– 1 –
One day — we are promised, by the Lemurian prophecies — a potato pancake will rise up from its little pan. It will cast off the red ribbon that holds down its head. It will make itself the arbiter of destinies, the lord of the naked Earth, and there shall be an ending to all things.
It will transcend its history; exceed all boundaries; and shatter its given chains.
It will recreate itself. It will change the world.
It will aspire to heights such as no other potato pancake has ever seen and it will become a thing such as no previous potato pancake has ever been. It will no longer be an ordinary pancake, but rather it will be as God —
. . . but that isn’t what this story is about.
– 2 –
A terrible ray, a terrible horrible ray, a monstrous needle-thin ray certain to destroy the Earth pours at the speed of light through the boundless reaches of space.
It has traveled for nearly seven hundred years and soon it will strike.
Soon it will end life as we understand it. There will be no world. There will be no humanity. There will be nothing that we know.
There will only be the Decohesion Engine, Principle of Omnipotence, a power born in death and a terrible light.
– 3 –
Jaguars are about to fall on Emily. She hopes. That is the hopeful option. That is the best option, the one she is praying for: that there are still jaguars, somewhere out there, and that they will fall.
And when the first one falls on her —
She is pretty certain of this, all things considered —
She is going to die.
. . .
It’s not that she wants to die or anything. She’d rather live! It’s just that usually when a jaguar falls on you, particularly all the way from space, it doesn’t matter how ready your heart is or how strong you are. The flesh has limits to how much it can take.
So I’m scared for her, and I’m admiring towards her, because she’s gone out there anyway. She’s gone out to that waste at the end of the world, with its sticky trees, past that cow on its throne and the paper-tongued snake, and she’s calling the jaguars down.
She’s just decided that it’s time; and that somebody has to do it; and that she’s the only one who can possibly get it done.
So that’s pretty cool and all. Three cheers for Emily!
But this isn’t her story, either.
. . .
This story isn’t about how a jaguar hits her, and she dies; or how a jaguar hits her, and she lives; or even about how many jaguars hit her, to one result or another.
Nor is it about the triumph or even the tragedy of Johnny Pancake or how the world does or doesn’t get struck by a needle-thin ray from space, giving forth death and a terrible light.
This story is about Mr. Enemy.
. . .
His name sounds like Emily’s, so I could understand some confusion; but if you listen closely you’ll be able to tell the difference, which is actually, I think, in the long run, for the best.
– 4 –
Mr. Enemy is flopped back on his jail bunk. His hands are folded behind his head. He’s laughing.
“Mr. Evans,” says Special Agent Melanie Cook.
His laugh cuts short. Mr. Enemy sits up. His motion is smooth and even and he doesn’t hit his head on the bunk above him.
“I’m not Mr. Evans,” says Mr. Enemy. “Though I used to be.”
. . .
“It’s not important what your enemy’s name is,” says Mr. Enemy. “It’s not important what he does for a living. It’s not important who he is, really. What’s important is that he’s your enemy. Jeremiah Clean scrubbed me raw. He cleaned everything unimportant away. All the Linus. All the Friedman. All the Evans. So now I’m just Mr. Enemy. His enemy. If you know what I mean.”
Melanie looks at her notes. “You’re in jail for 1,427 counts of aggravated littering,” she says.
“90% of all crimes go unsolved,” says Mr. Enemy. “It should be 14,270 counts. But an adversarial legal system refuses me my due.”
. . .
Melanie frowns at her notes. “How do you aggravate littering, anyway?”
“It’s my special talent,” says Mr. Enemy. “Observe.”
He takes a cigarette butt out from under his pillow. He flicks it onto the ground in front of Melanie. The burnt end flares and begins to emit seventh-hand smoke — thirty-two times deadlier than second-hand smoke! Melanie quickly stomps it out.
“I’m not afraid of getting lung cancer,” she says, boldly.
He looks at her.
She looks away.
“I’m afraid of you getting lung cancer,” says Mr. Enemy, after a moment. “I’m not your enemy. But I have to be as messy as possible or I can’t count it as a blow against Mr. Clean.”
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