The Toss for Heads or Flails, Too

         The afternoon sun beamed over a sultry, nerve-rattled city. Its frightened citizens, having secreted themselves to whatever safe haven they could find, regardless of how safe it really was, listened, and waited. The Horde was out there; anyone with a decent pair of eyes and a working nose could tell you that much. And while the people waited, with zombie-eyed stares and trembling hands, the Horde was gathering its numbers. Thousands upon thousands arrived every hour, almost a million total since breakfast, and they were still showing up, either on foot, crashing in by plane, or rambling in by stolen vehicle. They were near finished with all preparations for the coming assault, and relatively soon, the attack, and all its grim festivities, would begin.

    High above the thick atmosphere of fear and doubt, Porter watched the ever-rising, ever-growing columns of smoke from Humphrey's penthouse balcony. They amazed and frightened him. How many must be out there to create such a colossal black smog, he wondered. It stunk heavily of coal soot and hot iron. What were they doing? What were they waiting for?
    Porter's anxiety and curiosity hounded him as he gulped his brandy, hoping it would help. It didn't. Such was the drawback of being an insurance business perfectionist, or from being a very intense, and uptight individual.
    Humphrey stood off to the side, appreciating a cool breeze, and finishing his third cigarette in the last half hour. It's funny, he thought, he never smoked heavy before. Three or four cigarettes a day, sure, with each accompanied by a nice vintage, but never the rapid burn-through of one pack after another. It just goes to show the power of stress, or the affect of a Horde's presence.
    "Tell me," Humphrey said, wanting to break the silence, "was there ever something you told yourself you wanted to do?"
    "What?" muttered Porter, his hands trembling.
    "Was there anything specific you wanted to do with your life?" he repeated.
    "Like what?" Porter said, trying not to spill his brandy. "What are you on about?"
    "Just wondering. There are times when every person reaches a point in their life when they think about the things they wanted to do, or maybe things they should have done."
    "No. Yes. Err...I don't know," Porter grumbled. He couldn't think. He could barely stand. His knees wobbled like a broken old man on his last stretch, and the more he watched the smoke spires spread, and listen to the distant thump of war drums, the more he felt the need to go back inside and have himself a theatrical collapse on the floor.
    Humphrey watched him lurch into the apartment and plop with a languid sigh onto the sofa. Porter set his drink on the table with both hands, so as not to spill a drop on the shag carpet. He didn't want more things to worry about, like a nasty rug stain. Heaven forbid!
    "It's not so bad," Humphrey said through the open doorway.
    Porter leaned back and placed a trembling hand over his forehead, giving himself a vigorous rub from side to side. Everything was falling apart, he thought. There was no running from this, no way of solving it with numbers or money. It was an impossible problem with impossible odds. What could any man do against such chaos, against such lunacy? For once in his life, Porter's perfect world, his vice-grip on the world he thought he knew, was crumbling, and his title and wealth wasn't worth the paper it was written on. It was a cruel blow to his ego.
    "You all right?" said Humphrey, walking inside. "You're looking a little paler than normal. Why don't you come outside and get some sun. The fire's getting higher out there, we can roast some marshmellows. It'll be just like camp when we--"
    Porter threw his hand down, and glared at Humphrey.
    "I'm pale am I?" he snapped. "And just why do you suppose that is? Hmm? Tell me? Why shouldn't a man be mortified when he knows he's facing the absolute certainty of death? How ridiculous can you be?"
    Humphrey raised his eyebrows at the barrage of bitter-toned questions. "Who said anything about death?"
    Porter looked ready to explode.
    "Are you serious?" he cried. "How else do you think this nightmare will end?"
    "There are all kinds of ways stories can end, good or bad." Humphrey headed back over to the bar and refilled his glass. He took a moment to sniff the sweet aroma of the brandy, then continued: "Usually, at first, people tend to overlook what's good or bad, but then, when the severity of the situation finally shows itself for what it is, the solution becomes simple, easier to see."
    Porter stared blankly at Humphrey. He hadn't the slightest idea what his friend was on about, and his crushing headache prevented him from even trying.
    "Do you care to try that again?" said Porter. "And while you are at it, add something about where I can find a ice bag for my head." He collapsed into the sofa.
    Humphrey pointed down a hallway leading off from the living to the bathroom. "You'll find one in the closet, by the towel rack."
    Porter rose slow and steady off the sofa, fearing anything faster would turn his brain to liquid jelly, and made his way to the bathroom.
    Humphrey took a long sip of his brandy, let out a satisfied 'Ahhh', then strolled back out onto the balcony. The smell of iron and sulfur clung to the air, and made his eyes twitch, and his nose burn a little.
    He puffed his cigarette. How much longer? he wondered. Should be any moment now; trolls and ogres aren't masters of patience, or long-term attention spans; unless five minutes is considered lengthy.
    BOOM! BOOM!
    There it was.
    FWOOOSH! FWOOOSH!
    Streams of pumpkin orange flame spewed skyward from between the buildings.
    The ogres must have brought tanker flamethrowers this time, thought Humphrey. How many of the mini-brained beasts must have gone up in smoke and cinders in the failed attempt to learn which end the 'hot' stuff came out?
    After the dazzling fire show, a deep, resonating kettle drum thump began to echo through the city streets. It was the beating of the Grayt Wurr Dromm, and the louder it beat, the closer it was. If your ears bled then you knew it was right around the corner, or it had just rolled over you.
    As soon as his ringing ears heard the titan drumbeat, Porter was out on the balcony in a panic. His skin was dripping with sweat, and his beady eyes evolved into giant brown cueballs.
    Humphrey had never seen him so animated.
    "What in gods names is that?" Porter cried, holding a yellow ducky ice bag on his head.
    Humphrey flicked his ashes over the balcony railing.
    "That would be the beginning of it," he said.
    Porter's eyes widened more, his mouth dropped. "You mean..."
    "They're on their way," said Humphrey, in his usual nonchalant manner. "Nice ice bag. I forgot I had it. I was always partial to the one with the frogs."
    Porter glared at Humphrey. "This is no time for wryness."
    BOOM! FWOOOSH! BOOM!
    Catapulted cars smashed through the faces of buildings, and columns of bulky, iron-welded 'taankurs' spewed fire streams over anything that moved, or looked like it might be the slightest bit flammable. Ogres and trolls, especially trolls, loved to watch things explode. It was their 'kid in a candy store' joy.
    "I don't know," said Humphrey. "I think this is a perfect time for a little wryness. That's the beauty of irony, it's never there when an example is needed, and when it does show up, it's just in time to prove us wrong."
    Porter was unamused. He shifted the ice bag to the other side of his head.
    "I am not the least bit entertained by your moronic humor," he said, sticking his chin up, and staring like a disgruntled Field Marshal at the growing destruction.
    Humphrey shrugged. "That's too bad. Because that was the best part I'd saved for this moment. I figured if the brandy didn't work, maybe some mild sarcasm might."
    "Well you thought wrong."
    Humphrey nodded. "So I noticed. I don't mind. I never was one for thinking straight in times of emergency. Course, I don't think this really qualifies as an emergency."
    Again, Porter looked at his friend as though he were raving wild with insanity. 
    "And just how does this not qualify as an emergency?" he said.
    "For once you ask a question to an argument I know I can win." Humphrey puffed his cigarette and leaned on the railing. "In the event of an emergency, there's the option for a solution, a way to solve the problem so everyone can safely walk away. Sure there might be a few incidents here and there, but overall, most people tend to leave while still intact. If the solution presents itself in a timely manner, that is."
    "And?" said Porter, expecting a much better answer. "That's a lot of fine talk, but it doesn't answer my question."
    "Sure it does." Humphrey nodded at the destruction filling the cityscape. "We both know there's no way to help the people down there, trapped under all that. Eventually, we're the ones going to be on the hot seat. It's just a matter of time."
    "Sooo..." Porter winced, partly from the pain in his head, and the other part from trying to decipher Humphrey's point. If there was one. "I still don't follow you at all."
    "All right, let me put it this way. Those people down there are not walking out of this invasion alive. You're not. I'm not. Since there's no way out of this, there can't be a solution, no way to 'save the people.' So, since no one can be saved, there's no emergency."
    It was an odd approach, but Porter was slowly getting his mind around the concept. Still, even his umpteen years in the insurance business, with all its roundabout rhetoric, he'd never heard something like this that was so...ridiculous? That seemed to be a word Porter was using a lot today.
    Humphrey could tell by his friend's confused stare that his 'emergency' idea was only sinking halfway into the insurance guru's inflated mind.
    "Here," Humphrey said, handing his drink over to Porter. "This might help you keep from over thinking."
    BOOM!!! FWOOOOOOSSSHHH!!!
    Porter watched the rooftop of a distant hotel explode into a massive whirlwind of fire and ash. Bright orange cinders danced and swirled along a breeze, looking, to him, like a cluster of happy forest pixies. What a strange thought, he told himself. Forest pixies? Where had that come from? Perhaps Humphrey was right, he conceded, perhaps there really is no emergency when there's no chance of survival. It was an inane way thinking, yes, but brutally truthful.
    "Thank you," Porter said, accepting the drink. "What now?"
    Humphrey glanced at his record player in the living room.
    "How about a few favorites?" he suggested.
    Porter nodded. "Sounds better than hearing another damn car explosion."
    "I think the artist of the record might take that as a compliment."
    Humphrey and Porter went inside, leaving the outside chaos to swell.

To be further continued...