see title...

Sunday morning suit and tie, I'm situated in the back row of the cathedral. Fire and brimstone is raining from the pulpit, which makes me glad I'm hung over and still wearing my shades, its hard for him to make me feel bad if I can't focus. The pastor has taken to calling my row "cynic corner" and he's calling us out in front of the congregation again. "Some heathens are here even today, after a night of sexual intercourse with whores and binge drinking." I've always loved listening to Christians condemn things they don't understand. Makes them sound even more pretentious than they already are; which is quite a feat. I'm already antsy, and boy jesus is just getting into the sermon, but this time it’s not my ADD causing my legs to bounce uncontrollably. It's a prophecy, well a dream I had that seemed like a prophecy. About three AM, I jumped up this morning after a bit of a chat with God. He looked at me, "Zach, you are going to die today. I just thought you should be prepared, you are going to have to make a big decision before you go down though, just don't be a baby."

God was kind of a prick in my dream.

So here I am. Here am I. On the day of my apparent death, and still I'm sitting in church listening to myself be condemned to hell. Silence drew me out of my thoughts. Pastor had stopped talking, a mini-miracle; the type of thing that restores my faith in the Almighty. The whole of the congregation was staring toward the back center of the room. Straining my neck to see around the Smith's and their three children and taking off my glasses, I found what everyone was staring at. I could see why they were staring. Five foot nothing and one-hundred pounds stood at the back entrance, ski-mask on face and gun in hand, all topped off with a pikachu t-shirt.

"Take Cover!" The first intelligent words the pastor has ever spoken through the microphone. Also the first time anyone truly listened to him. Everyone hit the floor like a slut on New Years, except me.

"Hey." He pivoted toward my voice. "Why are you here?"
"My god told me I am to kill a Christian at this Church. I asked him which one and he said to kill until I found the right one."
"And my god told me I was supposed to die today. Let these people be." He nodded and we stepped out of the sanctuary. For the first time, I began to earnestly pray. "I don't want to die... I'm not ready, God."

I heard God chuckle, "I get that one all the time. Hey, be happy, I took some extra time in arranging your death, I even made it so I can say, "Pikachu, I choose you!" before you go down." I snickered; at least God has a sense of humor, albeit a demented one. My masked friend walked up to me and whispered, "You passed the test, now don't be a baby." A sigh escaped through my clinched teeth, and tense muscles relaxed.

As I was calming down, he turned and started to walk away. Five paces, then he stopped. I watched as he rose to the balls of his feet in slow-motion, and pivoted in place.

My heart stopped and things started to go cold. A red-stain was forming on the inner thigh of my church pants. "That's for not paying attention during sermon."

First floor. Going up.

   We four pack in, me taking point; center back, which offers the best view. To my left there is a couple: mini-skirt and plaid boy.
She's hanging on his arm, dressed in a pink sweater, white mini-skirt, pink and white argyle stockings that run to her knees;
all topped off with a poor job of throwing some blush over the bruises on her cheeks. In a sense, she's some sort of hybrid
between a walking billboard for Abercrombie, a walking bill board for a Catholic school and a walking billboard for an anorexia hotline.
He stares straight ahead, blue and green plaid shirt running down to tight wranglers and cowboy boots.
Definitely the redneck, "bring me a sammich, woman" type.
   On second glance, she's what I like to call a handgun girl. When she finally explodes she'll use a revolver to kill
abusive plaid boy because she can't lift a shotgun and hold it steady.

Third floor. Going up.

   Enter Bertha, front and center. Since we live in a world of euphemisms and law suits, I'd say Bertha is a big boned woman;
if we were in any other world, I'd say Bertha has beaten anorexia... with a stick. Going on stereotypes, I'd say she's
returning home after singing and dancing with Jesus in the aisles of a pentecostal church. Judging on body odor, I'd
say the dancing is a great possibility.
   I hate to use the word pathetic, but now that I think about it that's what miniskirt is. Every time plaid boy hits her,
she cries. And when she cries she needs a shoulder to cry on. His is the only one available. The more he hits her, the
more she loves him and leans on him; pathetic.
   On my right, is the fourth of our original four. He's wearing a name tag, "Hello, my name is David." I think it should read,
"Hello, my name is inconsequential. However, I was voted most likely to die a virgin." Seems a bit more apt to me.
He reeks of English major and business school, and is barking into is phone.
Blah, blah, blah, vicarious, blah blah stock market blah blah exchange rate blah blah.

Forty-fifth floor. Going up.

   The virgin and Bertha step off.

Fiftieth floor. Going up.

   Plaid boy and miniskirt scamper off. As they leave, some of the extra wind sneaks around the elevator and lifts miniskirt's skirt.
Her left asscheek waves bye to me.
   That leaves me for intro-spection. An author who can't deal with the fact that he can control the lives of everyone he meets,
but can't control his own life. He lives in a shitty apartment, he has a book that’s not selling, he has an ex-wife who is drawing
alimony out of a check he doesn't even receive. He has one to many pains in his ass.

Rooftop. Going down.

   Just like any author, I want my story to end on a good one liner. "Hey elevator, I'll race you to the ground."

Cast my net, but
I’d rather bail hay.
Never seen a seahorse,
‘cause he’d have to change his name.
Plains look no different than waves;
Both got a good chance to kill you.
Tricks of the eye and crows-nest
watch taught me to blink again.

Can’t swim a league or mile,
But could no doubt run fifty.
Only ever cried as the
flotsam washed up my son.
Cast off and rigging employ;
We got a good chance to kill you.
Bison are a whale made, as
Loudmouth’s taffy stays my tongue.

Stop. Wait.
I'm about to birth another miracle.
World Peace?
I say nay, what fun would that be?
Instead, look to the sky,
tap your foot and twidle your thumbs until
I descend; cumulus style.
I'll cure cancer with AIDS,
rid the world of obesity with heart attacks,
and stop global warming with an ice age.
Eventually,
you'll comprehend what I have:
sometimes to stop rape,
you have to offer a new orifice.