There were 23 minutes left until the end of the world, and I was standing on the roof of a parking garage with my best friend Laurel and her second cousin Crank Boy. Crazy people were driving cars off the edge behind us, and all across the city we could see fires and explosions and a satin dance of electric violence, a kind of horrible celebration of all things desperate and dangerous. I'd been chain smoking all afternoon, trying to convince my lungs to beat the 23 minute deadline, when Laurel said, "That's it, that's the last cigarette," and then we truly knew the end was at hand.

I said, "I don't think I can handle this. I mean, one minute I'm calmly watching my favorite hit new medical drama when suddenly they announce that the end of the world is at hand. I don't know, I guess I figured I'd have time to pack a suitcase, but nooo..." And Crank Boy took a swig out of his bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 and said, "Good things come to those who hate, dude," and I said, "Ain't that something."

I saw out of the corner of my eye my greatest fear, wearing a trenchcoat and trying to sneak up on me -- it was holding a telephone and I saw that the Lord was on the speed dial. "Dude," said Laurel, "you got some hang ups..."

"Go ahead," said my greatest fear as the phone began to ring.

"Answer it." And Laurel looked at me with those baby blue eyes of hers, so deep and crystal blue you almost expected to see the Ti-D Bowl Man swimming around in there, and she said, "Answer it, dude," and I got this sinking feeling in my stomach that told me I was in trouble, or at the very least, that I was hungry, and as the sky began to dissolve and aliens appeared to cart us all off into a metaphysical wonderland, I picked up the receiver and the voice on the other end said,

"Tag, dude. You're it."