The Bleeper

Delsey Allen made an unforgivable mistake

Photo by Bill Adler

Delsey Allen winced when she touched the bruise on her cheek, a large circle of purple and black, the aftermath of a coworker’s punch. 

She sat glum-faced at the bar. There were only five people in O’Donnell’s at 3:40 a.m, the recently divorced or dumped, Delsey surmised, people with no other place to be. 

Two sat at the bar, including her, and the others spaced themselves far apart at tables. 

The bartender, a tall, gray-haired man wearing a green and white Shamrock Rovers jersey, with dry eyes drained of tears, was also drinking, a rare sight for a bartender. 

Outside the bar’s glass wall, dense darkness shrouded the city. Many of New York’s street lights had already failed, and most buildings were without electricity. 

The colorful, backlit bottles behind the bar would have looked magical on any other night. Tonight they cast an antediluvian glow. 

Delsey was a twenty-two-year-old blonde with satin skin whose hair flowed like silk in an ocean breeze. She had a live-in boyfriend, an ex, and an occasional side-treat with whom she could have been, but she needed to be alone. 

It was either the park or a bar, and the bar was warmer in November. 

She raised her glass toward the bartender and nodded. Another whiskey sour. Her third. 

The two big-screen televisions were off, projecting an ominous quiet. There was lots of news—every station was one-hundred percent news—but tonight, anyone at a bar wanted to escape the information onslaught.

A man in his thirties sitting two stools over with cop vibes—angular jaw, short, brown hair, muscles too big for his sports jacket, and probing eyes—looked her way. He cradled a shot glass. 

Is that his third? Fourth? As much anesthesia as possible, Delsey thought. That’s what tonight is about.

“Dan,” he said without extending a hand. “Mind if we talk? Talking and drinking are all that there's time left to do.”

“I bet a lot of people are screwing tonight, so there's that, too.”

“Yeah, I heard the whores are giving it away for free. Nobody wants to be alone on the last night on Earth.”

“Except us.” Delsey waved her arm around the room. “The lost souls of New York City. I wanted to drink myself unconscious, but why not have a conversation? Nothing we say will become a memory. So, what's your story? Why are you in a deserted bar during the countdown to oblivion?”

“I'm atoning for a lifetime of sins,” Dan said before finishing his bourbon. His eyes lost focus, as if he was peering back through time. 

“Sins?”

“Thirty-two, to be exact.”

“Thirty-two whats?”

“Deeds.”

“The world’s going boom in a few hours. You don't need to be coy. What sins?”

“I'm the way the world works—used to work. I’m in the employ of the British government—”

“Where's your accent?”

“I didn't say I was British; I just worked for the Brits.”

“I see. And you did what exactly?”

“I assassinated people when necessary.”

"The British government assassinated Americans?"

“No. I killed other nationals while on American soil because everyone visits America at some point. I’m the spider and America is the spider’s web. I grew up right here in New York City and was recruited while I was stationed in England during a tour in the Marines.”

“Killing people must be difficult.” Her throat knotted. Delsey rested her glass on the bar because she thought the liquid would get stuck on its way down. 

“Maybe. I don't know anymore. I believed I was on the right side of justice. What about you?”

Delsey took a long breath before answering, “If I tell you, will you do me a favor?”

“What favor?”

“I want you to kill me.”

“Not likely. Besides, you’re going to be dead in five hours anyway. We’re all going to be dead.”

“Is that a no?”

"That's an unequivocal no."

“I caused it.” Her hands shook. She chanced a drink and finished her whiskey sour.

“Caused what?”

“The end of the world, the impending death of seven billion people, the reason the planet will shatter into ten million boulders. I was the production assistant monitoring CNN's Five O'clock with Gwen Ritter. It's a live broadcast with a five-second delay, and it's my job to listen and press the bleep button before any profanity reaches the airwaves. But I messed up. I was half-listening and half-texting a friend when one of the show's guests uttered the word, ‘bullshit.’ It slipped through, just like that, a single eight-letter word transmitted over the airwaves, all my fault, and now the world ends. 

“The tremors began instantly after the word escaped, spreading across the globe and increasing in intensity on a logarithmic scale. A hundred thousand perished in Seoul and another hundred thousand in Moscow in the first ten minutes when the ground opened up.”

“Lima, São Paulo, Cape Town. You did that?”

“The initial profanity shockwave annihilated those cities. Another dozen may be destroyed in the next couple of hours, but in short order, the planet will split in two.”

“Jesus.” Dan reached across the bar, grabbed a bottle of Talisker, and swigged. 

“I took a class in bleeping, had recurrent training and regular tests so that I’d always be in top shape, like an Olympic athlete. Did you know that Production Assistants who work the Profanity Desk are all twenty-five and under? A person’s reaction time diminishes at twenty-six. Our shifts are only two hours long to ensure we are alert. Everyone knows the consequences of unleashing a swear word on television or radio, but I let it happen." Delsey jabbed her forefinger into her chest. “I did it.”  

As if on cue, O’Donnell’s Pub shook violently. Bottles crashed to the floor, light bulbs exploded, and the remaining liquid in their glasses sloshed over the sides. Fierce lightning bolts threatened to break down the pub’s doors. 

Delsey and Dan grabbed hold of the counter to keep from toppling off their stools. A deafening roar from a planet in the throes of self-destruction shattered their eardrums. 

Dan opened his jacket to reveal a black pistol in a leather holster and said, “Let's go out back.”

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If you enjoyed The Bleeper, I think you’ll also like my story, Sakura Petals.