Argument

By Draconias Galactica

2003 Draconias Galactica

I was born into this wasteland about twenty years ago. It's hard to tell how long it's been. My father used to carve hash marks into a stone outside our cave. That rock is still there, and so's the cave. I just don't know where they are. My father and my mother aren't there anymore. I don't know where they are either.

I left my cave when we were attacked. Four assholes decided they wanted to take whatever we had lying around our cave. They didn't know we had a few cans left over from before the firestorm, and nothing else but the clothes we wore. So, as a consolation prize, they decided they'd take my mom at least. My father didn't like that, so they put a bullet in his head. It was a clever way to settle a dispute. Kill everyone on the other side of the dispute.

My mother told me to run away. I suppose I should have killed those raiders for my dad. I should have pried them off of my mom. But I was only eight or so. I didn't have much muscle on me. I didn't have any weapons on me either. The raiders had guns and their arms eclipsed the sun. So I decided to make my mother proud and listen to her for once. The raiders were too busy arguing over who got her first to shoot me as I ran.

I didn't know what they were talking about then, about my mom. Going out on my own into the wasteland, I found out pretty soon. If I had known what they were planning to do, I would have grabbed one of their guns and shot their dicks off. But I didn't. My mom might still be alive, but I doubt it. I know my dad's definatly dead. I should be dead, going out into the wasteland at age eight. But I'm not.

I learned three important things that day. The first was how to win an argument. My dad used to tell me to walk softly and carry a big stick. That was the reason he lost the argument. He might be able to sneak around like that, but a stick doesn't do much against a gun. So the first lesson is to shout loudly and carry a better gun than who you're shouting at. I've never lost an argument since I started doing that.

The second lesson was to take what you wanted. If you can take it, it's yours. I don't care whether or not it's right for me to take other people's crap. I just care whether or not they'll win the argument we have over who owns it. This applies to women, too. Take what you want if you can.

And the final lesson was probably the most important one. It was to remember a guy's face. The faces of all of those raiders got burnt into my brain that day. If you don't remember what a guy looks like, how can you, when you kill him, be sure you killed the right guy? Final lesson, part B, was to pay back your debts. I owe each of those guys a few bullets they 'gave' to my dad. It would be rude to not pay them back.

One lesson I never really learned completely was how to count numbers. Even if I could find that rock, I wouldn't know how many hash marks there were on it. Or how many years it's been since my dad last carved one. I'm only guessing my age is twenty...something. I had better learn how to count one day, otherwise I'll never be sure how old I am.

I don't know when I was born. I just know what happened when I was born. My mother screamed, my head popped out, and the firestorm came. All at the same moment. Maybe the firestorm was sent to kill me, to make sure I was never born. I know the wasteland's been trying to kill me ever since I intruded in on it. The firestorm didn't kill me. The wasteland hasn't killed me yet. And I've never lost an argument.

Somehow, this all comes down to one thing: I can't be killed. I've heard some good points on the other side of arguments in the past. For his rebuttal, one guy shot me in the chest. It hurt more than anything I've ever felt. And blood brushing against a hole in your chest feels disgusting. I hit the ground face first, and I accidentally let go of my gun. The guy walked up to take it, thinking I was dead. I thought the same thing. But even in death, I didn't want to give up my favorite member of the ol' debate team.

He was surprised when I stood up and took my gun back. Truth be told, I was even more surprised. But one mustn't let a few little surprises spoil one's whole argument. I countered with a quick bullet to the other guy's head. Another victory for my debate team. I figured it was time to retire, forcefully, from debating. I checked my pulse, and it wasn't there. Yep, retirement time. At least, I thought, I'm going out with a perfect record. I stood there and waited to die...

...but...

...I didn't. Death didn't come to claim me. My pulse didn't start back up, but Death still didn't come. Maybe, I thought, he doesn't want me? He's probably afraid he'll loose an argument to me. I stood there for a day, looking around for any skeleton in a black robe. But nobody came!

And nobody's come to this day - that was defiantly a few years ago. My pulse never started back up. So I guess I'm dead but...I'm not. Surprisingly, being dead has helped me survive a lot better. After all, you can't kill a dead guy. I'm defiantly not a ghost; I've been punched in the face often enough to disprove that. But I'm defiantly not alive. I bled the last of my blood out years ago, and there's nothing left in my veins. I know, I've checked.

I wandered around, thinking about this for a few months. I argued on full automatic, since none of the other debaters I bumped into were worth my attention. Today, though, I decided there were four I should talk to. My old teachers. I just happened to bump into them on my way to...well, nowhere. I was wandering around, I wasn't heading anywhere!

But, there they were. I smiled, for the first time in a long while. Finally, I thought, people worth arguing against. I let them have a few opening statements with their shotguns. My chest was covered in robes by then, since I didn't want anybody else to see the numerous holes in my chest that never healed. I didn't want anybody to realize they were arguing with a dead guy. They kept firing, and I just stood there and aughed at them.

That went on for a good three minutes. After that, I looked down and realized that most of my insides were pouring out. My nerves had died a long time ago, so I had a hard time feeling anything. Most of my skin had been torn away by the shells, along with my clothes. In fact, most of me was just a skeleton. That worried me - how was I supposed to stay together without skin?

I decided it was my turn to argue. I pulled out my gun, only to have it shot away. So I prepared for an old-fashion debate. I stepped forward, andhit something under my foot. The raiders were petrified at that point, so they didn't rudely leave the argument while I dug out whatever was beneath me. It was...a sickle? And it was wrapped in a black cloth, too. That struck me as a bit odd. But that didn't matter. I had a debate team again.

I put on the pretty-damn-big cloth, since I was embarrassed about being a naked semi-skeleton. The raiders got really scared at that point, and started running. I can't stand rudeness, especially from people who run slower than me. I swung the sickle four times, and four heads rolled off their necks. That took care of that particular debt.

I looked at myself, admiring how sexy I looked in those robes. And this sickle was a perfect handicap for my advanced debating skills. But...then something dawned on me. I was a dead skeleton wearing a black robe and wielding a sickle. That was a strange coincidence...or, maybe it wasn't. Maybe I wasn't a dead guy.

Maybe...I was actually Death!

That would explain why that bastard never came for me. That would explain why nothing has ever been able to kill me. I'm not going to question why I'm Death. I figure I'm the person most suited for the job. I'd love to see the look on my mother's face if she learned she gave birth to Death. Talk about a sick joke.

You pay back your debts. The way I see it, I can't pay back the firestorm for trying to kill me. But I can pay back the wasteland. And being Death, I think it's only fitting that I keep these debates of mine going.