Mother, do you think they’ll drop the bomb? — Pink Floyd (Mother, from The Wall)

Plain notebook, man’s handwriting, found at the epicenter of the New Mexico forest fire, in a blackened lunch box, unburnt for mysterious reasons.

“Ever since my eyes were opened, on July 4th, 2000, I have never seen myself being happier, than the day I get the Big Picture taken of me.

See, that was the day Marcy and I were setting off fireworks, of course. Then, a bottle rocket hit my house, and set it on fire; no biggie, normally, but her mother was inside. So was our son, Jim. My goldsmithing tools. Her dayplanner full of personal files.

The body of the hooker I killed the week before, and still wasn’t sure about, well.. that, thankfully, went up pretty quickly. Thank God for small favors, y’know?

I mean, before my eyes were Opened, I was just another day-to-day zombie, slugging back lattes, bitching about how the world owed me for my failed twenty-nothing years, and how I was not a yuppie, or a sellout, just smarter than I was. I mean, I could still whore with the best of them, right?

Besides, she probably had the fucking clap, and I didn’t even mean to smother her, but.. she was a loud one, and Jimmy was asleep, and almost woke up. But, I think it was for the best, when the house went up in flames.

I’ve never been more free, y’know?

I didn’t need my Mustang. My handmade pocketwatch collection. My old family photo albums. Bowling trophies. Awards from the city, for the commemorative watches I’d built for the mayor’s staff. All those stock certificates.

Just junk, cluttering my life, fucking me all up, and making me worthless.

My boy’s bronzed shoes. His first tooth. The picture he took of the Halloween pumpkin we’d worked on.

Just clutter, right?

Well, I don’t even care about it.

I have this great idea; I told it to Marcy, but… she never liked my ideas, anyways. I don’t even notice she’s left the motel, to live with the family attorney. They’re just friends from the country club, really. Tennis partners, I believe… ah, well. Doesn’t matter. What does, eh?

I know what matters; making your mark. I saw this thing, about a year ago, on the History Channel. About Edward Teller, or something. Guy’s a genius, still alive and kicking. Very old, and truly, truly wise.

Got his signature on this box I built; told him I was a UPS guy, and he just up and signed it. Got another one, from this guy in Japan, claiming I was a leukemia patient in Nevada, and was nine years old.

Same age as Jimmy was.

Doesn’t matter.

Need one more signature, and it’ll be complete.

See, I found this rock; stuff’s called Trinitite. Raidoactive, and it’s a pretty green color. Man-made element, done by accident, at Trinity, near White Sands. It’ll be spectacular, especially when I add these two old bricks from Hiroshima, and Nagasaki. It’s got enough resonance in it to match my own urge for destruction. Where it feels sorrow, I feel hate. And I hate the whole world.

So, you see my plan.. I am going to inscribe my hate-mail into the Statosphere, and tell them how much I want to change the world. It’ll be perfect.

The world’s gonna know my name, that’s for damned sure. At 8:15 a.m., the exact time the bomb exploded on August 6, 1945, we’re going to celebrate like nothing this planet has ever seen. By celebrate, I mean, reach a million degrees Centrigrade in approximately nine-one-thousands of a second.

This thing is going to be my legacy.

Happy birthday, Jim.

Love, Dad.”

And a small diet Coke, please.