Southwest 7

The desert waited. The desert always waits. It waits for rain. It waits for night. It waits for some visitor from a land of trees and fog on the edge of an ocean to sit within its sandstone canyon and tell its story to the ruins, as he had told it to that Lieutenant of the Mystical Police. Like this. Calvin Crackstone woke that morning six months ago as he had waken every morning for the last thirty-three years. The day progressed as any other ordinary day. Traffic came and traffic went. His job was just like any other job. He was on that negative end of that peculiar American bipolar life, waiting for the positive pole of the weekend. But he should have seen it coming. He should have seen the hand rising from the cloud. He should have seen the lightning bolt emitting from the crowd. He should have seen his body lying on the ground freed from regular employment. And he had. And that's what he had told Lt. Heraclitus from the Mystical Police. And that's when the Lieutenant had told Calvin Crackstone that that's all fine and dandy, but in the world of the Mystical Police, it really doesn't matter “who killed who.” The Mystical Police didn't question the events of death; they investigated the next life instead. And they didn't do it themselves, but instead deputized the body in question to do the work for him or herself. Maybe point out a particular direction. Like Southwest. And then wait for the resultant report.

~Son Rivers 2006