully indifferent, he slinked to the door and peered westward, and with a nervous chuckle that suppressed ungodly terror, he said, “Rapture Ron and Martian Marvin… May they be remembered as the unsung prophets of humanity…”

“Yeah…”

“But don’t expect from them a polite ‘I told you so’.”

The ground began to shake as if buffeted by God’s footsteps.

Rickey said, “I think I’m gonna book an appointment with my doctor. These tranquilizers aren’t working too good.”

Nicholson retreated behind the counter and grabbed another bottle.

Nearly sobbing, Rickey continued, “You know why I got this gun? Cause I’m a coward. And I take these fucking pills because I’m a coward.”

Nicholson simply nodded. There wasn’t much left to say. Rickey patted his friend on the shoulder, a slow and deliberate gesture that conveyed an unmentionable conclusion, and then meandered to the backroom and shut the door. Nicholson closed his eyes and finished his bottle, though no amount of poison could distract his senses.

The rifle erupted, a twenty-one gun salute cut tragically short.

As the earth shivered and the atmosphere burned, the armies of the apocalypse forthcoming, Nicholson’s vision grew blurry. His thoughts transcended the conscious bounds of the human brain, memory dissolving in the liquid of apathy.

It was comforting to know that he would never again fear the end of the world.

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