Dearest Reader:

We unveil to you the first piece of writing to grace the pages of this blog. Read as you deem fit.


“The Precision of Pi”

– A scene of fulfillment in death amidst the uncanny irrationality that only God could design.


DISCLAIMER: In this secular age, I feel obliged to inform the reader that this work does indeed discuss the singular deity known as God. For all readers who claim separation or ignorance regarding the aforementioned entity, please read at your discretion. Potential readers under 13 are recommended to have this story read to them by a parent or legal guardian. For all those readers who revere the above divine being, please note that the author has NO INTENTION to malign or cast poor light upon his own most glorified Creator. Honestly, no offense intended.


John. C Malcolm, junior assistant floor sweeper at the Dine and Go community market, was burning along Cedar drive in a ’94 Volvo 850 destined for a fatal collision with a 40 ton semi. The collision was to take place precisely as the third verse of Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” began to spurt out of the Volvo’s radio.  The reason for this precision was that John’s death had been predetermined by an all-powerful and well-humored God, who, to entertain himself amidst the endlessness of His existence, allowed for baby bats to fall into cesspools of their forefathers feces to be eaten alive by cockroaches (and this was just the start). God thought the demise of these bats was a real riot. John C. Malcolm probably didn’t know about the fate of those poor bats, but certainly he was unaware that his time as a junior assistant floor sweeper, make-believe racecar driver, and atrociously out-of-tune singer was about to end. But John did not so much care to know at what point he was going to die, though he probably would have preferred to listen to the rest of that song. In fact, he was quite looking forward to belting out the next verse. But he had no qualms with God, and he hadn’t particularly thought about Him and His infinite and therefore insatiable appetite for amusement. Actually, if John had known that his death was going to carry an entertainment value for any entity, divine or otherwise, he probably would have consented. If there was anything that John truly did admire, it was entertainment.

As a boy, he had continually sacrificed his body to spur laughter out of anyone who would watch. He once threaded a spaghetti noodle several inches up his urethra to bewilder his younger brother. He urinated pins and needles for the next few days, but all parties involved had a pretty good laugh out of that one.

However, John had never experienced much pain beyond a few sturdy punches to the abdomen, which by no means would prepare him for the impact with the 40 ton behemoth at the next intersection. God wanted a real show, so John was to be sent flying out of the windshield, an especially painful but exhilarating way to be thrust literally into Kingdom Come.

As Queen’s Freddie Mercury and John C. Malcolm sang and screeched the line “goodbye, everybody, I’ve got to go”, God directed a little more of His omnipresence toward the intersection of Cedar and Hooch, though He was present everywhere and everywhen in the universe all at once.

John, for the first time in his life, exuded a pure and uninterrupted happiness. His head bounced like a seesaw, his eyes where sealed in ecstasy, and the tremors of his heart synchronized with the resounding bass line. His right foot, mimicking the pounding of the drum pedal, smashed against the accelerator, picking up the speed to the 65 miles per hour necessary to send him clear through the windshield as the Volvo’s bumper rammed home into one of the semi’s 18 wheels. The time was to be 2:34 pm, on December the 18th, 2000 years after the fantastic conductor of disasters had appeared in the flesh to have some fun changing water into wine and startling mortals with His ability to resurrect Himself at will. He was called Christ then, and he was a great celebrity on the planet where John C. Malcolm lived—almost as famous as Freddie Mercury.

But this was John’s moment to shine. At the height of exhilaration, without a care in the world beyond sinking into the next note of song, John opened his eyes to see the bright red flash of a tractor trailer heaved into view, a divine thumbprint nearly visible on its side. Had the radio been turned any lower, John probably would have heard the hiss of the semi’s brakes, vainly grinding at the whirling fury of wheel and rubber.

The crumple zone of the Volvo compressed just slowly enough to prevent John’s unstrapped chest from being crammed into place in the vice grip of the seat and dashboard, while the airbags failed to deploy in an act of divine intervention tantamount to the parting of the Red Sea. To the dual amusement of puppet and creator alike, John smashed through the glassy barrier and soared headlong over the hood of the semi, which lurched to rest like a launching pad set single-mindedly to assist in John’s takeoff. Which it had been.

For the 3.14159265… seconds that John swam through the air, he could not possibly have conceived of the enjoyment that he was providing to his maker. He was to collide with the concrete at the duration of time at which the irrational number previously described repeats the digit 9 six times, a curious oddity in the senselessness of that infinite cypher which God had inserted strictly to tease mortals with the illusion of continuity. The number was called pi, and it represented precisely the ratio between the diameter and circumference of the wheel into which John’s Volvo had crashed.

At 2:34 pm, with 5 seconds remaining in his earthly existence, John C. Malcolm experienced a spiritual epiphany. In the surface of the concrete blurring before him, he saw, for an indiscriminately brief flicker of time, the image of the risen Christ with a string extending from his cloth-bound midsection to his outreached hand. John couldn’t possible have known it, but the string was a spaghetti noodle, and the hand holding it was posed into an approving thumbs-up.

The cracking of John’s skull, while not as graceful as the dazzling rupture of the windshield, did not permit John to experience much more than a hint of pain. God rewards his playthings well. A red sauce splattered from the John’s open cranial cavity and spread a skid mark some two feet along the smooth pavement. The semi-truck driver, a corpulent man with a gastro-intestinal disorder that God had programmed to discharge bile at alarming rates, emerged from the cab of the semi with a ghostly demeanor, and without so much as glancing at the body formerly constituting John C. Malcolm, he contributed a celebratory grand finale of ruddy puke, as if to concede that this was, indeed, the most awesome death that God had yet presented to his uneasy stomach. Which it was. Had he turned over the body, the driver would have noticed that John’s pulpy pink face resembled the filling of a cherry pie. 3.14159265…

God was satisfied. For now. In a few moments he would focus in on a cavern in central Texas, where another infant bat was to slip, with a previously unachieved solemnity, into a pile of roach infested shit.

Write on, good sir. Write on.