Immortals

It began last Thursday. Some claim to have seen a flash in the sky, others swear they felt the holy ghost reach into their hearts and squeeze. Personally, I didn't notice anything unusual until my neighbour's rust-red Ford Falcon [[ran over my dog]].

They say pets know natural disasters are coming long before we notice. Earthquakes, tsunamis, cyclones and wild fires, your domesticated companion will do their best to alert you in advance and lead you to safety. Not so Mr Pickles, my one eyed, half deaf mongrel, who barks only at his own flatulence and alerts me only to the catastrophe of an empty food bowl or the impending emptying of his bladder. [[Take Mr Pickles' for walkies|impending emptying of his bladder]] [[Go back to bed]]

I hooked the frantic Mr Pickles' walking lead to his collar and quickly exited our house. Pickles' bladder would give us a maximum two minute window between alert and release. Out into the blinding morning sun, wearing an inside-out bathrobe and well chewed slippers. The flora of the front yard consists only of the most stubborn weeds that have evolved to survive Mr Pickles' ongoing chemical assault on the lawn, and none were sufficiently tall to receive his offering today. He turned his single pleading eye on me and I relented, opening the gate and taking him into the wider world of taller, healthier plants ready to be victimised by his deadly pee. Naturally he pulled immediately for the [[Jacaranda tree]] in the neighbour's garden.

Despite being as terrible and uncaring gardener as myself, somehow my neighbour's Jacaranda stands almost 30 metres tall and is covered in huge purple flowers. Pickles' can never do his business while I watch, so I was staring up into the massive tree's maze of branches when I felt a sudden yank at the dog lead and heard an awful crunch. Dazza's ute, a huge hulking mass of rust and dirt covered glass, never once moved in the five years I have lived beside the beast and its vast oilslick of a shadow, had finally moved. Onto my dog. [[Scream at the car|I screamed at the car]] [[Scream at Mr Pickles]]

I screamed at the car. Dazza jumped out of the car and screamed at me. I turned to Mr Pickles', half underneath a tyre and screamed again. He turned his good eye to me and let out the longest dog fart I ever hope to hear. "You've killed my dog you stupid bloody fool!", I shouted at Dazza. "What's that shitty little mongrel doing on my driveway?" he shrieked in reply. I was about to unleash a kick at the ute, no doubt putting a hole through a structurally important section of rust, when I felt another yank at the lead still clutched in my hand. I turned to see Mr Pickles' now considerably more deformed body cocking a leg at the tree as he began to relieve himself. Much of it went into my slipper. "He's fine! Now fuck off my property or I'll run you both over!" Dazza laughed as I dragged the lumpy dog [[back into the house]].

I took a closer look at the dog. Besides one obviously broken leg pointing the wrong way and a seriously squashed head with a clear tyre tread imprint across it, Pickles' seemed fine. A visit to the vet was beyond the realms of my fiscal facilities, so I tipped a double portion of food into his bowl and readied myself for work. I pulled on my work clothes, not much of an improvement over the bathrobe, and ran for [[the bus]].

Somehow I secure the last seat on the bus, near the front and usually reserved for the old or disabled. I decided my morning dog trauma qualified as a temporary infirment and ignore the judging stares of more ethical standing passengers. Unusually, the bus was running to schedule and was threatening to ruin my perfect record of arriving to work ten minutes late, when the bus hit the cyclist. [[Rush out to help, but lose the bus seat]] [[Leave it to the professionals to assist]]

I am always tired, today was no exception. Sure, the dog was probably going to piss all over the house and I'd step it in later when I got up to answer the phonecall letting me know I'd been fired for missing work again, but why not go back to bed? Instead, I reflected for a moment on the illusion of choice so common in my everyday life, before [[taking the dog out|impending emptying of his bladder]] because I am not a complete shit.

My eyes tearing up, I turned to Mr Pickles and let out a blood curdling howl. Ancient wolf spirits materialised around me to join this chorus to honour their most beloved descendant. Never was a dog so, so.. doglike. His doglike ways. His little doglike face. His little dog woofing. I could almost believe I could still hear it. The illusion fades as a warm wetness fills my slipper and I look down to see Mr Pickles cocking a mangled leg at me. Confused, I pick up my dog and [[hurry back inside|back into the house]].

A smiling businessman slid silently into my seat before I was even halfway out of it. I pushed the bus doors open and step over pieces of smashed bicycle. The cyclist laid beside the bus, groaning in pain but obviously alive. I pulled them to the side of the road. "Unbelievable! Did you see them run me down?" asked the bruised cyclist as they began to peel away layers of bloodied lycra. "Are you.. okay?" I asked in reply, "you took a serious hit, mate". "No kidding, totalled my fucking bike". I waited ten minutes for an ambulance to arrive before giving up and [[continuing to work]]

With my total lack of medical knowledge or empathy for humans in distress, I pretended not to notice as the cyclist slowly dragged himself up from the tarmac and limped to the curbside. Traffic slowly resumed and the bus driver radioed in to say he'd 'witnessed a traffic accident'. Apparently nobody cared. I [[continued on to work|continuing to work]].

I arrived ten minutes late to the morgue. I pulled on the same pair of one use rubber gloves that I had been using since I started this job and walked into the cold room to meet my patients for the day. Frank O'Leary, the worst boss of my life, for the worst job of my life sat on an empty body-bed, sucking chicken gristle off of a bone. "You're late" he muttered through a half full mouth, not even bothering to look at me. "Not my fault Franko, bus ran someone over on the way in. Not going to be a customer for us though, seemed fine" I said as I looked around the empty room. "No customers today it seems! Hospital called to say they've not had a single death all night. Police say the same." [[So Franko made me clean all day]]

Hours of bleach later, I muttered my goodbyes to a Franko asleep in the back office. I stepped out into the afternoon sun, still blinding. (set:$money to 8.55) I have $$money and no plans for the rest of the day [[Hit up Maccers for some grub]] [[Head home on the bus to see if Mr Pickles survived the day]] [[Go see what the huge crowd of thousands of shouting people down the street is upset about]]

(if: $money < 2.50)[The 12 year old manager eyes me suspiciously as I approach the counter. His unblinking eyes stare directly into my soul and can see that I can no longer afford to eat here. For a moment I try and match his gaze but quickly retreat in shame] (else:)[(set:$money = $money - 2.50)Glazed eyed children labourers take my money and serve me lukewarm carbohydrates with the least appetising piece of protein I have seen since I last ate here. Mercifully, I am at least unable to identify what animal this came from.] I have $(print:$money.toFixed(2)) and absolutely no appetite [[Definitely eat more of this shit|Hit up Maccers for some grub]] [[Head home on the bus to see if Mr Pickles survived the day]] [[Go see what the huge crowd of thousands of shouting people down the street is upset about]]

I board the bus and wait for it to carry me home. Ten minutes pass and the bus has not moved. I tear myself away from thoughts of my most beloved and canine companion and pay attention to the transportation situation. It seems the crowds of excited people have completely blocked the road as their numbers increase. The bus driver appears to be taking a nap. [[Leave the bus and attempt to disperse the crowds|Go see what the huge crowd of thousands of shouting people down the street is upset about]]

The crowd is composed of people from all walks of life. Rich business types mixed with retail workers, homeless drunks mixed with fluro-dressed tradies. Also I seem to have been sucked into the crowd. It is hard to understand what anyone is shouting. (if:$money>1)[In the close press of bodies I feel a hand helping itself to the money in my pocket(set:$money = $money-1)] I have $(print:$money.toFixed(2)) and a developing headache [[Shout louder than everyone else]] [[Wait patiently for an explanation]]

"WHAT IS GOING ON?" I try and shout. The crowd is now so loud that I am unsure if I am even making any sound. [[Suddenly silence]]

I wait patiently for somebody to explain what is happening. (if:$money>0)[Instead, a thieving hand explains what it is to be completely penniless as my remaining money is taken.(set:$money to 0)] I have no money, and still no idea what is going on. [[Suddenly silence]]

A hush falls over the crowd. Somebody giggles nervously. Ahead, a man with a loudspeaker is lifted above the throng and clears his throat. "EVERYONE!" he shouts, "MANY OF YOU ALREADY KNOW, BUT IT SEEMS THAT FOR SOME REASON WE CAN NO LONGER DIE! YOU CAN STILL BE HURT, YOU CAN STILL BE INJURED, BUT THERE IS NO MORE DEATH!" The crowd seem extremely excited about this. I consider that my continued employment prospects at the morgue are now tenuous at best. The crowd disperses and I [[head home]]

The bus drops me off at the end of my street. I walk past my neighbour's drive. Dazza seems to be underneath his car shouting about something being "trapped" and "can't get out". Must be some technical automotive jargon. I open the door and step inside, into a soft, warm dog poo. Mr Pickles rolls around on the floor, unable to walk on his mangled legs. [[Wait a year]]

I sit and wait for a year. After the initial jubilation, certain problems begin to manifest with immortal society. It has become quite problematic to eat meat as the animals don't die when they are killed and instead stare accusingly at the butchers. The terminally ill remain terminally ill but are unable to die. A surprising number of people are very upset about being forced to continue living in pain. The population has increased massively. People are still having sex and babies are being born. More importantly, Mr Pickles' legs are still smashed. I am unemployed and can rarely afford food. Starvation is incredibly painful and unpleasant, even when you know it isn't going to kill you. [[Wait longer]]

Another five years have passed and Dazza is still trapped under his truck. He's come to terms with it now and runs a weekly podcast titled 'Under ute-ilised' and has over twenty subscribers. [[Keep waiting]]

There's barely any room left on the land now. People fight and tear eachother apart just to experience a brief moment of free space. It's hard to breathe ever since the last of the trees were destroyed, probably to make room for people to stand. Even the oceans fill with floating undying corpses, people too weak to do much more than moan and squirm as the currents push them into eachother. I live under the ute with Dazza now. We heard a whisper that the rich live on the moon in giant domes and that they're developing some bioweapon to decompose us despite our immortality. Mr Pickles still has terrible farts. The end