The Scientist
He ate a light breakfast. The usual cholesterol overload every morning: two eggs over-easy, two sausage links, two strips of bacon, two pieces of sourdough, heavily buttered, and a cup of coffee strong enough to remove paint. He wondered if it was inappropriate to eat such an unhealthy meal, being a geneticist, but he inhaled the whole breakfast in a few seconds while reminding himself how much he had hated his life since she died. He smiled sadly as he burped and whispered, "excuse me," to someone who wasn't there.
He liked people-watching. Today's subject: unemployed big oil workers. A dying breed of permanently unemployed bitter bastards who turned their heads on the environmental destruction of our planet because there was money to be made. They feel cheated by the world for not healing faster than they could destroy it, as their corporate masters had assured them. They cling on miserably to their lives, medicating against cancers and diseases they brought upon themselves and the rest of us. It's like some kind of poetic justice that punishes even the innocent. Man, even God's humor is cruel. He wonders what makes them hang on to the belief that more of the behavior that has destroyed us is the cure. Maybe their visions of some biblical hell are worse than the hell they have created here on earth. He wishes his were.
The scales tipped for him long ago when the clearcutting stopped because there was nothing left to cut. When the random burning of rainforests by fast-food meat industries seized because there was nothing left to burn, or when the pillage of the seas ended with the realization that there was nothing left to take. It began with whales and a dozen other species, but no one said anything until they couldn't get their crab legs at Red Lobster.
He paused to look at the abandoned fishing boats at the rotting pier, evidence of better days now nothing more than a reminder of what awaits us all. The water was so still, without movement, as if the moon withheld her kisses from the waves.
He looked at the fishermen's empty faces as he walked by, hoping to find a trace of intelligence in one of them, some excuse to shift his anger elsewhere... and he found one. An old bible on the lap of an even older fisherman: his face utterly devoid of expression, eyes glazed over. A man content with the lie that he had nothing to do with this. It was ordained by someone else; they were just brainless pawns who were not allowed to ask who or why.
He saw lifeless humanoids who never quite lived for fear of some loveless god. No, they were not heroes. They were monsters that sealed their own fate and destroyed the hopes of unborn innocents… their children… their grandchildren… for a few lousy bucks, now praying for the return of some messiah to forgive them and rescue them from the consequences of their actions.
Don't they read their bible? When "The Savior" comes back, it is the end; that's all folks; do not pass go, do not collect $200.00. "Savior," he thought. What an oxymoron. He thought to himself what he would do if he were a god. He yearned for a way to recreate the forests, the oceans, and the skies… to reanimate the world.
The longer he thought about it, the further removed from reality. His thoughts consumed him. His mind raced from one end of his consciousness to another like a hungry seagull scanning the sea's surface in a frantic search for nourishment. Part of him wanted to show the world how much he loved it. That he was willing to sacrifice himself for it.
And then he understood.