Denny’s Diner. 1:37AM. Friday.

“Would you like some sugar with that sir?”

“Oh God no. That’s the last thing I need-or want for that matter. Not at this time, especially not at this time. Jesus…no, I’m rambling. I’m sorry. It’s been a long day. But could you bring me another cup with sugar please? Wait…wait. No sugar. No sugar please. That’s the last thing…I’ll stop now.”

“No problem.”

The waitress slowly backed off and quickly scurried away. Her face still held that smile but he knew that she would take her time coming back. It wasn’t her fault. Then again, maybe it was. He took another glance at his coffee; black. That was all he needed right now. Usually he took it with three sugars, milk, and a pinch of remorse. Well, that was how he took it. But that is the price for getting involved in such a project, or was it a task? He hadn’t been able to tell. Then again, it didn’t matter.

 He sighed and pulled out a pack of Dunhills. A thin cloud of mische metal jumped from the lighter and he inhaled the warm embers quickly.

 He took a look around the diner. That cute waitress was nowhere to be found. Instead, he found a sea of empty black stools and groups of people seated around red plastic booths greeting him. The dusty neon lights threw a pale glow on the cute waitress who was now at the counter. His eyes turned back to her. What was she doing here? She was dressed for a night out on the town. Her amber hair trickled down her charcoal dress and her dark hazel eyes glimmered in the light. Did he really have to make such a decision? But then aga—

“Your coffee sir.”

 A jump back to reality.

“Oh…thank you.”

The waitress placed his coffee down and ran off again, taking those wonderful legs of hers with her. He wondered how old she was. Nineteen? Twenty? She couldn’t have been older than twenty. Whatever the answer was he knew she was too young. Too young to deserve what might happen. She seemed like a nice girl.

He took a sip. He wished someone could—

“—understand you’re still smoking those things huh? Those things will kill you, mind you.” The stranger’s casual tone and calm demeanor stopped the Cigarette man’s sip prematurely.

“Why are you here? I know the plan,” Cigarette Man fidgeted and shook his head once not daring to look over quite yet.

“I know you do. We have four days. Be prepared with a solution.”

“If you know, then why did you come to remind me?”

“Because…you know what it’s like to deal with, I guess you would say, inappropriate behavior,” Stranger shifted to face the man.

“If you wanted to be politically correct, I wouldn’t agree. But of all former judges, why me? What makes me so different?” Cigarette Man took a slow deep drag, a warm haze surrounding them both.

“I’m surprised you even have to ask. You have the best conviction rate, particularly involving matters pertaining to one’s life. You already had the prerequisites I desired,” a sharp smile grew on Stranger.

He turned to face Stranger. “ I’ll see you then.” Stranger was gone, “Son of a bitch.”

Lincoln Cemetery. 2:17PM. Sunday Afternoon.

The air was dense with moisture and the clouds shrouded the sky in an ominous gray. Two men dressed in black stood at the head of an evenly dug four foot rectangle looking over the grassy hills where the mist had settled into the crevices. Hours before, they had both shuffled through it; dewy knolls drifted in and out of their vision, the trees fading behind them.

“Fuck…do you have any aspirin? My head is fucking killing me!” The younger of the two asked, still nursing a mind-splitting hangover and doing an awful job at hiding it. His dirt crusted palms rubbed his dark shaded eyes.

“NO! You’ve already asked me twice! I told you not to go out with those other two. It’s trouble, especially when we have a job the next day,” the old and withered man snapped back. He had been getting annoyed working with the younger gentleman; it was always a battle to keep him around to work. What happened when things were simpler, he thought.

The hung-over man glared at the old man, digging his heels into the mud and spinning in place mumbling the inane contemplation “Always.”

“Excuse me?” Old Man turned and faced the younger man, irritation rising. His voice was far away but it settled onto the statement. A few crows fought in front of the two men.

“Come off it, old man! This isn’t the time or place. We’re at a funeral.”

“We’re always at a funeral.” A crumb from his bagel fell, and the birds rushed towards it with feathers puffed.

“True.”

“Truth is.”

Old Man couldn’t find anything more to add. Words caught in his throat. His eyes glazed over the rectangle once more. He could see her; the girl that would be placed in the ground once the procession arrived, lying there already. He imagined her sitting in her chair back home, scarves and blankets draped over her. The warm fire oozing into her bones, casting her in a soft light. Her lips moved, for seconds, minutes, hours, they moved. But he was unable to catch her breathless words.

He blinked. The thick grey clouds released small, misty drops onto the two men. At first the rain felt hesitant, but then more and more and more droplets bounced against the earth, against the men, and against the soggy bagel. “It’s raining,” he looked over to the hung-over man for reassurance.

“Yeah, my head’s feeling a little better now,” he stopped holding his head, the brown earth dripped from his fingertips. “When is the body coming? I’m sick of waiting.”

“Please, kid.” Old Man scrunched his face. Crows feet grew around his eyes as if time had sped up. “Be a little patient, the girl was too young to die. She didn’t even have a chance to experience life. Everyone should be able to experience it. It was too early for her,” he stared into Hung-over man’s eyes. His hands strangled the soggy bagel, ripped bits of it off into his fingers, and rolled the dough between his fingers before flinging it to the ground.

“I’m sorry.” The words were sincere. Hung-over man stared into the eyes of the old beaten man and he felt, at least momentarily, bad for giving him such a hard time. “We’re always waiting. Fuck, my fingers are cold.”

“That was beautiful. You found yourself closing in on one hell of a beautiful moment.”

“Beautiful?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not? The removing of barriers and admittance to fault in front of others is a moment of true freedom. The unconscious effort to express yourself in the most base and pathetic moment brings light to others. You made a memory, didn’t you? Shouldn’t everyone have that chance to make that unconscious sacrifice?”

“You’ve got to lay off the pot. As far as I’m concerned, people should just belly up when they’re suppose too, or maybe when we tell them too. I don’t need to deal with this bullshit.” He cracked his knuckles with each word. He took a quick breath and became angry. He spoke again. “We shouldn’t even be having this conversation. That guy is crazy; we don’t even know him! Why can’t he just figure it out on his own?”

“It’s the rules. He said we couldn’t do that.” Old Man looked away and craned his neck forward. “We have an expertise in what he wants. We see death all the time, from the young to the old, good and evil, to everything in-between. Why wouldn’t he come to us? We have the best opinion of who deserves to die with no emotional attachments to influence our decision.” His eyes saw the hearse through the mist. “We still have a few days to figure it out.”

Windjammer Bar. 3:37PM. Tuesday.

Tap, tap, tap…SMASH! The bottle fell to the ground and the whiskey spilled all over the bar.

“God damn it, Sharon!” Tony, said trying to hold in his frustration.

“Sorry, sorry. I’ll get the mop right away,” Sharon turned around and rushed back to the kitchen.

Tony turned back to the couple sitting at the bar, “I’m really sorry about that folks, we’ve only got the two of us on duty right and she’s new. I ho—“

“It’s fine,” the man said. Tony paused and stared at the man for a moment. He didn’t make eye contact even for a moment. His gaze shifted over to the woman, her head down and an empty shot glass in her hand. He knew enough to tell that the tall mustachioed man didn’t want to be bothered; he was already flat out drunk. The woman was already halfway drunk.  

“Right, then,” Tony said. The old wood floor creaked as Tony walked away.

Halfway Drunk halfway slurred, “Babe, I don’t quite know about this. It seems wrong.” She bit her lip and scrutinized her reflection in the thin amber pool of whiskey; dull purplish-black circles ringed her eyes and stood out against her pale skin. She’d been up the past few nights dreading the upcoming meeting. “Why do we have to do this?”

“You always say that, the same thing: never again, I’m through, too dangerous.”

“I know that’s what I always say. I’m always right too; we shouldn’t be involved in this. You sound—“

“Like a fucking sensible man, is what I sound like,” Flat-out Drunk slurred. “You have never been right!” His patience began to erode, “We need to think of a God-damned plan…”

He had been wrong though. He knew that those last few ejaculated words didn’t really mean anything. His face contorted with anger, unable to think of a solution. Halfway Drunk’s slender fingers snaked over to Flat-out Drunks before stopping at the site of his gaze: helplessness and confusion.

“We can do this, we can figure this out,” Halfway Drunk now holding onto his hands.

“No,” Flat-out Drunk quickly shot back, “not we. You. I’m done playing this game, you and the others can figure this out,” his hands sliding out from under Halfway Drunk’s and settling back behind his shot glass.

“Honey…you’re drunk. Let’s go home and talk about this before we have to leave.”

“At least I know what I want. What about you? Are you going to continue this game or will you finally see where I’m going with this?” Flat-out Drunk stared at Halfway Drunk before he drummed his fingers against the table.

“You’re serious about this,” Halfway Drunk’s voice cracked.

“I am…that’s my answer to him.”

“That’s probably the most sober thing you’ve said in a long while,” her voice dropped to a mere whisper as she stared into the swirling amber below.  

Unknown Bridge. 8:37PM. Tuesday.

There are six people standing on a bridge. In a hundred-and-seventy-five years they will be gone, the bridge will be gone, the river below the bridge will be gone, and, perhaps most importantly, the crackling of telephone lines will be gone. Right now, there are six people standing on a bridge.  

One of them is smoking a cigarette. One of them is nursing his head from a hangover, and doing an awful job at hiding it. One of them is flat out drunk, and one of them is halfway to being flat out drunk and agitated that she can’t have her amber liquid. One of them is old and wrinkled, and one of them is a six-year-old boy.

They are waiting for Stranger, who is, as in typical fashion, running late.

The one smoking a cigarette sighs; half-way drunk wonders if she can make it the half mile to the liquor store; the flat-out drunk scoffs; the old one waits; the one nursing a hangover seethes with anger; and the boy misses his mother.

Stranger shows up in a dazzling display of light.

“So…when did you decide to show up, Mr. Be-Ready-To-Meet-At-Eight?” Halfway Drunk halfway slurred, eyes squinted against the dimming light. “We’ve been waiting here for forty five minutes. It’s freezing!”

“I was a little caught up. It’s the rain you see, quite a wonderful sight if you think about. Molecularly bonded hydrogen and oxygen to create one of the purest substances.” For the first time, the six people standing on the bridge came to the stark realization that it is raining.

“Hmmm…” Cigarette Man says. Old Man reached out letting the rain pool in his palm.

Stranger faced south down the river and made a small noise of relief, “It’s quite lovely here, wouldn’t you say? Perfect…just perfect.”

The Hung-over one sneered and pointed his finger at Stranger, “Lovely? It’s freezing; it’s raining; it’s dirty, and it’s filled with the residue of all that’s evil in this world! Why are we here? Why did you call us? You already know the answers to everything! You know as well as we do that this mission is impossible!”

Stranger shook his head. “If I really did know everything, we wouldn’t all be here in this situation right now,” his eyes flashed back at the Hung-over one. “You are too bitter for the task I have assigned. I have always warned you as much; did you not think of the reason I had you working at the cemetery?” He flicked his wrist and Hung-over one vanished.

There are five people standing on the bridge with a monster.

“Look,” Flat-out Drunk garbled, “I know we’ve all got important things to do. So, let’s just hurry this up, yeah?” Stranger nodded bluntly.

“Have you reached a decision?”

Cigarette Man fumbled with his cigarette, and shamefully shook his head. “This…this is a lot to ask of us.”

Old Man nodded his head in compliance. “You can’t make us do this to people. You can’t ask this of us. We’ve been here too long—“

“Disappointing, I expected more,” eyes downcast, his voice sorry, “especially from you both.” His eyes shined, he flicked his wrist and Old Man and Cigarette Man crumbled to the ground. The cigarette rolled, extinguished in a puddle, it’s red embers faded to black.

There are two people standing on the bridge with a murderer.

Halfway Drunk half-heartedly asked, “What if we just. I don’t know. Got rid of them?” She seemed at a loss. Stranger, back still facing her, raised an eyebrow.

“A novel idea, but one that has already been suggested. One that is against the rules. We cannot just simply and barbarically eliminate their entire existence. The consequences would be compounded infinitely.”

Halfway Drunk sighed angrily, “I fail to see the point. Getting rid of them is the only logical choice. It’s the only way to keep them down. If we don’t…then we’ll just have to keep meeting here year after year, again and again like we have since the beginning of time.” Tears began to fall down her face; her body shook under the sobs.

“The point,” Stranger hissed savagely, “was to come up with a solution, not restate the dilemma over and over again.”

“Well, aren’t we just lucky?” The Halfway Drunk can barely be heard beneath the rain, tears, and slur. “I just don’t see an answer.”

The silent six year old spoke up for the first time. “I have a solution,” he said, “I think.”

Stranger turned to face the boy, impressed, but not completely surprised by the chain of events that had just unfolded. He pointed at Halfway Drunk who was halfway slumped over. She disappeared into the rain.

There is one child standing on a bridge with a Monster.

“Is that right? Tell me, what’s the solution?” Stranger kneeled behind the child; his right hand cupping the boy’s right shoulder. His wings sparked out behind him in a gust of wind covering them both from the rain, warming them. They were red and purple, sewn together with fire and lightening. They were beautiful and horrifying. The child looked once, not surprised, not amazed, but simply taking in the grandeur of the moment. He turned to face Stranger.

“Well…we take the bad people and put them someplace. One place. One place where only bad people go and can’t get out. We make them loathe their past, we make them pay.” The child wiped his nose, the rain making it run. “We make the bad people feel bad about what they did and tell everyone else what has become of them. The other people will hear and try and avoid going there by being good.”

Stranger nodded in approval, “A fine idea. A fine idea you have come up with!” He rose. Wings still spread; he extended his hand to the boy who softly took it. “I knew you would come up with the plan, Lucifer. I’ve always believed in you. Would you like some ice cream?”

The boy nodded, and in a ball of fire and lightning, he and Stranger were gone.

In a hundred-and-seventy-five years, the bridge will be gone, the river will be gone, and the memories of what happened here will be gone, shared only by an Angel and child. In a hundred-and-seventy-five years, no one will know the significance of this place.

As for now, this is the place where the end begins.