THE LAST BUS TO NOWHERE

Jack McGee was a prolific writer. His novels graced the shelves of most major bookshops in twenty-eight English speaking countries. The mundane events of his everyday life quickly turned into spine-tingling scenarios in a seemingly endless chain of best-selling books. The public and an unprecedented number of influential literary critics were set aback by his apparent prowess at the driving end of a word processor. His publisher rubbed his hands in glee when one after the other, Jack McGee's finished manuscripts landed on his desk and quickly turned to currency.

'A unique writing phenomenon' was a phrase often used when describing Jack McGee. Then came the accident, and in the blink of an unsuspecting eye, the floor fell out of a great authors world. At the peak of his brilliance the divine hand of fate swept down and quashed whatever wonders his future had in store.

The day set out much the same as so many had before it. Jack emerged from his bed with his usual bleary-eyed reluctance. After carrying out a schedule of semi-conscious ablutions in the bathroom, he returned to the bedroom and clumsily pulled out his selection of modest fashionable attire. Smart, casual, and most importantly, comfortable. McGee's philosophy when it came to clothes was strikingly similar to that he employed with ultimate success in his writing; 'Keep it simple - the contents within will speak for themselves.'

Although bulging in number, the contents of his wardrobe varied little in color. The shirt drawer was home to twenty-four cotton shirts, all of them blue. The sock drawer, all black. Trousers, comforting brown corduroy, underwear black. Many who knew Jack would laugh at his apparent lack of dress sense. However, he cared not of their sarcastic quips and mocking laughter. His logic was simple and worked perfectly well for him. When purchasing clothes, or anything else for that matter. If you find something you like, why confuse matters by searching for something you like as much, that only wastes valuable time, and expends essential energy that could be used on more productive pursuits.

After draining the dregs from his obligatory second mug of coffee Jack set out to the newsagents' two streets away to pick up his daily tabloid, forty fags, and liter of whole fat milk, all three essential to the smooth running of the day ahead.
"Morning Jack" Greeted the aging old dear from next door. "Lovely day for it, isn't it?"
"Morning, Mrs. Madley. Yes. It's a lovely day," Jack replied, cheerfully, scanning the sky with an inspecting gaze. "Looks like it's gonna be another scorcher again."
"It's all down to that global warning, you know. I've seen it on the news."

Making a hasty retreat, Jack struggled to restrain from laughing at the old dear's inaccurate phrase of global warning, instead of warming, though he couldn't help thinking her version might be more accurate for purpose.
Once on the pavement past the gate, he stopped and retrieved the last cigarette from his pocket. The one he traditionally kept to accompany him on this early morning trek to the newsagent.
Cupping his hands around the flame of the lighter, he drew in the first tormenting drag, savoring its teasing effect, when the smoke he inhaled, bit into the sensitive tissue of his throat.

Before he could return the lighter to his pocket a hysterical scream ravaged his ears. He spun, in a flurry of instinctive panic, to discover its origin. Sadly, in vane, the hand of fate had already set the disastrous chain of events into motion.
First was the screech of tires, then the deafening sound of a racing engine. Had he had the speed or forethought to move, the consequences would have remained unaltered. A merciful rush of adrenaline dulled the pain, when the cars bumper made contact with his leg, spinning him in an uncontrollable spiral across its bonnet and dumping him in a bone shattering heap on the road.

Had the good Lord shown mercy that day, McGee's agonizing diversion from his daily commute would have ended there. But sadly, this was not to be.
Immobilized and stunned by the nauseating sight of bone protruding flesh on his lower leg, Jack was held helplessly captive in the path of the bus bearing down on him, its tires smoking insanely has the driver made a useless effort to avoid the inevitable collision.

Before the blackness of merciful unconsciousness plucked him free of his agony Jack tasted the saltiness of blood as it gushed red and bubbling from his lungs, stabbed and torn by the buses wheel crushing his chest.
For a brief moment, the light of day began to re-emerge. The previously deserted street seemed to have filled with onlookers, all determined to witness the last moments of his agonizing demise. Even Old Mrs. Madley had surpassed the pains of her painful arthritis to reach the scene and stare down at him through sorrowful eyes. She reached out her hand towards his and gently grasped it; a feeble effort to offer some degree of comfort, the tear in his spine however, had robbed him from feeling this merciful gesture.

Before his eyes closed for the last time, the image that he carried through his painful death was the book that lay beside him, apparently thrown from the car that hit him. Through the heavy splattering of Jack's warm blood the title and authors name could still be read. "The Last Bus to Nowhere, by Jack McGee"!