+-+------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|S|-------[The Holy Bible © 1997-1998 Self-Induced Negativity]-------------| 
+-+--------------------------------[Ted]-----------------------------------+ 
|I|--------------------------[By: The Messiah]-----------------------------|
+-+-------------------[Released: September 13, 1998]-----------------------+
|N|----------------------[http://www.sinnerz.com]--------------------------|
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Ted was a valet. He worked at a posh restaurant on top of a cliff overlooking 
the city. The rich and famous dined there, and he parked their cars. It was a 
regular workday: he was dressed in slacks, a white shirt, and a red vest, and 
he was driving somebody else's car. He drove the silver Mercedes down the 
parking lot and parked it a few spots from the end.

He turned the engine off and sat there, enjoying the smell of the car's 
leather, mixed with expensive cologne, mixed with the faint smell of sex. He 
stared out at the city lights, the luminescent strings of pearls on the 
horizon. He looked down at his hands, which were tightly clamped around the 
car's elegant steering wheel. He took his hands off the wheel and shook the 
tension out of them, exhaling deeply as he did so. He pulled the keys out of 
the ignition, got out of the car, locked the door, and walked over to the 
edge of the parking lot, twirling the keyring on his finger as he walked.

He sat down on the guardrail on the edge of the cliff and dangled his feet 
over the edge, his shoes floating in a sea of black. Staring again at the 
city lights, he absent-mindedly reached into his vest and pulled out a joint. 
He fished his lighter out of his pocket, and lit the joint. He inhaled deeply, 
coughing convulsively as the acrid smoke hit his lungs. He held the smoke in, 
eyes watering and squinting with the effort, until he exhaled in a rush, 
blowing the pale blue smoke out across the city. He leaned back, locking his 
elbows and bracing himself against the guardrail.

He stayed like that, frozen in place by the drugs in his bloodstream and the 
sight in front of him. It was a beautiful view. So many lights, each one 
glowing. He imagined he was a simple sphere of light, floating in a sea of 
darkness with millions of other spheres, suspended in a universe of black. 
His lit joint burned his finger and he yelped, dropping the joint and sending 
a tiny shower of sparks down the cliff.

He sucked his finger, cursing not as much from the pain as from the wasted 
pot. Weed was expensive and he was poor. Unbidden, the image of the stack of 
unopened bills on his dining room table came to his mind. He should pay them 
off, he knew, but he could barely cover the rent with what he made from his 
valet job. Maybe he should go back to college, get a degree. He had been 
looking through some community college brochures, looking for classes that 
seemed interesting, but nothing caught his eye, and besides, he couldn't 
spare the money.

He swung his feet back over the guardrail and began to walk back to the front 
of the restaurant. He walked down the rows of perfect cars, listening to 
their pinging as they cooled. Jimmy, another valet, drove by in an Audi, and 
they waved. Jimmy pulled the car to a stop and rolled down the window. Ted 
walked over and bent down.


"Mr. Trestovsky wants to talk to you, man. Better hurry back," said Jimmy.

Ted sighed. Talking to his boss was one of his least favorite things to do. 
This job would be great if it wasn't for the work, he reflected. "Ok, thanks," 
Ted replied. "I was just heading back. Took a short smoke brake."

Jimmy smiled widely, knowing what Ted meant. He rolled the window back up, 
and drove off to park the car. Ted straightened up and continued his walk 
back. He came to the building and made his way along the sidewalk, his step 
loose and jangling. Rounding a corner, he found himself face to face with a 
tall balding man dressed in a Nike warm-up suit. Mr. Trestovsky.

"Oh, Theodore, I'm glad I found you. There's something we need to talk about, 
okay?" he said.

"Umm... yeah?" Ted said. No, not okay, you bastard, he thought. Not okay by 
half.

The tall man shifted uncomfortably, cleared his throat, and looked at Ted in 
what he probably considered a wise, sympathetic gaze.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to let you go, Theodore," he said.

Ted's skin froze, and everything seemed very small and very far away. "What?" 
he said.

"You're being let go. I'm sorry. The business didn't make enough money this 
quarter to continue to employ you." He droned on, explaining the finer points 
of the Asian and Russian economic crises, IPOs, waning business, and El Niño. 
Ted stood there, mouth slightly open, nodding involuntarily at fifteen-second 
intervals. The man's mouth was moving, but Ted couldn't hear anything he was 
saying. Ted blinked, suddenly aware Mr. Trestovsky had stopped talking and 
was waiting for a response from Ted. Ted made sympathetic noises, nodded, and 
his boss smiled.

"I'm glad you took it this well, Ted. I know it's hard for you," Mr. 
Trestovsky said.

"Yeah, well, hey. I'll just go back to the office and get my stuff and head 
home, okay?"

"Yes, good. Again, I'm really very sorry I have to do this. The order comes 
straight from management," his boss said.

You are management, you jerk, Ted thought. Bastard. Jimmy walked by, and made 
a "that's life face" at Ted. Yes, that's life, Ted thought. That is so like 
life. But you didn't get fired, now did you? No, you smug little bitch, 
you're going to be able to pay rent this month. He sighed and set off towards 
the office.

As he walked, he could feel his universe dissolve, peeling off in thin layers, 
rolling away like marbles down a funnel. By the time he reached the small 
gray building, he was alone in the world, the last remnant of his universe, a 
total stranger stuck in someone else's bad dream. By instinct, he put the 
keys back on the pegboard. He took off his red vest, tossed it behind the 
desk, and put his own battered jacket on. As if from a distance, he could see 
himself walk mechanically around the room, stopping and turning at random, 
pacing like a trapped animal. His world spun around him, revolving around his 
own petty needs, and he was consumed by his self-pity. Everything stopped 
spinning, snapping to a stop in an instant.

In front of him lay the pegboard, the dead fluorescent light shining off the 
wall of keys. He saw his hand reach out and pick number thirteen. Lucky 
number thirteen. He marched to the door like a toy robot, heels beating out a 
contra-rhythm on the linoleum. He opened and closed the door, arms stiffly 
bending at the elbows. From far away, he saw himself walking towards spot 
number thirteen. He arrived at the spot and slowly turned towards the car. He 
stepped over to the car door, inserted the key, and turned. The door swung 
open with a hiss, its path oiled by a thousand unseen gears. Ted got in the 
car, staring ahead. He closed the door, put the keys in the ignition, and 
turned.

The engine roared to life, and the car vibrated with the power of it. Ted put 
it in reverse and pulled it out of the parking spot. He stared ahead, fingers 
wrapped around the wheel, his knuckles white. He put the car in gear and 
punched the gas. He watched the speedometer needle arc up. 30, 40, 50, 60, 
70...

He hit the guardrail at 80 miles an hour. The guardrail ripped away, and he 
sailed into the city lights, floating, a simple sphere of light in a sea of 
darkness.