I was once a dull man. I did nothing and was rather proud of my lack of direction. It defined me.
Not a man of means, I lived in squalor upheld by my generous friends. I lived in the closet of a rather famous mime. At her behest, I will not divulge her name. Her closet was quite large, much bigger than the car trunk I was previously inhabiting. I could even lay down! If I curled my legs of course, but talk about comfort!
Miss Mime, as I will now refer to her, was an excellent cook, and the scraps she would pass me through the blinds on the closet door were fantastic. She is the reason I am the strong young man I am. I used to do pushups underneath her bed ever night, and when I was strong enough, I lifted her bed and tied it into a pretzel shapes using only my shoulder blades. We had a wonderful laugh at that when she woke up!
Miss Mime introduced me to my true purpose. Which is to destroy the world. I am the Herald. Or Harold… which is my name.
Harold Bacon, 36 years old, 500 lbs, very muscular, very suggestible.
Miss Mime told me stories. Stories about me. Stories my mother and father hadn’t decided I should know. Stories detailing my rise to fame and fortune, and then my eventual saving of mankind. I save the world. Who would’ve guessed?
The world will end when I save everyone, this is true, but not central to the plot.
My life was a culmination of unfulfilled dreams until I met Miss Mime. I convinced myself I was fine with that. I saw dreams destroy people. My father’s heart burst out of his chest, danced, sang a Rat Pack number and ran away; all because my father was dreaming of stereotypes. My dreams were about my being known by everyone for something amazing, and Miss Mime gave that life.
Miss Mime was the one who suggested I should work on my muscles. I have been working out rather extensively since that moment.
She came up to me and said, “…”
To which I replied, “Do you really believe I am that out of shape?”
“…” Her reply was so swift and sharp that I knew she had been considering this conversation for some time.
“That hurt [Miss Mime], and it was uncalled for.” A tear burned a path down my newspaper ink eye shadow.
“…” She replied so cold and flatly that I looked for her body to illicit any signs, none were found.
It struck a deep cord within me, so I began to lift anything I found. Everything in my closet home was heavy and kept on a high shelf so that I had to put it back every night, causing some fine lifting. I also took to meditating, and discovering the exact brain wire I had to pull to get each muscle to dance individually. I became quite an amazing specimen, this according to the incomparable Miss Mime.
Miss Mime, unknown age, 98 pounds (subject had just entered from downpour), very slender, smells of moth balls and garlic.
One day the closet door was jerked open so quickly that I fell into the room. Miss Mime stood there, sternly painted face staring at me. She held out her hand and said “…”
I obeyed and got to my feet with her aid. Now standing in the closet doorway, I was stuck. I tried wiggling out for a few moments while Miss Mime silently chuckled. Her laughter angered me so intensely that I just pulled myself free, ripping the entire doorway and parts of the wall down.
Miss Mime stopped laughing in such a way that in pulled in all previous laughter, leaving a vacuum. The pull of the vacuum was so great that it pulled laughter straight out of me. I felt a tearing in my stomach and heard my laugh echo across the floor and disappear between myself and Miss Mime.
Miss Mime stopped telling me my tales. This too left a void.
I was lucky, you see, because I found Amanda. She was a former punk rock singer who was looking for a nice place to retire, and Miss Mime offered her the top shelf of my closet.
We got to know a lot about each other as roommates. Sometimes Miss Mime, who was still giving me the silent treatment, would shoot us dirty looks through the slats as we giggled like children at a sleepover.
I began to fall for this Amanda Pocalypse. I couldn’t stop the flutter in my heart when she’d rain her safety pin piercings down on top of me each night.
On a stormy night, Amanda and I stood on the balcony watching the lightning.
“I’d like a better view.” Amanda said, motioning to the edge of the roof.
With one arm I reached up and gripped the roof, with the other I carried Amanda. I set her on the roof, then stuck my toes into a small separation in the roof. I extended my body outward at an angle, so she could walk up my back and sit on my shoulders. We stayed there all night watching the sky fight with the soil.
Later that night as we were laying in our own beds, Amanda asked why the world had to end.
“Because this world is rotten to the core, and it keeps getting worse.”
“The world has always been horrible Harold. It always will be. Whenever we fix something horrible, someone finds a new way to be horrible.”
“And thats what I have to fix. Thats what I have to save everyone from.”
“Who told you this? Did you talk to God?” Amanda chuckled, as the thought of a deity always struck her insane.
“No!” I was angry at being belittled, I was the savior of mankind afterall. “[Miss Mime] told me when I first moved in. She brought out the Book Of The World So Far And How It All End’s Horribly For The Non-Believers and told me how I was the Herald.”
“You are the Harold, Harold!” Amanda was bursting with laughter. She used some safety pins to close the splits in her sides.
“Why are you mocking me when I want to love you?” It slipped out, I think meant to say ‘save you’ instead.
“Its hard to love the man who wants to kill you.” Amanda peered over the side of her shelf and looked down at me. When our eyes met, I looked down at my feet suddenly, hoping she didn’t notice. “If you want to save me, if you love me, the world won’t end. That’s how you save the world.”
“Could you love me?” My mouth was running wild now, all my instincts were ignored.
“We will find out if the world doesn’t end. When is the big show?”
“Talk to me on the eighth.” Amanda rolled back onto her shelf and turns the light off.
Amanda Pocalypse, 25 years old, 160 pounds, no official report of existence exists.
The seventh is here. Miss Mime has it all set up. She has hired a plane for me to use in the dropping of the bombs across the world. Fuel stops have been noted on the maps and paid for in advance. The plane is equipped with the best stealth technologies available anywhere. My skills are now second to none, thanks to extensive online multiplayer death matches.
I haven’t spoken to Amanda since that night, she moved out the next morning. Miss Mime wouldn’t even acknowledge her existence. Her absence has spurred me on in my endeavor.
Miss Mime came into my closet early on the morning of the seventh. She was nude. The aged skin she wore on her slender frame simultaneously aroused and horrified me. She sat on my pelvis, and within moments our copulation was completed in a messy fireworks display. She rose from my crotch and stood in the doorway. Miss Mime inhaled deeply and let out a long sad sigh.
“…” I had been moved to tears by the nearly hour-long speech. I was loved, and I was doing the right thing.
The plane was now over the major metropolis I lived in. My first target. I was in the process of putting the plane on auto-pilot so I could make sure the bombs were deployed correctly. A hand gripped my shoulder and I jumped out of my porcelain tub that I used as a seat.
Amanda stood behind me wearing a sad clown’s makeup. “What happened Harold? I thought you weren’t going to do all this.”
“Where did you go? I needed you.”
Amanda smiled and with a quick shake of her head, was without makeup again. “I was still there, you just weren’t asking for me.” Amanda kissed me… And I felt nothing.
I smashed the porcelain tub and threw the largest chunk at the window, shattering it and quickly decompressing the cabin. “You aren’t fucking real?!”
“I’m real enough, but only for you. I’m your inner voice Harold, its you that doesn’t want you to destroy the world. That’s why I came around in the first place.” Amanda vanished again.
I changed the direction of the plane. I was heading straight to Miss Mime’s house. I was heading to Miranda Mime’s house, fuck her privacy. When I spotted her house, I aimed the nose of the plane at her window. As I got closer, I saw her face. I felt Amanda Pocalypse hold my hand.
My name was Harold Bacon.