Cecil Parrish was a good man. Not really a great man, by society’s standards anyway, but then again, who is? In any case Cecil filed his taxes every year on exactly March 15th, mostly because he hates standing in the line of the post office as masses of suburbanites flock for miles to file at the last minute. Mostly, but also because Cecil’s father used to tell him ridiculous stories when he was six years old, an age where the word of your parents is law and in a time when the switch was the force of the law. And no, Cecil’s father wasn’t an alcoholic (although it was also an age where that was common practice). However, he was a close-minded, bitter pundit; which anyone will tell you is far, far worse. It was during these nights, that Cecil would sit, legs folded on a tartan rug and gaze with a meshing of wonder and fear at his father, clinging on every word, and taking in every ludicrous opinion, excuse, and tirade. One night’s lesson came down to the boogeyman, nocturnal abomination of closets everywhere, when Cecil had sprung from bed and ran from it with only his red cowboy hat and a single sock on and he had pleaded with his parents to come into bed. His father had picked him up and he knew a night’s lesson was about to take place, so he took his position, and his father took his and Mr. Parrish had proceeded to tell Cecil about how in life, there are worse monsters than even the boogeyman (Mr. Parrish hoping that, by means of comparison, a boogeyman would seem tame, almost laughable). It was this night that young Cecil came to know the horrors of the government and how if you stepped out of line, if you crossed “The Man”, if you were so bad as to not pay your taxes, then the government would send people. Not nice people, either. Not people who have thoughts, hopes, dreams, mercy, no; but people who want nothing more than to see your ass battered, fried and served up. If you so dared as to step out of line, these people wouldn’t come with a switch, they would kick down your door and take everything you ever loved or owned, and then they would take you where all bad things go, to jail. Safe to say that young Cecil slept soundly that night.

Cecil never forgot those words spoken to him on that night, it didn’t haunt his every waking hour, it didn’t even haunt his every waking anything, really; but it conditioned him in such a way to where every morning, as Cecil drove to work, angry motorists or not, he would do so at a steady 57 miles per hour on the highway.

Along with filing his taxes on March 15th.

When Cecil graduated high school, he went almost straight to college. It may have been a community college, and it may have had shoddy materials within the walls (along with God knows what else) but it was higher education, and he was glad for it. He vigorously pursued a degree in Accounting, many of his friends had always joked that it was where he would wind up, and it led to him seriously considering the field. When push comes to shove, we are what we are driven to be, whether or not we’re at the wheel. He soon joined up with a large bank, a branch of a multi-billion dollar company, and Cecil, a leaf on the branch. He enjoyed his job and if there was anything he was ever exceptional at, it was accounting. Cecil was good with numbers, and they seemed to respond to his manipulation, it could easily be seen that Cecil had a gift for math and could do great things if given a shot. Could easily be seen, that is, if anyone looked. The truth was, no one looked, and Cecil preferred it that way, to be noticed was to be stepping out of line it was to be different, and different, to Cecil, was dangerous. So he would punch in, crunch numbers, punch out, and drive home. At 57 miles per hour.

He didn’t have a wife, which didn’t bother him, he was by no means old and might get around to the whole dating game at some point. He just had never tried because he had never taken notice, no big loss. When he did get home he would read, pouring over tales of conquest and redemption, of pain and revenge, of life and love; he would read fiction. He fancied that, at a quick estimation, he read around two hundred and fifty novels a year. He didn’t read all the time, he had a T.V. He didn’t resent television, or call it the “boob tube” or complain about fall line-ups or anything of the sort. He loved a good story unconditionally, no matter the media. He would spend his nights in this manner, eating what he had salvaged from the grocery store shelves and taking in a tale. Or some nights he would stand on the small balcony his apartment had, which overlooked a city scape and smelled like garbage and exhaust, and just stare, his life in a perfect homeostasis that was never broken. This was how Cecil lived his life, and it was good. Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt, and most of all, nothing extraordinary happened. Which was good, because that would mean different.

That is, until July 7th, that day was different. It was different because that night Cecil went to bed on the right side of a three year old spring mattress and woke up on the left side of a dusty, unpaved road two millennia beforehand, clutching his emergency bag (which he slept with in case he ever had to make a quick escape from his room) and wearing a single sock and the same look of wonder and fear that he had given his father thirty four years ago.

Or 1,966 years later.