50. CHOOSE

The figure gestured towards a series of shimmering portals that lined the obsidian platform, each pulsating with a different color. “Your life, David, was complex. It contains threads of joy, sorrow, love, regret, courage, and fear. Each portal leads to a realm that resonates with one of these dominant emotions. Your task is to choose the realm that best reflects the essence of your existence.”

David felt a chill crawl down his spine. “Choose? But…what if I choose wrong?”

“There is no ‘wrong,’ David. Only resonance. Choose the path that calls to you most strongly. The path that feels like…home.”

He took a tentative step towards the portals. The first one, a vibrant gold, thrummed with an almost unbearable intensity of joy. He saw fleeting images within: laughing children, sun-drenched beaches, a wedding bathed in golden light. It was beautiful, intoxicating, but…wrong. He’d had moments of joy, yes, but they were fleeting, often overshadowed by…something else.

The next portal pulsed with a deep, melancholic blue. Sorrow. He glimpsed rain-streaked windows, tear-stained faces, a lonely figure silhouetted against a dying sunset. He recognized the ache of loneliness, the sting of loss. But even that felt incomplete. He’d experienced sorrow, certainly, but he hadn't wallowed in it. He’d fought against it.

He moved on, past a crimson portal of passionate love, a steely grey portal of unwavering courage, and a sickly green portal of gnawing fear. Each held fragments of his life, distorted and amplified, like funhouse mirrors reflecting his soul.

Finally, he reached the last portal. It was a deep, swirling violet, almost black at its core. Regret. As he gazed into it, a wave of nausea washed over him. He saw the faces of those he had hurt, the opportunities he had missed, the words he had left unsaid. The weight of his past mistakes pressed down on him, suffocating him.

But something else was there, too. A flicker of understanding, a glimmer of acceptance. He saw the lessons he had learned, the growth he had achieved, the person he had become because of those regrets.

He hesitated. The other portals offered simpler, cleaner emotions. But this one…this one felt real. Complex. Messy. Human.

“Regret,” the androgynous figure said, its voice barely a whisper. “A heavy burden to carry, David. Are you sure?”

David closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and reached out his hand. As his fingers brushed against the swirling violet energy, a voice echoed in his mind, not his own, but somehow familiar. It whispered, “It is not the regrets that define you, but what you do with them.”

He opened his eyes and stepped into the darkness. The obsidian platform vanished, the swirling grey sky disappeared, and he was falling, tumbling through a vortex of swirling violet light. He didn’t know where he was going, or what awaited him. But for the first time since arriving in this strange place, he felt a sense of purpose. He had chosen his path, not based on what he wished his life had been, but on what it truly was. And in that choice, he found a strange, unsettling peace. The mystery of the afterlife remained, but the mystery of himself was beginning to unravel.


51. SHAVER

Dr. Archibald Finch, a psychiatrist of moderate renown and immoderate neuroses, stared at his reflection. Or rather, he stared at the blurry approximation of his reflection, the one granted by the steam-fogged mirror in his Upper West Side apartment. It was a Sunday, a day of rest, supposedly. But rest, for Archibald, was merely a brief lull in the ongoing battle against the absurdity of existence, a battle waged primarily with overpriced furniture and patients who mistook him for a particularly empathetic barista.

“How!” he grunted, the shaving brush a ludicrous tomahawk poised above his face. The two-day stubble was a battlefield of its own, a dark and unruly landscape promising a fleeting glimpse of something…dangerous. Don Giovanni, perhaps, seducing the city with a wink and a prescription for Xanax. Or Faust, trading his soul for a decent co-op and a thriving practice. Mephistopheles, whispering insidious anxieties into the ears of Manhattan’s elite. Even Charlton Heston, Moses parting the Red Sea of neurotic anxieties with a well-timed interpretation of dreams. And, of course, Jesus, offering salvation through the gospel of self-care.

But alas, the vision was fleeting. Once the razor scraped away the potential for biblical grandeur, he knew what awaited him: the bland, reassuring face of a successful public relations man. A man who could sell you the idea of happiness, even if he himself was perpetually haunted by the existential dread of a lukewarm cup of coffee.

His wife, Penelope, a woman whose optimism was as relentless as the city’s construction, was humming something vaguely classical in the next room. He could hear the muffled sounds of their children, Bartholomew and Guinevere, engaged in their usual Sunday morning ritual of passive-aggressive Lego building.

Archibald sighed, lathering his face with the precision of a surgeon. He’d considered the beard, of course. The beard was the psychiatrist’s equivalent of the artist’s beret, a symbol of intellectual rebellion against the tyranny of societal expectations. But the glasses…the damn glasses. They transformed the potential for rugged intellectualism into the unfortunate reality of near-sighted schlubbery.

The sideburns were his compromise, a meager attempt to inject a touch of artistic flair into his otherwise meticulously curated persona. They made him feel, if only for a fleeting moment, like a struggling actor, a tortured soul pouring his heart out on a dimly lit stage. Of course, the reality was that he was more likely to be pouring himself a glass of lukewarm Chardonnay while listening to Mrs. Abernathy recount her latest feud with the doorman.

He finished shaving, the Don Giovanni/Faust/Mephistopheles/Charlton Heston/Jesus mirage vanishing down the drain. The face staring back at him was, as predicted, disappointingly…competent. The face of a man who could confidently diagnose your anxieties and then bill you an exorbitant hourly rate.

Penelope poked her head into the bathroom. "Ready for brunch, darling? The Millers are bringing their new poodle, Fifi. She's supposedly 'incredibly intuitive.'"

Archibald suppressed a groan. Fifi, the intuitive poodle. Just what he needed. Another canine therapist to steal his clients.

"Just a moment, dear," he said, forcing a smile. He splashed on some aftershave, the scent of sandalwood and repressed existential angst filling the air.

He looked in the mirror one last time, adjusting his glasses. The sideburns, he decided, were a pathetic attempt at rebellion. He needed something more. Something…radical.

As he walked out of the bathroom, a plan began to form. He wouldn't grow a beard. He wouldn't get a tattoo. He would, however, start wearing a monocle. Just to see the look on Mrs. Abernathy's face. That, he thought, was a therapy session worth paying for.

52. GONE

After closing the door I walked mechanically back into the living room. At the window I stared at the few lights and at the empty early-morning streets below. Dr. Mann emerged from the building and moved off toward Madison Avenue; he looked, from three floors up, like a stuffed dwarf. I had an urge to pick up the easy chair he had been sitting in and throw it through the glass window after him. Distorted images swirled through my mind: Jake's book lying darkly on the white tablecloth at lunch; the boy Eric's black eyes staring at me warmly; Lil and Arlene wriggling toward me; blank pieces of paper on my desk; Dr. Mann's clouds of smoke mushrooming toward the ceiling; and Arlene as she had left the room a few hours earlier; an open, sensuous yawn. For some reason I felt like starting at one end of the room and running full speed to the other end and smashing right through the portrait of Freud which hung there.

Instead, I turned from the window and walked back and forth until I was lost in the labyrinth of my own thoughts. The city outside, usually a comforting hum, felt like a distant, mocking echo. I was David, a writer, or at least, I used to be. Now, I was just a shell, haunted by the ghost of a story I couldn't write, a mystery I couldn't solve, and a woman I couldn't forget.

Arlene. Her name was a whisper in the sterile air of my Upper West Side apartment. She was gone, vanished like a puff of smoke, leaving behind only the lingering scent of her perfume and a gaping hole in my life. The police called it a missing person case, routine. But I knew better. There was something sinister lurking beneath the surface, something that Dr. Mann, with his condescending smile and Freudian platitudes, couldn't possibly comprehend.

Jake's book, the one that sat so innocently on the tablecloth, was the key. I was sure of it. "The Serpent's Kiss," a collection of dark, twisted tales of obsession and betrayal. Arlene had been captivated by it, reading it aloud to me in the evenings, her voice a seductive murmur in the dimly lit room. But it wasn't just the stories that held her attention. It was the author, a reclusive figure known only as "Silas," who lived somewhere in the city, shrouded in mystery.

I had to find Silas. He was the only one who could tell me what happened to Arlene. But how? He was a ghost, a figment of the literary underworld. I started with Jake, a literary agent and an old friend. He claimed to know nothing about Silas's whereabouts, but his eyes darted nervously when I mentioned Arlene's name. He was hiding something.

Then there was Eric, the boy with the unnervingly intense gaze. He worked at the bookstore where Arlene had bought "The Serpent's Kiss." He remembered her, of course. He remembered everything. He said she had asked about Silas, about his life, his habits. He had given her an address, a vague location in the Village, a place he claimed Silas frequented.

The Village was a maze of narrow streets and dimly lit bars, a breeding ground for secrets and shadows. I spent days searching, asking questions, following leads that led nowhere. The city felt like it was closing in on me, suffocating me with its indifference.

Finally, I found it. A small, unassuming bookshop tucked away on a quiet side street. The sign above the door read "The Serpent's Quill." Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old paper and forgotten dreams. A man sat behind the counter, his face hidden in shadow.

"Silas?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

He looked up, his eyes glinting in the dim light. "Who's asking?"

"I'm looking for Arlene," I said. "She disappeared."

A slow smile spread across his face. "Arlene," he said, his voice a low, hypnotic drawl. "She was a fascinating woman. But some stories," he paused, his eyes locking onto mine, "are best left unfinished."

He knew. He knew what happened to her. The truth was right there, hanging in the air like a poisonous gas. I lunged across the counter, grabbing him by the throat. "Where is she?" I screamed. "What did you do to her?"

He didn't resist. He just smiled, a knowing, unsettling smile. "She's part of the story now," he whispered. "And the story," he added, his voice barely audible, "must continue."

The police found me there, hours later, covered in blood, Silas's lifeless body slumped behind the counter. They said it was self-defense, a tragic accident. But I knew better. I was just another character in Silas's twisted tale, a pawn in his macabre game. And Arlene? She was gone, lost in the labyrinth of his imagination, forever trapped within the pages of "The Serpent's Kiss." The mystery remained, a dark, unsolved riddle etched into the heart of the city


53 CHANCE

I was shocked into immobility for perhaps a full minute. The queen of spades, staring back at me with its single, malevolent eye, felt heavier than lead in my trembling hand. The foghorn groaned again, a mournful bellow that seemed to echo the turmoil in my gut. Shag Arlene? The thought was a monstrous intrusion, a black seed planted in the fertile ground of my subconscious. Where had it come from?

I, David, a mild-mannered accountant from Queens, suddenly harboring such a violent impulse? It was absurd, terrifying. The die was cast, my mind had screamed. But who cast it? And why?

The apartment was stifling, the air thick with the stale scent of dust and forgotten dreams. Johnstone, the previous tenant, had vanished without a trace, leaving behind only a scattering of cryptic notes and an unsettling atmosphere that clung to the walls like cobwebs. John, the building’s super, had told me he was a strange one, always muttering to himself, obsessed with games of chance. Had his madness somehow seeped into the very fabric of this place?

I forced myself to breathe, to think. This couldn't be real. This was some kind of sick joke, a twisted game Johnstone had left behind for some unsuspecting fool – me. The queen of spades. The foghorn. The horrifying thought. It was all connected, a macabre puzzle designed to unravel my sanity.

I threw the card down on the dusty table, the sound echoing in the oppressive silence. I wouldn't play his game. I wouldn't let him win. I would go to bed, as the other side of the die had promised, and try to sleep off this nightmare.

But as I turned towards the bedroom, a glint of metal caught my eye. It was a small, silver box, tucked away in a shadowed corner of the mantelpiece. I hadn't noticed it before. Curiosity, that insidious snake, coiled in my stomach.

Hesitantly, I reached for the box. It was cold to the touch, the metal smooth and unyielding. I flipped it open. Inside, nestled on a bed of faded velvet, was a single, six-sided die.

My blood ran icy. This was it. The source of the madness. The instrument of Johnstone's twisted game.

I picked up the die, its weight unsettlingly familiar. It was an ordinary die, marked with the usual numbers. But as I held it, I noticed something peculiar. The number one, the face that corresponded to the queen of spades, was subtly different. It was etched deeper, the edges sharper, as if it had been deliberately altered.

Suddenly, a wave of nausea washed over me. I understood. Johnstone hadn't left this to chance. He had rigged the game. He had ensured that the die would always land on one, that the queen of spades would always reveal its cyclopean eye.

But why? What was his purpose? And more importantly, what was I going to do?

I closed the box, the click echoing in the silent apartment. The foghorn groaned again, a mournful cry that seemed to mock my despair. I was trapped. Trapped in Johnstone's game, a pawn in his twisted plan.

I looked at the bedroom door, then back at the silver box. The die was cast, my mind had screamed. But now I knew the die was loaded. The question was, could I change the rules of the game? Or was I destined to become another victim of Johnstone's madness, another ghost haunting the dusty corners of this cursed New York apartment? The answer, I realized, lay not in the roll of a die, but in the choices I made. And the choice I made now, would determine my fate.

54 PHILOSOPHY

Right, you’re a philosopher now. Congratulations. Not that anyone asked you, mind you. You just… are. It happened somewhere between haggis and existential dread, probably during that ill-advised whisky tasting in Inverness. One minute you were a tourist, the next, you were pondering the unanswerable questions of the universe while simultaneously battling a rogue bagpipe player for the last scone.

But what is philosophy, eh? That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? Well, not literally. If it were, you wouldn’t be a philosopher. You'd be, you know, actually paid.

First things first, let’s eliminate the pretenders. Philosophy is definitely not happiness.

Have you stopped caring? Hedonism! Go forth and frolic in the fields of fleeting pleasures. No? Good. Misery loves company. And philosophy practically *reeks* of it.

Can you ignore the question? Politics! Off you trot to debate the finer points of tweed versus tartan, or whether the Loch Ness Monster deserves protected species status. No? You’re still here? Excellent. The truly lost are always the most interesting.

Is the answer easy to find? Common sense! Go boil an egg, read a map, and generally be useful to society. No? Now we’re talking. This is where the fun begins, or at least, the agonizingly slow descent into intellectual madness.

Is everyone else the answer? Sociology! Go study the mating rituals of Glaswegian football fans.

Are you the answer? Psychology! Dive deep into the murky depths of your own psyche. Just try not to bring back any souvenirs.

Is the answer provable? Science! Go build a particle accelerator or something equally impressive and incomprehensible. No? Good, because philosophy doesn’t do provable. Provable is for sissies.

Is God the answer? Religion! Go forth and preach the gospel of… well, whatever gospel you fancy. No? Excellent. Because if God were the answer, we’d all be out of a job.

So, what’s left? What is philosophy? Well, it’s the nagging doubt that maybe you’re asking the wrong questions. It’s the uncomfortable feeling that you’re trapped in a never-ending loop of intellectual navel-gazing. It’s the sudden realization that the bagpipe player might actually have a point about the inherent absurdity of existence.

It's also the stubborn refusal to give up. The relentless pursuit of truth, even if that truth is ultimately unattainable. The unwavering belief that even the most ridiculous question is worth asking.

And, let's be honest, it’s a pretty good excuse to drink more whisky. You’re not just a lush, you’re conducting a rigorous philosophical investigation into the nature of reality, one dram at a time.

Welcome to the club. The meetings are held in the pub, the dress code is optional (but tweed is encouraged), and the only requirement is a healthy dose of skepticism and a willingness to argue about anything and everything.

Now, about that scone… Is it truly a scone if it lacks the existential weight of a buttery, crumbly, potentially life-altering revelation? That, my friend, is a question for the ages. And you, the philosopher, are just the person to answer it. Just try not to choke on the cream while you're at it.