A stool at a bar or that metal pole that runs along the bottom has always been the best place to hear the happenings, the news. This one looks as good as any. Take it. Go ahead. Right by the jabbering locals. These two must be writing a history book the way they’re carrying on. Scoot close, pretend you’re not listening.
“All started with that dang apple, I tell ya. It’s when they was testing on it. Making it exist in two different places at once or trying to prove that it already does. Something like that right? Like we’re all existing in more than one place at the same time. Heards they’d try ta have the same apple ins a lab in The Washington and in another out near the Great Greens. Ya’know out east. Near the big ol’ river over there." The bearded gray man strains to straighten out his fused together vertebrae. A bead of sweat travels down his forehead and with all his effort he manages to swing an arm in the general direction of east. His long vacant of skin finger shacks the cardinal direction. The other half of the conversation glances to where the finger points. Staring through the round glass lenses of their All-Enviro Helm — “the most vital piece of a survivor's equipment”, so the manufacturer says. They, maybe the suit, must be able to see through the wall because his eyes stay fixed there for longer than it would take to realize that there is indeed a wall that way.
The helmet returns to the conversation, "They wanted to teleport or sometin like that, right?", they say through the air filter in the helmet.
"Dat’s right! Some kind of high-end sciencin’. The type of sciences that is beyond most’a us. The kind of sciences most’a us never seen before The Merge. That's what I heards."
"Whad’ya hear."
“That that apple was what’s tore into the other dimensions and brought parts of them into this one.”
"Shhit."
"Or brought us into them. Which ever’a it might be. It was the apple’s fault."
"Could be could be", the friend in the helm waves over the barkeep and shows him that his liquid — liquor — intake bag is empty.
"Yup", the gray man rubs his lower back. "That apple started appearin’ alls over the world. Then other tings started appearin’. Other timelines even. All mergin’ together."
"Right, right. Kind of like everyting that could be, wanted to be. At the same time or sometin’. Tings smooed out though?" The friend in the helmet squeezes his refilled bag. The liquor flows to where it is needed.
"Smoothed out? Pre’a’much, mixed tagether where it wanted and stuck. No big changes in my life time. New mutants appear every now’n’again but that’s just the migration happenin’.”
“Or breeding.”
“Or Breeding. Butcha know, people travelin’ all over Epapalix now-a-days. I guess we’re gonna be seein’ new folks from time ta’time. Ya’know I’ve heards some’ems made some kinda giant floatin’ bag ands took it over The Waters."
"Nao, floated over The Water. Shhit, won’t believe that till I see it with all three eyes." His third eye is his largest and is found on his chest. It is just covered by clothes at the moment. Such interesting topics come up at the local tavern or get overheard we should say.
“Whao! Wait!", the barkeep says. A dusty man stands silhouetted in the entrance of the drinking establishment. He props the door open with a rock he drops to the floor. He evaluates the new venue. Maybe this is the one. He steps into the bar, guitar slung over his back, a sword strapped to the instrument, and his sockless feet swimming in dusty red loafers. Dust and heat blow past him and over the patrons of the tavern. The barkeep covers his face as the dust assaults it. "You don’t need to prove yourself here", he says. "This is a closed-mic bar. Closed-mic!" The barkeep reveals the hidden shotgun from under the well-used bar. The barrel points at the dusty man’s head while the barkeep’s own falls in a wet spot on the bar and rolls off it, bouncing to the floor and landing in more spilled alcohol. The gun is snatched from the hands of the headless body as it collapses on top of its head.
So quick. I didn’t even notice. The air is so hot with the door open. The shotgun is not as loud as I would have thought. Exposed beams. They must hold up the roof of the bar. So nice, functional and beautiful. It would have been nice to have something like that in a home. Minus the leg that is draped over that one. Oh, the screaming has stopped and moans of the dying are quieting. That’s nice.
The smell of blood mixes with the thick air of the bar. The flies stoned from the bar’s new atmosphere zag, zig, and bump into walls and furniture. They weave trying to navigate to a dead or dying patron so they can retch over them and feed. As you stare at the timber framing of the bar you wonder if the intestines you are pushing back into your belly are yours or the guy’s next to you or a mixture of the two. The swordsman guitarist steps over you. The bottom of his shoe reads “COOL” and he leaves the word in bloody footprints after stepping in the pool of blood surrounding you. The sun light silhouettes the man in the exit. He looks back then leaves the bar without even getting a drink.
Welcome to Elapoix, as people have come to call this world. Tighten your shoes, pull up your pants, don’t worry that will probably heal, and grab something sharp or heavy or that shoots superheated rays of light. Find a nice place to rest and begin. There are many people in this world but we have the lives of a certain three to step into and observe.