Ray Bradbury died this week at 91. I read his passing described as a tragedy, but nine decades is a fine run by any accounting. To our great reward, he made the world a better place than he found it, influencing the culture through his stories. I only remember seeing him speak once in Los Angeles soon after my westward relocation. It was the late 90’s. He railed against “Internet bullies” (a phrase I remember because the technological advances of the day seemed so beyond my comprehension) and talked about a lunch he hosts where a revolving roster of writers discuss craft and workshop their latest manuscripts. He listed some of the past and then current attendants. The names were quite impressive.

Bradbury was handed down to me by my oldest brother. Our house was small and crowded, all our rooms cluttered, but, of all that clutter – my Dad’s trains and models, my brother Steve’s models and movie posters, my sister’s dolls and Barbie madness, my comic books and Star Wars junk pile – Bill’s was the most interesting (my Mother is absent from this list due to her role as manager of the clutter free common areas).

Bill’s room contained a library of paperbacks that tested the strength of the rickety red shelves mounted to the wall above his bed and overflowed onto high stacks upon his floor. To take one in hand randomly meant you now possessed an extrapolated future contained by the promise of an ornate cover illustration. Names like Mattheson, Dick, King, Block, and Moorcock adorned so many, but the names I turned to consistently were Ellison and Bradbury.

Fahrenheit 451

The Martian Chronicles

The Illustrated Man

Something Wicked This Way Comes

It was such an important room. Everything I know about stories and writing I found there. These are childhood memories set in summertime, the kind that Bradbury loved, where my teenage brother lays sprawled on his bed beside his window while holding a novel to his face. The heat and my interruptions caused him to scowl every time I came looking for something new to read. I know he let me keep some of the books I borrowed. I’m staring at their cracked spines on my own overcrowded bookshelves right now. I know none cost more than the twenty-five cents stamped on top by the employees of the used bookstore not far from our house.

Twenty-five cents. Incredible. What a bargain for a lifetime’s worth of imagination. Newer editions with better binding and finer cover illustrations stand guard around those older copies. There were more, but many have come and gone as gifts to strangers and acquaintances whose own libraries were so sadly devoid of Dandelion Wine. It has been too long since I reached past those sentries to enjoy a sojourn with Ray Bradbury. But, tonight, in memoriam, I want to read about firemen and the temperature that paper burns.

Good night, Ray. You’ll be missed.

Dissecting the Entrepreneur

This story turned ten years old this week.  It’s a good, scary bit of work inspired by a report on NPR I heard while driving the streets of Los Angeles, and some personal darkness I had to deal with at the time.  It’s the product of withdrawals, sleepless nights, and cigarettes.  It remains one of my greatest hits.  Enjoy.

Tarrabuye was just another backend, shithole village in South Central Africa; population of a couple of hundred, gods older than the dirt the natives slept on.  An eighteenth century relic resting in the middle of the twenty-first.  Rumor tells that the villagers kill and eat Christian missionaries to keep the modern world away and steal the power of its gods.  Nice thought.  I don’t like Christians either  But the modern world is knockin’ ‘cause we need Terrabuye.

Welsh squawks through my earpiece.

“It’s all clear,” he whispers.  “Infrared shows no sentries.”

“They’re just waiting for the harvest,” I mutter.  This moment before it begins always makes me wistful.  Thoughts of another life in a beautiful, untouched world makes me regret the choices that brought me here under the cover of night.  Then I remember the money and the real existence.  Regret turns to envy and anger.  Usually helps get the job done.

“Reapers.  Maneuver Roosevelt.  Usual stats and frequencies,” I order  “Headkills will only be accepted, gentlemen, if lethal force is required, as per your contracts.  DO NOT DAMAGE ANY VITAL ORGANS.”

It always worked to format.  The boys are pros, learned the work under my eye.  Step 1 requires stealth, so the sneakiest ones approach the huts or trailers real quiet and toss in the gas.  Gas alone gets us a good score, but someone always wakes up screaming

Step 2: organized chaos; we stay organized while confusion overtakes the targets.  They run, screaming questions and commands in their incomprehensible baby talk.  The shooters target them while they scatter, increasing the score with the claws.  It’s a simple machine.  Getting hit by one hurts enough, but it holds onto the flesh and sends an electromagnetic pulse through the nervous system.  Fries like a bitch, but that’s the downside of running from the gas.  The sleepers never know they’re dead.  The shocked have terror as their last memory

“Dooley…check this out,” Rankin laughs over the comm. The stragglers are making cover.  Our numbers look good so we don’t hunt, so we all saunter over to Rankin.

She crouches before us, an angry tigress protecting her cubs against a score of hyenas.  Determination tightens her jowls while she waves the rusty .38 at the eight figures wearing dark armor.  Rankin disengages his faceplate unable to contain his giggles.  No one else gets it, and he’s violated a reg with the exposure.

“Look at her….She’s gonna kill us.”

The gun thunders and Rankin screams.  Unprepared for the kick, the woman fall, dropping her piece.  Her wrist swells, sprained or broken.

Blood drizzles from Rankin’s ear.  Crusty burns border the space that was once the lobe.  His buggy eyes singe furious before he goes for his piece, but I’m quicker with the remote.  His armor seizes, and he squirms, a prisoner of his own prowess.

“Remember your contract, Timmy,” I say with a smile.  The rest of the reapers finish the work, laughing.


“Easy?” Louis chuckles as he lights another cigarette.  “When did you want the work to become hard?”

Mango juice sticks to my fingers.  Waxy skin falls to the floor in strips, revealing the sweet fruit within.

“It’s not a hunt.  It’s not interesting anymore.  Rickety huts and decaying trailers.  There’s no challenge.”

Three long drags.  That’s how Louis chainsmokes.

“Carl, we specifically targeted fourth world nations to supply our product.”

“Product,” I hiss.  “That’s fresh.”

“That’s all they are,” he answers.  Then the smoldering ember of one smoke brings life to its next of kin.  “This continent doesn’t exist by civilized law.  There’s tribal warfare, rampant epidemics, rape, and institutionalized ignorance.  We’re doing these poor souls a favor.”

“Bullshit!  We’re in this for profit!”

“True,” he grins through his yellow teeth.  “But we come from the land of opportunity.  And in our culture the pursuit of profit defines nobility.”

“We’d be in jail in our culture.”

“Which is why we operate over here.  Here they can’t see us, so their morality is not offended by our necessary service.  Do you know that 32% of our yearly grosses comes from corporate and governmental research.  They’re restricted by their own laws, so they come to the black market for their fetal tissue and organ donors, and the black market is we.”

This discussion occurs every time I harvest for extended periods.  The gore and screams wear on me.  My weariness exceeds my age by a thousand years.

“How’s Rankin?” Louis wonders.

“He’s in the cutting room watching the women who shot him and her kids get dissected.”  I return to my mango momentarily.  “He’s tired, Louis.  We’re all tired.”

Another cigarette burns with noxious contemplation.

“So, that’s how you want to die?” I ask.  “Wheezing?”

“I have lungs to spare should I require a set.”

“Yeah, but they might not take.”

“I’ll use DNA sheathing.”

“Sheathing only brings the success rate of transplants to 45%.”

Louis exhales the gray ghosts of air sacks.

“Between the cancer suppressants and the strides in cloning technology, we’ll be out of business and they’ll be able to grow me any organ I need  It’s been a big year, Carl.  Why don’t you and your crew take a few days to unwind while I package the product for delivery.”

I toss the mango near the trash, wiping my hands on my jeans while I walk to the door  It was too soft.  Too ripe.

“I’ll be in Bay Town getting drunk and fucking whores.”

“Don’t catch anything foul.”

“Too late for that.”

“Really?” Louis muses, rolling his next cigarette between his yellow fingers.  “Internal or external?”

“You’re not the only one waiting to have new parts grown.”

“You poor boy,” he smiles.  “Why don’t you grab yourself a new cock?”

“I’d rather hold onto my lumpy Irish curse than fall into that 55%.”  I open the door en route to escapism.  “Don’t try to find me for a while.”



The hatred of Whites in Bay Town runs through ancient memory.  It was a slave port long ago where the natives watched their kin shackled and loaded onto to old frigates and cargo ships.  People on the street don’t look up at pale faces, and there’s a fuck you behind every pleasant smile.

They hate my skin, my language, and that, when I appear, they belong to me.  The cops and militia are mine; blind to me and my men by the shimmer of my bribes.   The owners of the dope dens and brothels know that my resources exceed theirs, and value my business.  They’ve never tried to kill me.  I guess they know the habits of this devil and his demons.  The next one might be crueler.

Mogwa says his rum is spiced, but with what he never tells.  It’s a guerilla shooter, sneaky and ferocious when it takes.  The local brew chases the rum down my throat.  The bartender binds her big tits with a half shirt, showing a little nipple.  She replaces beer after beer, leaving the bottle of rum.  Six of her coworkers wait in my room upstairs.  They know I’ll be a while.  My routine is always the same.

FOX mutters on the television, English with local subtitles.  The too pretty to be a serious journalist anchor talks about America, cloning, and organ donation.  My business.  Seems the Justice Department is investigating allegations of corruption in the program that compensates funeral costs to the families of donors from underprivileged nations.  No shit.  That’s where me and Louis found our starting capital  The Attorney General has issued subpoenas to the heads of all private, corporate, and educational research facilities in the country.  Sanctimonious motherfucker  I cut your mother’s new liver out myself.

The liquor begins to burn into the crevasses of my brain, igniting the fury repressed for too long.  My brain twists and my heart thumps double time, bombarding my body with intoxicating adrenaline.  The devil within me whispers its lies of invincibility.  I hunger for every word.

Growls rasp my throat.  Glass shatters and skewers my palm.  Warm blood fills my fist as I throw my barstool at a table.  It’s time.

A god stands, seven feet tall and dark as a moonless jungle.  No fear passes his eyes.  I press the glass deeper into my palm, letting the pain fuel me for this challenge.  I am fury and rabid chaos.

“What’s you waitin’ on, nigger?”

We clash: god against devil, good versus evil, black and white.

He lunges for me, powerful but slow.  I strike low, kicking out his knee while crushing and twisting his balls in my good hand.  He lurches forward.  I go for his throat.  The glass impaled in my open palm punctures his larynx.  The shards rips from my hand as the giant tears away.  The pain is exquisite.  The floor rumbles from his collapse to hands and knees.  His giant paw tries desperately to fill the hole in his throat.

Flesh tears as my kick shatters the giant’s jaw.  He will die soon, but I can’t cease.  I feel his face splintering below my heel.  I can see the meat that was once his head.  But that’s all he ever was to me.  Meat.

The witnesses stare at me with horror and uncertainty, and for the first time I see them for what they are.  Packages of cell and arteries, intestines and bone, organs and nerves  Every one of them just a collection of simple cells with an ego.  Powerless and worth more in pieces.

“You’re all nothing but product to me!!!”  I scream while I storm to my room.

My sex is violent and deranged.  I tell the whores to hit me and cut me with their nails  I give them razors, but they’re too afraid.  I want to know what it’s like to be in pieces, to be my prey.  The frightened refusals anger me, deepening my rage against them.  I reclaim the razors, slitting my chest and forearms.  The whores shriek as they bathe in my dark essence.  They try to run, but no one leaves until I am finished.

I remember nothing until I wake to Rankin’s giggles.  Flaky, rusty blood covers my body, the sheets, walls, and door.  I know nothing of the time, or how long I’ve been here.  That is the beauty of the binge.  It takes away so much life.

“Sweet, boss,” Rankin smiles.  “Real special.  Me and my girl didn’t sleep all night next door.  And Mogwa sure is pissed.  You sent his best to hospital in ambulance.”

There is nothing to say, no recriminations to expect.  I end life and destroy beauty knowing money will cover it all.  The gorge rising from my stomach and the dry thumping in my head are the only real consequences.  Everything else is written off as recreational expenses.



The cold train waits while we inventory and load.  Louis and I came to Africa with so little five years ago.  Now, the business thrives, and the local governments we deal with, the ones that built our train tracks and take our bribes, list us as generous foreign investors and entrepreneurs.

Something snapped in Bay Town.  I stayed for two more nights at an opium den, trying to quiet my rage, but I failed.  Used to stay dry at the complex; it made the binges sweeter and decadent.  Now, I’ve been sipping from a bottle of 7 for the week I’ve been back just to quench the d.t.’s.

I know what I am, truly.  The creature that comes out on binges when there’s no one to command and no responsibility is the real me.  The me who relishes this life and gets hard off the scent of blood and the screams of people’s fear.  That me is unstable and unfit to lead.  Our agreement was that I’d unleash him occasionally if he hid deep, deep down.  But, we’ve been clashing for supremacy since that night.  So, I add myself to the list of the untrustworthy while I take another sip of rye.  Never drank so much before or slept so little

My bottle and I take a supervisory role while the boys do the work.  Rankin pilots the pallet jacks by remote, and the loading begins.  Mullholand, Rice, and Cruz consolidate their ledgers while giggling about something.  Then Cruz walks over to Rankin.

“Drop this, Timmy?” he says, holding an ear.

“Very fucking funny, mate,” Rankin grumbles back.  “I got that bitch good for my ear.  Cut her up myself.  Revived her a bit first so’s she could watch and feel it for a while.”

“Stupid fucking risk,” I sneer.  “Potentially losing healthy product to shock because you had to torture someone for your own mistake.”  Whiskey burns angry.  “Fucking moron.”

“Says you, boss.” He grins that misshapen, arrogant smile to placate me.  “But, Ol’ Timmy found a fetus and Louis passed a bonus.  You’re right, of course, made a stupid mistake in the field.  So, I had a charm made in Bay Town to remind me not to make it again.”

He waves us over while unbuttoning his shirt.  Dangling against his chest are four necklaces,  each one smaller than the last.  At first, I think they’re seashells or coral, but, when I step closer, I see that they’re teeth.  Four strings: mommy’s was the longest, followed by the three kids.

My bottle shatters across his cheek, and Timmy Rankin howls until my hand clasps his throat  Beautiful rage ensnares me, and I don’t stop hitting him until he falls to the floor.  The others move to stop me, and I draw my .45.  Backing them down, backing them off.

I sit on Timmy’s chest, smiling as the fun begins.  He cries, screaming and covering up while I laugh and pistol whip him.  His cheekbone snaps, just like the strings on his charms.  Bits of Timmy and teeth begin to clutter the floor.

I want him dead.  I’ll cut him up and sell what’s useful.  A thousand wait to take his place, and I’ll find the one that doesn’t grin  Then the sound comes, the cocking of firearms.

They wouldn’t have the balls to draw on me unless he stood with them.  And there he is behind my crew, his little yellow legs and sandled feet trembling out of harm’s way.  My men draw on Louis’s uncertain energy.  What will I do, each of them wonders, if the boss begins to fire.

I sheath my bloody sidearm.  This insurrection infuriates me, but it can wait.  I have ideas.  Rankin rasps and cries below me.

“Carl…,” Louis begins, the hidden voice of reason.  “Carl, I-”

“In the office.  NOW!” I growl, storming past them and up the metal stairs.


Smoking sapped my endurance, a most important quality in my profession.  I quit before Africa, when I was still scoring stateside as a bounty hunter.  Louis never knew me to smoke.  I’m lighting my fourth of his contraband, English shitsticks when the office door opens.

“Carl,” he begins, softly, ”I’m your friend.  Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Louis, we’ve known each other a long time,” I snarl,” but this is the first time you’ve ever had the bad taste to call me your friend.  We don’t have that luxury.  Our familiarity does not  allow us to seek comfort from each other.  Just the opposite.  We know our roles.  I hunt, you find the prey.  You find the buyers, I make the deliveries.  We use our brains and my muscle with no questions asked!”

“Well, then, as your partner I’ve noticed that you’re exhibiting behavior detrimental to our mutual interest.  Frankly, you are losing it.  And you couldn’t have chosen a less beneficial time for a breakdown.”

“Why’s that?”

“America is coming.  The current administration is very serious about unifying this dark continent as well as finding the suppliers of all those organs and stem cells.  Many subterfuges are commencing against us.  Many of our contacts within the local governments are severing relations.  The danger is very real.”

“Yeah, yeah.  Same as the old boss.  We’re a viable industry, pal.  They’ll just want their cut.”

“They’ll want faces to parade before the press corps first, and we are the monopolists of our secret industry.  I suggest downsizing.”

“Maybe.  After this run.”

“This run is postponed.”

“I don’t think so, partner.”

Then it passes across his face; the one thing he never had a contingency for.  I empower him, and his authority falls and rises with my moods.

“Are you scared of me, Louis?”

“Of course I am.  You’re a killer, Carl, a very adept one.  Some more liberal thinkers might consider the levels of our production over the years mass murder, and the numbers would rank us among the elite in history.  But that aspect of the trade is truly yours.   I’d be dead if you wanted it.”

“While I‘m gone, think about a buyout.  Think about a new partner.”  I smile.  “Or be more willing to get your hands dirty.”


The Scooner glides over waves at about a third of her theoretical speed.  We fashioned her for our purposes, purchasing lightweight engines and battle plating for the hull from some world powers going out of business.  Tarps cover the munitions on the deck.  Freezer units, stuffed to capacity on this run, comprise most of the storage bays.  She’s a smuggler’s dream, but I named her Boris after an old movie star I saw as a kid.

Sonar and radar blip at maximum range.  International waters, all clear and calm, yet I don’t trust it.  Instinct chews on the back of my skull, so the .45 in my holster decoys the one beneath my life jacket.

My mind just won’t stop shrieking voices from my past; the million heroes I could have been.  That’s the problem.  I’m feeling for the kill, remembering that this didn’t have to be my horrible, cynical life.  A killer.  A destroyer of uncountable dreams.  I’ve created more pain than I could ever make right in this lifetime.

But isn’t that the story? The bad man does right, trying to balance the scales for all the wrong he’s done.  Maybe that’s what all those protestors for a unified Africa need, a guiding hand.  Someone who knows their enemies methods and habits because they were once his own.  Someone to even the odds because that’s how demons become angels, right?

“Ten minutes to rendezvous,” says Cruz from the helm.

My standard crew of Cruz, Rankin at weapons, and Mulholland on navigation.  We’ve made this run hundreds of times, and they’re all still here for my swan song.  Maybe I’ll ask some of them to join my band of righteous mercenaries before I burn this operation around them.

The tanker looms on the horizon.  She used to ship oil, but there ain’t much left, so many of her type were converted for more conventional shipping.  Or whatever this is.  We’ll dock, get paid, and transfer the cargo.  Simple and predictable until I notice the sonar and radar screens are no longer on.

Rankin’s pistol is in my face before I can move.  The scars I gave him deepen as he smiles and unholsters  my piece.  Cruz aims one at me, too.  Mulholland keeps his back to me, watching the subs break the surface all around Boris.  Fucking Americans.  Even the tanker is American.

“Unidentified vessel.  This is Commander Holloway of the USS Lincoln.  You are ordered to drop anchor and prepare to be boarded.”

Mulholland hands Rankin a headset.

“Lincoln this is Rankin, Tim.  Clearance Beta, 4, Alpha, Omega, 6.  The vessel is secure and prepared for your men.”

He looks at me.

“Louis got himself that partner you mentioned.  ‘fraid you‘re the patsy.”

He crashes my pistol across my jaw, sending me sprawling.  My mouth is only blood and powdered, shattered teeth.  Bone pierces my cheek, but Rankin won’t relent.

“This is the one you used on me, right!” he screams.  “You’re gonna be one ugly looking scapegoat.”

I cover up, but he kicks my back and legs while whipping the pistol off my head.  I think I feel my right eye fall out.  Oh, Timmy.  I trained you well.

Cruz gets between us.  I reach under my life jacket.

“C’mon!  C’mon!  They still want him to face charges.”

I wish I could see their faces with two eyes when they turn to see my gun.  So, I satisfy myself by blowing their balls off.  Mulholland was up and aiming by the time I stood.  Two shots crack the windshield before I hit his chest.  I put two more bullets into Cruz’s and Rankin’s head, and limp to the control console

The anchor’s down and the engine’s idle.  The navy’s already mooring motor boats to my hull.  Hard to focus against shock.  Skull rings.  Think of options.  Death.  Death and fun.  Choose latter.

Two button press, simultaneous.  Gun turrets open around the hull, spraying lead into the boarding parties.  Mortar shreds the tarp on deck, rending the tanker’s hide.  The explosions are magnificent.

Chaos ensues from two contrary objectives:  Detain me and mount a rescue.

Radio’s squawking.  Fuck you, surrender.  I hit the manual cut off for anchor and crank the throttle full.  Hard to port.  First sub I see.  Open cargo bay doors  The dump I never made before.  First taste of the business boys.

There’s space!  Open ocean.  Seconds more and I’m free!  Free to hunt again.  First that little cocksucker Louis,  then all these motherfuckers.  I’ll unify Africa against them for no other reason than revenge.  They want what I built, but I’ll burn the whole fucking continent first.

Then the torpedo tears Boris off the water, igniting the fuel cells.  I’m mounted on the console like an ornament when the air turns torrid against my back.  Clothes burn.  Skin melts against the fire until the explosion unleashes and I’m flying high above the ocean.



I see myself floating on an ocean of gore.  Cold organs of a thousand kills intermingle with warm pieces of me.  Out of body experience, I guess.  Funny how lucid I am  For a minute there, I thought I found a nobler purpose, a ticket to paradise, but it was a fantasy.  Just an excuse for more killing, and that‘s become too easy no matter what the cause.  I am, or was, too far gone for nobility.

But, you know what, in the end it didn’t make a damn bit of difference because human life is still the cheapest commodity.  What I was is too common place.  I’m just like the rest.  Meat.  A construct of simple cells with a shitty perspective.













Then came the beating of wings

I wrote this in an hour tonight, 9/20.  I put it out there as a challenge on a writer’s community I belong to called bookcountry to free write for one hour and post the results.  Only two other writers participated, but the excitement of the doing made it all worthwhile even if I was alone. 

When I write I feel extraordinary and I don’t quite understand why I keep myself separated from this feeling of accomplishment so often.  Even before this hour began I was regretting posting the challenge.  But, forcing myself into situations I’m sure to enjoy is often my MO.

Here is the story.  For lack of a better title I’ll call it…


Solace watched the blaze from the rooftop blocks away.  The building below his feet was only four stories high, short for Manhattan, and nondescript except that he remembered it once housed a Tower Records.  Simpler times.  Less immediate gratifications.  These streets once provided safe harbor for the alternate and generally perverse.  But it hadn’t been that city for a long time.  Now it burned away it dirty remnants like malignancy.

Children.  Teenagers.  They arrived at the labs in NYU with their flames and zealotry, all young scholars from different schools mobilized by superstition.  Solace saw the little band of rioters heading down Broadway, torches held high, their chants echoing off facades like a 21st century remake of a witch hunting mob.  They interrupted his dinner.  More accurately the message that appeared in the timeline scrolling on his smart lens (available exclusively at LensCrafters and a strain to the salary of an underfunded scientist) drove him away from his curry and into the street.


Cowardice drove him to the rooftop.  He saw no honor in dying at their hands when all the breakthroughs and research was backupped and dispensed both virtually and physically.  And make no mistake, they were on a killing mission.  The attention brought on by the leak was completely unwanted.  First, the corporations began sniffing, sensing a game changer.  Then, the nuts on the right starting stoking fear, calling his work “stem cells on steroids” or some other inanity.  They started calling for his head at every megachurch pulpit, the punditsphere, and on the floor of Congress.

People were always performing crimes against nature in this part of town.  One way or another.

They stood and watched his lab burn.  No fear of repercussion or punishment drove them from the street.  Then, Solace watched the great glowing mass of them move toward his perch.  His position had been compromised, undoubtedly by some privacy setting he did not know to utilize in one of thousand online services required to exist these days.  He grumbled, furious if he was to die because of Facebook.

The horde massed on the street below, Greenwich Villagers, all torches and Prada.  He leaned over the edge for a moment, curious to catalogue their superstition.  Such a silly impulsive genius, he regretted his training when a bullet seared his ear and tore through his new skin and bone.  He crumpled.  The nerve endings were only days old, the appendages still fragile, that had to account for the severity of the pain.  He tried to move, but shock made jelly of his limbs.  Sweat glistened on his bare torso.  Blood puddled around him.

Sirens screamed far away.

He didn’t hear the squeak of a hinge or the violent shatter of a door.  He had no idea how long he lay there trembling, but they were around him now.  They looked down on him, the unlined faces of the young, trying to mask their fear with arrogance.  Their disgust was evident.  As many as could crowded around to see him, Solace the Abomination, and justify their violence.  Indeed he must have made quite a sight lying their, shirtless, his leathery wings, only days old, motioning involuntarily.

He had chosen wings as their first hack because who wouldn’t want to fly, and modeling on bats seemed so much easier than calculating plumage.

But the leak of the others, the videos of the process, the grafting, and the failures, brought this upon him.  It seemed so ridiculous to die by the fires of the ignorant and superstitious like so many of his forebears.  It was the 21st century.  If he could speak he would ask them Don’t you understand?  Don’t you want this?

The cameras on their phones stopped flashing.  They stopped posing in front of him as if he were an attraction at a freak show.  It was about to end.

Then came the sound of beating wings.

His colleagues had arrived.