Chapter 25
THE SHORT SIDE-CHAPTER OF DOOM!
It had been a rather long day of hard work for Michael Chesterfield. He and his poor, ailing mother lived in a small cottage just east of the town of Brighton. Since his father had died in a mining accident a year and a half ago, he had been forced to sell his failing bookstore and attempt to make ends meet doing whatever job could arise. He had taken to the drink when his mother had been stricken with a life-threatening case of Head Pigeons. Being barely able to pay for their home, Michael had no way to pay for the medication that his mother so desperately needed.
As he walked back from town, toward the cottage, he looked over past the beach to the gently lapping, cool waves of the English Channel. For several days, he had noticed strange lights and small columns of smoke emanating over the horizon from the French side of the Channel. Even over the great-distanced gulf, he could see and wonder the origins of the strange and baffling sights. Little did he know, just how much of an impact the events occurring in Europe would soon cross the Channel like groping, snatching hands. He was but a small and simple man who could not foresee the dark shadow that would, in a matter of days, loom over the many towns and hamlets and farms and cities of England and the United Kingdom. He was sheltered, at least from the problems of the world, in his own ignorance. But even that, would not be able to save him from the cruel fate that had already been set into motion to snare him like a rat trap.
He walked up to the little brown door of his cottage and walked inside. The house was nearly bare, much like the pantry. All that existed in the main room was a small kitchen area, a couch, and a TV. Michael had decided to sell the remaining furniture the next day, but for tonight, he would enjoy his last sleep on the couch and enjoy his last night of Benny Hill.
Michael strangled back his tears at the thought of his dire situation and walked to one of the kitchen cabinets for his nightly dose of Scotch and Gin. He poured both bottles into an empty wine bottle and then topped it off with a splash of paint thinner; for zest. Gripping his creature comfort, Michael walked into the back of the cottage where his mother lay sleeping in her bed. He hadn't the heart to wake her. She was always in such agonizing pain when she was awake.
He rested his bottle on the floor next to the bed and walked back into the living room. He picked up a pillow from the couch and buried his face in it in and attempt to stifle his tortured sobs. That's when the thought crossed his mind. Finally, a solution had come to him. He pulled away the pillow and carried it with him into his mother's room. He stood there, by her bedside, for a great many minutes contemplating the notion of firmly pressing the pillow to his mother's face until her terrified screaming and trashing had finally stopped.
He resigned himself to the deed and dutifully reached forward, the pillow in his shaking hands, and was just about to instigate his merciful prescription, when he lost his nerve and dropped the pillow. He collapsed next to the bed and began to weep.
"Michael," His mother asked sleepily and opened one of her eyes, "what are you doing? Are you alright?"
He stood and looked down at her forcing a pitiful smile through his tears. "Nothing, mother, nothing for you to worry about. I just brought you another pillow so you could be more comfortable, that's all." He swallowed the lump in the back of his throat that had almost choked him moments before.
She smiled at him and whispered, "You brought me the one with the piggies on it. That one's my favorite."
"I know, mother." He shakily answered, again almost choking as that lump angrily returned.
"Such a thoughtful boy, you are. So thoughtful and kind to his…" before she could finish, she slipped off into sleep once again.
Michael knelt down to retrieve his bottle and as he grasped it, noticed that the raspy wheeze of his mother's labored breathing was absent from the room. She had finally gone into that sleep that he'd feared for the past many months.
He drank deeply from his bottle for a long moment and then abruptly sent it sailing through the air and across the room. It smashed against the wall with a loud crash leaving a small dent in the wall.
A few moments later, Michael walked out of the room and sat down on the couch. He turned on the TV and sat there gazing for several minutes.
Every member of the small family that lived a quarter of a mile down the road from Michael and his mother could hear the sound of a gunshot rip through the tranquil spring breeze.
As Michael lay there, the top of his head splattered against the wall behind him and the smoking revolver clattering on the floor at his feet, the television show he'd been watching was interrupted by an emergency broadcast.
"We now go live toMr. Prime Minister-person who has an announcement concerning the developments in Europe," the announcer grimly reported.
"I am speaking to you from the Cabinet Room at 10, Downing Street," Mr. Prime Minister-person began, "This morning the British Ambassador in New United Europe handed the Sympathizing Administration a final Note stating that unless we heard from them by 11 o'clock that they were prepared at once to dissolve and impeach their new Chancellor, a state of war would exist between us. I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is at war with New United Europe and its Arch Chancellor GIR."
The words of the television fell on deaf ears, as did the voice coming from the back of the cottage calling, "Michael, is everything alright? Michael?"
The pigeon cooed.