End of Story

A short story by Rab Haney

I looked up toward the clouds one afternoon, and saw something falling toward me. It was a safe. Splat. End of story.

I was walking down the street and I was hit by a car. Whammo. End of story as I waited for the ambulance that never arrived.

I opened the door to my house one morning, and a member of the Bloods shot bullets through my head with an uzi. Boom. End of story.

One morning I got up and nothing happened, so I killed myself. No sound, it was a hanging. End of story.

Then one day I got up, and nothing happened. I decided it was best not to kill myself again, and then something changed.

I was a bum. I was standing on a street corner, leaning against a lamp post. It was early morning, about six. I stretched and yawned, and leaned over to feel my back. Apparently my latest body was old and worn out. I’d been reincarnated into the body of a homeless, old man.

I saw a wallet on the ground, a new, shiny leather one with a large bulge in its money pouch. Nine-hundred dollars in it. Nine-hundred spanking new bucks. I could buy a cup of coffee with that. Maybe another power crystal, so I could find myself and get out of this mess.

It all began at Woodstock. This fortune teller around afterwards, she told me that I had many lifetimes waiting for me. She didn’t tell me they were all going to be short. So, secure in that prophecy, I lived the good life–scandal, corporate raiding, junk bonds, Columbian snow, and good ole’ soul searching. Well, a couple of years back I wanted to see who the real power was in the universe was, so I could buddy up with it, and in this channeling session I guess I got that Big Brother in the Sky mad at me, ’cause I haven’t been the same since.

Well, I walked into the local cafe, and low and behold, I saw this young kid in a suit, upwardly-mobile I guess, couldn’t be older than thirty-five, sneering at me. And I waltzed up to the counter to ask for a coffee. I was thirsty, you know. Well, the guy said he wouldn’t serve me ’till I pay, so I dropped a c-note, and the kid saw the wallet and said, “Hey, that’s my wallet. Give it back!”

“Prove it,” I replied, gripping the smooth leather with my dirty fingernails.

“Driver’s License is Jonathan Hearly,” he said.

“So it is,” I said, checking the inside. “Funny, that’s my name too.”

He got all hurly-and-burly after that. But he wasn’t used to street fighting, so I clipped him in the jaw before he could even think of grabbing his cellular phone. The waiter brought the coffee and gave me my change. Meanwhile the kid rose to his feet.

“You’ll pay for that, old man,” he said. I remember back in the sixties screaming not to trust anybody over thirty. Then I turned thirty (and twenty-two, and fifty-one, seventy-six, eight, hell, I don’t remember how many ages). I wonder what happened?

I looked him hard in the eye. He was probably just like me a few years ago. I gave him back the wallet saying, “You gotta change, kid. This world ain’t just for you, y’know.”

“Right on,” he said, and hit me in the face with his notebook computer.

Don’t trust nobody over thirty. I flew into the shop window, and a sharp piece of glass sliced my jugular open. As I blacked out, I heard him cry, “Koombaya, Obi-Wan.”

End of story. I never even found out if he got arrested.

Copyright © 1999-2007 Rab Haney
All rights reserved.

Author Bio:

Currently a computer support technician in Detroit, Michigan, Rab Haney published a short story (In Defense of the I.R.S.” in college and in his hometown newspaper. He is currently working on publishing a science fiction novel as well as a few short works.

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