Prophecy

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It was dawn: the smell
of trucks and burnt-out
tires filled the freeway.
Bob wound up his old window,
and turned on the
car air-conditioning. It
spewed out some cold air:
but not enough to cover
the tire-and-trucks-smell,
outside. Bob was his way
to the early shift at work;
half-way down the road,
he looked down at his gage,
and remembered that he
should have stopped for gas,
the night before. Damn;
the tank was almost empty.
Yawning.......he drove along
the access road of 1604,
until he saw the SAMS sign.
With his SAMS card,
he could get 5 cents off each gallon.
Bob shook his head, and sighed;
would the prices ever stop going UP?

Turning off the motor,
Bob reached down to grab
his coffee mug for a quick
sip; the smell of coffee
beans and cremora filled
the stale air of his old
Toyota. He hadn't been
to the store all week, and
this morning Bob had
scooped out the last bit
of ground-up beans, from
the little Starbucks' bag,
in the fridge.

Carefully setting down his
SPURS mug, he pulled
out his wallet opened the
car door. Even though
still dark, the late April
morning air in San Antonio
was already heavy with
mold and humidity. Bob
could almost feel his sinuses kick;
he was out of his allergy pills, too.
Bob looked across the parking
lot at SAMS' big glass doors;
what time did they
OPEN? Neah; He didn't
have time; that new program
at work was getting installed today,
and he had to be there early
before his team leaders
arrived. Muttering under
his breath, Bob shook
his head, and pulled out
the scratched-up SAMS card
from his well-worn wallet.
Taking another yawn,
he absent-mindedly stuck
the SAMS card into the machine,
and leaned against his car for a moment:
it was even more scratched-up, than
his SAMS card. The morning sky was
now growing lighter by the minute;
in a few hours, the
early spring Texas sun
would be beating down
mercilessly onto Bob's
car roof, making new work
of bleaching out whatever
color it had possessed 10
years ago.

The machine beeped.
Nothing happened.

What the......? Bob cussed
under his breath; had
Margie forgot to pay the
SAMS bill, again?

"DAMN!"

Bob took the few steps
up to the gas pump, and
peered wearily at the
computerized screen.

"INVALID ENTRY"
INVALID ENTRY."

"AW!
COME ON!"

Bob, cussing some more
under his breath, stuck
the card in, once more.

(BEEP!)
"INVALID ENTRY"
"INVALID ENTRY."

Bob groaned.
"Damn!
Well.......I better just
get a few BUCKS worth....
and figure THIS out, later...."
Hearing another car
pull up by the tanks on
the other side, Bob glanced up.
An older man got out of a Ford Texas
truck, and slammed the big red door.
The man was wearing a straw, wide-
brimmed hat, and looked
like a farmer on his way
to checking up on his North 40.
Before stepping up to the tanks,
the man walked around the
back of his big truck:
stopping to get a rag to
clean off both his windows.

Bob mumbled under his
breath. "Bet HIS card
never gets max'd!"
Reaching in his car to grab
his SPURS mug, Bob took
another steaming-hot sip
of coffee. Oh, DAMN!
These pumps didn't work
with CASH!

Muttering some more
under his breath, Bob
pulled out his SAMS
card, again. Maybe, it
was just a computer gliche
or something. It would
work, THIS time... for sure.

(BEEP!)
"INVALID ENTRY.
INVALID ENTRY."

Bob angrily stomped his
shoe heel against the
gritty, dirty, oil-smelling
tarmac: cursing, once more.
Well.....he was going to be
late for work;
he had better stop at the
Shell station, up at the
corner; it would cost a
little more, but at least
he'd get to work on time.
He'd have to call SAMS
CLUB, later.
He didn't have time to
fool with this,
right now.

"Hey, BUDDY!"

Bob turned around; the
older man was looking at
him, and pointing to
something over Bob's
shoulder.

"YOU GOTTA USE THE
READER, FIRST!
.......BEFORE YOU PUT YOUR CARD IN!"

Bob squinted; he was half-
awake, but he wasn't
THAT half-awake.

"HUH?"

The man pointed again
to something over Bob's
shoulder. He called out,
again.
"YOU GOTTA USE THAT
WHAT'CHA-MA-CALL-IT,
FIRST!"

Bob turned around. What
the hell was he TALKING about?
Bob closed his eyes for a moment,
and shook his head. Was he
DREAMING? Had he
not woken UP, yet? Maybe,
this was one of those
just-before-waking-up dreams
that was totally bizarre,
but made a good story,
later on at lunch.

Bob opened his eyes.
Nope. It wasn't some
weird DREAM.........what
the heck was the old
guy TALKING about....?
He looked up and down
at the familiar gas pumps,
that he had used dozens,
and dozens....and, dozens
of times. What was he
TALKING.... about?

Then......
Bob remembered.
And,
a chill danced
along the back
of his neck.

He turned back around,
and glanced at the old
man.

The man gave a rueful
smile, and then nodded:
reaching up to pull off
his wide-brimmed, farmer's hat.
Bob watched as the man tossed
his big hat inside the open window
of his truck, and calmly walked
around to the side of the
gas pumps. There something there
there, that Bob hadn't
noticed before. It was
a small, dark computer
screen. He watched:
squinting his eyes against
the brightening morning
Texas sun.

Then, his eyes widened,
in horror.

The older man stepped
up to the screen: pushing
his white hair back, away
from his forehead. Then,
he leaned forward and
pressed his forehead up
against the small dark
screen.

It beeped.
A mechanical-woman's
voice sounded eery, in
the still early morning
air.
"Thank you!"

The man stepped back,
pushed his hair forward
back over his forehead,
and then walked over to
the front of the gas pumps:
pulling out his credit card:
sliding it quickly through
the narrow slot.
After a couple of familiar
beeps sounded,
the man pulled on one of
the gas pumps, and began
filling up his tank. The
man leaned against his
truck, and began whistling
softly.

Drops of cold sweat
gathered at the base
of Bob's neck. One of
the drops made its way
down his warm back,
and behind the top of his
old leather belt.
Nausea stirred.

The old man looked back;
Bob's face was ashen
gray, as if he had just
seen a ghost. The old
man chuckled, and nodded,
knowingly. He called out,
through the increasingly
growing humid morning
air.
"CAN'T FIGHT CITY HALL!
YOU BETTER GO
AND GET ONE!"
The man calmly pointed up
to his forehead. He nodded:
smiling ruefully, again.
"WHILE THERE'S STILL TIME!"

Bob reached up to his
smooth forehead.
He smoothed back
his wavy brown hair,
with ice-cold
trembling fingers.

Then, turning around,
he bent over in front
of the strong-smelling
gas pumps.....
and vomited.
********************
Then
I saw
another beast...
it causes all
both small and great,
both rich and poor....
to be marked
on the
right hand,
or the
forehead,
so that no one
can buy
or sell
unless
he has
the
mark.
[Revelation 13:11-17]



Copyright 2011.

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