I do a lot of crossword puzzles. I hear they are a good way to keep a mind sharp. And there is nothing more important in America than a sharp mind. More importantly, one will need all of one’s wits in the upcoming apocalypse. Oh, I forgot to tell you. I’m giving up on any pretense relative to the downfall of society. The first step is acceptance. Only then can we move on in life.

Speaking of moving on, I am doing this crossword puzzle and there is a knock at the door. I want to ignore it. But then I realize the garage doors are up. What if the knocker is a thief? If I were a thief, I would always knock. It is both polite and savvy. It gives you an excuse when you are found roaming around someone’s home. I would feel badly for a thief in my house. The only things that they could carry out are books. No one wants those. Firestarters, maybe.

“I am the Firestarter. I am the Firestarter. I am the Firestarter.” This will be my name after everything goes to shit. If you knew the song was by Prodigy you deserve a reward. Unfortunately, as William Munny says, “Deserve’s got nothing to do with it.” Plus, it is important to be intrinsically motivated. That’s what other people tell me, anyway. Regardless, don’t come looking for somebody named MO in the aftermath of smoking ruins and general chaos. Firestarter. Also, don’t steal my apocalypse name. There will be no laws and I will cheerfully kill you over something as stupid as a name.

Knock, knock, knock. A three knocking son-of-a-bitch at the door. Since I don’t know who in the hell is a high-fashion shoe designer, I go upstairs to see who is knocking, knocking at my chamber door. If only it had been a menacing raven. Nope. Fucking Jehovah’s Witnesses. Two adult women and a young girl, maybe twelve years old. Apparently, among other decrees, Jehovah doesn’t think school is that important. I want to shut the door on them, but decide otherwise.

“Do any of you know anything about high-fashion shoe designers?” I ask. Technically, I don’t know if they are really Jehovah’s Witnesses. And maybe they like shoes.

The adult women smile the weird, awkward smile of the unredeemably religious. “Unredeemably” isn’t a word? Fuck you, Word Press and your mechanical editor. It’s a word now. The kid makes a face like she has swallowed soap. I use that bit of literary description because I assume Jehovah’s Witnesses still wash kid’s mouths out with soap. Having had that particular experience I can say that it is both not pleasant and that it is completely ineffective. Fuck. Shit. Damn. Hell. What a waste of good soap.

“What’s that?” says the taller woman. She is about my age. The woman has very pasty skin and red cheeks. She clearly doesn’t tan much. It wouldn’t help as she isn’t very good looking. Everything on her face is either too small or too big and not very symmetrical. Like they melted her just a little once.

“Shoes. High-fashion.” I wave them off. “Never mind.”

The other woman launches into her spiel and tries to hand me a little green Watchtower. I wonder if she knows who Jimi Hendrix was. Probably not. This woman has very pasty skin and red cheeks. She is a lot thinner than the tall one. My guess is the tall one is eating the shorter one’s rations. Or the tall one could be a succubus. A lesbian succubus, in this instance.

I nod along and try to figure out the high-fashion shoes thing. It is difficult without having the puzzle right in front of me. Actually, it is impossible as I know nothing about fashion, high or otherwise. Luckily, where we are going there will be no fashion. Unless human ear necklaces are considered fashionable. Could be, I suppose.

Before the small woman can finish, I raise my hand and smile apologetically. “I’m probably not interested. But I hope that you all have a good day.” I also hope that the kid will go to school. But that is clearly not a priority.

Usually, the Jehovah’s Witnesses take the hint and leave. But the succubus is persistent. I suppose that is a defining characteristic of succubi. Lesbian succubi notwithstanding. She tries to shove the green book into my chest and starts talking about knowing Jesus.

I shake my head. “I am the firestarter. I am the firestarter. I’m a trouble starter, fucking instigator.” Those are pretty much all the lyrics I know. But they are effective. The women back away and thank me for my time. The little girl is clearly frightened. They seem to think I may have a mental health problem. The Firestarter is not amused, but he will be able to settle scores soon enough.

My uninvited visitors leave. They are driving a Ford Focus. It is bronze and unobtrusive. A car befitting of their purpose and station. I salute them as they drive off to continue their proselytizing. They are wasting their time with all these Lutheran farmers. But life is folly.

A gang of chickadees has gathered at the feeder, eating the sunflower seeds my wife has left them. They are oblivious to nothing but survival. I both admire and envy them. Then one flies into the picture window. I quit admiring and envying that one. I name him Howard. Howard, the Dead Chickadee. He could have been my friend in another life.

Jimmy Choo. That’s the high-fashion shoe designer. If you have heard of him, other than in passing, stop reading this blog right now. Take some self-defense classes before it is too late.

I do have a bit of knowledge to pass on to you. When looking for the Firestarter, the pass phrase is Jimmy Choo.

Jimmy Choo.