End Of The World

Introduction

Have you ever wondered how you would spend your last hours on Earth? Now imagine that the world is going to be destroyed it's everyone's last hours on Earth. Where would you be when it happened? Who would you be with? What would you do? This is the story of one man and what he did when he found out that the 'End Of The World' was coming. I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter One - "Restaurants"

"Bruce, can you see that couple sitting in the corner booth from where you are?" Teresa, my date, asked. She took a sip from her wine glass and then carefully set it back onto the white linen table cloth.

Teresa, because she was sitting between the couple and me, was blocking my line of sight. I couldn't see and told her so. "No, you're obstructing my view."

We were in a small, family operated, Italian restaurant having dinner. Candles providing the only light, it was dark inside. There were two rows of booths which ran down a single long isle from the front to the rear of the restaurant. Our booth was near the back. Except for one other couple sitting in the very back of the restaurant, other than the employees, the place was empty.

It was our third date. The first one had been a movie and the second a concert.

I asked, "Are they celebrities?" I don't know why I asked.

"I'm not sure." Almost hypnotically, her eyes were transfixed on them. She started to say something, "They're... he's... oh my! You've got to see this."

She had me curious, "Why? What are they doing?"

Teresa moved to her left slightly.

"There, can you see them now?"

The couple's reflection appeared in the mirror. While I couldn't quite make out their faces, I could tell it was a man and a woman. He was Caucasian and she Hispanic. From what I could tell in the near darkness, they were kissing. It looked as if her tongue was in his mouth. "Yes, that's better."

"Is that his left hand on her breast?" Teresa inquired. She seemed fascinated

It was. "It looks like it to me."

I watched them for a few seconds. The show they were putting on was very arousing.

"What's that he's doing now?" Teresa asked.

It felt as if I were spying on them. "He appears to be lowering his left hand."

"Why?"

I wasn't sure. "I think so he can..."

"... pull up her dress?" Teresa finished for me. Forgetting about our meal, like voyeurs we both continued watching the show. "Look! She's not wearing any panties!"

I could see but, did not respond. The man was moving his right hand between his date's legs.

"Now what's he going to do?"

I decided to be diplomatic and suggested, "Do you want to leave?"

"Not unless you do. We're all adults here. As far as I'm concerned, what they do is their own business." She paused. I assumed it was to give me time to consider what she'd said. "How do you feel about it? Do you want to leave?"

Grinning, I told her, "I think we got twice our money's worth."

"I don't follow you?"

I explained, "Not only are we having dinner but, we're got a couple of real swingers giving us a live action performance of 'Sex And The City' at the same time!"

Teresa looked at me strangely. It was a look that told me I'd said something that surprised her.

"Do you really think they're swingers?" She said almost expressionlessly.

I admitted, "I don't know. It's possible. If they were, they certainly wouldn't broadcast it though."

"Would you?"

When she asked it, I had been paying more attention to the couple in the corner than I was to our conversation and didn't understand the question. I asked, "Would I what?"

"Would you broadcast it? I mean, if you were a swinger, would you tell anyone."

There are critical times in a person's life when if they say the wrong thing, it can change their life forever. Something told me this was one of them. "Not in this day and age."

"Why's that?"

Trying to focus on our conversation, I explained, "Because this is the 'Land of the Free and Home of the Brave'. What it really means is that you're 'Free' to go along with the majority unless you're 'Brave' enough to do otherwise."

She said nothing. Just when I thought I'd offended her she began speaking again.

"Bruce, do you like to 'Party'?" Her eyes were upon me.

I looked at her and replied, "Sure... but only with the right people."

"Do you think you would enjoy partying with me?"

I was ready for a night out on the town. "I'd love to." Then I asked, "Do you know any good clubs?"

"There is a 'European Style' club I go to for a little 'Fun and Games' every other weekend. It's not a commercial establishment or 'Party House'. It's a private club. This couple I know likes to 'Entertain' in their home. They have lots of amenities which they make sure are kept 'Safe' for everyone."

I grinned, "Better safe than sorry."

"Especially when sorry means dead or worse." She agreed.

About that time, the man in the corner opened his date's blouse enough to fully expose his date's left breast and began sucking it with complete abandon. Her head was tilted backwards and was resting against the back of the booth. With a look of pure ecstasy on her face she opened her eyes, looked directly at me and smiled. Feeling like a kid who'd been caught looking in his neighbor's window, I smiled and quickly turned my attention to what Teresa was saying.

"All the club's members are nice, 'Clean', friendly people. We're very selective and, we won't invite someone back if we find out that the drink too much or do drugs. If what you're looking for is a place to dance, play a few games and enjoy the 'Indoor Sports', then our club is the place to do it." There was a brief pause during which I thought I heard a woman moan several times. "Do you have any plans next weekend?"

To me, the way Teresa had described it, the place sounded like a nice place where friends gathered for conversation and relaxation. "I'm completely free. Who is driving whom up or, are we going separately?"

"Great! I was hoping you'd say that. It's way out in Harris County, I'll pick you up and show you how to get there."

I stole a peek at the couple in the corner. It appeared as if the woman was unzipping her date's fly.

"By the way, just so you won't be too surprised when you get there, a few of our members are into the 'Arts'. One of them, her name is Annette, likes 'Greek' and Cheryl..." Teresa raised her eyebrows suddenly. It looked to me like the man was getting a hand-job.

Not as distracted as Teresa was, I asked, "Cheryl from work?"

"The very same. She really loves showing off her 'French'."

'So Cheryl is bilingual!' I thought to myself and expressed my surprise to Teresa. "I didn't know that about her."

"Only a few people at work do."

It struck me strange at the time. The company paid good money to people who could speak more than one language. But, I didn't bother to ask Teresa about it.

I glanced back over at the impassioned couple once more. From what I could see, the man had moved and was sitting with his back in the corner of the booth. His female companion was bending down with her head between his legs.

Trying to keep up my end of the conversation, I said to Teresa, "I learned a little Latin when I was in high school. I haven't had much opportunity to practice it lately though. Clara, my ex-girlfriend, knew one language and that was English."

"That was her loss. I can promise you that you'll have plenty of opportunities to expand your Latin 'vocabulary' at the party."

Teresa went on to tell me that the club's owners were planning something really special this weekend and that she'd send me an email with all the details.

When we left the restaurant that night, the man in the corner booth was under the table with his face between his date's legs. I don't think I need to tell you what he was doing there.

My date with Teresa was Thursday night. That Friday I was to start my annual two week vacation. Teresa new this and she was very understanding when I explained to her that, in order to keep from having to come in on my day off, I had to be at work early the next morning.

I dropped her off at her apartment.

Thus ended our third date. Like our previous dates, it ended with nothing more romantic happening than an extremely enjoyable goodnight kiss, not counting the two love-birds in the corner that is.

It seemed like a good start. There had been a lot of communication and I thought I was beginning to know her. I was wrong.

Chapter Two - "Ralph"

Before I go any further with this little tale, let me tell you more about myself. My name is Bruce Farrell.

In appearance, I'm what you could describe as being 'nondescript. In other words I'm so average the only way I'd stand out in a crowd is if everyone else were lying down. I'm 5'9" tall, have brown hair, brown eyes, weigh about 200 pounds, have a goatee, and wear bifocals. I'm also fifty years young.

One last thing about me before I continue on, like a lot of men, I'm not hung like a porn star. No revelation there right? Clara told me that my dick isn't as small as breakfast link nor as big as a polish sausage. I guess that was her way of saying that I was average down there too. For those of you who are interested, she also said my family jewels are bigger than toy marbles but smaller than tennis balls. Clara once compared my 'package' to a 6 inch bratwurst and a couple of furry golf ball sized flesh covered meat balls. She had a flair for culinary references.

That's enough about me. Now, I'll tell you some more about Teresa.

Teresa, to be more specific Teresa Angelica Gentry, is in my humble opinion one of the two most attractive women I know. She's forty-five years old, 5'8" tall, has auburn hair, green eyes, and a wonderfully curvy figure. The only other woman I know who even comes close to holding a candle to her is Cheryl Sloan. Yes, that's the same Cheryl she was talking about earlier.

Since anything else I could say about either of them wouldn't be relevant, I'll get back to my story now...

As I said, that Saturday I started my vacation and was really looking forward to the rest and relaxation that comes with it.

Hoping to see Teresa before the party, I tried to call her. Her phone service had been disconnected. It was the only number she'd given me so, given the circumstances; all I could do was wait for her to contact me. When two days later I still hadn't heard from her, I decided that despite what she'd said that night; Teresa didn't want to see me.

For the life of me though, I couldn't figure out why?

To my delight, two days later I received an email from her. It was short. All it said was when the party was and what time she'd be by to pick me up.

The rest of the week seemed to pass by with the speed of molasses after that. I guess it was because I had something to look forward to. Eventually though, the day of the party finally did arrive.

The forecast for Columbus Georgia, which is where I live, was for clear skies and high heat. It was not to be the best day for yard-work, but wasn't going to be the worst either. Having overslept, I didn't get started until almost 11:00. As the weatherman had predicted, there wasn't a cloud in the sky above me and the heat was raising fast. Two hours later, I was sweating like an Eskimo in a desert. An hour after that my tee-shirt was soaked; my underpants were drenched; and my socks were so wet that they made a 'squishing' sound every time I took a step. What I didn't know at the time was that my shorts had dark sweat stains in some of the most embarrassing places you can imagine.

Hoping to be finished by 5:00, I skipped lunch and kept working.

As I had planned, by 4:00 pm the lawn was cut, the sidewalk had been edged, and the hedges were trimmed. I was almost finished, which was a good thing because I was tired as hell. I had one thing left to do... take care of 'Ralph', the bush, immediately outside my office window. I'd saved the worst for last.

The house I own is a three bedroom ranch-style home located in one of the city's better middle income sub-divisions. It was a spoil of war left over from my divorce and one of the few things I had to show for four years of marriage. I had been lucky in that, at the time of my divorce eight years earlier, there wasn't much equity in the place and the payments were too high for my ex-wife to afford. She let me have it and along with it custody of 'Ralph'

What was supposed to be the front bedroom, and is now my office has a fantastic bay window facing the front of the house. The window usually provides me a relatively unobstructed view of both the walkway to my front door, and most of the driveway leading to my double-wide garage. I say relatively because 'Ralph', who is actually an unusually healthy wintergreen boxwood bush, lives right outside the window and was once again blocking my view. If it's any interest to you, I named him after the asshole contractor who built my sub-division.

'Ralph', the asshole contractor, left for me a host of architectural defects resulting from the cheap labor and shoddy materials used during construction of my house. Not content with simply taking his money and running, 'Ralph' the contractor left 'Ralph' the bush for me to deal with. I took it as a parting 'FUCK YOU' gift for me... so began the game.

Every year 'Ralph', the bush, and I had this little game the two of us would play. It's called who can piss the other off the most and it goes like this...

While I was busy working my ass off making sure 'Ralph the Bush' would have a place to stay, he would work just as hard growing so I'd be forced to use part of my precious free time, (in this case my vacation) knocking him back down to size. Unfortunately, after twelve years, the score was 'Ralph the Bush' 12, me 0.

That day, I had wasted yet another half hour of my life trying to take him down a peg (or rather to a peg) when I looked down at him and was overcome by a horrible feeling of déjà vu. Something in me must have snapped because I turned suddenly herbicidal and out came the weed and grass killer. I keep it for those times when I'm too busy working weekends and can't find anyone to cut the grass.

Hoping to drown him in a puddle of poisonous pesticide, I systematically saturated him with an entire gallon of the lethal liquid.

With a look of sadistic glee on my face, I looked down at 'Ralph' as if expecting to hear him cry out in agony. He didn't! Instead, of begging for mercy or screaming from pain he just sat there in mocking silence. To say I became angry would have been the understatement of the century.

I had murder in my eyes. I went into my garage and began looking for something... anything... with which to send 'Ralph' to whatever afterlife it is that dead plants go so he could meet the proverbial 'Burning Bush' personally.

Five minutes later, I came back carrying a trash-bag containing everything that was even remotely toxic in my garage; and then, one at a time, I maliciously emptied the contents of every container in the bag onto 'Ralph'. The last thing I remember pouring on him was a bottle of white shoe polish. Don't ask me how it had ended up in my garage, I have no idea! Anyway, by the time the last bottle was emptied, 'Ralph' was covered with enough rat-poison, snake killer, motor oil, transmission fluid, bug spray, window cleaner, hand cleaner, tire cleaner, bleach and yes, shoe polish, to kill a small city.

"Scream you bastard!" I said yelled furiously.

Nothing! Defiant to the end, he didn't even groan!

I fetched my garden-hose, turned on the water, and from five feet away, threw a match on 'Ralph'. First there was a loud puffing sound. That was followed by a kind of crackling snapping noise. Next, flames, accompanied by thick black smoke, suddenly rose six feet up into the air.

"Now what do you have to say?" His response wasn't what I expected.

"Oh shit!" I yelled as I watched him expand suddenly upwards into a topiary towering inferno of flames that was twice my height. I turned the hose on him and attempted to put out the fire. When after several seconds, it didn't go out; I remembered that water doesn't work on an oil fire.

After I realized my mistake, I made a mad dash back into my garage and grabbed the bucket of sand I kept there in the event I ever had a grease fire in the kitchen. I then ran back to the pyrotechnic pile of pulp that used to be 'Ralph' and, bending as low as I could without getting roasted myself, threw the entire contents of the bucket directly onto the base of the fire. It worked and the fire was smothered instantly.

I picked up my useless hose and stood vigil for several minutes as I wondered to myself what I was going to do if 'Ralph' burst back into flames. I was all out of sand.

Looking back on the event, I can honestly say that I was lucky I didn't kill myself with toxic fumes from all the chemicals I'd mixed. Anyway, ten minutes later I hosed off my victim and assessed the damage.

"NO FUCKING WAY!" I yelled.

Other than being devoid of leaves and slightly charred on the outside, my botanical foe looked no worse for the wear!

Enraged beyond words and disappointed beyond disbelief, I began trying to figure out whether or not the bumper on my Mini Cooper would take the strain of having a chain hooked to it. The other end of which I intended to attach to 'Ralph' so I could pull his antagonizing ass out of the ground. I suddenly got this all too vivid mental image of me driving down the street in a bumper-less Mini. In my rear-view mirror I could see 'Ralph' right where I'd left him. He was using one limb to give me the finger while another twirled the chain with my bumper attached to it through the air like a piece of 'bling' he'd just taken off a fallen foe in a street fight.

"Drink this!" I was startled by a voice behind me. It belonged to Mrs. Watkins, one of my next door neighbors. She was a retired nurse.

I had been so busy trying to exterminate 'Ralph' that I hadn't heard her come up behind me.

In her left hand she held a large glass of what appeared to be cold water and no ice.

I looked at her. "Huh?"

"Drink this." She said and handed me the glass.

Not wanting to argue with her, and being absolutely parched, I did as she asked. When I finished she asked me, "Can I see your hose for a minute?"

Not thinking, I handed it to her. Without saying a word she aimed the hose at me and turned it on. The sudden assault of water caught me off guard.

I started coming out of it instantly. "Hey, what gives?"

"You're over heated and talking to yourself. You need to cool off right now!" Mrs. Watkins explained as she continued hosing me down.

After the initial shock of the cool water hitting me wore off, I realized she was right and the fog I was in began to lift.

"I want you to promise me that you'll go inside, take a cool shower and drink three more glasses of water. Will you do that for me?"

I told her I would.

"Good. I'll be over in fifteen minutes to check on you."

As I headed for the house, my pocket started ringing. That's where I keep my cell phone. Trying not to get it any wetter than it already was, I extracted my phone from my pocket and flipped it open.

"Hi, Bruce!" I didn't recognize the number but the voice sounded like Teresa. I was still a bit out of it and not too sure.

I asked, "Teresa?"

"Yes." She replied exuberantly. "I haven't heard from you about the party. It's tonight and I was wondering how you felt about it. Do you still want to go?"

My senses returned and I remembered the email.

Confused, I told her, "I was hoping you'd call. By the way, do you know your cell phone is disconnected?" I guess I was still a little fuzzy.

"Damn! I'm so sorry. My plan expired and the cell provider I had went up on the rates. I decided to change phone companies. For some bullshit reason, the new company wouldn't let me keep my old number and, I got stuck with a new one. I thought I told you. I guess I've been so busy that I forgot." She paused briefly.