"He's like a very flawed, lowly god, poor man." -James Tate, from The Ghost Soldiers

Drumming

I spent the afternoon in a battle of wits against a vagabond in the park. He had stopped me on my usual, pleasant-autumn-day walk. I can tell you when you’ll die, and where you’ll go after he said. He was sitting on a bench, and he had some sort of large can in a small, paper bag hanging loosely from his hand. He was wearing a sloppy sign on his chest that read THE END. I wasn’t sure whether to be offended, or interested. Listen here, you’re disrupting an essential part of my autumn days I said. I know that he said. These walks are the last thing that are keeping me sane, I swear I said. Just give me a moment of your time, and I’ll tell you everything he said. No, I won’t humor you, and your insanity I said, and began to walk away. He followed me, and began pestering me with puzzles and riddles, which he claimed would be very telling as to my impending death. I started running, and took paths that I had never before taken, in an effort to lose this maniac. The further into the park I went, the more knobby and gnarled the trees became. I looked behind me, and the vagabond was looking wild, feral, with sharp teeth, and tufts of fur growing in patches all over his skin. I was afraid for my life. I immediately regretted not just stopping, doing those puzzles and riddles. The vagabond tried to tell me this, how this was going to happen.