Matt Johnson’s Heroic Detective Agency: The Fall of Nagasaki

Monday, 19:45, Prestige Worldwide

Matt Johnson had prepared quite the spread for Monday Night Raw. Cheesecake, brownies, ice-cream, trail mix. The good foods were represented.

He was about to announce the upcoming fight, but first a quick trip through facebook. Baz’s status had a weirdly large number of comments. Posted less than a minute ago?

I have no words. Love may be a gift, but it weighs heavily on the parts of me that must die to accommodate it. I am terrified from the bottom of my heart and stricken with a love for living while asleep. I truly have nothing interesting to say to you. I would love you if I could, but that which remains of me is too different from the means to that desire. Perhaps then preserving this timeless conception of self is the truest life that we have. Every adulthood is characterized by a wretched moment of leaving a past self to die. It is not with pride that I tell you, but with disgust. I must move on to a future of creation, through a past as tissue paper, or drown in my own refuse. It all must go.

To apologies would be a slight against the truth. We all know this needed to happen. We all know that this is right. Night Brighton has no tourists. Farewell.

“Oh shit, he’s blowing up the world again.” Matt Johnson strode to the gateway of the chamber of Baz.

“Baz? Are you in there?”

“No. Go away.”

“You sound a lot like Baz.”

“You don’t know what Baz is. What other evidence do you have?”

“You just posted something about Farewell, and killing love?”

“Spurious. Circumstantial. Easily falsifiable. Nothing of import.”

Matt Johnson’s demon roared in his chest. “Nagasaki is that you?”

“This is a violation of my privacy. Go away.”

Matt Johnson regained control. “That’s Baz’s room. If you’re not Baz, then I’m definitely coming in.”

The door was locked. No major obstacle. In a moment it was off its hinges. Matt Johnson was in the room. The form of Baz sat behind a computer screen on the bed. Broken glass and rotten mouse parts jiggled slightly on the floor.

“Love is like a mosquito bite Matt Johnson. Did you know that?”

“I remember it a little different.”

“I can only tell you what I see Matt Johnson, and it is a victory.” Nagasaki revealed the hidden detonator in his left hand. “You cannot stop me.”

“Do I have to?”

“No one has to do anything. That’s the dream right?”

“How are you dreaming these days anyway?”

“With a light step and a full conscience. How are yours?”

“Pretty good. I had one about a dinosaur recently.  Look, are you going to cause a major problem? Because if you are I’m asking you to stop.”

“Problem or solution Matt Johnson?”

“Your call. Just make sure you know what your doing.”

“I never have before.”

“I love you man. Please don’t fuck my shit up.”

Matt Johnson left the room.

The door was gone, the room held the light of the hallway and the street. It was never dark here. The detonator was cool in his hand. Nothing was real. He had done these actions knowing there would be consequences. This however was not what he predicted. He was caught, and then left alone. The dream was still intact. Right?

Nagasaki’s eyes rolled across his screen. Plans were laid out. The bombs were in their respective positions. A seismologist had checked his calculations. He spun through his various addictions until his vision rested again on the plan. He closed the laptop. He would sleep on it, and he knew what that meant. In retrospect it was obvious.

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