Violets and Gasoline

It started before the stabbing began. Paleontologists were puzzled by the ancient signs of aberrant behavior they discovered in the underwater tunnels but they had to follow the fossil evidence no matter the cost to humanity’s dubious reputation. Fresh scuba gear was distributed like missionary medicine to the five finalists.

Then it was time to swim under the volcano and cause the inciting riot that would ignite the final frothy apocalypse. 

The moon looked funny for a while. The craters became faces. Most who witnessed the lunar mutation reported charleyhorse-like symptoms in their legs, hindering their ability to sprint or run for their lives. Jack “Dizzy Motherfucker” Lukas was one among them. Sprintless. Seized by cramps in both thighs. Unloved by most of the global population. Bulbous. Broke. Spending only the thinnest of dimes on inexpensive wine that made him feel luminous within his gray, gritty existence. 

He sat outside Harry’s Liquor Store and rubbed his aching legs with a greasy liniment that smelled of violets and gasoline. 

No one would talk to him so he talked to himself. About subjects that bored him.

A puff of powdery ionone odor rose into his olfactory glands, triggering memories of the war.  

Jack began to discuss the rudimentary building blocks of life. Molecular biology bored him to tears and soon he was weeping inconsolably. He slipped the tube of liniment back into his vest pocket to keep it safe.

And meanwhile, the five finalists—submerged, eager, with soft thoughts bubbling like tonic water through their cerebral fluid—swam like seals beneath Kratom, the active volcano that towered over them like an Antediluvian Colossus, puking thick gouts of red lava into the sizzling sea.

Jack Lukas rattled the dimes in his coffee can.

“Hey you dizzy motherfucker! I thought I told you you can’t hang out in front of my store!”

It was Harry. Of Harry’s Liquor Store fame.

“How many times I gotta call the cops on your dizzy motherfuckin’ ass?”

Jack lowered his jaw to his chest and began to lecture himself on the history of credit card interest-rate margins.     

“Dizzy bughouse lunatic bastard!” Harry said. He stomped back into his store. 

Jack counted his dimes, muttering caustic remarks about various sealants (acrylic, silicone, etc.). 

He still couldn’t afford a new bottle of wine. He drank a white wine bottled in Baltimore called Fishtank Filter. It was cheapjack dimestore swill and tasted like diluted urine but it scratched the fitful itch under his aging brain.  

The five divers angled and swam into the yawning hollow below. They each directed 1300 lumens of light ahead to pierce the ink-black umbra. The walls of the tunnel narrowed as they swam and the venting mountain above them belched like a thousand lions roaring at once and the hot water oscillated with dark vibrations.

One of the five divers wondered if this was how it felt to be born. He’d been birthed by an emergency cesarean. He’d always felt shortchanged by that fact. 

He blamed his mother.

A woman with a tiger-print purse dropped fifty cents into Jack’s can and he tipped an imaginary hat and said, “Bless `em to high heaven, ma’am,” and neither of them knew what that meant. She detected the scent of flowers and gas but offered no comment. She entered the liquor store and after six minutes came out carrying a twelve-pack of Keystone beer.

Jack tipped his lack-of-a-hat as she passed. 

Then he looked at his lap and started talking about kitchen countertops and phenolic resin. 

Harry came out to confront him yet again. “Well, you brought it on yourself, you looney. I just called the cops to haul your ass away again.”

Jack looked up and smiled with his ill-fitting false teeth. “Oh really? Why would you wanna arrange the arrest of a paying customer?”

“What customer?” 

Jack held out his canned collection of coins. He made it shake like a maraca. “I just earned the last five dimes I needed. One small bottle of Fishtank, please,” he ordered, feeling triumphant. He looked glad about himself and a livid heat seeped into Harry’s face.

Jack told him, “Well? Chop chop my good man. I don’t have all day.” 

Harry glowered.

The five divers aimed shafts of bright light at the south wall of the cave. They had reached the final chamber. It was the big prize of the contest. They studied the Paleolithic petroglyphs. A rhinoceros grazed, surrounded by several reindeer. All the reindeer had antlers. A human figure stood behind them, holding what looked like an edged weapon. 

One of the divers ran her hand over the artwork, nodding with knowledge. 

The volcano rumbled above them. The divers noticed an increase in heat.

Jack sat outside the store, waiting for his wine. A kid who made him think about burlesque comedians staggered past. Jack rattled his can but the boy ignored him.

There was a square of white paper taped to the side of the can that read, DIMES ONLY! but the kid didn’t notice. He seemed stoned. Everyone under the age of thirty seemed stoned to Jack. My how the times have flown.

Next to the liquor store was a small convenience store called Debbie Mart and the kid stationed himself by the door, slouching against the graffitied brickwork. It was nice to have company out here, Jack thought. He began to babble about chlorine levels in public swimming pools. Still waiting for that goddamn wine. He thought about reporting Harry to the Better Business Bureau. Or at least threaten to. The guy was seriously slacking today.

The five divers floated in front of another petroglyph. A human figure—probably male—was depicted sitting in front of a rock face. To the right was the entrance to a cave. To the left was another figure poised to attack the man with a long knife, probably edged, whetted bone, probably Upper Paleolithic. The petroglyph was a depiction of a stabbing attack. 

One of the divers started explaining something with improvised hand signals but since no one in the group knew sign language it was all meaningless motion. But that didn’t stop them from nodding along as if they understood.

Furious Kratom belched above them. 

Harry came out of the store. In his left hand was a bottle of Fishtank Filter wine. In his right hand he held a German combat knife and as soon as he passed the bottle to Jack, he stabbed him in the throat. The seven-inch blade entered his neck to the hilt and Jack gasped and gurgled. Even if he’d had time to jump up and run, the moon-aches in his legs would have prevented escape.

Harry stabbed him again.

And again.

The kid loitering outside the Debbie Mart watched the assault with drooping bloodshot eyes, as if falling asleep in front of the TV.

Harry said, “How do you like THAT you dizzy motherfucker!” while Jack succumbed to his stab wounds.

Harry turned to the kid and held out the bottle of wine. “Y’want this?”

The kid shrugged. “Uh, sure, I’ll take it. If you don’t want it.”

“I don’t.”

The five divers examined the final petroglyph. It depicted a village. Above the huts and oblivious villagers, a flaming meteor plummeted from the sky. It looked like the moon had become dislodged from its orbit. 

And then Kratom exploded with an ultra-plinian eruption, erasing the five divers (and the ancient illustrations) from existence.