Clearing Away the Sludge

 Warning: The following story contains reference to a possible attempted suicide.

*****

I sit alone in the darkness of the rundown hunting lodge I have restored in the backwoods of Maine. I have come here to put a final end to the sludge that has taken over my psyche and my life.                               

     First of all, the boring tediousness of my dead end job has left me nothing to look forward to in my daily work life. As if that’s not bad enough, I come home one day to catch my overbearing boss in the throes of passion with my wife. Only a week before, at our 25th anniversary party, she had pledged her undying love for me. My financial situation borders on the brink of disaster, with my creditors breathing down my neck and itching to foreclose on the few possessions I haven’t hocked. This resulting from my 15-year addiction to the trotters at my local racetrack. 

     It seems the only solution to my worthless existence lies in bringing my life to a close. I’ve made up my mind to do it and that’s why I have chosen to clear the sludge in my life for good at this decrepit shack in the far reaches of Maine.

      The blizzard that I fought through on my seven-hour drive up here looks like it is getting even worse and threatening to bury me. It took me two hours longer than normal to get through the storm from my overpriced city condo. Time to hunker down where no one will find my body until it’s too late. That will give me my final victory over those who have made my life a living hell for the last five years. 

         So quiet outside the cabin. Doesn't sound like anything is moving.

         I stopped at Tom’s Superrama on the way up Frostbite Mountain and stocked up on lots of liquor to numb the pain even more, and help make swallowing the sleeping pills easier.Tom said he was probably the last person I’d see until I came back down the mountain--he has no idea I don't plan on making a return trip. 

       "This area looks like a ghost town most of the year, but more so today," he yells as I hurry out to my jeep and rush up to my soon-to-be sepulcher in the woods.

       “Thanks for that bit of real good news,” I say.

      Oh well, glad I have compiled a huge playlist and a number of audiobooks on my Ipad to keep me further occupied while the drugs work their magic. Don't expect to see any other sign of life unless the weather breaks and someone decides to care enough to claw their way up the mountain to find me. An eerie stillness envelopes the cabin and I am content to be the only person in this wilderness, so I believe.

     I prepare my deadly potion and take what should be my final drink. I sleep for about 10 hours, but, instead of dying, I wake up with a terrible headache, the fire has gone out and the sun has begun to peek through the forest.

      There's no sign of life--at least right away. After a few minutes, which seems more like an hour, a strange green creature materializes in front of me. I grab the Louisville Slugger I have hidden in a corner of the cabin to stop anyone from detouring my plans and wave it at him. 

     "I don't know how you got here in this blizzard, or where you came from, but I better get an explanation quickly or they may find your body buried in the snow."

    The green form mumbles something in a language I have never heard before, but quickly translates for me.

    "I am Mortran. I come from the planet Ugotyte in the year 2050. A meteorite crashed into my home as it destroyed our planet, spreading deadly uranium everywhere. I come seeking a new homeland where my people can live in solitude and free from danger, Others will follow. We hope to conquer your planet's inhabitants, settle peacefully on your earth and research and eliminate this meteorite so we might prevent it and your people from destroying our way of life here."

    Great, I can’t even succeed in committing suicide--and, who stops me? Some wacko creature from another planet. I then take a swing at the extraterrestrial, but he grabs the bat out of my hand and knocks me unconscious. 

      I wake up a second time about an hour later. I don’t remember storming out of a lousy job, taking anything more than a few extra sips of the whiskey Tom sold me or having to deal with an unfaithful wife or a gambling addiction let alone confronting a creature from another planet.

       I only recall deciding to get away by myself for a peaceful weekend away from the family so I can concentrate on writing the last few chapters of my latest novel. I look out the window and see several skiers making their way up the mountain. No signs of a blizzard appear anywhere near the cabin.

       My jeep easily starts up and, when I get down to the Superrama, Tom says he has not even seen a small snowfall for months. When I tell him about what happened to me he says, "Oh, oh, White Mountain Lightning strikes again."

         Turns out some low-grade hooch Tom had brewed in his cellar and sold at the Superrama had claimed another victim. The hooch made me its latest victim. Everything I thought had happened to me had been one liquor-infested nightmare. I resolved to get on the bandwagon and to stay there for many years to come.

          I decided if I ever was going to make a run for the Pulitzer about which I had dreamed for two decades I had better get serious about making this writing gig a real profession. I can’t allow liquor to infest my brain with sludge. That sludge turns the sci-fi plots of my novels into adventures in an alternative universe that blockade my creative juices.