A Civilised Apocalypse

“Mercedes.” Jim said aloud to the empty room as he looked at the Russian mail order bride website on his laptop. Her name matched his class and the car in the garage.

Only she didn’t live in Russia; she lived in the Ukraine. And while her face smiled, with blonde locks of hair shining in the sunny country side of a small Eastern European village, her eyes looked dimmed from night clubbing.

Jim sipped his Almond Milk waiting for the quiche to cook. He looked at a couple of more pictures of Mercedes. The pictures were only of her in different locations around the Ukraine. He glossed over her biography, everything you’d hope for in a healthy young woman looking for opportunity in America.

Jim decided to send her an Email.

333

After many months of exchanging Emails, and talking on camera with each other, Jim made the decision to ask Mercedes to marry him and move to America.

He finished making his hot chocolate in the kitchen then walked to his home office decorated for Christmas, in order to make the historic video call to his soon to be fiancée.

Before he made the connection, he took a moment to look at himself on his computer to make sure he looked alright. He wore the pajamas she said she liked. The room sparkled in Christmas lights. And even though Marge said Mercedes would never survive an engagement with the Russian occupation of Ukraine, her gold plated bulb hung overhead.

Satisfied he clicked the connection on his computer.

Mercedes sat in front of him as she had many times before. Only her face looked indignant with tear stained mascara.

“What’s wrong Mercedes?” Asked Jim.

“I killed Venom once for poisoning Champagne.” She said in a shrewd Ukrainian accent with her eyebrow raised.

“Champagne?” Jim said confused and worried.

“I watched her bleed out all night under the full moon light. Only that doesn’t compare to what I see here.” Her eyes piercing his soul like daggers.

“Mercedes! What’s going on? I wanted to ask you to join me in America . . .” Jim said now crying.

A fist filled the screen as Mercedes raced to the floor and out of view. Then a masked man sat in her place pointing a gun at the camera on her end of the line. He said something in Russian or Ukrainian. Then the connection ended.

333

Months had passed with no communication with Mercedes. Distressed, Jim had joined an online support group where he met through a miracle, someone connected to the Ukrainian resistance.

This person would tell him things about the violence before the news reported it. And on occasions when the news ignored major gun battles the videos of the skirmishes would appear online. Once the person had even Emailed footage from a first person shooter perspective.

Then one day Jim got Emailed a video of a DJ performing at a night club. She looked almost like Mercedes; almost, only she had more polish with a marketing company supporting her career. The Email included a date and a location in Western Europe not far from the Ukrainian border.

Jim knew he should go if he ever wanted to see Mercedes again.

And so he did . . .

333

Jim stood on a hot summer Mediterranean night at the ticket box office in front of the expensive trendy night club.

He thought of himself as being cool, only the young people surrounding him rivaled the Harajuku Girls of Japan.

“DJ Mystery.” Jim said to the ticket box office attendant who returned a blank stare. “DJ Mystery!”

“American?” Answered the attendant with the question.

“Yes. Jim for DJ Mystery.”

“Like Jim Morrison,” laughed the attendant.

“Yeah, I guess so . . .” Jim said, realizing this moment to be the first time in his life someone had called him Jim Morrison.

The attendant slid him a ticket that said “VIP Backstage”.

333

“Jim,” said DJ Mystery standing in front of him topless, she looked just as gorgeous as she did on the cryptic Emailed video, and on her website and social media pages.

“Yes, how is this happening?” Asked Jim.

“We have a mutual friend in the Ukrainian resistance movement. I’m Ukrainian, and I know of your Mercedes,” answered DJ Mystery.

“You know my Mercedes?”

“Of your Mercedes. I’m sure you know enough about me to know that I travel the world performing as a DJ. There’s one place on the circuit that’s preferred in the Swiss Alps. Mercedes’ story there reads like a tragic folk tale.”

“Does my Mercedes star in a real life horror story with someone named Champagne?”

“Yes, someone there meant them real harm, a man dressed in a Venom suit impaled Champagne with a pitchfork. Mercedes killed him slowly, and spent the night watching them both die,” DJ Mystery said like a gypsy.

“This story gives me a headache,” complained Jim.

“Take this.” DJ Mystery replied handing him a pill.

“Thanks,” Jim said and then took the pill. “What is it Tylenol or something?”

“No. They call it Candyflipping. It’s a mix of LCD and Ecstacy.” DJ Mystery said rather coolly.

“What . . . ?” Jim said dismayed.

“If you want to know Mercedes then join me on stage. She and Champagne were Candyflipping on that fateful night. No longer can you play that venue without the story being retold and the moans of Champagne howling through the valleys of the mountains.”

DJ Mystery’s voice put Jim into a trance.

She turned her attention to her wardrobe mirror and put on a pushup bra, then threw on a fashionable blouse shirt thing. She turned confidently back toward Jim, grabbing his hand as she marched out the makeup room door to the stage and the chants of over 10,000 adoring fans.

“Just stand there and dance.” DJ Mystery told Jim putting him in the shadows to the side of the stage. She then raised her hands to a raucous exclamation in the theater.

Laser lights cut through the smoke as arms were raised into the darkness. DJ Mystery put on her headphones and started spinning records. The loudest beats filled the room. Jim danced to the pulse of this gigantic heartbeat.

333

The military grade personnel carrier jumped on the unpaved road. Jim sat sandwiched between some rough men carrying guns. They were friends of DJ Mystery, a security attachment to escort her to her show in the Ukraine that the Russians were allowing to take place.

“Mercedes,” said the soldier in recognition. He then said something in their native tongue to the others in the carrier. They all nodded and laughed a little.

“What?” Asked Jim to the soldier.

“She’s a symbol of the Ukrainian resistance movement. People who are willing to risk their lives for freedom say, ‘I will kill a Russian to marry Mercedes’”, said the soldier. All the others nodded in agreement, and Jim realized only now that he must compete for Mercedes’ hand in marriage.

“Have you ever used an AK-47?” Asked the soldier handing him the assault rifle.

“Just in video games,” answered Jim.

“Oh good, so you have some tactical experience. Here’s the safety. This releases the clip to reload. Here’s more bullets.”

“Thanks for the training,” said Jim still recovering from Candyflipping the night before.

“You’ll need it. We’re going to sneak out during the show and visit a Russian stronghold where we think Mercedes is being kept.”

“Sounds good,” Jim gulped looking up at the canvas of the armed personnel carrier wishing he had body armor or something.

333

A cooler Ukrainian summer night compared to the one the night before.

Jim crouched in the shadows of twilight as DJ Mystery’s beats sounded in the distance behind him. All of the natives were there.

The music signaled the men in Jim’s party to storm the barracks where the Russian soldiers slept in an abandoned night club at the center of town.

The soldier kicked in the front door and starting firing inside, then the others including Jim, filed inside like a SWAT team.

Shots were being fired all around as silver bullets ricocheted.

Only Jim’s attention got attracted to the stripper pole dancing in the middle of the room, she looked like Mercedes. Then he ducked for cover before being killed by a professional.

He held his gun behind a table afraid to move. He hadn’t spent much time around people in the last couple of years. He worked at a computer and even did most of that from home. His immediate family lived in different parts of the country. And his one chance at romance took him here to this far away tavern.

The hail of gunfire stopped, and the soldier picked Jim up by the shoulder triumphantly.

“We won Jim,” the soldier said, and the survivors from their party moved toward the pole dancer, stepping over the corpses of Russian comrades.

Mercedes looked Jim in the eyes as he approached her soft naked body.

“Jim, have you come all this way to recue me,” Mercedes said smiling with sharp white teeth.

“Yes, I want to take you back to America and marry you.”

Diamonds of mist sparkled high in Mercedes eyes. In this dazzling moment anything seemed possible.

That’s when the soldier covered her body in a fur coat, and said, “it’s time for us to leave. Mercedes, I’m taking you to a safe place nearby that I know of . . . Jim, we must split up. Give me your gun. If anyone asks, you’re just a tourist from the concert. If they think your involved in this you might get life in prison for murder, or for being a terrorist.”

“Goodbye Jim,” Mercedes said and walked out of his life forever.

Jim gave up the AK-47, and went back to the concert that remained undisturbed. He pleaded with the box office ticket attendant to be allowed back inside. Only the staff at the venue refused to let him regain admittance after leaving.

A Russian tank approached from the direction of the makeshift barracks. The soldier at the machine gun on top took a long look at Jim before turning his head to continue scanning for threats.

Jim left the concert in the small Ukrainian village unarmed. He’d even lost his cell phone. He really had no idea where in the world he might be. He just walked forward into the forest of trees along the dirt road as if he were the last person on Earth.

Alone, he only wished this were the apocalypse, and that he were closer to home.