I'm Not Going

Before my onward journey into the barren Sahara in Northern Africa, I made it my business to know what the hell I was in for. After I was informed, I wished I had never found out. My name is Chancy, Hall Chancy. The NASA General, Gard Fortif, scheduled me for a 2-month vacation of dryness, thirst, starvation and just plain hell. Devil's Island would have been more enjoyable. I am to leave tomorrow, unless, of course, I commit suicide first.

As I climb into my bed, thinking of tomorrow, I wondered why an able astronaut, Hall Chancy, would be scheduled into a dry wasteland for an annoying two months. I lay wondering, almost falling asleep, when suddenly I was disturbed by something crawling across my chest. It was my cat, whose name was Pete Striker. Why I named the fucking cat Pete Striker, I haven't the foggiest.

As I looked at Pete, a thought struck me. How much water did Fortif say I would be supplied with? Two? No, four? No, it was two, 2 gallon containers, and canned cake, fish and vegetables. Oh, yes! And a can-opener! Tomorrow morning, before I venture into the helicopter, scheduled at 7 to take me, I would have twice my fill of food and water and what-have-you.

I slept.

When I woke up, I found Pete purring softly on my sleeping bag, which indicated that he wasn't asleep. The first event which entered my mind was the murderous, torturous journey into the Sahara Desert.

Oh! The great Sahara!

As I lay there thinking of my future encounter of sand, dryness, weakness, chapped skin and dried water holes, and oh! what dryness and heat, I wondered if I could manage to survive! I moved my gaze towards my alarm clock.

6:55!? What?!

I was scheduled to leave in 5 minutes. MP's from NASA would obviously be reporting to my house in a matter of seconds. I examined the back of my clock. The alarm lever was never pulled out!

How? Why?

As I bounded downstairs with my robe on, I heard knocks on the front door.

My God! They’re here!

I gazed through the tiny peep-hole at the top of the door. Two of them.

Why two?

I opened the door at the same instant that my mind decided what to say. Before the officers had a chance to bark their orders, I whizzed out a phrase.

"I'm not going."

The officers looked at each other in amazement.

"Mr. Chancy," one said, "Major. Mr. Fortif's orders; you are to come with us."

They moved forward but I shut the door in their faces, locking it, almost hitting one of them. I heard one of them shout, "Hey!" as I ran into the kitchen. I have decided not to go, and no one was going to make me.

The officers broke down the front door, which surprised me for the door was quite heavy. They found me in the kitchen with a knife inserted into my abdomen, and blood was spreading rather rapidly onto the kitchen floor. As the officers watched, they knew, too, that I was not going to the Sahara, as I had planned. After all, they couldn't send a dead man out there, now could they?

THE END

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