In the beginning, there was darkness.
And nothing else.
The darkness was peaceful. The darkness was quiet. The darkness was calm. It was content simply being. There was nothing to disturb it, no sound, no sight, no smells, no touch...just endless nothing.
Then some motherfucker turned on the first lightbulb and shouted out pretentiously "LET THERE BE LIGHT!" as if it sounded cool. Which it didn't. And the darkness was about to tell said motherfucker to keep the noise down when it realized it wasn't alone anymore.
The light grew and grew, and despite the best attempts at the darkness, soon there were...things in the universe. Walking. talking, laughing, crying, loving, hating THINGS.
Humans were now a close second on the darkness's most hated list. First was the light. Third, co-incidentally, was whoever came up with the idea for the platypus.
But the darkness was not willing to let itself slip away, unnoticed and forgotten. It couldn't attack the light, for though it was the original and the light was merely a bandwagon-jumper, for some reason whenever it did, the darkness felt itself being absorbed the light. At least, it couldn't attack directly. So it spread, across the world that the main source of light seemed to shine upon most. It rushed across continents, climbed over mountains and down rivers, it sought out the humans and it sought to turn them against the light.
It did so by creating strange and odd afflictions upon certain humans. And it grew and grew and grew until at last, the darkness felt as though it had it's own army ready for the waiting.
But the darkness had underestimated the light. For it too had a army. And while the Creatures of the Night (The Darkness would have filed a copyright, but those had yet to be invented) had the strange, raw power on it's side, those that fought against such perversions of nature were equipped with weapons designed specifically to kill those that sought to threaten humanity.
And so it has continued for centuries. The light and the darkness, locked in never-ending battle.
There are many chapters to this story. This is just one of them.
It features some really stupid people in it
...
2003.
"What the fuck are we even doing down here?"
"Yeah, Caboose, are you sure this isn't a sex dungeon? I mean I knew your old man was completely off the fucking wall, but still."
"Stupid Tucker! My grand-daddy was allergic to walls!"
It was a bright, hot, summer's day. Most teenagers, especially on a weekend when there was nothing more to do regarding school work, would have done a number of things. Head down to the beach, go outside for some sexy times, go for a swim, anything that meant they could get out of their houses and away from their parents and their nagging.
You would be hard pressed to find them looking for weapons. But that's what the three boys were doing down there.
The first teen was named Church. Oh, he had a first name, but he refused to use it that often. Because when life gives you a name like Leonard, you flip life off and go by the less insulting nickname. At least it could sound somewhat more badass. If used right. Not that it ever was. Dressed in casually typical teenager attire, the only thing that was really notable about it was the incredibly odd hat that he wore, covering his face. Cobalt didn't suit him, but no one...all right, a lot of people told him that, but he didn't listen to many.
The second was Lavernius Tucker. So named because his parents had wanted a smart kid, and instead they got whatever the hell Tucker was. Not that he was incredibly stupid, but he was the special kind of clever where, if he put his mind to it, he could probably make something of himself. Unfortunately, he didn't, making him a special kind of idiot. Known for having a record with women that resembled that of a arthritic baseball player, having plenty of swings but no hits, he was somewhat confrontational, which made he and Church get on like a house on fire. That is, with plenty of hurt on both sides. His attempt to look cool by adopting the aqua jacket of recently deceased Butch Flowers hadn't helped his popularity.
And then there was the third.
Oh dear lord. How to describe Micheal J Caboose? To do so would be like looking at the sun, directly. It was certainly something you COULD do, but it was something that gave many people pause as to whether they SHOULD do it.
Caboose was, to put it bluntly, incredibly dumb. Rumors were common about him. Some argued that he had been sent by a dying planet, last of their race, only for his head to smack onto a rock and promptly become the biggest waste of potential man has ever known. And that was just what his mother thought. He was known for being somewhat popular with certain ladies. This was odd, as Tucker frequently noted, because clearly Caboose couldn't be charming in his own odd way. Not when he frequently forgot to wear a safety belt to school, and so frequently had to attend the hospital. He also wore clothes that were somewhat...odd choices even by teen standards. A massive dark blue overcoat, for example, was not something that Vogue would ever put on their front cover.
But somehow, fate in her mysterious way, brought them together as she often does, for shits and giggles. And so, on that summer afternoon, they searched the basement of Caboose's grandfather, who was pretty much Caboose with a couple of wrinkles and grey hair.
"Reds won't see it coming. Wasn't that what Flowers said?"
"Dude, check it out!" From a old box buried deep in the corner, Tucker pulled out what appeared to be a old sniper rifle. He blew on it, snickered to himself at the image and then immediately regretted it as the dust was inhaled into his sizeable lungs.
"Put it down, or you'll have someone's eye out with it." Church muttered.
"Hypocrite."
"Oh you shoot one person in the eye during paintball and-"
"GUYS! GUYS GUYS GUYS I'VE FOUND A FOOTBALL!" Church and Tucker turned in time to see Caboose put the item to his eye. "Oooh! Look, it's even got a little pin in it-"
Tucker grabbed the grenade in a flash. Church let out a wheeze of relief, and fumbled around for a cigarette. "You idiot! You could have killed me! And Church, but mostly me!"
"When are the Reds-"
"HEY DIRTBAGS!"
"Oh. Answered my own question."
...
The Reds would have been called the Scourge of the neighbourhood, had they any iota of competency. Responsible for a number of crimes, including, but limited to:
-Breaking one window in one house. By accident.
-Several noise complaints from the sound of explosions.
-Starting a hate group that somehow managed to end up burning out within the week.
-Illegally using military equipment without a permit (The Blood Gulch police gave them a permit as a way to make sure that they didn't get any more arguments about it. They were stupid.
-And finally, but by no means least, being the Reds.
Their leader was a sergeant. You would know this because he told people that when he first met them. Every. Single. Time. What his actual role had been had never been discovered, and quite frankly, no one wanted to discover it. Referred to only as 'Sarge', he was typically seen rambling on about how the blues were going to make America 'un-great' again, and how bad that was. Most people had written him off as a harmless kook, until the two months ago when he had started a gang war between himself and a teenager.
"GREAT JEFFERSON'S ANKLE BRACELET GRIF! What's taking you so damn long?!"
"Sir, I protest at my treatment. Especially because Simmons is being far more of a buttmunch than usual."
"Sir! I think you're doing great!"
"Thank you Simmons, and Grif...If you persist, I'LL PUT YOU ON HUNGER STRIKE! Now, I'm heading over there to make sure that the taco truck is secure! Both of you are on GUARD DUTY!"
Grif sighed, but complied. He had been recruited here mostly because his mother had become steadily aware that he was not good for anything else, and that being sent to military school would, if not make a man out of him, then at least get him out of the house and out of the larder. The alternatives had been going to Iraq or staying with Sarge. He regretted his choice. If he had gone to a actual war, he probably would have died but at least he would have died under the command of someone who was reasonably capable of actually understanding how the world worked.
Sarge seemed not to have that gift, and he hadn't liked Grif since the day he corrected Sarge that no, his jacket was in fact orange, not yellow. Grif was a easy target. Unfit, constantly searching for the nearest slice of something to eat and very, very prone to falling asleep.
He was also, probably, the closest thing to a sane man on the Reds. The only other man was Simmons, a Dutch-Irish teenager who hero-worshiped Sarge. To the extent that Grif wasn't sure whether or not he wanted to be Sarge's life partner, his son or some weird combination of the two. Not that he judged other people and their fetishes. Truth be told, if Sarge ordered Simmons to throw Grif under a bus, Simmons would probably do it. He'd fail, considering he was as about as weedy as a...well, weed, but he'd still give it his best shot until his back went out.
Sarge had hired the two teens to act as makeshift bodyguards. He had done so by impling that this would get the extra credit and a great deal of clout when it came to university choices.
This was probably a lie, but both men had been desperate at the time.
And so, as they waited at the park, Grif and Simmons peered forward, trying to make out if any of the Blues were there. They were sitting on one of Sarge's old, beat up classic cars that would actually fetch a pretty price if it wasn't for the fact that it resembled pestilence given a physical form.
"Hey."
"Hmm?"
"...You ever wonder-"
"Whether or not life is a meaningless cycle of death, destruction, heartbreak, loneliness, growing old until finally it all ends anti-climatically one day?"
"...Bullshit, I was wondering why we're not inside the car instead of staying out here freezing our...well, my balls off."
Simmons coughed. "Oh."
"What the fuck was-"
"Never mind."
"No, seriously-"
A bullet whistled by Grif's cap. He swore aloud and staggered back. "WHAT THE FUC-"
"TUCKER! I SAID SHOOT UP AT THEM! NOT DIRECTLY AT THEM! THEY DON'T EVEN SOUND SIMILAR WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU!?"
Tucker frowned. "Okay, coming from you, that's a bit much. Secondly, ask any chick, my aim is fiiiiine. Bow chicka bow wow!"
Church glared at Tucker, and then to the two Reds. He waved. "Hey Grif."
"Sup, Church."
"Oh, you know, we heard some shouting, sounded like your Sergeant, we figured that we should get ourselves prepared for whatever ridiculous plan you have for us today. We just as well figured that we might bring something to level the playing field."
"Huh. No kidding." Grif looked at the rifle with interest. "That's pretty not bad." He yawned. "Got to say, you scared the shit out of Dick over there."
"It's RICHARD!"
"That what your mommy calls you when you've been bad?"
"You leave my mother out of this!"
"Whatever. Hey, see you're missing the Third Musketeer."
"Huh? Oh him. We told him to stay behind in the car and wait-"
CLICK.
"-Ah. Sarge. Nice day."
"Ah knew that THIS DAY WOULD COME!"
"Here we go." Church was aware that Sarge, when under extreme emotion, had a far more pronounced Southern accent. "Hey Sarge."
"THIS IS THE END OF DAYS, BLUE!"
"Cool story brah." Tucker pulled out the rifle. "Now! Get down or-" He backed off at the sight of the shotgun pointing in his direction. "What is even your problem?! We just wear blue clothes!? THE FUCK IS EVEN WRONG WITH BLUE?!"
"HOW DARE YOU ASK ME THAT?!" Sarge's hand shook.
"I WILL SAVE YOU CHURCH! MY BEST FRIEND!" Caboose, having been watching from the trees, rushed forward, waving madly around the grenade he had found in the glove-box compartment.
"CABOO-"
...
When the police arrived, they found four shocked teenagers, one senile old man (Promptly taken into custody) and a smoking crater in the middle of the park that had used to be Leonard Church.
The two Reds were quickly led away to be questioned, while Sarge was pretty much thrown into the nearest truck and driven to his usual padded cell at the Blood Gulch Utter Whacko Institute for Weird People.
As for the Blues, they were quickly escorted to the police station, where a shell shocked Tucker and a somewhat oblivious Caboose gave a rough statement that sort of explained everything.
...
That then, was how the last day of Church's life went down.
So it came as a rather big surprise to him when the first day of his after-life started.
