delible ink

Professor Babikov sits at his kitchen table, feeling every decimal of gravity’s 9.80665 metres per second squared pushing his bonyness deeper into the hardened surface of a long forgotten garage sale.  Discards.  Acceleration to an abrupt stop at the bottom.

Don’t stop, dammit.  Bounce. Return to that high place about the Earth where potential energy will scare the superpowers.  You’ll fear me when my brain catches light!

Out of his reverie he looks left at his whisky, bought cheaper by the litre.  The bottom of his glass still amber with one last sip.  Lifts, inhales…and holds.  His residuary burning for a moment at the back of his throat.