Death Becomes Him

Between home and his usual barstool at the corner breakfast place, he ate at every morning he’d seen three people he hadn’t seen in decades. Having Paul Hill cross his path at his regular lunchtime haunt was par for the course.

Today, he reminded himself, would be different. From the moment he woke up, five minutes before his alarm clock, as planned, he could feel it. He reached for the notepad with the numbered to-do list, the first two to be performed before his feet touched the ground.

Two minutes of deep breathing and repeating his new mantra, “I am exactly where I am needed, expected, and prepared for when I am present in every second of every day.” 

Fletcher was ready for his tipping point. The book he’d dreamed of writing was the best-seller he’d dreamed it to be. His passport and frequent flier miles accounts were maxed out, his inbox was full of people asking him to come speak to their group who after buying his book still wanted more. His agent was hinting at a movie.

The night before he’d witnessed another dream coming true. The moment was so powerful, both of his hands shook as he penned his first check, with a comma in it, to a non-profit group who was changing education by replacing football in public schools with gardens and science.

His cup was running over. 

Fletcher couldn’t help but let a flicker of bitterness burn. His over-night success had taken the bulk of his 54 years. It was about time all of his hard work and determination started paying off. 

He smiled and pushed the negativity aside with a small prayer of thanks. In some ways, his success did feel like it had happened overnight.

But dang, if he didn’t feel like something was wrong with this picture the moment they shook hands in greeting. The way Paul’s hand felt when it slapped down on Fletcher’s back was odd. 

Paul pushed those uncomfortable thoughts aside with stories of their youth, school-aged days spent pushing the boundaries of mortality. Things they’d done so long ago Fletcher had a hard time putting himself in the picture. Maybe his friend was remembering wrong, or was he the one having the brain fart? 

Fletcher listened and laughed at the good parts. It didn’t matter if he had been there or not, right now the story was being told as if he had been there, having a great time with friends he hadn’t thought about in decades. He figured a good false memory was much better than a bad real one.

“Funny,” Fletcher jumped in when Paul finally took a break from reliving the past. “I ran into a couple of other people this morning. People I haven’t seen in a long time, at least not around here. Is there a reunion or something happening I don’t know about?”

The funny feeling floated over him again, like there was a joke being played and he was the butt of it. 

Paul shrugged, “like I would know. I’m not on Facebook.” Candice, the bus-boy-waitress-cook-janitor-cashier-handyman-owner appeared to take their orders. She glanced at Fletcher who nodded that he would have his regular, the Reuben on marbled rye, grilled with skinny fries and two of those little cups with his favorite siracha-mayo sauce and a large coke with extra ice. Paul kept his face in the menu until Candice refilled their water glasses, then ordered the soup of the day.

“Why are you here?” Fletcher felt this was too obvious a question. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen this man who’d been as close to him as a brother for nearly a decade of their lives. 

The expression on Paul’s face said otherwise. “Why am I here? What a strange question to ask. I’m always here.” Paul shook his head and smirked before taking a sip of his water. “You’re a funny guy, man.”

For half a second Fletcher thought Paul might be fucking with him. He’d lived in this town since day one and everyone knew it. The only time he was gone were the couple of years at state before he blew out his knee, said goodbye to his big dreams of football stardom, then moved back home and into his parent's basement since his mother had turned his room into a quilting studio.

But Paul had taken off right after high school for places unknown. "In fact, I seem to remember a rumor about you."

Paul cut him off, "yeah. 'Greatly Exaggerated' and all." Fletcher thought he saw Paul wink at him.

Fletcher chuckled, “I’ve been here the whole time, but yeah, maybe I don’t get out all that much.” Other than his daily breakfast and lunch, he spent the rest of his days in his rooms or on the patio outside the walkout basement that became his outdoor office and eventually, his salvation. 

Having no other outlet, Fletcher turned inward and discovered his calling. A first it was video games, he was no different than any other over nurtured son of a newly queened middle-class housewife. He had everything he wanted at his disposal, and someone to do the cooking and cleaning, for free. 

Fletcher found his tribe, his people, in those video games. He attended a few conventions, met one person who introduced him to someone else, and pretty soon Fletcher found himself asking questions and then sharing what he’d learned in forums that turned into a popular blog. Another chance meeting with a fiction author who proclaimed joy at blowing things up, especially their enemies in just about every story they created, and Fletcher was hooked. He wrote his first slasher story that very night.

When he connected his knowledge and love of video games with his newfound passion for killing people off, everything finally clicked for him. The big names in gaming loved being blown to bits in his fantasy action thrillers that took the story in the game to the next level, into real life.

“I enjoyed your book.” Paul was finishing his oatmeal while Fletcher still had two pieces of bacon and most of his potatoes left. “The stories are okay and I find your choice of characters, um.”

Fletcher didn’t wait for Paul to finish his sentence. He was used to the flattery now, having sold over a million copies of each one of his three novels and twice as many copies of his two short stories collections. “Thank you, yes, I enjoy writing them. Which ones have you read?”

“Just one.” 

This surprised Fletcher. His books were easy reads and designed to entice the reader to buy the next book. He’d not met a fan yet who had only read one of his books. 

“Really? Which one?”

Candice returned with Fletcher's soda and topped off Paul's water. His sudden switch from laughter to this uncomfortable silence was making Fletcher, well, uncomfortable.

“Sorry,” Paul offered. “It’s just strange to think you didn’t see this coming.”

“See what coming?”

“You’re the writer. The one who predicts so many futures.”

“What? I don’t predict the future. I just write crappy slasher stories, playing to the video gaming crowd. I discovered a niche and I’ve sucked it for the riches like any other good capitalist would do.”

“I agree with you there,” Paul answered, his voice so low Fletcher had to lean in to hear him. “But now it’s time to pay the piper.”

Fletcher waved off the request, “sure, I’ve got you today. I’m a regular here, Candice will put it on my tab.”

“But that’s not how the story goes, does it? It’s not what you really want, is it?”

Gooseflesh crawled across his arms and over his shoulders. This man could not possibly know about his current work in progress. He wasn’t even writing it on his computer, the whole thing was penned in his hand in a spiral notebook by his bed.

When Fletcher looked up from his drink, Paul had disappeared. In the eyes of the being next to him, something had changed, inside Paul was no longer a childhood friend.

Vibrations from the being turned everything to ice, starting with the silica inside his ear canals. The pain was excruciating. 

Before the blackness became everything, he heard his wildest dream come true, the story he’d been writing, the one sitting on the nightstand next to his childhood bed still in the basement of his childhood home. 

“You are now The Piper.”