Business as Usual

Thunder crashed, following a blinding flash of lightning. The rain was coming down harder now. The flash flood was the worst storm the city had seen in years. The usual late-night traffic was nonexistent. No one wanted to be out on a night like this.

Yet one man was trudging slowly down the sidewalk. He was wearing a long trench coat, turned black by the rain. The collar of the coat was turned up. He also wore an old hat, pulled low.

The wind was picking up, driving the rain nearly sideways. The trench coat was useless in weather like this. Yet The Man seemed unperturbed by the torrential downpour. He plodded along, in no hurry. His hands were thrust deep in the pockets of his coat. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth, its bright red dot doing nothing to illuminate his face. It was impressive that the thing even remained lit.

Slowly, The Man moved down the abandoned city streets. As he walked into the pitiful circles of light thrown out by the amber street lights, each one suddenly flickered and went out. He passed beyond the lights, but they did not come back on; leaving a trail of darkness as he moved.

A policeman, miserable in the rain,was standing under an awning. He noticed The Man walking toward him. He didn't notice the lights winking out over The Man's head. Finally, The Man's slow pace brought him under the same awning. The lights from the building flickered, but The Man let them stay on.

The cop asked what The Man was doing out on a night like this. The Man never stopped walking. Instead of answering, he merely took a hand out of his pocket, plucked the cigarette from his mouth, and flicked ashes onto the ground at the cop's feet. He then put the half-burned cigarette back to his lips and looked into the cop's eyes for a brief moment. The cop was momentarily mesmerized by the stare he received. Then he suddenly forgot The Man. Forgot that he was walking past him now. Forgot that he had ever seen him.

The Man kept going, knowing that the cop would probably never remember him, at least not when awake. As for his dreams, well, nightmares were the cop's problem, not his. As he continued down the sidewalk, the street lights continued to wink out. The storm continued to worsen. The Man was soaked to the skin; had been for a long time. He didn't seem to care. In fact, he seemed to enjoy the weather.

No one else tried to interrupt his trek, and he arrived at his destination in due time. The hospital was well lit, and The Man, after a brief flicker, allowed those lights to stay on as well. He walked into the hospital, ignoring those who sat around in the reception area.

He moved toward the elevators. His shoes squeaked loudly as he walked. The receptionist tried to stop him. A quiet stare solved that problem before it got started. His stares tended to do that to people. He again flicked ashes on the ground, calmly ignoring the "No Smoking" signs posted throughout the room.

He got into an elevator and faced the doors. As they slid quietly shut, a small child in the room looked up from a book in time to see the elevator's light blink out. The child started to say something, but decided that The Cat in the Hat was more entertaining.

The Man stepped out of the dark elevator onto an upper floor. He calmly walked down the hallway. He still wore the hat pulled down and the coat collar turned up. His face was still hidden in shadows. He walked towards a room near the end of the hall. His shoes no longer squeaked. The nurse at the station saw him, but thought he was a doctor and said nothing. The Man wanted it that way.

He opened a patient's door. He walked in and moved to the single bed in the room. Lying in the bed was a middle aged man whose face was well known throughout the country--he was on television every Sunday morning telling people that he and Jesus accepted Visa, MasterCard, Discover and personal checks. Bozwarth preached too, but his sermons were far more theatrical than they were religious.

The Man stepped up to the side of the bed. Looking down, he pulled the cigarette from his mouth, dropped it to the floor and slowly mashed it out with his shoe. The room was very quiet. Bozwarth was asleep.

The Man removed his dripping trench coat and hat. He then snapped his fingers. This sudden noise awoke the sleeping man; his eyes snapped open. For a moment the medication he was on prevented him from really grasping the situation. Finally, he recognized who was standing over him.

The Man now stood, holding his hat in one hand, with the coat draped over it. His other hand was pulling a cigarette from an old and crumpled pack. He calmly tapped the cigarette against the bed rail and placed it into his mouth. He then pulled a box of matches from his pocket. He struck one of the wooden matches against his thumb and slowly brought the flame up to the cigarette. In the flickering light cast by the match, his eyes gleamed brightly. He shook out the match and dropped it onto the floor.

Meanwhile, the eyes of the older man in the bed had widened in fear and surprise. His mouth opened once, twice, but nothing came out. Finally, he found his voice, "What the hell are you doing here?"

The Man raised one eyebrow, barely grinning at him. The grin did not look friendly. He found the question amusing, but the humor did not show in his grin, nor in his eyes, which were hard, cold. Instead of answering the question, he pulled a manila envelope from the pocket of the coat and quietly handed it to the man in the bed.

Bozwarth yanked his hands away from the envelope, not wanting to touch it. This response turned The Man's grin into a full smile, one that sent chills down Bozwarth's spine. It was the first time he had ever seen The Man smile. He didn't like it.

The Man picked up the envelope, opened it, and removed the papers within. They formed a rather lengthy contract. Without speaking, The Man turned to the back page and pointed at Bozwarth's signature. He then turned to one of the interior pages and pointed at a line which mentioned something about wealth. Bozwarth's ministry had grossed over 42 million dollars in the last few seasons. The Man then pointed to another line that said something about who owned Bozwarth's life, his soul. Bozwarth turned very pale, "It's too soon. I'm only in here for routine surgery, why now?"

The Man put the contract back into the envelope and put the envelope back into the pocket of the trench coat. He then flicked the ashes from his cigarette. The ashes settled slowly to the floor of the room. Bozwarth swallowed, sweating now; his heart racing.

For a moment the silence in the room was oppressive. Then The Man dropped his half-finished cigarette to the floor, reflexively stepping on it to put it out. As he did so, Bozwarth began to choke. His hands were fluttering around on top of the thin blanket.

The Man put his hat back on, followed by his coat. Without so much as a glance at the dying man, he quietly walked from the room. As Bozwarth's last breath passed from his lips, the two cigarette butts, as well as all the ashes, faded away.

The Man walked down the hall, again enshrouded in shadow, not seen or noticed by the few people walking around on this floor. It was still early, around 9 pm. Television sets could be heard in several rooms. The Man walked calmly to the elevator, which was again open and waiting for him, its lights still out. He faced back into the hall as the doors slid shut. He still wore the smile which had so scared Bozwarth. The lights in the hall glinted off his teeth.

A moment later, the doors opened onto the ground floor, and The Man stepped out of darkness. He again had a cigarette in his mouth. The child who had been in the room was now gone, and none of the others marked his passing as he left the hospital, his wet shoes squeaking softly on the tile floors.

He pushed the exit door open, paused for a moment, nodded his head as if he had made a decision. He then walked out as the lights went out behind him. A scream pierced the dull roar of the rain, cut off by the closing door.

The Man walked out into the rain and slowly began walking down the street, the cigarette still clamped between his teeth.