Steve Yablochevsky's editor paused in the process of typing in the letter "Q", and announced Moses-like to the idolizing writer: "Thou shalt write a story about the end!" Steve cringed and begged to be enlightened. "But sir, what mean you by such cryptic annunciations? Was this in the memo?" The editor looked Steve over one last time and barked out: "You're fired, Steve! Our organization can have nothing to do with unremarkable prose-peddlers. We cannot support those who will not support us. Leave, young man, and try to deceive your luck elsewhere!" And, as Steve was about to close down the proverbial door, one more thing: "And one more thing, you leave your pseudonym here! From now on, you can no longer write as Tal Jane!"

Steve stormed out of the editor's office with a limping heart. No, he was not a young man, and he couldn't help but once again admire his editor's uncanny ability to blurt out profoundly insulting statements without a hint of intention. The editor was pretty dumb for a human being, but excelled at pinpointing the innate concerns of his interlocutors through the sheer force of his defensive anger. It's like he was programmed by some bored supernatural force to bestow sarcasm and bad writing upon the expiring lives of aspiring authors.

Steve knew he wasn't really fired. There's probably a message already waiting for him on the answering machine. "Sorry there, Steve. At this stage of the game, we both should have the big "C-word" engraved on our foreheads. Nothing gets done without compromise. Call me back, young man!" Or something of the same yucky sort.

Dragging himself along the overpopulated street, Steve perused possible storylines. For the past two weeks, he's been in a grueling tug-of-war with the editors about the content of the magazine's millennial issue. Whether for marketing considerations or out of some insuppressible urge for miracles, they knew they had to address the upcoming changes. The approaching New Year wreaked of hyperbole and hysteria, but Steve was very much in control when he confronted the Pantheon of publishing Gods and proposed to write a retrospective of the past one thousand years that would begin with the words: "It's hard to remember exactly, but..." He was subsequently lambasted by all the managing editors for pandering to the current intellectual fad of spouting unsure ambiguities that please absolutely no one. "We are trying to sell these damn things, and the only way we are going to get an audience is by actually saying something. What it is that we say does not matter nearly as much as what the public thinks we are saying. The past thousand years were not there for the amusement of effeminate academics, but for the Smiths and the Garcias, and the LeBlancs to spend the next 365,000 days debating who's fault it was. As the fault was clearly Steve's, the editorial board proceeded to italicize for him the headlines of "The Long Journey towards America" or "The Guttenberg Millenium" or "The Thousand Nails in God's Coffin," at which point everyone realized that it was again Steve's fault. He was told to shut up and to go write something about the future, while they took care of the past themselves.

Steve decided to write a short story, but as he realized ten minutes ago, the editor-in-chief was having a bad day and the heart-warming tale of Annabelle McGraw and her pet robot Fluffy would have to wait another week before being subjected to public ridicule and managerial acclaim.

Meanwhile, Steve was glad to try again. Self-replicating clones of Doug Gonnit, the world's first transsexual Emperor? Or the tale of Bit Bybit, the girl who wanted more cheese, but got kidnapped on her way to the store by a pack of Syphilitic Uranians? The future was wide open, and Steve knew he'd rather not see it.

He lived in New York, with the rest of the hungry maniacs, and not a sigh went by without being lassoed in for another bottle of whine. "All these fucking people," thought Steve, "barking at each other in the city that manages to be both too big and too small at the same time. Which one of these caped commuters wouldn't rush to shit into my gaping mouth, given the slightest indication that I was packing a brain and wasn't afraid to use it." But he was, and the streets were creeping with walking hamburgers. The unpaid utility bill was growing so large that the sun was going to be shut down any minute.

Steve took a break from his negative thoughts and stepped into a puddle, splattering wet dirt all over his freshly washed jeans. "Oh, fuck! There's my cycle of life in a nutshell! And in this city, you don't even know if it's just rainwater. Could be some kind of acid or piss or God-knows-what-else! Oh, fuck God! Satan! Yeah, Satan knows!" "Pardon me sir, did I hear you correctly? Could you repeat that please?" Apparently, a pretty brunette in a smart raincoat just asked Steve a question. "Did you just make an exasperated appeal for our dear Lord Satan to come down and to fix up New York City's admittedly imperfect sewage and drainage systems? Please, dear Sir, let me know if that's what you said, because that's what I heard."

Steve stared blankly at the woman's laughing eyes and her pert little mouth, and then suddenly focused in: "Oh yes... aaagh... you are very beautiful, and... aaagh... yes, Satan! I do speak of him highly! He's a good man, Satan! Yes!"

The woman now laughed with more than just her eyes. "I am sorry, dear man, I know how it can be. Frankly, the only reason I took issue with your misfortune is that I hear too many people these days using the name of our Lord Satan in vain. We must stay respectful and do as the book says. Otherwise, this world just might never end. And that would be a tragic folly."

Steve wrestled with his intestines for a bit, and then decided that it was still worth it to ask this woman out for a drink. After all, he always found it sadly ironic how difficult it was to meet people in this anthill of a city. "Indeed, long live Satan! And on a similar note, would you like to go out with me for a drink?"

The pretty woman grabbed his hand and exclaimed with exaggerated trepidation: "I am very glad you've made this decision, Sir. You will not regret it!" And off to the bar they went. It's time to drink!

The woman's name was Gretchen, and she preferred her vodka straight-up. She was a diplomat of some country with a name Steve could not successfully pronounce. He racked his brain and placed it somewhere in Europe, marveling at such a sudden lapse in his education. She was quite gregarious and made statements like: "It is true - appearance should be deceiving. Although you first came off as a decidedly unpleasant fellow, I can now see why he likes you." And asked to elaborate on who might be the "he" that likes Steve: "You are a bright man, Steve. I am glad you are with us, " prompting an expected question on the nature of the "us", to which she'd reply proudly: "I am also a ballerina."

After a while, Steve gave up and decided to imagine her massive breasts cradling his favorite pen as he contemplated back and forth and back and forth over the eager page until the tension inherent to any act of genius declared its readiness for artistic release and let the pen write across her taut belly the words of his human credo: "I loved you in 'Swan Pond!'"

Gretchen and Steve left the bar shoulder to shoulder, trying to support each other from falling over onto the pavement of the dirty city, which brought them together. As they approached a subway entrance, Steve remembered to ask for her number. "Do you want this night to end?" asked Gretchen knowing full-well that the night was at least several hours away.

"Please, don't think me too straight, but since you ask, and I've been yearning to provide you with this answer all night long - I want to make love to you Gretchen! You are all that is worthwhile about this day, and if I can't have you, then the world might as well end quietly. I will not care to notice." Gretchen did not answer right away, but took his hand into hers, and led him forward, into the roar of incoming trains. "I know where we should go!" she shouted, before dragging Steve into a densely packed cabin.

They got off an undeterminable number of stops later. Steve did not know what was happening. Maybe, the alcohol was taking its toll. Maybe, it was the increasing intensity of his desire that sacrificed all coherent thought to the unflinchingly dark eyes of his female companion. When they were still on the train, someone stepped on Steve's foot, and all that crossed his mind was the editor's last proclamation: "you are no longer Tal Jane!" Who was Tal Jane? Steve couldn't remember and felt a pinch of nervousness, before another step on his foot destroyed his last grasp on that thought.

They got off and approached a red-brick mansion of the kind that Big Bad Wolf couldn't blow away from the Smart Piggy. Gretchen turned to Steve and smiled: "I think it is time you met him. I know it may not be why you came here with me, but it is more important that you know the truth. Believe me - there is not much time left." Steve sighed and then, in a moment of terrible sobriety: "What are you talking about? Who's "he"? Are you not who I think you are? If we are about to enter some pimp's apartment, you better realize that although I am not a violent person, I have been in this city long enough to learn some self-defense." And Steve demonstrated his wobbly uppercut, but almost fell while going after a roundhouse kick. He became even more sober and laughed uncomfortably, feeling embarrassed and old. "I am sorry. I just better go." He considered walking away, but Gretchen grabbed his elbow and exclaimed: "This is no time for Tal! Come with me, Steve, and meet the Master. He doesn't need you, but you'd be a fool to let it all slip away. Not now, Steve! Not when you are almost saved!" Then she opened the rackety oak door, and pulled Steve in.

The inside of the building was murky, musty and mysterious with walls covered by murals of distressed couples trying to enjoy their picnics as sadistic-looking butterflies flew dangerously close to their necking heads. Unfortunately, Steve didn't have much time to notice the paintings or the marble staircase winding up and through the roof. As soon as he and Gretchen entered the building, they were forced out by a scrawny little man in a brown leather jacket. On second thought, the fact that Steve ended up tumbling out onto the street did not appear to be the result of anyone's intentional actions. It was an accident, an all-too-frequent consequence of people going their own ways without looking too hard if there was anyone else travelling on their paths.

"Oh, pardon me," quickly apologized the reckless man. "May I turn back into a frog, if I am wrong, but you must be the character of Steve." The man who was Steve had little choice but to agree. "I am Luc, but I am not French. On the other hand, do tell - is this the first time we meet?" Steve stood silent, considering such a question out of line. Luc looked at his watch and then lunged forward, bumping Steve back onto the pavement. "Hey, Steve, what are you doing on the pavement? I got something to tell you."

The beautiful Gretchen reappeared in the incident and helped Steve get up. "Now, listen," said Luc, "we don't want your jeans to get even dirtier. We love jeans. We love the garment industry. And much more so than we love the manufacturers of washers and dryers, who produce things which are only good for spinning around. You, Steve, are clearly an intelligent man, and the piece you wrote in last month's issue on the boy and his twin license plate was read by everybody with utmost reverence. We even sped up that lusty cop's application. But, Steve, your current gift notwithstanding, it is only your beginning. We have information to believe, from very credible sources, that soon you will become one of the editors."

Steve understood the word "editor" and the word "Steve," but somehow, somewhere, the overall meaning translated as something about someone who'd be able to deny people their creative expansion for the sake of reasons that didn't appear to benefit anyone but their own selves. Readers weren't going to get better literature, writers weren't going to get better control of the almighty word. Someone was going to make money. But what is money? The engraving upon its surface required the presence of a steady skilled hand of an artist who mimics. And its color - bad taste forever!

"Hey, Steve, what are you thinking? Do you not hear what I am saying?" These be Luc's words. Gretchen clutched Steve's pen between her breasts and moved it back and forth-like until Steve re-assumed his genius. "It's nice to meet you, Luc. Actually, it's not so nice. I must go. I am a writer of progressive ideas, not a politician of regressive values. I don't know why you are here and whom you represent, but please tell the "we" that Steve Yablochevsky believes in the future, and that future does not include little people like you and them, who only exist to fill our stories with villains and other fodder!"

Steve unclasped himself from Gretchen's raincoat and turned around, feeling greatly unsure about the existential merits of such a bold move. No, no one seemed to be stabbing him in the back, and, in fact, the sound of footsteps stepping away made its grand entrance. "Have I just spoken to some pretty important person or has Gretchen found a crafty excuse to make me leave her alone?" Steve thought about Gretchen's twinkling eyes one more time and walked back towards the subway. Proud and embarrassed, he wouldn't turn around.

He got into a train that headed towards home. It was now several hours after the rush, and few people dared to go along with Steve's destination. The train's wagons were nearly empty. Steve decided that he was already so dirty that additional stains would be moot. He sat down and closed his eyes. Yet, as soon as he'd made that decision, he felt someone tapping his shoulder and heard: "I am sorry, Steve. Luc might've been a bit brash with you, but he is really someone you need. I've made it my business to bring you into the group, and I want to convince you that it's crucial for you not to disregard the most significant offer of your life. The others won't be able to match it."

Steve opened his eyes and wondered why Gretchen always had so many words to say out loud. He had words too, but they were running around on the inside, competing for which one should come out a winner and be pronounced. Writing was somewhat easier because he could at least see what the words looked like before he let someone else in on their secrets. And there was always the opportunity to cross out, to delete, to tear up and throw away. This Gretchen's lips were in constant motion, and Steve wished hungrily for his lips to cover hers and to create a silence that would be more meaningful than anything else they produced with their mouths during this bothersome day.

"Hi Gretchen. I must tell you that I am not interested in any kind of scheming you think I could help you with. I don't want to be an editor. I don't want to be anything. I just want to go home and to write my story."

He also wanted her to go to his home, but that seemed like an unlikely turn of events, considering his tired state of mind. He didn't want to deal out any come-ons or promises he wouldn't keep just to get her to bed. Not today. Gretchen did seem to be following him, but wasn't it all just an extension of her silly games? What did she really want from him? She wasn’t even from this country - what did she care about some Luc's delusions of publishing grandeur?

Gretchen probed the insides of her raincoat until extricating from its mazes a folded piece of paper. "I don’t think you understand what we represent. Did you not receive this mailing? We sent it out in advance so you’d have some time to prepare."

With an abject sigh, Steve took the paper from Gretchen’s hand and unfolded. It was an official-looking letter, addressed to Tal Jane. He took to reading: "Dear Tal, this letter is to confirm the acceptance of your frequent applications to the Council of Superior Beings. We have observed you from the beginning of your development and have been delighted to see the changes that have taken place in your work and the correlating vision of the world at large. You have shown yourself to be a weak, but superiorly talented individual, who has lived at the mercy of lowly scavengers. Yet, you have lived and learned to subvert the efforts of those to whose whim you’ve been subjected. We have noticed the progress of your writing from a straight-forward representation of assigned tasks and themes to your current forms of subtle irony and unobtrusive rejection of the norms. What you have achieved is a disjunction between the subjects of your descriptions and the cultural containers that they invoke. You, Steve, have become a warrior, a destructive force that is unseen and deadly. As we take to applauding your accomplishment, we would like to offer you a permanent membership in the Council of Superior Beings. The position you will overtake will be that of the Minister of Cultural Affairs, with direct control over several hundred souls. You will have access to an unlimited expense account and can partake of the variety of fringe benefits, like immortality. The Council has dominion over several densely populated galaxies and has developed a sophisticated network of sexual "investigators," who regularly service the staff. The Council’s regional headquarters are located beneath the scenic territory of California and contain a plethora of on-site entertainments, including public tortures, soul-strippings and a 24-hour direct phone-line to the Chief Executive Officer. The campus also features our award-winning and free Laundry and Dry Cleaning Service. We are confident, dear Tal, that your work with the Council will be a memorable and mutually beneficial experience. Please, do not hesitate to contact our regional manager for more information. Meanwhile, we will eagerly await your acceptance. Please, remember - the end of the world is only two weeks away!"

Steve folded back the letter, signed by Luc, the Council’s Manager of Human Resources, and returned it to Gretchen. "I am sorry but this is my stop. I really like you, Gretchen, but this just isn’t the day when I can appreciate such humor. I am too busy. Please, forgive me."

He got up and exited the train, only to be quickly followed by the persistent brunette in her smart raincoat. "Steve, please, no one is trying to be funny here. All that we’ve told is true. The Council does exist, and we think you deserve to be in it."

Steve stopped and turned to Gretchen: "What is wrong with you? We both appear to be intelligent enough to distinguish when enough is enough. You are a beautiful woman, but the quackery that comes out of your mouth is no different from the rest of the lunacy being spouted off at every corner about the end of the world, God, Satan, technology and the blind donkey that could see the future by looking in its dung. You are all terrorists! And why will you need me, the subversive Tal Jane, if you expect the world to end? Will you make me the Minister of Dust? "

Gretchen bin Laden took out her semi-automatic and blew Steve away. No, but she said this: "The world will end. That will happen regardless of the outcome of this conversation. It will happen by the will of the Chief, upon the well-researched recommendation of the Council. But, after this world ends, a new one will be brought into existence. And it is that virginal world that we want you to help coordinate. A fresh, virginal world!"

Oh, he heard her well. Virginal! "Don’t you get boring, Gretchen. Let me remember you like this, standing monumental on a subway platform, surrounded by these swarming people, saying ‘yes’ to my request, to my most heartfelt desire to end these futile talks in a way most magical and fulfilling. And the request is such, my Miss Apocalypse – end this talk, end it because it never happened. End this talk and come spend the night in my company. I promise - you have never been loved as much!"

Steve has broken through and reached the zenith of his self-expression. The words were cut like diamonds, the sentiment was squeezed like pure citrus. Gretchen was smiling. She had come to a decision. "Allright. I will come, if that is the way it must be. But, I cannot come now, before the prayer. Tell me where it is, and expect me at your home in an hour."

That he told her. She left. He stood there, first – a mausoleum, then - upon realizing that a beautiful woman was expected at his apartment in three quarters of an hour - transformed into a musketeer, his sword hankering to dazzle one for all. Steve ran up and out of the subway, leaping through blocks and lapping up the air of love until finally knocking open his apartment’s door with a key, a foot or some such instrument.

He kept his flat clean, but no amount of vacuuming could overcome its inherent dreariness. There was never enough light and the warmth that occasionally entered through the heating vents was just another kind of coldness, emphasizing the stale, inescapable air and suffocating with the smell of burning dust. Steve's were old rooms in an old house, in an old, but gaudily made-up, city. He had to keep the windows closed, choosing to forego circulation for the sake of temporary separation from the pungent voices and fumes of the outside. He was not poor, but remained uncomfortable, finding little rejuvenation in the few amenities of modern life that he could not reject. The infrequent introduction of a woman into his world always resulted in some new trinkets, which somehow made the place feel even emptier upon the woman's inevitable departure.

Gretchen was due in half an hour. Would she really show up? Steve ignored the doubt, as well as the blinking light on his answering machine, and nurtured the frenzy of expectation. He straightened out the errant stacks of paper on his table to proceeded to the bathroom to fix up himself. A quick shower. A reasonably close shave. A spray of deodorant. When has was about to brush his teeth, Steve suddenly stopped.

He held the toothbrush in his right hand, and even though he sensed something appropriate about bringing the toothbrush near his mouth, the next logical step was no longer apparent. The object in his hand felt familiar, but now Steve couldn't shake off the insistent notion that he was doing something wrong. Staring at the brush's bristles, he blanked out even more. It's as if some alien sensibility was invading the well-set order of his existence. Was he supposed to put this thing into his mouth? Steve chuckled to himself and then realized that he could not definitively answer any of the rapidly multiplying questions filling his head. There was a tube in his left hand, and when he squeezed it, a white bit of paste oozed out and fell onto the floor. He watched it lay there, under his feet, until quickly stepping on it to prevent the white worm from climbing his leg.

His eyes traveled up to the mirror, and he wondered with increasing irritation, why the shiny man standing across from him held he same strange instruments in his hand. Were they all told to do something? But what? Steve closed his eyes and tried to refocus, feeling much calmer in the darkness. What if he let these objects fall? Unclenching his hands, he heard two thumps coming from down below. What now? He let time pass, trying not to think. He felt instinctively that it was better not to try, afraid that he wouldn't be able to remember who he was.

Suddenly, a shrill sound stabbed his silence. Steve jerked and opened his eyes. The sound repeated, and he gasped for air, barely keeping up with his racing heart. Then, he understood.

He was Steve, and the sound was the bell rung to announce that someone came. He slowly walked out of the bathroom and looked at the door. Now - a knock. "Steve, it's Gretchen. Happy New Year!" He did not respond and continued to stare at the door. He was not going to open it.

The day's events rampaged through his mind. He wasn't sure any more what they meant. The door had to stay closed. "Happy New Year, dear Steve!" Why was she so persistent? He concentrated on his breath, making it quiet and deliberate. He felt that there was something amiss in her greeting, but there was also something else. Steve was afraid of something else.

He stood implanted into the floor for another several minutes. The knocking and ringing stopped. She must've given up and left. Steve walked over to the door and looked through the peephole. There was no one on the outside. He made his way to the table and sat down, still in control of his every breath. In some while, he picked up a pen and began scribbling right on the table's surface: "My name is Steve Yablochevsky. My name is Tal Jane. I live in New York. I have a table. I am wearing jeans. I write with a pen. I am a writer." And then, laying his head upon the table and sensing a crumb prick his cheek: "Happy New Year!"