text: The bastard drunk toppled a stool and cracked-skull on the edge of the faux wood bar. He was bleeding before his knees caught the floor and his free hand slapped the bootfilth and godknows on the checkered tiles before he used it to wipe the wound. He didn’t cry out, just made an *oof* of inconvenience and after a few seconds of consideration, staggered to his feet. He didn’t spill a drop of his beer. He studied his dripping hand for a moment with a comical grimace that said *well this will never do* and he lifted his shirt to soak the blood from his face and hands. The Mexican by the jukebox whistled loudly and yelled some sharp note of Spanish congratulations. I turned back to the TV and sipped my whiskey. The news man was sweating and kept straightening his tie, trying to look dignified and unaffected. Poor bastard didn’t even have a drink. Just a pen he kept shifting between his fingers, rubbing and squeezing it like a stress ball or some fortune-teller’s talisman. Words flashed across the bottom of the screen but I wasn’t reading them. It didn’t matter. *...it is unclear at this time whether the President has arrived or if there will be a press conference or an official address. We do know that the President was en route to an undisclosed military location as of 9:43PM Eastern time...* The bastard drunk slammed his red-stained palm on the bar with a BANG and I think each and every person in that place jumped halfway out of their chairs, myself no exception. The Mexican started to yell something, but all ears fell on the drunk as he raised his glass to the sky and looked around the bar with glassy-eyed self-importance. “This!” His voice half-cracked, half-burped. “*This* is the last *god damn* place on Earth!” Someone yelled for him to shut the fuck up, Danny, you shit. “*This,* man. Here we are and then we aren’t. The last goddamn place.” He tipped his glass a bit as though to cheers us then gulped it down, nodding slightly with satisfaction, acceptance, I don’t know what. Someone muttered *sonofabitch* and we all went back to our business. I looked at the missed calls on my phone, scanning the area codes on unknown numbers, all 972 and 214. Dallas. I didn’t know anyone in Dallas. But there were a whole helluva lot of people in Dallas who knew me. Creditors, banks, hired phone goons. Companies and groups and affiliations, LLCs and organizations. But the phone hadn’t rang in a while. I wasn’t thinking about the money. Every area code on that list was from Dallas. For the last two weeks. She wasn’t going to call. Why would she call? I should have just turned the damn thing off. I killed my whiskey and thought about dying. Not so bad. It would be fast. Probably wouldn’t even notice. He we are and then we aren’t. I wondered if she was safe. Somewhere in one of those underground boxes with the canned beans and water bottles. She probably went to the army camp. Probably went with Jake. Goddamn *Jake.* But he’d keep her safe. That’s the main thing. As long as she’s safe. I thumbed my wedding ring and stopped thinking about dying. The Mexican shoved another dollar in the juke and whistled. I poured another drink. It took the end of the goddamn world to get my hands on a bottle of Special Reserve. Tasted like everything else I’d ever had. The bastard drunk stumbled up next to me, humming. I grabbed a dirty shot glass off the bar, sloshed some in and threw it to Danny the Bastard Drunk Shit. He looked at it the way my neglected, scorned, desperate, cheating wife used to look at close-up card magic. Wonder and skeptical awe. He slammed it and caught my eyes like a concerned doctor about to tell a cancer case he’s gotta stop smoking. He stared for a second, sizing me up. Or maybe just fighting off the nightspins as the Reserve hit the pot and stirred. The blood running down his face was drying brown. “Hey.” Hey, I said. “What...” burp “Just what the fuck are you doin’ here?” It wasn’t a threat. He sounded concerned. The Mexican screamed a battle cry and shot the juke out with his pistol. There was a commotion and I think some older cowboy fellow stabbed him. I don’t really know. The Tejano jangle beat snap crackle popped and was gone. “I mean. Really, man. What the *fuck* are you doing here?” *...we have been told by the government that we are to cease broadcasting immediately. For the sake of integrity we have decided to lock down the station and continue to transmit until... we are no longer able to do so. I will continue to report and stand by the people of this great nation the only way I know how. We will keep you informed and updated as best we can. God bless America. And God keep our love ones safe. Keep us all...* I was thinking about dying, I said. Danny burst out in fits of laughter. “You, man.” He pointed at me, still holding the empty shot glass. “*You!* You’re funny, man.” And he stumbled away. I wondered if she’d make it through this. Really I was wondering if she’d still think about me. How long from now? A year? Ten? Scavenging some blighted shitland that looked more like hell than Cleburne. Would she look for me? Jake wouldn’t let her. Hell, I wouldn’t want her to. Someone was dragging the Mexican out of the bar. I’d never seen someone die before. It felt like nothing. I poured more Reserve in my glass and looked up at the TV. Below the sweating, straining news anchor was an animated countdown clock. It said ten minutes and change. Last call. Part of me wanted to run and head for the army camp. Try to wait this out. Maybe I’d get to see her. Jake would stand between us, but she’d be cordial. Under the circumstances she might even give me a somber hug. Some kind of mutual pity and recognition of the Big Shit that made our problems seem years past and half-forgiven. Let bygones be bygones and let the bombs fall where they may. I looked over my shoulder at the last goddamn place on Earth. Twenty some-odd heathens swilling and swaying, counting down the minutes til they meet their maker, the Universe, the Big Shit. Waiting for their chance to say *Sorry.* I’m sorry for everything. I’m so damn sorry, Janie. The last drop of Special Reserve poured into my glass. The drunk was passed out on the pool table, still holding the empty shot. The old cowboy fellow was praying. Some were crying, some were repenting, some were toasting, laughing, shrugging, dialing, dancing, hugging, screaming and all of us were waiting. The news man straightened his tie and put down the fortune-teller’s talis-pen. There were no more words flashing across the bottom of the screen. There wasn’t going to be any Presidential address. Janie was safe with Jake. I finished my whiskey and savored the burn. The Mexican watched the stars outside, unseeing. The old woman in the corner rose to her feet. The last goddamn place on Earth broke into a harmonious, miserable, broken, joyful, perfect countdown. Ten nine eight seven six She’ll think of me. Bad or good, in passing, in pity, in regret, in love, but Five four three two She’ll think of me. Here we are And then we weren’t. EDIT: Formatting.