Catalyst

I lay on my side, soaked to the shirt in beads of perspiration. Directly in front of me was a shade, pulled most of the way down over the length of a dust streaked window. The sun beat against the canvas cloth with all of its might, casting a sickly yellow hue across the room. Through the small section of window that remained uncovered, a palm frond was visible. It was motionless and brown, having steadily withered in the breezeless tropical heat. Much like myself during these hours of introspective restlessness. At this temperature, internal organs start to tremor: The simmering prelude to a full scale boil.
The bed I lay upon had once seen its fair share of use. After keying into the room, I hadn’t trusted the look of the sheets and stripped the mattress clean using a pair of rubber gloves I had in my case. The discarded bedding lay in the corner, where it had sat in a heap for the past three days. I rolled onto my back and lit a cigarette. A blue lizard with suction cup feet trundled quickly across the ceiling.
Outside, I heard the metallic sound of the gate opening, followed by the high tension spring slamming it shut. Besides the passing of rough old jalopies on the pockmarked road outside, this was the only sound that could be heard. A clamorous two piece symphony: The continuous clatter of the gate accompanied by the insectile droning of laboring engines. But now, in the middle of this miserable afternoon, a sudden variation: Footsteps at the top of the stairs, steadily proceeding down the concrete corridor littered with cigarette butts and discarded condoms. The footsteps drew nearer, and finally paused at the door. I waited for a knock, but was given no indication that the visitor intended on seeing me. Slowly, I eased off the bed, careful not to upset the most vocal of springs towards the center of the mattress. My bare feet touched down onto the tiles and I quietly snuck over to the door. I brought my face close enough to look through the spyhole. Immediately, my right iris burned with a lightning bolt of fresh pain. I stumbled backwards, blinded by a bright blue afterglow seemingly etched into my retinas.
“The stealthiest of serpents make sleeping alone a habit. They cannot be that easily snuck up upon,” came a voice from behind the door. The words sounded inhuman, as if they were collectively spoken from a swarm of yellow jackets enraged at the disturbance of their hive. The view through the spyhole hadn’t been the dark blue waters of Nimitz bay. I had seen an inferno of flames; autumnal oranges and searing hot white flaring up against a backdrop of cascading lava. I stood a long distance back from the door, leaning on the chest of drawers for balance. Still blinded, I could hear the sound of a manila envelope being slid underneath the door. As I began to regain my vision, the gate slammed shut. The sound of traffic below resumed as if Nimitz Bay had just found its equilibrium.

Valhalla

Impetus

"You know, we're all kind of living on borrowed time," came the whiskey treated Voice from the other end of the telephone. I sighed, nodding in agreement as I leaned back against the cabin and stared down at the Aspens surrounding the pond. A duck was circling lazily in the placid water.

"I'm getting the feeling that this is just the start of it. We're all going to be nabbed systematically. This is part of a greater plan to snuff us all out," I offered. "I keep waiting for black vans to start appearing in my rear-view mirror."

After a brief pause, I could hear smoke being exhaled on the other end of the phone.

"I'm heading to Guam in a few weeks. I've been offered a gig training dogs to hunt the invasive brown snake," The Voice answered.

"Seems like the reasonable thing to do in this situation. After your arrival and subsquent employment, send a manilla envelope to the ranch containing a list of dive bars and hourly-rate hotels near Nimitz Bay. I've decided to make a pilgrimage to the cave of Yokoi the Straggler."

The voice at the other end of the phone laughed heartily for what seemed like a solid 2 minutes. This was followed by a period of intense coughing and unbridled profanity. He had been taken by surprise by my decision. The burden of paranoia had finally gotten to us. After all, this was the final straw that broke the camel's back. In the silence that followed, I was visited by an auditory hallucination of a giant curved spine snapping like a wet pine. I grew pale as a wave of fresh nausea rolled through my stomach.

The duck came back into view, beginning his third lap around the perimeter of the pond. Finally, The Voice regained its composure.

"You know, this really isn't going to do much to quell their pursuit," The Voice said. "Of course, Japanese warriors believe that to be captured alive is a fate far worse than death. Maintain a level head and a clear conscience in the weeks to come."

I shrugged and hung up the phone as a red sun set over the horizon, bleeding all over the sky like a gouged thigh in dire need of a tourniquet. No amount of asian philosophy could save me now. I was to go into hiding, and follow The Voice when the word came.

The mailbox awaited at the end of my dusty driveway, a silent sentry with baited breath.