Semi-Request #3

“I’m Michael Schmidt, and I’m working for Freddy’s tonight.”

The gypsy woman opened her mouth to speak and closed it for a brief second.  She opened it again and said, “You are fucked, my friend.”

Mike leaned back in his seat and sighed. “That’s what everyone tells me.” He slapped a twenty dollar bill on the table, face-up.  “But I need to know for sure.”  The psychic took the bill and slid it off the table and into her pocket.  Andrew Jackson’s eyes peered at Mike between the sea of brown, silently judging him as his sickly green face disappeared into the shadows.

 Ms. Teary moved Mike’s hands to the crystal ball  in the center of the table, and clasped them over the sphere. The hands and the ball were both cold to the touch and Mike’s body jolted to adjust to the temperature.

“Close your eyes, Mr.Schmidt.”  Mike obeyed and closed his eyes. As the psychic clasped her hands to the sides of his temple, Mike’s vision turned to a murky red. Mike focused his attention on figuring out exactly what color one of the many spots and streaks populating his view were. Like a tangential memory, the color kept evading him somehow. He could perceive it but he couldn’t decide it.  He would never know if he was getting closer because his concentration was broken when-

“Open them,” spoke Ms. Teary.

Mike opened his eyes to see the fortune teller’s arms bracing the table. Her eyes were closed, and her lips began to move.

“I  can see your death, followed by your rebirth.”

Blood began to drip out of both of her nostrils.

“But it will not truly be a rebirth. You will be reborn in an unholy fashion, a fusion of man and machine. An abomination never intended  to roam the earth, and condemned to not even roam it’s own domain. Upon your rebirth, you will be cannibalized and reduced from your form to but a single brown garment, fashioned in the shape of a bear and fit only for adornment over an absent entity.  You will be within this coffin for years to come.”

The gypsy woman broke into sweat, her skin flush with color.

“Within this coffin your mind will dwell; until a cleansing fire scorches the earth upon which you were slaughtered and reborn, and your soul finally allowed to rest.

The gypsy woman opened her eyes at last.

“So, should I go to work ?”, Mike asked.

“Your fate is in your own hands. But I would not go to work, Mr. Schmidt,” the psychic answered.


Mike hesitated before choosing his next words.

“What did all of that mean, anyway?”, he asked.

Ms. Teary rubbed her face with her hands.   “To tell you the truth, I’m not too sure myself.”

Mike got out of his seat, and opened the door to outside. “Well, it was a neat little trip!” he called out as he exited.


When the clock struck 6 am, Michael Schmidt was fast asleep with an empty  bottle of cheap wine and a pile of job application forms at the foot of his bed. A formal letter of resignation laid on his desk, signed and ready to be sent in before his first actual day of work.

Michael Schmidt went on to live a long and happy life, fathering six children and dying of a botched colonoscopy at the age of 86.