"Other night, things got weird.  Started the evening before, when I said out loud, 'I ain't into all that.  You wanna put the girl inna basement and rape her -- you're fucking disgusting.  And I will kill you when you go to the bathroom.'  Maybe them five boys were all just joking.  (I don't mind dark humor.  I've been known to craft a bit myself:  how much does a German birthday cost?  About a thousand gold teeth.)  But there are some things, sometimes, I just plain don't want to hear.  So I put my two cents in.  

"Then today, back at the same bar -- it's my fucking local watering hole anyhow -- this fat sow who was with them boys starts shouting at me, 'You got a lotta nerve coming back here.  Talkin' 'bout rape and all." -- turns to her buddy, a glassy eyed Mexican fellow -- 'This assholes comes in here last night, starts yelling 'bout rape basements and what all the fuck. 
We was just jokin'.  Me, Josh, Demmy, Flip, Paul, and Sando.  Sez we got no right.  Like he's got the bar lady to himself.' --turns back to holler straight at me -- 'She ain't gonna fuck you, ya fucking weirdo.  You should apologize to me.  I'm offended.'
 
"So I went over to her.  Sat down in the stool next and said as politely as I could, 'I am sincerely sorry if I offended you ma'am.  I didn't mean to make things unpleasant.  I mistook, what you say was and I got no reason to doubt you, joking for something serious.  I apologize for ruining your night.'
 
"Her face twists up into this grin only the Michelin man could mimic and says, 'That's fine.'  I'm on my way, getting up to go back to my beer, when she adds, 'You should know better is all.'
 
'I'm willing to apologize, not hear a lecture.'
 
'You should. Sos you'd be a better person ya sorry motherfucker.'
 
"With a sigh, I take that seat again.  Looking her straight in those dumb glazed bovine orbs, the kind only a true heffer can own, I say, 'I am sorry... for all the things I've seen.  I'm sorry for all the things I've said.  I'm sorry for the way I am; and I'll probably die sorry.  But that doesn't mean you get to tell me what to do with myself, you fucking cunt.'
 
"The Mexican fella starts to get involved (as I'd expect a decent sort to do at that point -- cunt coming out and all.). 
He shakes his head, 'There's no need for that.'   A difference of opinion I suppose.  Not wanting to start trouble with him -- his friends are his business, and I ain't about to beat a man for standing up to cunt talk (even when it is appropriate) -- I simply head back to my beer.  The cow mooed a few times more, but eventually, she ran outta breath, let the matter slide.  
 
"Mary-Ann, the bartender, comes over to whisper, "You don't have to defend this place.  We're used to drunk assholes."

"I can't help smiling and saying, 'I will miss this:   our back and forth.'
 
'Why you gonna miss it?'
 
'Because I won't be able to stick around.'
 
"She folds her arms across her chest, 'How's that?'

'Cuz Ima kill that fat cunt when she goes to the bathroom.  Probably have to get rid of her friend too.'
 
"Mary-Ann laughs a bit, not knowing I'm serious, and says, 'Well, then you should wait a bit.  Those friends of hers are coming in a little bit.  Heard her sayin'.'
 
"I take a sip and nod then say, 'Well, that's all right.  I can take care of the whole damn sick crew.'
 
"Not much later her friends all arrive.  The same host of people.  She jabbers at 'em right away, gesturing her swinging flab towards me.  I just drank my beer quietly.  They all look at me, shake their heads.  I'm the sad old fucker who doesn't know when to let the kids play.  Maybe that's right.  I never had to say anything, but then neither did they; We're all guilty of what we are.  I suppose after forty-five years I shoulda learned to be more accommodating.  Let things slide more often.  I do.  At least, I've been known to.  However, some matters I just can't abide.  And I know a fucking joke when I hear it.  
 
"I went out for a smoke, using the cigarette as an excuse to go to my car.  Got a box cutter outta the glove box.  First one of them went to take a piss, I followed him in.  Got 'em all in the long run.  Made one red hell of a mess in the bathroom. 
But I got 'em."
 
I don't necessarily buy Pete's story out right.  Not till he shows me the box cutter, still in his pocket, covered in red. I say red on the off chance it's all bullshit.  Who knows how much a mail carrier is daydreaming?  Maybe it's all some elaborate game, or prank, or fuck all I don't know.  Definitely looked like blood, to be perfectly honest.  So I went to Rachel, my supervisor, the minute I could duck away from the front, and told her, "I quit."

When they got in the car, Melissa turned on the A/C.  Incredulous, Todd snapped it off, “What the fuck are you doing?”  Melissa shrugged, “It’s hot out.”  Shaking his head, Todd said, “It’s seventy-two.  Roll down your window.”  With slow precision, the kind that only teens use to imply dissatisfaction, Melissa cranked open the window.  Shifting into reverse, Todd did the same with his window, “Isn’t that nice?”  Melissa flashed a sarcastic grin.  
        
About a quarter mile down the road Todd remarked, “Maybe if you lost some weight you wouldn‘t be so hot.”  Melissa glared at him, “Fuck you, Dad.”  Lighting a cigarette, which he passed to her, Todd said, “What’ve I told you?  Don’t call me Dad.  I don’t wanna get blamed for all this,”gesturing at her.  Melissa took the smoke with a smarmy thank you, and Todd replied with his own blunt welcome while sparking another stick.  
    
For a moment they cruised in peace, however, Melissa eventually wanted the radio on to break the building awkward.  Todd allowed it, though he did his best not to feel the crackling in his skull when she tuned in to a local pop station.  Melissa smiled when he grimaced, The Blank Angels belting out their latest auto-tuned rendition of an Aretha Franklin classic, spiced ever so subtly -- ‘R-E-S-P-E-C-T, find out what it means to me, MR. WALL STREET!  YEAH BITCH! RESPECT THIS SH(a brief silence in place of syllables, lest someone know what was meant to be said).  Melissa tried to bring up how she felt about the radio always being censored except her Dad barely heard a word.  At least, not until she tuned to a quieter channel.
             
“You can’t let people have too free expression.  They might think they’re entitled to it,” Todd said, chaining another smoke, happy to hear Melissa chuckle at his sarcasm.  Melissa sucked her stick down to the filter before tossing it away.  She knew better than to ask her Dad for another too soon. However, she couldn’t help not wanting to hear another lecture (the kindest word for her father‘s usual rants). When she let him know Todd sighed, “Fair enough.”  He smiled over at her, “I know you know what I know.  Ya know?”  Melissa tried not to grin, the bad joke a long standing pacifier between
them.
             
“Mom asked about you,” Melissa said.  Todd swore at a passing motorist trying to lane rape in front of them.  Melissa repeated herself.  Todd asked, “What about?”  Playing with a growing hole in the knee of her jeans, Melissa said, “She
wanted to know when you were coming home.”  Todd lifted a rock’s glass out of a cup holder between the seats.  Sipping
the whiskey, a small puddle for a fistful of ice to chill, he said, “I have begun thinking about it.”  For an instant, which she soon regretted, Melissa sat up straight before Todd added, “But not much.”  As she sank down, he lit her another cigarette.
            
They passed a movie theater, and Melissa crossed her fingers.  Todd mentioned the death of American cinema, and she knew they wouldn’t be going. Noticing her sullen expression, he tuned the radio back to the pop station.  She saw a friend in a car in the opposite lane and ducked down before anyone saw her.  Once Todd turned down an avenue, headed away from her friend, Melissa said, “Are we going to stop somewhere?”  Todd glanced at the fuel gauge, “Maybe.  Is there anywhere you’d like to go?”  Chewing her lower lip, Melissa asked, never expecting a yes, “That diner on Golf?” Todd nodded, seeming to agree, however, he asked, “Are you hungry?”  Melissa frowned, “Not really.”  Knowing better than usual, Todd said, “If you want to stop, we can have a seat somewhere.”
          
The waitress frowned at the sight of a fifteen year old smoking.  But that was one of the things Melissa loved about her father:  He knew how to tell people to mind their own “fucking business,” which also meant, according to his logic, that the situation should be made more reprehensible.  To such an end, when no one seemed to be looking, he slipped some whiskey in her coke as well as his own.  No more than two shots, though she didn’t have that much soda left.  
          
“How’s school?” he asked, when their assortment of appetizers arrived.  (The two rarely had what could be called square meals together.)  Melissa nibbled on some fries, trying to figure a way not to answer, before saying, “It sucks but that’s a part of it.”  She hoped Todd would say something other than, “Indeed,” however, that was all she got;  Yet another predictable response, one so common it didn’t even feel like an answer, more like a belch or a cough.  
     
She decided to change the topic, “How’s work?”  He looked like something sour had gone down his throat and was trying to make its way back up out his mouth, “You see that commercial with the cats, for the sandwich place?”  She nodded, a
half smile spreading, “That was you?”  He mashed a smoke into the ashtray, “No, I’ve got to come up with something to beat it… for their competitor.”  Melissa stirred marinara with a cheese stick, “Oh… I don’t care for them.” 
Todd nodded slowly, “Me neither.”  
             
They never asked for the check.  The waitress slapped it down on her way past, caring for other tables.  Todd forked over a generous tip claiming it would make her feel bad.  Melissa didn’t agree, although Todd made it seem sensible.  After all, they planned to be back sometime.  
           
The ride back to her Mom’s passed quietly.  When the car pulled into the driveway Todd said, “Here we are.”  Melissa clenched her jaw, “Indeed.”  Putting the car in park, Todd placed a hand on her shoulder, “Tell your mother I don’t blame her.”  Melissa tried to smile, but it came off fake,“I’ll try.”  His thumb rubbing her arm, Todd said, “I love you.  You know that.”  It sounded like a hopeful statement though it felt like a command.  Having enjoyed herself (or else the whiskey was just melting her hostility), Melissa replied, “I know.”
             
She left the car.  He watched her go to the door, making sure she got in okay.  She waved to him from the front steps once the door was open, and he pulled away.  
             
Inside, her Mom asked, “How was it?”  
             
Melissa said, “The usual,” and nothing more.   

Twenty-four hours ago the world exploded.  And by world I do mean Earth.  Why?  These things happen.  I'm told more
often than some people like to admit, but I'm not one to complain.  Death has turned out more fascinating than I could hope to explain.  But that's off point.  I've been asked by the Department of Immediate Post-Corporeal Affairs to "catalogue my last hours in existence for inclusion in the Apocalypticism Omnibus."  It's some database of worlds' endings studied by intellectuals in the great beyond:  an eschatological examination of what matters in the end -- I'm reading off the brochure.  

I suppose I'm being included in the Omnibus because I witnessed The End.  Although, that isn't saying much.  At least a few million people witnessed it.  It was pay-per-view after all.  
 
My buddy Glenn offered to go half in, and I'll confess to a morbid curiosity.  We planned to throw a party around the whole event.  Glenn rented this mammoth flatscreen -- I think half the Titanic could have been saved on it.  
 
For months Dr. T. Peenemünde had been running advertisements.  Commercials screaming from TV's, "I'VE HAD ENOUGH, AND I'M TAKING YOU WITH ME!" The ads were paid for by Raymond Rosenthal.  Rosenthal had made billions in a business he called cultural adaptation.  Essentially, his corporation,Universal Adjustments, helped companies alter products to help them fit into various foreign markets.  When a certain brand of cookies didn't sell in China, Rosenthal was hired.  He retooled the creamy center between the chocolate cookies, making it less sugary and green tea flavored.  A Taiwanese energy drink failed abroad until Universal Adjustments refurbished the product, marketing it with vodka in the United States.  Since beef didn't go over well with Hindus, in India Rosenthal steered burger chains to chicken sandwiches.  Raymond Rosenthal liked to say, "You don't sell Eskimos ice machines.  You sell 'em brick makers."  In Dr. T. Peenemünde, Rosenthal saw a chance to influence culture instead of just reflecting it.  
 
A month after the Peenemünde commercials started, other curious ads soon ran.  Outdoors stores pushed post-apocalypse
equipment, which looked like ordinary camping gear to me.  Groceries advertised their abundance of canned goods and readymade meals.  During the Spring, gun ads ran between baseball games.  By the summer, whole businesses (franchises quietly connected to Universal Adjustments) cropped up around the country selling survivalist packages:  everything you needed to live your Mad Max fantasy.  Commercials for pharmaceuticals added terms like "end of the world anxiety" and "inevitability depression".   Kids shows even devoted time to showing how to start a fire... before
commercials pushing Lil Survivors Kits.

Glenn and I found shit like this hilarious, and some of it was enjoyable.  Like the Armageddon Burger, available for a limited time only, three all beef patties glued together by sharp cheddar smothered in barbeque sauce, mined with jalapenos, bacon, and all on a sourdough bun -- "Make your last meal epic."  We ate it up, no pun intended.  
 
The weird thing is that it all went from being unsettling to common place.  In a few short months the apocalyptic commercials, especially Peenemünde's, became the same background noise all ads were.  The static of everyone's life.  Whether at a bar, home, or pumping gas, the ads yammered on regardless of how much attention anyone paid; and though we ignored them, our awareness of them was constant.

Looking back, Peenemünde made the strangest transition. His ad features him in an extreme close up, staring straight into the camera and seemingly out the TV.  He looks sweaty.  His jaw moves as he grinds his teeth.  Eyes cracked red and bulging, his head starts to tremor and then without warning, he bellows at the top of his lungs, ""I'VE HAD ENOUGH, AND I'M TAKING YOU WITH ME!"  It frightened me the first time I saw it.  Not badly, but enough to wonder, What the hell was that?  But as time went by, he became like a crazy uncle.  If the ad didn't run during a stretch of commercials, you found yourself wondering, worrying, "Is Peenemünde gone?" Then a sigh of relief during the next
break as he screamed.

Sometimes, out at the bar, people would yell along with him.  Cheers and bottles clinking.  Laughter. The Mad Doctor is
In.

Five months went by before the Peenemünde ads began featuring a sonorous voice over.  After the doc had his say, the screen filled with details read by what might have been Alan Rickman, "On May 17, 2013, Dr. Thomas Peenemünde will end the world.  Make the most of the time you have left, but should you wish to stare the Abyss in the eye... The End will be televised."  Then info on ordering accompanied by ominous music. 
 
That's when things really got crazy.  
 
There may have been some people who believed it all outright.  I can't say. As for myself, I figured it was the most elaborate publicity event of all time.  Most of my friends agreed.  With seven months to go, it sounded like the build up to a movie.  Then a report ran on CNBC.  

Closing Bell, a program about the stock market, featured an interview with the head of Universal Adjustments.  Raymond Rosenthal beamed on screen, talking about the steady rise of his company's value over the last few months.  Maria Bartiromo asked a few pointed questions about links to Peenemünde and the growing survivalist/apocalypse craze.  Rosenthal couldn't contain himself.  He went on about discovering this man, this urban legend of the Fortune 500s.  According to Rosenthal, the story went that Peenemünde would burst into board meetings, screaming about redemption through annihilation, and demanding money to build a doomsday device.  When asked how he got past security he claimed to have teleported, stating as much in way that suggested a person was an idiot for not believing him.  He became a kind of corporate bogeyman, occasionally mimicked as a prank.  But when he burst into a meeting at Universal Adjustments, Rosenthal didn't have the doctor thrown out.  
  
When Maria Bartiromo pressed if Peenemünde's doomsday machine existed, Rosenthal simply said, with a glint in his eye, "You'll have to pay to see."

Like most folks, I saw the interview long after it aired.  I watched it on the web when the Peenemünde craze peaked, about a month prior to the apocalypse's air date.  It made me curious, so I went around online.  Since the beginning of the Peenemünde ads, a website had been active, thanks to Universal Adjustments, where fans could donate money to the doctor's research.  A streaming list ran across the bottom of the screen displaying names and donations: Gretchen Ennis - $0.25, Toby MacBride - $5, Chum-A-kik-kik-putt - $52.75, Delta Theta Omega - $100, ImmortalEviseracion32 $1.20, the Johnsens - $1,000... I couldn't believe it.  By April 2013, the grand total came in at 1.02 million dollars. 
  
That's about when Glenn and I decided to throw our party.  We just had to see how it would all pan out.  Of course, the odd thing is, looking back on it now, nothing short of the actual apocalypse would have been satisfying.  
 
The anointed hour arrived.  Glenn turned the lights off as we all huddled around the TV.  I'll admit I felt like a little kid... a little kid with a gut full of whiskey but a little kid nonetheless.  I couldn't remember the last time I'd been so excited to watch something on TV.  To hope it would make me smile.  
 
Raymond Rosenthal came out from behind a black velvet curtain.  He opened his mouth -- the bang of a gun and a red halo appeared around Rosenthal's head. He collapsed, the halo turning into a leaking dot on the curtain.  Symbiotic, the camera turned with the camera man, for moment making it all seem a part of the plan.  Peenemünde stood at the controls to a massive machine.  He looked the same as ever, but the madness no longer felt as cartoony as it had become.  He held a smoking gun in one hand and nodded constantly, as if agreeing with a voice in his head.  He spoke rapidly, "What did
he have to say?  Really?  What does it matter?  No matter. I've seen tomorrow; I've had enough, and I'm taking you all with me."

Then he punched a button and...  the end.