His name was Randall Crawford, but the nametag pinned to his uniform said “Randy,” which he hated. He would think about it, play it on his lips, and time and time again it struck him as sounding vulgar, as if he had been named Horny Crawford or Rip-Rarin’ to Go Crawford. Looking back on those final days, as he stood watching the shadows grow at an alarming rate, he couldn’t help but think that the reason that no one listened to what he had to say was that absurd moniker emblazoned on his shirt. He had plenty of time to think as what had once been his simple, day-to-day life drew to a close and the world fell apart.

The line of work that Randall was in played rather heavily in the role he would play in the end of the world. Every morning, rolling out of his large, vacant bed and into the sterile light of his bathroom, he showered. Sometimes he would hum as he showered, and on days that he felt adventurous, he would sing. There was no one except the walls to hear what notes he hit and which he murdered ruthlessly, and that was good. And there was no one to stop him from drinking milk straight from the carton, and that was good, too. He had breakfast in the food court of the Ridgmar Mall, an elegant, up scale mall where the cultural elite of West Texas came to mill about and empty their pockets.

He spoke to no one. He wasn’t much of a morning person, but it wasn’t really his prerogative in avoiding contact. Randall Crawford, outside of his job, didn’t speak to people. Occasionally, as life demanded, he was forced to speak to people, and at these times he would do so kindly enough, as he would as he worked. Randall had to speak to people for nine hours a day, and that was more than enough. Randall Crawford worked in retail, telling people anything to make a sale.

He had had several opportunities to advance his position at the store, after working there for almost twenty years he was as much a part of the store as was the stockroom, the registers, or the swastikas that had been literally soldered into each of the toilet bowls. That had been about five years ago, and white paint had since been put over each one, but they were there. They were there as much as the feelings of hate and fear that had gave birth to the labor of anti-love were there, and paint couldn’t change that. This was one of the beliefs that Randall personally subscribed to on a subconscious level, subconscious because it’s greatest example and hypocrite was himself. The existential quandary would have been shocking.

He believed that you could cover yourself with whatever you wanted to, nice clothes, tattoos, a woman on each arm, but you could never change what you are. You may be able to fool people, but never the world. You may think you have its number, but Mother Earth has been around quite awhile and she’s got experience under her belt.

You see, Randall Crawford was, more than most things, a liar. A habitual liar, as psychologists would describe it; but he wasn’t sick, and he wasn’t a victim. Randall knew what he was doing as he did it and enjoyed it with the relish of a man starved for days. It was what he lived for, since he had lost ambition as far as his career and love life went.