Oliver Q. was in pain. It could have been a headache from the sun or a form of nausea attributed to the sight of his blood (accompanied in turn by violent vomiting). Still, things such as those could not be responsible, as they could never cause this manifestation of pain, which he felt. It was the pain of all of life’s mysteries being discovered; and the answer is to make you suffer. It was the pain of everyone you know deciding you weren’t worth it, deciding that you should suffer and, to rub it in, you know it’s true. That and the fact that on this bright and sunny May afternoon, Oliver Q. was hit by a meteor.
As Oliver lay there dying, under this huge black and molten rock (which had landed just below his knees, simultaneously shattering the bones of his legs and fusing them to the ground), he might have wondered “why?” He might have wondered who would do such a thing. Anyone would certainly ponder those exact questions. Though Q. already knew who and why, and he was now probably contemplating death, for with the enemy he was facing, there was no second chance, no salvation, no hope. Alternatively, he might have merely been in shock, as he was recently hit by a rock from outer space.
If he looked deep inside himself, he might have found memories of his youth, where he first met the apple of the Tree of Knowledge. All that time ago, when he was an adolescent in a big city, and how he strayed from his friends just long enough to be forced into an alley. If he focused, he might have recalled that there had been snow on the ground, and that it had sparkled like the still illuminated, yet charred coals of the meteor that now paralyzed him. He might have seen the tuque on the offender’s bald head, or the generally unpleasant look on his face. Even if he did remember that, Q. would not have spent much time focusing on such trivial matters as eye colour or designer apparel, for he would have feared his imminent knifing. As this strange and unmotivated murder would have been about to happen, he would recall slipping and falling, hitting his head sharply.
Something he would recall would be that when he looked up, he saw a hovercraft of sorts. Coincidentally that same hovercraft was in front of him now, just a few paces from where he lay in a bloody heap.
He called it ‘the toilet bowl’ (both a comment on its general dimensions and what he thought of its principal inhabitant). It was made of a polished metal which glimmered similarly to what his exposed patella would look like if he were to wipe away the blood and tendons (if it hadn’t been shattered). Exhaust came from the grill under it, probably due to the amount of power necessary to power the elaborate dashboard on top of the machine. The dashboard had a bunch of blinking buttons spaced around approximately 50 small dials, all disseminated in a seemingly arbitrary manner, whose functions only the architect of such a device would know.
Though he was gone now, in this memory a small old...