It was a travesty, really... at least, in his mind. But the fact remained that not one of his friends, not one of his cohorts, and not one of his lovers had any inclination as to what today was to him. The real travesty of the day was the fact that, today, of all days, he was at work, standing behind the counter, dealing with the malaise of coffee-craving heathens. Yes, technically, he was wearing his uniform, if you could call it that; laundry had been severely lacking in priority in the past week, and the current T-shirt covering his torso had coffee stains of many sort.

Around 1:35 p.m., it came to him. An idea. A concept, congealing together ever so slowly in the back of his mind. It felt like a tickle at first, almost like the very moment of conception when you feel a sneeze coming on, but instead of blowing snot out of his nose, there was a explosion of knowledge within his mind. Suddenly, green eyes go wide, mouth hangs open, and a joyful gasp of air is taken in. He knew exactly what he must do.

Since none of the other employees bothered to show up today, and, on average, he was receiving a single customer every hour, he figured, quite correctly, nobody would miss him if he simply left the Grind, headed down Main Street, to the Clam gas station. And there he stood, whistling a little tune, waiting for the single gas pump to slowly dribble low-grade quality gasoline into a cheap 5 gallon container, all of which purchased on his debit card.

The walk back was just a brief, just as filled with whistling of some jaunty tune that probably didn't even really exist beyond his imagination. There was much work to do on this auspicious of days.

First thing's first, a shrine needed to be erected. Oh, holy gods of the coffee bean, please have mercy upon this mere mortal. This sacred statue I offer to thee. The statute, of course, being a tall nonfat mocha latte with 2% milk, garnished, lovingly, with a sprinkling of freshly ground cinnamon. Carefully, the hot beverage is placed in the middle of the sidewalk, just outside of the coffee shop. Thankfully, today wasn't very busy, with only the occasional passerby staring at him strangely. The Styrofoam cup containing the offering to the gods was lavishly decorated with napkins, neatly folded, taped to the surface of the container, with promises, thank yous, and secret wishes.

Now that the gods have been appeased it was time to continue this master plan. Once again, the container of gasoline is retrieved, weighing slightly more than he had expected it to actually weigh, but things like that didn't really matter now. Carefully, he moves into a Lotus position, sitting in the center of the sidewalk, the container of gasoline cradled in his lap. Unscrewing the lid, his senses instantly are overwhelmed with the noxious fumes of the hydrocarbon.

Yes, this truly was a travesty. Not one person knew. How could not one person in his life not know about today? Taking in a slow, ragged breath, green eyes lose their focus as he stares across the street, the record shop in his field of view, but nothing even coming close to being focused on. Still holding in that single breath, he gives a single nod, green, rigid mohawk jostling once. Yes, it needed to be done... if not for her, than the fact that, in his mind, he had failed her in so many ways.

Not one single person knew that today was the eighth anniversary of his mother's death.

And, so, he continues to sit on the sidewalk, his legs folded underneath him, Indian style, cradling a container of gas in his lap. Several people pass behind him, many of them even look in his direction, but not one of them raises a hand, speaks a syllable, or does anything other than remain absolutely focused on their miserable, solitary existence or does anything to help him.

Finally, the time had come. The latte was beginning to cool and this would upset the gods. Picking up the open container of gasoline, it's held over his head, arms extended to their maximum limit, before the first splash of gasoline lands on the top of his head, rolling down his cheeks. More and more, the gasoline spills out, quickly saturating his mohawk, causing it to hang in front of his face, as the liquid fuel runs down his body, soaking into his limegreen uniform, making sure to dump the last bit of it into his lap. Now completely covered in the fuel, the gasoline container is simply tossed aside; no further need for it.

The last thing to do now was to simply reach into his right cargo pocket, take out his trusty matte finish Zippo, and using his thumb, flip open the lid, before striking a flame. Finally focusing on something, his green eyes lock onto that flame, staring at the direct center of it, tiny reflections of which mirrored in his pupils. It was beautiful. It was a promise of freedom, of salvation, of the ultimate release, the cosmic orgasm, and a return to nothing. Yes, sure, many Buddhists had set themselves on fire in the past, but he didn't consider himself a Buddhist. Hell, he didn't even consider himself an atheist. Believing in nothing was still a belief.

Closer and closer, the flame comes to his face, the reflection growing in his glasses, in his green eyes. It was almost there. Just a little closer...

"Pia!" The yelling of his name jostles him just enough to snap him out of his fixation, but it was the sharp slap to the face that really hammers it home for him that he should snap out of it.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" The voice was loud, absolutely accusational, and coming from directly above him.

Another slap across the face. The burning sting from the first one still resonating in his nerve endings as this one sinks in. "I asked you what the fuck you are doing! I leave you alone for six months and you try to set yourself on fire?? Christ!"

That's when it hits him, not another slap to the face, but a mental punch to the gut. The face before him, crouching down to bring herself face to face with him, the very voice screaming at him, all of it be lining to his dear friend Aiko. His dear friend Aiko, the very one who had been killed, massacred, really, at some stupid community college costume party. Terror, confusion, that cute look of a puppy looking up at its master, all of it covers his face.

Yet another slap, this one snapping him out of it even further, knocking him backwards, out of his Indian style position, to send him scampering backwards across the pavement, desperate to get away from her. Finally, his back, damp with gasoline, presses against the door jam of the Grind, but her 5'4" form simply stomps towards him. The look in her eyes say she is livid.

"You're dead!" He states the obvious, practically yelling at at the top of his lungs.

This time, her right foot is lifted, her leg jabbing at him until the bottom of her pink sneaker is pressing against his chest, causing him to gasp again. "Yeah? I am dead! I give you one fuckin' request, one, simple, job! Just take care of yourself... but now look at you!"

"Y-you... you're... you're...!"

"Yes, yes, I'm dead, I'm dead. Can we move on to a different topic, now, please?" It seemed that the mere mention of her deceased status was a touchy subject, her foot pressing even harder against his collarbone.

"But... but... you're dead! H-how...?" She might be so blasé about the fact that she's deceased but it would seem Mr. Coffee was fixated on the topic quite heavily.

Rolling her eyes, she takes in a deep, dramatic breath, finally sliding her foot from his chest, before bending over again, bringing her face mere inches from his. "Christ, they said you were going to have trouble with this. They told me not to tell you! I should have listened." Slowly, she shakes her head, frustrated, even looking a little sad, before tenderly kissing his forehead. "Yes, Pia, I'm dead. But I've been... well... watching you. You see, without getting too involved in the ethereal red tape, I've become your... er, your guardian angel, per se," she tries to explain, the look on her face screaming the fact that even she didn't fully understand it.

"Y-you... you... are... you..."

Again, she takes in a deep breath, bringing her right hand, the very hand that moments ago was slapping him, to cradle his cheek. "Yes, I am dead, Pia, and I've been watching you for the past three months. I've been assigned to your case."

Yeah, it was fairly obvious none of this was sinking into him, the look on his face absolutely priceless, a bizarre mix of fear, surprise, and disbelief. Again, she kisses his forehead, continues to stroke his cheek, before taking him by the hand, her petite body attempting to pull him up right. "Come on... let's go inside and get you cleaned off." The miraculous thing was that she was quite easily able to pull his large body upright, her strength ridiculously effortless. Curling her right index finger, she signals for him to follow, which, he does, in silence, dragging his feet across the coffee shop, until he is standing, along with his dead friend, behind the counter.

"Here," she simply says, her left hand coming to the back of his neck, pulling him forward, bringing his face to the sink, before turning on the cold water. Carefully, she splashes the H2O against his face, beginning the process of clearing his skin of the gasoline. Gently, her fingertips stroke along the back of his head, comforting him, or at least hoping to. "It breaks down like this: The Committee... at least, that's what they like to be called... likes to select a chosen few, Representatives, as they call them, to usher in a new era. You, my friend, have been selected as a candidate."

Hearing this, his head instantly turns to the right, his green hair hanging in front of his face, as he tries to look over his right shoulder. "A representative of what? I have no idea what you're talking about!"

Once more, she takes a breath, pushing his head back down, back under the water, helping him to clean out his mohawk. "I know. Don't worry about that. I know it's going to sound SOO clichéd, but all will be revealed to you when you are ready. Just... for the time being, listen to me? Okay? Please, Pia, you need to take better care of yourself. I mean, look at you...!"

Suddenly, Mr. Coffee began sobbing, his entire body jostling as a torrent of tears begin running down his face, salty tears mixing with fluoride-filled tap water, before disappearing down the sink. A sniffle, another sob, before those green eyes are looking over his right shoulder. "You... you know what today is, right? I mean... you remember, don't you?"

Giving him a look, she starts pulling his T-shirt over his head, his arms locked over his head as she speaks. "Of course, I know what today is, Pia. I'm dead, not suffering from amnesia. Today... is the anniversary of your mother's death."

Sobbing once more, the very concept was shattering to him. Had it really been eight years? It felt just like last week, holding onto her hand, her weak, fragile hand, as she slowly slips away in the cancer ward.

"I just... I just wanted to become something she would be proud of."

Half-tempted to give him a look again, she spares him, gently running her hand up and down his naked back, finally getting his gasoline-saturated uniform off, dropping it to the floor. "And why don't you believe she would be proud of you right now? Because of the things you've done? Because of the things you had to do? Hmm? Please..." she trails off, looking away. "You and I both know your mother would be absolutely proud of the man you've become. Well... except for today. Really, setting yourself on fire? What are you trying to be, some kind of clichéd Buddhist protester? Pia, Pia, Pia..."

Sniffling again, his hands move to turn off the water, standing up straight, before turning around to look at his dead friend. "So... you've been watching me? What... what am I supposed to do?"

The question was, fundamentally, quite simple, and something that she should have been able to answer immediately, but she doesn't; in fact, she hesitates greatly, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip, unable to look at him. "I don't know... yet. They haven't told me everything. I just..." she says as soft as any good friend could, her right hand resting on the center of his chest. "I just want you to promise me that you'll take care of yourself, okay? I'll... I'll visit you, from time to time, to let you know more, but, at least for now, you will have to trust me. Do you... trust me?"

Silence. His green eyes just stare at her, hesitating, lingering, deciding, until he gives a single nod. "I do."

His answer instantly brightens her face, a look of joy exploding from her, before she jumps up, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, squeezing him ridiculously tight. "Oh, I knew you would! Thank you so, so, so much! I promise you," she says, straightening herself up, her index finger poking him repeatedly against his chest. "I'm going to be the greatest guardian angel you've ever had!" Her enthusiasm continues, leaning forward to gently kiss his forehead. "I'll be in touch, Pia," is the last thing she says, waving gently, before slipping around the counter, and disappearing out the front door.

It was the strangest thing. A failed attempt at suicide. A visit from the dead friend. Promises of some greater purpose, perhaps the salvation of man, or, potentially, something even greater, but here he was, half naked, smelling of gasoline, standing all by himself in the coffee shop. Despite the long, elaborate conversation he had just had, the security camera would record only Mr. Coffee, talking to himself, before watching someone that only he can see depart.

Yes, today was quite a travesty.