I'm not a poetic man, and while I have my attachments, I'm not given to sentimentality. Even so, if any night in history has deserved to be regarded as remarkable, it is that one. Without even knowing it, seven billion people rode into the jaws of death, into the mouths of hell.
It was a cool spring night in Denver. Overhead, a shooting star pierced the belly of a descending Orion. All about, the wind was crisp with the fresh potential of a coming summer. And in an abandoned pickle warehouse, the final battle of godlike men was about to begin. The men would not carry weapons, control armies, or conduct experiments. They would play cards, throw dice, and spin colored wheels. And their names would be Smith and Jones. I'm Alec Smith.
“Keep moving, god-man!”
“Keep on your on your feet!”
The two tuxedo-wearing gorillas were enamored of the word keep. Everything they said amounted to nonsense, but I could not escape the jarring cadence their words were given by the inclusion of that simple word in every sentence they uttered.
“Keep your eyes forward!”
“Keep going straight, god-man!”
They kept calling me that, too. It was insensible to me. It was an insult on their lips, like when you turn a self-acclamation back on someone. Way to go, Number One Dad. Tell us again how to win games, Captain of the Plant Softball Team. Smooth moves, Astaire. But god-man?
“Keep walking, god-man!”
“Keep your head about you.”
Easier said than done. I hadn't head my head about me all evening.