"So, now you know why I've got to end it. All of it. Before it goes any further."
I was convincing. Years of running a mass(multi)media empire refined my charisma to a fine edge, capable of stabbing right into your brain like a needle.
But his success has made him weak, out of practice, having bent the remaining humans to his will, their very survival dependent on his vision.
And I'm not him.
Not yet. But I know how he thinks. I know it's not an act of altruism, a heroic deed, like he's trying to pitch it to me. This is a way out. A way not to deal with the consequences of his actions. Even at sixty I still can't own up to responsibility.
"Bullshit. It's all about you. Just tell me the truth."
What does it matter? At this point, the last scene between two living human beings, dialogue zipping between our neurons like electronic telepathy. Our chat room simulation was that of the villain's lair, complete with viewscreen, dome, and throne. A place he could think. Somewhere this desperate future version of myself could hide and scheme to save his soul.
"You know the deal then. It's what landed you here. Forced to handle me. Yourself." His shoulders went slack, he tried to let go, be himself once again, but I saw the tension cling to his muscles.
"You're the one who brought me here, to the future, to the end of all things." I fought to muster up righteous anger, where was wrath when I needed it?
"Yes. At great expense." Turning towards the background, he produced a thumbcontrol from his pocket.
Click. The walls flickered and vanished. The secret headquarters of the man who kept the devil at bay just ceased to be. In the dark of imagined space, we stood there, not looking at each other.
"Then why do it if you knew I'd come here to stop you? You must have done this when you were me...", my voice was oddly confident, a rumble in my chest like a proud lion.
He spun around, pivot on heeled boots, a whip-crack of an arm, extended finger pointed at me, aimed directly at my brain. He held it as the spotlight popped on, then slid his shadows at me as the beam dropped. Glancing upwards in a snap, sunglasses popped on his face.
"I never succeeded when I was young..." the stabbing tip of his piercing obsidian fingertips darted into my peripheral vision.
My hand whipped up, slapping aside his shadow, spinning his body sideways, he was ready with a cocked back southpaw. I finally make eye contact, and take a good long look at who I really am, what I eventually become.
An old man with a sack full of theatrics. Playing the streetfighting action hero, past his prime, shades of supercool wannabe in every step. Afraid of people so finds a way to be alone. Afraid of not being the most important person in history.
So secure in the idea that he's Jesus, unwilling to believe himself to be Judas. Fame makes strange bedfellows with faith. Not a young man, but still a kid. Damaged goods. He tried and failed to stop the end of all that ever was. I will try and fail.
Therefore I will destroy the universe.
His fist slaps into my palm. FWAPP! I pause the scene just long enough to crack him into pieces. The crinkled bits littered the floor. The burning embers of his remains howled as the digital dirt digested him.
"See you in Hell."
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