Beginning of a Story

Milton got up in the morning wanting to do something that would just knock 'em dead. Underneath was a shiver in his chest because he could be left abandoned and die alone.

“My neighbor has a theory,” Milton told me. “It involves doom. I have a headache,” Milton said. “Whenever I see him I have to listen to his theories. Why do I feel bound to listen? Is it some kind of perverse courtesy turned against itself? Have I become too civilized to escape.” Milton collapsed in his chair as we spoke, and covered his face with his hands, trying to shut out vision. “The worst part is, he, my neighbor, uneducated that he is, imagines himself to be the only one alive that knows the secret. He knows how those we trust are really conspiring to kill us. He is the only one smart enough to get beyond the news bureaus and the regulators and the world community. I have heard the lecture more times than I care to say. My rage mounts, my futility mounts. His joy is in the creation of monsters. No one can argue with him. What binds me to that?”

“I suppose it's good that my neighbor speaks his mind. If he was not destroying everything I hold dear, if I was not tempted to accept his logic, if the world of doom was not so logical and the nightmare of secrets was not so undeniable, I wouldn't be so angry.”