An Array of Eternal Effervescence

            If one removes oneself from the equation, what is one left with, and in what order do the ensuing events present themselves?

            Order is important.  The order in which, say, this man perceives the fly light silently on the glistening surface of his plate, which, save for a few stray crumbs, is empty, and then, following this, darts without a moments warning straight into the mans left nostril, is essential to this man’s immediate predicament.  If these things had happened in the opposite order, the fly would still be on this man’s plate, and, seeing as he is finished with breakfast, this would be an event of little consequence.  The man would be a little unnerved at the sensation of having a fly make its way, temporarily, into his nasal cavity, but seeing it on his plate, he would be relieved to discover that it no longer resides there.  As it happened, though, these events did not happen in this order, but rather, they happened in the order they happened, and this man, in blind panic, decided to take a knife to his nose.

            Of course it was not so much a decision as the unbridled force of pure reaction, the nerves of the body spurred on by the countless foreign substances running through his system, but nevertheless the man began stabbing and stabbing into his own grimacing face.  Before he can even process what has happened, there is a thick steam of blood spewing out onto the table, spraying wildly onto the isolated remains of his omelet.  Needless to say, this quite a disconcerting situation for the man, and he voices his distress at an extremely high volume, though not such a high degree of verbosity.

            Hearing his cries, Wendy, the server, rushes to the scene to find her increasingly unblinking eyes presented with the image of Mr. Ronald Harrison spilling an alarming amount blood from his face.

            Through a steady current of blood, Mr. Harrison is able to gurgle out a few syllables:

            “Getcshmamlence!  Cllninwnnnwn!”

            Wendy Masterson responds with a shrill and even less comprehensible scream, dropping the brown, plastic tray from her hands and letting several people’s Diet Cokes meet their fate on the floor.  And unfortunately, Mr. Harrison seemed to be spilling out as hastily as the Cokes.

            When the ambulance arrived at the diner a few minutes later, the butter knife was still embedded deep in Mr. Harrison’s pale and lifeless face, pale, that is, instead of the thick cakes of dark, dried blood, which covered about half of his visage.

            Wendey Masterson still stood there in shock.

            “How… how did he get that in so far?”

            The paramedic to her right sighed and shook her head.

            “If you want my guess… this is the work of the Futurist and his mind-altering drugs.”

            And she was right, of course.  It was the work of the Futurist and his mind-altering drugs.  But the Futurist never intended this to happen.  He never intends for any of it to happen.  These are all just side effects, troubling, but endurable, for there is a new tomorrow that must commence.