Out of Options

“He told me there weren’t anymore options,” the man began gruffly, apologetically, soft light illuminating the tips of the scruff on his chin and cheeks. A dank, sweet, musky odor arose from the liquid welling up from the cracks in the floor, in spurts, in gushes, filling the small wine cellar.

Wine?

The old man raised his hands, and the soft glow spread to encompass his fingers.

“I’m sorry.”

I raised my pistol.

Fired.

A keg to the right jerked and started pissing out precious wine. I took half a second to switch to fully automatic and then held down the trigger, emptying the entire clip into the man’s chest in a hummingbird’s wing stroke, wood splintering, stone shattering, barrels all about suddenly bursting into exuberant urination.

I had half a mind to step forward, emptying the clip from my gun and reached for my ammo holster. Deep shuddering in my viscera brought me to a halt, and I experienced a sensation so exquisite as to defy a label. I put my hand where it stemmed from, and with a sick feeling, I looked down at the hole left by the ricochet of a bullet.

The grizzled old man was blubbering now, crying, begging for forgiveness. It was so fucking annoying when I had bigger things to be worrying about. Blood flowed down through my clenched fingers and into the swiftly rising tide of wine and _____.

“Oh God, forgive me, please, Daniel, forgive me…” he implored, coming closer.

I brought forth just enough effort to put half a snarl on my face, and then finished loading the second clip into my automatic glock.

I raised it to his head and fired.

The last synapse that fired in my brain before I died pulled a harried “Mother fu-” from the depth of my soul. I fell, ragdoll, to the floor, holed through my forehead by a ricocheted bullet and a trail blasted through my precious grey matter from fore to aft. Little air bubbles filtered out of the wound as I drifted to the bottom, the mystery liquid now a good foot above the floor.

Strangely, I don’t remember much from this period of time. Time began to stretch and change shape, and though I am aware of its passing, it became more of a painting to me rather than a motion picture. The world became less dimensional.

The man, Greig, was utterly devastated by my death. I recall much wailing, but eventually he left, and left a few words of prayer, I think. One could probably cite the ever increasing fluid level and his instinctive need for oxygen as a reason for his abandonment of my corpse. I, however, wasn’t really paying attention to him. I was busy being dead. Dead and wet. It was thoroughly unpleasant when he walked up the steps and shut the door though, leaving me in complete and utter darkness.

I stayed that way for a while.

How odd that I didn't float.

Ping Pong

Alright, you got me.

I'm out.

Short game, a shut out. Seven nothing, maybe seven one, but my point was under contention so the win goes to you. At least my contended point came in the first volley - I made the first shot!

Too bad it lost its meaning throughout the rest of the game.

In the final three quarters of the match, you completely and utterly devastated me. Your play style is confusing; lots of spin, dancing on the edges, and no matter how fast I react, I still can't return it correctly.

Simply bewildering.

I'll be honest though, I wasn't quite straightforward either. I barely played, for one, because I had a feeling you were just kicking the crap out of me for fun. When I served, it was backspin, the ball bouncing high and slow, and you'd just punish me on the return. When I returned, it would miss the table.

I wanted to talk to you after the game, to straighten things out, but I stayed away despite my own wishes. I suppose I was too bitter, hurt, and confused, but none of those are good enough reasons for avoiding you. I think we both could have stood to play better if we talked about the game a bit.

Next time, though, I won't play ping pong with my heart.