Greg Goble: The Collected Works

Prologue to: The Three Rules of the Gargoyle
Remembrance is a virtue,
Time is merely a shape, twisted and torn beyond recollection,
Thus, it seems that one who fears their own presence
Even still, that someone must be sure to comprehend their own pride,
Run, please run from the monster within,
And hide from your own faith, but be sure to cover your tail.

Do not use fancy hypno-talk to decree your loves.
Speak of care giving, but more of care taken away,
Lose your won innocence in a timely, surreal kingdom.
A kingdom with the infinity set to the entrance of the soul.

Here is where you
Realize you complete
Loss of that known
Only as
“Love”



















The Three Rules of the Gargoyle

Twelve hundred years ago a cathedral was built on the plains of England. Jirab Clossure was overseeing its construction. As its future priest he was very involved in all aspects of the construction of the cathedral. He looked at and approved each blue print of each sector before the work commenced. He personally cared for each injured worker and spent hours discussing intricate details with architectural designers. But there was one project in particular that he had insisted upon doing himself. This was the carving of the gargoyle statues, and as the cathedral neared completion he began his work.
Each morning Jirab would walk to the roof of the cathedral where two men would attach him to a harness and lower him down to the specified block of stone that he would work on that day. He made each carving intricate, taking time to put in detail that would never be seen from the distance. The eyes of each face were diligently detailed. Each nose was taken into great care so as to look like it belonged on each face. He gave each a personality that he distinguished with the smallest of details. He would give a wiser gargoyle a set of wrinkles. He would thin the lips and extend the teeth of an aggressive gargoyle. Each one became an individual that was a part of the whole mechanism meant to strike fear and wonderment into the masses that this holey place would one day hold. And finally the whole cathedral was finished.
The structure was a compliment to the modern architecture of the time. Each stone had been designed to fit the next in an intricate pattern, which surrounded, supported, and entered the structure. At the front were two huge doors that came together to form the outline of an arch. There was a deep black color that gave an impression of infinity when the large, oaken doors gaped inwards. Seeing the pure black open up to reveal the sparkling marble white floor created an affect that illuminated the inside of the building with a sort of “light at the end of the end of the tunnel” affect. As one walked into the cathedral the sights of jewelry and decorations that covered the walls of the entryway bombarded them. To the left, upon the walls of perfectly etched stone, hung a magnificent array of intricately designed gems set to capture the imagination and “inspire religion.” Small patterns of stars, circles, and crosses were set into a grand display of red, crystal, and green that all came together to form simply “I Am”. It was put in the beginning of the hall to counteract the affects of the right side of the same section of the hall. Here were painted crude and vicious paintings displaying the worst stories that the great book had to offer. Scenes of remorse and terror fronted for the stories of cruelty, misjudgment, and betrayal that continued down the hall’s wall. The two sides collided; heaven and hell’s battle, forever locked in brutal combat.
The end of the hall opened into a large room that was to be the mainstay for those seeking to give prayer and praise to God. The pillars that stood at the threshold of the invisible gate, like sentries, seemed to crawl through the air to the ceiling and slide down in a never ending, all encompassing, path that lead to nowhere and began in the same place, at the same moment. Through the surreal gate ran lines of pews that sat with the intention of making all people feel comfortable. Each one was carefully made and uniquely carved to fit a separate persona. Some were intricate and fancy, going so far as to be waxed, whereas others seemed raw and built by unprofessional hands. But each was made with a purpose; with reason and character constructed in the wood. Each was built to relieve, relax, and bring each person closer to God. Behind the altar, the construction created power, built confidence, and strengthened voices. Its obvious fault was corruption. Its ultimate intention was to test. Surrounding the altar was a cascade of candles which wrapped around it in perfectly placed position. One candle was set at the front of the stage in a long, slender tube that shined with a golden-brass color. It stood taller than the rest and shimmered in such a way that it drew the eyes to the person at the podium directly behind it. The surrounding candles each stood upon equally slender holds, slightly shorter and pure white. They were there to add majesty without taking any of the podium’s power. When the candles were lit they illuminated the face of whom ever stood at the podium to speak. The grandness of the scene created an enormous feeling of power unequaled by any synthetic experience. Jirab intended it this way so that all focus was directed at only one person. So that the feeling and the absolute power would bring about each sliver of corruption inside even the purest of men. He, of course, tested the display on himself before subjecting anyone else to it.
As Jirab took his place in front of that first crowd he attempted to make the display come to life in a chronological order, which he felt would bring about the greatest effect in cloaking the speaker in a shroud of power. One that if not handled properly would destroy their innocence. To begin, he took his place behind the podium. Then, one by one, his young helpers lit the candles. Two of them performed this task, beginning in the rear, with each going in opposite directions and both ending at the elaborate front candle. Then they would extend their lighters and together, light the last candle. The helpers would then disappear into the background invisible to every ones eyes, thereby creating a curtain affect that opened to reveal Jirab (or whoever was standing at the podium in that moment). The emotion that was connected to being revealed and isolated to crowd in this way made Jirab’s heart pump differently. Made his veins swell and his heart crash into his ribs ever so quietly. As excitement built inside him, his presence exuded confidence and calm. Inside he wanted to jump with joy, outside he was stone faced, demanding attention, and receiving it. The experience was unequaled and it seemed that any man could have made followers out of any number of men by standing in the flickering illumination. As Jirab spoke, he sensed this power. Without concentration he could have easily forgotten his weaknesses and turned them into wronging strengths. This is what he wanted and what he had hoped for. It was not impossible to retain ones dignity and self control but lesser men would not survive.
Outside the view contained a granite majesty. Towers with holy bells rose from the ground to touch the sky. The windows at the top providing only enough room to barely contain the swinging bells. The walls were roughly carved, keeping each large stone separated and unique from its uniform partners. The rough, elegant sides crawled to the ceiling and continued to its top, with each gargoyle proudly displayed. There were twenty-four of the water dispensing stone creatures in all. Jirab’s art had created a similarity that created a remembrance of each in the next. Through Jirab’s design each contained a character and a personality all its own.
Each creature stared out into the night with a different look and a different personality concealed behind their eyes. One set of eyes warned while another set was cruel and unforgiving. There were eyes that stared right through a person and others, which did not acknowledge any presence no matter how strong. Each look was meant to strike a different nerve of fear. Each eye, whether a look of dread, remorse, fear, or danger, was a look of immortal calm and endless patience. The eyes, though stone cold, enveloped on-lookers in the gaze of a bright shining sun that watched over and guarded each from the horror hidden inside the same gazing eyes.
The entire structure was Jirab’s definitive vision. The structure had developed from mind’s eye to a grand sight of stone and marble. Jirab had made this cathedral his life’s work, putting his heart and soul into its construction. His pride was especially reflected in his own humble quarters.
The room was small and isolated with the little decoration inside, symbolizing the essence of all that Jirab had sweated and worked for. It was a perfect eight and one half by eight and one half foot square that had been constructed in such a way so that as one entered the room and faced the wall opposite the door, they faced exactly north and to the left one faced precisely west and so on. Set in the center of the floor was an elaborate compass that was divided into thirty notches, each twelve degrees apart, and of varying lengths. Traveling east from the northwest corner of the room lay Jirab’s bed. It was in no way an elaborate setup. Merely four legs with a frame lay atop them. Above the frame was a cushion that lacked any sort of design within it. The bed was plain and ordinary. For who would it impress? There was no one that Jirab could imagine that would care what his bed looked like or how it was designed. Besides that he could not think of anyone who would have enough authority to enter his private quarters without his accompaniment and approval. Just south of the northeast corner of the room, was a piece of stone. The slab was fairly large, going almost half way up the eight and one half-foot wall. It was actually a piece of the outside wall that had been “shaven” to even the outside of the cathedral. The wall was a rough, crude piece that had not been polished and retained the original coarseness that had begun this project. The wall was rotated upon a connecting axis to the wall of the room at an approximate thirty-degree angle, letting in just enough to its back for all of Jirab’s purposes. Idle curiosity attracted all privileged eyes to this piece. In such an empty room it was... decoration. As the interested guest would near the stone, he would see carvings and as his eyes focused, the etches would turn into letters, and the letters to words, and the words into names. When Jirab would be asked who these men were he would respond by saying. “They are the mens’ names whose hands you may shake in thanks for the construction of this cathedral.” But most mistook this for the entire explanation of the ornament; it was not. It was on an angle for purposes of concealment and reasons to reveal. Written on the other side of the slab were more names. The names of the men no one would be able to thank for the cathedral’s construction. It was a much more private memorial which, Jirab Clossure felt, gave meaning to what these people had done. The ceiling and walls had been cut straight from the stone, allowing the room to remain a piece of the cathedral. The floor was a gray marble, peppered with white specks. The room was adorned no further.
The cathedral was his masterpiece and he treated and cared for it as such. He was careful to look for slight imperfections, and quick to fix them. Sometimes it was something so simple that Jirab would be able to repair it with the scratch of a fingernail. Other times it was something that could mean the difference between the survival and destruction of the cathedral. He frequently took walks around the structure to simply admire. It was on such a night that things would change, and tradition would be formed.
It was a warm night, the fog was lighter than usual, and the cathedral walls were luminescent in the basking glow of a full moon. Jirab’s steps were soft as he circled the outside of the cathedral. The warm air made the nipping breeze on his neck feel like the soothing touch of a cold hand on a hot summer’s day. It was a subduing feeling that relaxed each bone in his body. As he walked alongside the wall he watched it form in front of him. The elongated neck, the piercing, overbearing eyes, and the exposed, predatory teeth were his own design. They were his vision of a horrific leader, heading a frightening band whose only weapon was intimidation. The affect worked; even on Jirab. He stared into the overpowering affects of his own stone carvings. The gargoyles allowed the entourage of fear to run its course before speaking.
“Listen well.” The voice was deep and mystical. It echoed through the air with sound that surrounded Jirab, penetrated him, and engulfed him. The voice burned all around him, captured him, and ignited his soul. “A pact will we make upon this night, a contract for our pleasure. An agreement providing our cooperation. Three acts you will perform for us, three things that will be done, two punishments, should these not be carried out. One reward to complete your life. Our home is a glorious construction. Beautifully designed with grand intention. Our reward for your cooperation shall be the preservation of this structure to the end of immortality. The first two rules will be followed or death shall follow the breaching of the contract, punishment for the third will be much more severe. Should this rule ever be broken, it will be a sacrifice of your world.”
Jirab listened, frightened to speak, surprised to hear, and deep in thought. His mouth could emit no sound, and his ears swallowed each detail with an inquisitive interest that he could not shut out. He listened and analyzed everything. The voice did not seem right, it was so all encompassing, but it was one voice. The affect was something he could not see and nothing he would have foreseen. Throughout the outside of the cathedral each gargoyle spoke the same words in precise unison out into the open air. Jirab’s mind wallowed in wonder as he tried to process the decrees in a practical manner that shut out the idea of him listening to a piece of stone that was radically out of place. Was he simply imagining the entire thing? It would be so easy to pass it off as a vision created by the stress of all these years. But he could not take that chance with such serious punishments, and such a reward would only be worthy based on the demands. All these thoughts happened in a split second pause before the gargoyles continued.
“First; you will not perform public sermon on Tuesdays. You will use this day instead for your own personal, spiritual gain.
Second; the golden candle will be lit each night at sunset, and we shall extinguish it with the dawning of the sun.
Be warned once again that if these rules are not followed death shall befall he who is directly responsible.
Third; you will not leave this house empty.
And should it be left unguarded and our race endangered in such a careless manner; your race will not survive.”
The rules seemed simple, if a bit unusual, and easily followed. The most interesting request was the lighting of the golden candle. It was the only one without a purpose. A test of faith and trust perhaps. The reasoning was not important; the true concern was the threat of death for a task so easily accomplished. The idea behind the cancellation was clear and brilliant. It gave Jirab a day of rest and a day each week to renew his personal acquaintance with God. The third was an obvious decree of self-preservation, and its punishment was a warning that radiated with revenge.
The solid stone again began to move as though it were liquid. The gargoyle, so perfectly carved, melted into the whirlpool of the wall. Each pebble was swirled into the others in a flowing cold lava effect that molded and remolded in endless shapes. The phenomenon made its was up the wall where it reformed to the solid state of its origin. When it reached its original placement it reformed to its natural state as though it had never moved. Everything was back in place and the night returned to normal. Jirab stood with a hysterical calm trying to sort out the night. He wondered whether it was real. Whether any of it had happened.
He walked back inside to ponder the words and prepare the actions that would be required. It seemed to be set up in such a perfect way. The sun had set not long ago, tomorrow was Tuesday, and if the doors were closed to the world, he would be the only one left inside. But he did not know whether it had been real, and he did not know if the commands began immediately. The candle was a definite test, but it would also be his test. He reached for the matches hidden behind the podium and lit one. The spark rose to a flame, and the flame jumped to the candle, and the candle burned in the darkness. The wick and wax were of the finest quality and if it were extinguished when dawn settled, he would know to obey. He went to bed, to think, to sleep, and to dream.
Jirab awoke the next morning with one thing on his mind, which would turn to many more. He rose from his bed and went directly to see whether the candle was still burning. As he passed through the halls he felt anxiety building inside him, as he wondered if the flame would still be burning, and if he wanted it to or not. He still could not decide if the tasks justified the reward, but they were simple and could follow then easily. He turned the corner and there stood the candle; with the flame that he had set upon it the night before gone. It was not a crushing blow nor was it a tremendous relief. To Jirab it was merely proof of fact. This fact meant many things needed to be accomplished quickly. The doors would remain locked this day and Jirab would spend it praying, meditating, and growing. He had plenty to think about today and his main concern was a predecessor. He needed to find someone who would follow these rules in the blind faith of tradition, and who would pass them on along with the story of the night before. He stared at the empty wick of the foremost candle and let it all sink in, fade, and connect to him and to the walls of the building.
And so tradition was formed and a follower of the faith was chosen to pass on the story of the three rules of the gargoyle. Before he died, Jirab was given one of the highest honors of the day. The King of England gave Jirab a family shield and sword, which were hung in the walls of the cathedral to honor him. When Jirab died he had taken many precautions to choose a successor that would carry out all these things, and who would also be able to choose a successor who would do the same. Each new priest was carefully screened through Jirab’s own test upon the podium. And each kept the tradition of three rules that had become the basis to a story that was long ago forgotten to be real. Nevertheless the rules were followed and the cathedral never bore a scar.
For five hundred years the rules of the gargoyle were followed precisely, until a young man by the name of John Rodenburgh made a fatal mistake. Such a small mistake which could have been avoided so easily. It is amazing that things so simple become the curse of careless neglect, and that the consequence of that curse can be so serious as to kill. These are the lessons John Rodenburgh learned quickly and painfully.
John was a mere alter boy in those years where discovery was becoming a part of life and a young boy had many things on his mind, the least of which were keeping with age old tradition. There were so many new things to do and learn that John could not manage to keep up. School was becoming something common and being able to read was an exciting adventure that few in the past had been able to do. Reading was something that gave John such a thrill and he could not wait for the day that he would be able to pick up the Holy Book and follow along in its scriptures for himself. He would also spend some of his time hunting and practicing in the art of gaming. Of course, some of his free time was also spent in pursuing women. Though he was still young he was already being hassled be many of his friends who had already lost their virginity. John would proclaim in defense that he was an altar boy and would be doomed to spend eternity in hell if he was to lose his virginity while he remained an altar boy. The truth was of course that John could not convince a woman to bed him; but male pride allowed him to defy such a fact in front of friends.
The night of the doomed service was grand, as were most of the services held in the Cathedral Clossure. It was a crowded Sunday sermon, as all Sunday sermons were. People from every part of society came to confess their sins, praise their God, and learn the day’s lesson. The variety was provided by the uniqueness of the pews. They were designed to make everyone feel comfortable about entering the building, and the people they attracted were certainly diverse. Near the back corner of the auditorium sat six young men only slightly older than John, who would not have gone to church in their lives if not for the comfort offered by their seats. The pew in which they sat offered many things to make these men feel at ease. It sat in an inconspicuous corner that was shadowed so that it radically concealed the people who sat in it. To these men this was a relaxing feeling. For they attended the university and would not have felt good with the knowledge that everyone was watching as the “new breed of people”. The carvings set into the long wooden seat made them feel both a part of the church and a part of this new world of ideas that they were exploring. Scriptures that defined the goodness and the need for knowledge were written all across the lumber beginning at its back and traveling the length of it. When there had been no more room to finish the last scripture, it had been transferred to the back of the next pew. Those four words, though accidental, became an imminent symbol of the pew's feel. “... now I can see.” The tribute to the pew had continued from there and had become an intricate piece of the aura of the seating. An appropriate quote was placed in front of each seat to make each person feel at ease. Those who sat in the front were expected to feel so comfortable with their surroundings that they needed nothing more. The affects at the altar were great, as always, and the day went well. The night was drawing closer and the time for lighting the candle was close. That night John was told to light the candle; that night John did not light the candle.
The details of why are unimportant. The specifics of how do not matter. The knowledge that the candle was not burning meant everything.
The mind of a unified creature captured the image of a lonely string void of flame. The image was noted as a mistake. As something which displayed lack of responsibility and carelessness. A simple mistake which stemmed from a simple task. The test of loyalty and understanding had been ignored. The punishment for such ignorance would be nothing unique, but most impressive. Death was universally effective and usually unforgettable, if done correctly.
The flame lit up the marble white floor and was extinguished by the breath of the cathedral with the dawning of the sun. Two days had passed since the sun had risen without the tension of the moment tightened the walls.
The sermon began in its normal manner and would continue at an unexpected angle that would shock, amaze, and remind. The beginning was typical as the arrogance of power began to overtake the podium. John and his mirror altar boy were lighting the candles in their sequential order. They met at the center candle and simultaneously lit its string. They separated and allowed the curtain to open. And as quickly it started to close. From corners that separated wall from floor they emerged. In two equal numbered parts they came. From opposite sides and similar edges they closed the curtain and contained the captivation. Everyone watched the creatures they knew so well wander to an unknown goal.
The creatures moved in different manners according to the biology of their anatomy. The gargoyles that lead each band of invincible warriors had no legs or wings. The bottom of their bodies melted in the floor with the same thick liquid waves as Jirab had seen so many years earlier. The stomach of their bodies swam through the fluid as both groups began to converge upon Johnathan. Behind the front lines followed the largest of the gargoyles. These impressive monsters emerged from the wall like shadows taking form and color. The large, stone, muscular bodies rippled with the atonement of lethal enforces. As their feet rose with each step the liquid floor beneath remained attached to the bottom of their feet, following every move, every rise, every fall. Their wings flared in an impressive display that created, enhanced, and induced fear. Behind the giant brutes of rock followed the quicker and far more aggressive small soldiers. Some crawled on all four legs, while others walked on two short compact legs. With each movement these creatures created different waves in the floor beneath them. The waves were chaotic with no set pattern whatsoever; that randomness added to their image. This last line of attack was the picture of insanity. It began with the non-uniform movement and climaxed in their faces. Their stone cold eyes burned with unfocused fury. With teeth bared they began to run in and break rank. The slaughter had begun.
With their fury finally focused they began the ruthless killing of young John Rodenburgh. With razor sharp stone claws they dug into any part of his body that their hands struck. They attacked quickly and efficiently with the most amount of damage that could be inflicted without killing. Blood ran from every part of his body. The red liquid ran as thick as the floor beneath the attackers. It gushed from his stomach and dripped from his mouth. Each shoulder was a patch of dark crystal red. The initial attackers stepped back and allowed the flesh and blood to drop to the floor and drowned in the pool of marble. Death was imminent for the tragic young example, but by no means quick. The advancing front lines reached him simultaneously from each side. With casual grace they crawled up the mangled form until they had reached its neck. There each mouth took one half of the soft fleshy neck, allowing the head to teeter upon the wind, and drop to the floor. The death being accomplished they crawled away and one large, menacing gargoyle stepped forward. It grabbed the head as it began to sink, following the rest of the figure into the floor. The beast displayed the head for many seconds and let it sink once more. And once again the curtain opened, revealing the shocked face of an unprepared priest and no evidence of the slaughter that had been displayed for all. In the priest's mind three words rang over and over; “do not forget”. The three rules were followed for another seven hundred and tradition was saved.
For twelve hundred years the cathedral stood like a polished ornament in a land that was quickly decorated and redecorated. The stones remained as new. The walls and floor had never been scrubbed but they shined with brand new finish. The structure looked fully restored but had never been. For so many years not a stain embellished its body. Until Jim Rodan announced his presence.
Jim Rodan was a man with new ideas and fresh views of the world and its workings. He was next in line for the priesthood of the cathedral. He was an American who had devoted his life to God, and vowed to serve him at all cost. His education far exceeded any of the other priests in the history of the cathedral. Four years at a university had preceded his arrival. He was a man who allowed common sense to interfere with his judgment, and was not a man to let superstition and “true religion” mix He carried an explanation with him for many previously unexplained things. He had spent countless hours of his collegiate study examining the intricacies and apparent magic of the structure. But the realization of its grandeur was only present upon entering Cathedral Clossure. Father Rodan’s impression as he first walked in was no different than the impression of millions of other people throughout the centuries as they had entered the sanctuary. Despite his studying and all his former knowledge, it was still awe-inspiring. He thought he was prepared and that made it far more impressive. He entered with ideas of revision and renewal. He wanted to add to its majesty; in a word he wanted to modernize.
Physically he was like the flickering light of the golden candle. The most important piece in an intricate system of influence and power. But alone he was also as bright as that one flickering light. His forehead wrinkled with ages of worry set into the young skin. His face was clean shaven with the bones of his cheeks protruding in an impression of what was seemingly malnutrition. His arms and body looked no better. To watch him from a distance, it seemed as though one was staring at a dead man. But close up he was one of the most intimidating and powerful men to ever come up against; his only influence were his eyes. That deep granite color could influence, ignore, and weaken in the same moment. They swallowed people whole, consumed them, and digested them by any means chosen. They were a weapon that he had learned to harness, and one he used with no care of pretense. In all situations he knew he could control anyone, and he did often and affectively.
He began his position by looking over the budget and evaluating things that could be cut and things he felt should be improved. That night many changes were made on paper and an ancient contract was broken. His first sermon went well. He spoke of change and improvement. He explained that change was a part of God’s plan and that the time to dispel ancient rumors had come. For twelve hundred years the cathedral had been closed each Tuesday. Now it would be open, because change was imminent and progress and the care of the people needed to come before the enforcement of rules created for no biblical purpose. That night the candle was not lit. It was Monday. The next morning the doors remained unlocked and the people came for the only Tuesday sermon. Tuesday night the candle remained unlit. Wednesday morning Cathedral Clossure would be empty.
As father Rodan wandered the halls that night he met his end. It began in the form of eighteen rather small stone figures. The aggressive gargoyles came from the opposite end of the ball. The first lunged for his side. The snapping jaws gripped soft flesh and tore. Jim Rodan began to run. Blood drooled from his side as he made a frantic attempt to escape. From the corner of his eye he saw the glint of medal that could save him. He grabbed the sword that stood as a tribute to the memory of Jirab Clossure. It lay heavy in his arms and flexed the torn muscle at his side. He screamed as the blood ran hard. Another gargoyle leapt with its teeth exposed and his claws outstretched. Jim bore down on the pain and swung the sword. He watched as the stone disintegrated from the contact of the metal and completely disappeared. More leapt and more were massacred. One by one they disappeared into an unseen nothing. Unseen by Rodan. Unheeded by the collective soul of the gargoyle. As they disappeared, Jim watched two snake-like heads slowly advance toward him. Again he swung his sword, again they vanished. A large intimidating gargoyle followed. Confidence flowed through Rodan and he swung once more, and once more the threat was gone. Two of the same followed with the same result. Twenty-three gargoyles had been vanquished; one remained. This last one was not one. It had the mind, knowledge, and flesh of all the rest. Jim swung again, but this time he missed. The speed was incredible. The slash of razor slicing his back was painful. They started between the shoulder blades and cut down to his tale bone. The blood fell like water from his back. The surge of pain caused him to drop the sword. The great beast lifted him by his neck. The stone eyes stared into his silver-gray ones. He could not penetrate them. The blood ceased to flow and his air supply ran dry. Black filled his vision and he slumped over and died. With his death two rules were enforced and the third rule of the gargoyle was broken.



































Epilogue
I am writing this letter in hopes that some sentient being may still survive this dreaded world of death that we have inherited. Death covers our land in every form. Corpses lie in the streets. Some bleed, some lay dry with age, and others in this world where civilization has been lost to time and tragedy. The, now, almost ancient art of vorkanism is one of the most popular methods of death available. There are, of course, other methods of death. There are many slow and painless methods, many quick painless methods, and many painful deaths, both quick and torturous.
People die all around me in every form and I watch them and I wonder how I should choose to die. A man down the street and on its opposite side confides in vorkanism. He sits at the edge of the road with the tank of mixed gas standing next to him. He places the small, plastic mask over his mouth and nose; and turns the nozzle. The gas flows through the clear tubing with a green mist. The man breathes deeply and lets the toxins slowly drift him to sleep. His sleeping state slows the flow of blood, and the poison stops it. He is a lucky man; but he is a coward. Someone who took the easy way out of a situation that we must all find a way out of. No. I will not go out that way. Not when I think of what this earth has gone through because of my people. Down the road somewhat closer to me a younger man makes a bolder escape. He injects himself with the most potent mixture of drugs that he could accumulate. He sits there and lets the high reach its absolute maximum. Then he reaches for the knife sitting in front of him. With his senses completely stymied he plays the knife across his chest with murderous results. Others find even strangers ways of bringing out creative genius and combining it with death and pleasure. A woman stands naked and offers her body to any man who will behead her with her sword after he has been relieved. It is tempting to end her life in such fashion, but my own suffering would continue. And why should she be allowed to be free when I will remain in torment. Infinite methods of death abound in this world; at this time. But one death above all the rest is the most horrid. Attempted survival.
To be killed by refusing to sacrifice your life is by far the worst way to die in this age, and some feel it is the only honorable way. Those who will not submit to their environment and choose to survive among the carnage, proudly damn themselves to the final demise. For these people, death arrives in a stone cold form that detriments their life before destroying it.
Rumor has it that this destruction originated with two men. Ancient cousins who broke ancient rules at different periods in time. They say the first broke only one rule and the second broke all three. What the rules were no one can say. We only know that they were broken, and that we wish they would not have been.

Post Script I would leave my name, but in this day and age when the importance of existence is so extreme and that of education so minor. I regret to think that I will write it for naught.