Conspiracy theory

 

I was sitting with Mike at Hale's Inn. He, dressed as usual in flannel and blue jeans, was sipping a Coke, and I was finishing my pancakes. The sun was slowly climbing the sky, mercilessly frying the vast expanse of desert that stretched beyond the window, east of Hammonds. Mike didn't say anything, waiting meekly for me to finish, but I knew that hungry look in his eyes.

"Do you want some?" I asked, irritated.

"No, no, eat it," he replied, looking up from the pancakes a little too quickly. I felt my lips tighten involuntarily and sighed. Can't he ever tell me things like that directly?

"Here, I don't want to anyway." I pushed a plate of pancakes toward him.

"Well, if you say so." He lunged at the food. I reached for my coffee and stared at the barren desert.

"Have you heard of KFC?" "Mike asked between bites. I shook my head.

"What did you learn again, Sherlock?"

I liked his amazing stories. Of course, I would never admit it, and certainly not to him. Because despite everything, Mike, with all his New Age philosophy, conspiracy theories, paranoia, and slight schizophrenia, could be fascinating. And certainly funny. "

Imagine a series of headless mutant chickens, mass-produced in huge factories. No unnecessary organs, no extra hassles with breeding." Mike looked away from his plate for a moment. "Except fried chicken is only in name."

"Good. I'll think about that next time I visit KFC," I muttered. I finished my coffee and immediately hissed in pain.

"Tooth?" Mike asked as I massaged my jaw.

"Damn, I was supposed to go to the dentist last week.

" "I have my ways of dealing with that."

"Voodoo?" I scoffed.

"Pliers," he replied, showing the four holes left by missing teeth.

"Jesus, Mike! Can't you afford a dentist?!" Disgusted, I backed away from him. "

Forget about surgeons. You never know what kind of tooth they might put in you. You don't know how far they'll go to spy on society.

" "Who, surgeons?" I smiled.

"Oh, you know exactly who I mean. Right up there. They don't like people like me." He leaned closer to me conspiratorially and finished in a whisper. "They don't like people who know."

"So how do we stop them, Mike?" I leaned in too and whispered. "Shall we petition the government?"

"Just saying." Mike leaned back and shrugged.

"And who listens to you, Mike?" I laughed easily.

"You," he replied unwaveringly. I stopped laughing. Poor Mike. He's just a distraction to me; I never considered how much I meant to him. Who knows, maybe I'm his last anchor on the shore of sanity. I still had some time, so I offered him a ride into town. "

Nice shirt," I mentioned as we walked to my Jeep. Mike glanced at the slogan adorning the front of his T-shirt.

"'Computers are nicer than people,'" he read aloud and shrugged. As I drove, I wondered what the world looked like through Mike's eyes. The secret rule of the Soviets, who carried out a silent invasion after their defeat at the Bay of Pigs. Yes, can you believe that Mike believes the nuclear warheads planted in Cuba are still aimed at the United States? But that's not all. Above the Soviets, the control of large corporations that oversee the global cash flow. Even higher? I bet he believed in the intrusive interference of extraterrestrials. Secret societies with key figures, large-scale organ trafficking, wars no one heard of, manipulation and propaganda, the media and the police. Mike's world was bleak. Lost in thought, I drove past the bus stop where Mike usually got off.

"Hey, I'll turn around," I snapped out of my reverie. "Why didn't you warn me?"

"Go straight." Mike looked nervously out the rear window.

"Is something wrong?

" "Just keep going. Those cars behind us."

I glanced in the mirror. Two dark vans were driving a few dozen yards ahead.

"What about them? Are you in trouble, Mike?" I wondered for a moment what kind of trouble it would take to send two vans after Mike.

"You don't owe anyone any money, do you?" I asked, but it was clear no one in their right mind would lend Mike cash.

"It's probably them." They finally claimed me," he whispered, terrified. This time I couldn't help but burst into a roar of laughter.

"Mike, you old man!" I laughed heartily and slowed down. "You're going to make me late for work.

" "What are you doing? Keep going, don't stop here!" he shouted, panicked. For a moment, the fear in his eyes made me wonder if Mike wasn't telling the truth about the reality around him. It passed quickly, because of course Mike wasn't lying to me. He believed what he was saying, but it was his own personal, insane truth. "No, bro, I'm not getting on your ship, you're sailing your absurd seas alone."

"I'm stopping, and you're getting off. I've had enough of your nonsense," I announced, turning to face him. Somewhere near his mouth, an orange light was flashing.

"Mike, you..." I stared at the flashing dot. He seemed to be bulging from beneath his skin.

-You... Your teeth... - I choked out.

Mike curled his lip and looked in the mirror. One of his teeth flashed a furious, orange light. Mike glanced at me, and in the next second, he ducked his head between his legs. I didn't actually hear the explosion. I heard nothing, only the noise of deafening. The car's interior was stained with red and gray shreds. Blood poured from what was left of Mike's head, straight onto the windshield wiper beneath his limp legs. I rolled down the windows, and though the pressure had long since equalized, it was only now that the screeching in my ears began. I gripped the steering wheel tightly and accelerated, heading for the exit. The heavy vans should have had trouble catching me on the highway. I had a chance of escape, as long as the Russians didn't use any of their satellites. If I remember correctly, I have two false teeth. The pliers should have been in the trunk.