What happens to a goth kid when he gets struck by lightning? The same thing that happens to everything else.

In a smoke-shrouded office, utterly devoid of light but for the dull glow of a shaded lamp, the dark forms of the Long Island Power Authority’s inner circle coalesce into a singular shadow. A voice cuts through the thick black like a sharpened blade of ice, “Before we adjourn, I’d like to bring forth a final matter of concern.”

“Well, make it quick,” another replies, the tip of his cigarette incandescent as he inhales, “I have no intention of missing the Yankees game.”  

“My sources have informed me that a certain presence on the internet has disseminated an impression of LIPA contrary to that this organization prefers to convey. I move that this presence be neutralized.”

A dismissive grunt clears the air surrounding its utterer’s mouth, “Surely you don’t mean-”

“Yes. That’s the one. We often forget, Gentlemen, that this operation is a delicate one.  Even the most meager attempt at subverting our designs could develop into catastrophe, the unravelling of all we’ve worked towards. No opposition can be permitted to persist.”  

“Director, this man’s faggy online diary receives 27 hits daily. He can’t simply be made to disappear, at least if we intend to avoid troublesome inquiries.”

“An admissible point. We cannot proceed carelessly. We must be at once uncompromising discreet and unerringly effective. To that end…”

As realization sweeps slowly over them, each body assembled feels its muscles tense, its breathing accelerate. The Director’s lips give way to a frigid smile.

“Unleash the Weather Machine.”

—————-

My fucking house got hit by fucking lightning. I was roused from my bed at roughly noon today, which to a nocturnal prince of darkness such as myself is essentially as the dead of night is to a normal person, by the loudest noise to which my ears have ever been audience. My most immediate guess regarding the source of the disturbance was that terrorists were attacking, this fact serving as affirmative proof that, when my primal fear reflex overcomes me, I do in fact support the patriot act. Upon gathering sufficient resolve at the behest of my screaming father, I, clothed only in a pair of boxer shorts, made my way downstairs, navigated through the smoke that now congested the ground floor of my home entirely, draped a wool topcoat over my shoulders, and stepped into the torrential rain to wait for the fire department. 

I have been made a victim of the most improbable inconvenience to which a man can possibly be subjected, excepting possibly attack by a shark, which Discovery Channel informs me is less frequently experienced. This indicates to me either that the universe owes me some substantially good fortune, manifested perhaps as my winning the lottery, passing the road test, or meeting a woman I want to marry and not eventually divorce, or that I can now expect to suffer, at some point in my lifetime, each of the nearly innumerable less likely miseries that could befall a human being. 

That, in the wake of this proverbial brush with death, my perspective on and attitude toward life undergo a dramatic shift might be expected, yet I am forced to report that no such upheaval has taken place within me. Presently, I am sitting on my couch watching That 70’s Show, in much the same manner as I did so yesterday, before lightning hit my fucking house. 

– Gothicus Maximus

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