“The clock strikes ten o'clock. This wasn’t unusual and there was nothing particularly interesting about the time. It was, of course, ten o'clock. Just as it had been twenty-four hours prior; ten o'clock. But it wasn’t ten o'clock really. It was actually ten o'clock and nine, no, ten seconds. Meaning that, by this point, it’s actually thirteen seconds past ten o'clock. Nevertheless, it’s ten o’clock somewhere. No, the saying is five o'clock somewhere. That’s a great Jackson-Buffett song. You can listen to it when it’s four fifty-nine so five o'clock is somewhere for you. That is, five o'clock is where you are! Although, the prior isn’t wrong. It’s ten o'clock due West of here. Which technically is somewhere since somewhere is where it’s ten o'clock. Unless somewhere is here.
“Here is in where. Where is here. Which is where here is. If something is here, then somewhere is here. Unless some isn’t here. In fact, some can’t be here because somewhere isn’t here unless here is somewhere else. Regardless of where, it’s ten o'clock there. Which means here is minus seven hours Greenwich Mean Time. Which means London is…one, two, thr—five o'clock and fifty seconds. Hey! It’s five o'clock there! Circular thought patterns are neat. That means that in about seven. Six. Five. Four. Bing. Bang. Boom! It’s ten o'clock and one minute. Or ten o’ one! One minute past ten o'clock. Speaking of ten o'clock, why is clock in the statement of the time? Because it’s via the clock? That’s odd. Like the time; ten o’ one.
“Why are they called odd if they’re not even? Isn’t that odd? Odd is odd. In that odd has three words. Even isn’t. It’s not odd. It’s even. Like the time; ten o’ one and eighteen seconds. Although one isn’t even, it’s odd. Isn’t it odd that the odds of dying at ten o'clock even are one in fourteen-forty? That should be right. Ten past ten would be an odd time to die. Ten o'clock plus ten minutes. Eight minutes and thirty-two seconds from now. Ten past ten. But it’s ten o’ one and thirty-six seconds. I guess ten past ten will even the odds. Oh well, time is irrelevant when you have fifteen pounds of explosives strapped to your chest in the basement of the Denver Mint. At least there are still eight minutes and eighteen seconds left until it performs its final act. Well, well, well. Time isn’t irrelevant after-all.
“There really isn’t a reason as to why they chose ten past ten if you think about it. Other than the fact that it’s an even ten minutes past ten hours after the first twelve hours, it’s about as spectacular as eleven-eleven. Oh, make a wish! Did you wish fifteen pounds of explosives weren’t strapped to your chest? Apparently, wishing has a small probability of evening the odds of dying via bomb. It’s still there. Or here, rather. Just ticking away. Tick. Tock. Tick. To—
“Why do bomb timers have ticking sounds in real life? Movies are one thing, suspension of disbelief and all, but doesn’t that give the bomb away? Would that not scare people away from the bomb? Or is that the mission? Minimum casualties. That’s a stupid question seeing as there’s a bomb strapped to your chest. The ‘minimum casualty’ thought process doesn’t make a modicum of sense when you’re the casualty. But look on the bright side: death via bomb is a rather casual way to go. Or is it? Bombs have a funny way of allowing you to think like philosophers of yesteryear.
“Speaking of the bo—why the Denver Mint? What’s so special about the mint? It seems a bit obtuse. No, derisory. That’s it. Why go through all the trouble of designing a bomb and kidnapping an innocent person, risking life and limb, to do nothing more than bomb a mint. The treasury? Fort Knox? That makes sense. But the change factory? That must be a breath of fresh air for the guards at Fort Knox. That was reaching. Don’t think that’ll lead to a future as a comedian any time soon. Although, mother did talk about being an actor someday. ‘Just have to find the right audience,’ she would say in her crotchety worn-out smoker’s voice. That advice would prove to be invaluable. It would really lead to places. Like the basement of the Mint wearing a bomb vest with seven minutes and forty-three seconds to live. Guess things can change on a dime, huh. That’s a loaded word. Change.
“Change can mean change, like things changed when the ex left for a hot air balloon salesman, or change, like change. My situation changed. At first, I…Wait, have I been talking to myself in the second person this entire time? I guess you narrate your life when you have minutes to live. Specifically, seven minutes and twenty-six seconds.
“I’m not sure how I got here really. One minute I’m in the house prepping for the evening, then black. Now I’m in the mint. With a bomb. On my chest. Mint. Bomb. That could be the name of a candy! Stop it. What’re you doing Dameon? You have a bomb strapped to your chest. You’re not exactly in mint condition. Dammit! What’s the time?
“Ten o’ three and thirteen seconds. That’s good. At least I still have some time to figure this out. But then again, it’s not worth figuring out unless at ten past ten I don’t become an impromptu Jackson Pollock painting. Hope I don’t bomb this. Joking is a coping mechanism for stress, right? Right. Back to how this happened. Focus Dameon. Change. Yes. Blackout, bomb, change.
“Isn’t it weird how our names are seemingly arbitrary in the grand scheme of the universe? Dameon. Why not Alex? Or Paul? That’s a biblical name. Dameon. Hey, that’s the snack size omen. Wouldn’t it be funny if the bomb’s code was six, six, six? I think it would be. That would be too good to be true. Like my path was somehow predetermined prior to my arrival. Like a photon. Look at it and it makes waves. Don’t look at it and it’s a particle just floating through space with other nondescript particles. There I go again with the abstract thoughts. Oh, well. I can’t change this situation. Isn’t that odd? If only the playing field was even.
“If I could just…wiggle…my hands…free! Ain’t happening. I guess I’ll have to see this through to ten past ten. At least it’s just me here in this dark, dingy, grungy, room. I guess things can’t get any worse from here. Although, it would be funny if right as I said that, precisely at ten o’ three and fifty-five seconds, something—“
The dark, dingy, and grungy room implodes with a blaring light. Dameon attempts to block his eyes but remembers his hands are tied to the chair. Two thinly masked strangers walk into the room. One a scrawny man, one a burly woman. Each a piece of the other’s puzzle. For some erroneous reason, unbeknownst to Dameon, their movements are exaggerated. Adding onto the peculiarity of the strangers, the man is wearing makeup. Not barbie melting in the rain makeup, but a nice coating of mascara, eyeliner, and a slight dash of lipstick. Dameon tries to decipher the man’s plan. Was this a poorly executed façade to mask his identity? Or did he just happen to feel particularly beautiful today? Regardless, it does not suit his backwoods “haven’t showered in ten days” persona. There’s no way he designed the bomb.
The woman, on the other hand, is slightly pudgy and lacks any formal use of antiperspirant. Trickles of sweat bead down her forehead and onto her lips as she speaks. Each breath she inhales laps up beads of makeup-filled human saltwater akin to a dog at a water bowl on a sweltering day. Dameon grimaces at the thought of an intimate relationship with the woman. But then again, the probability of an intimate relationship with anyone past ten past ten is significantly lower than ten before ten.
The two strangers hurriedly approach Dameon and slap his cheeks. The capillaries beneath the skin burst and his cheeks turn a cruel red. This quickly allows him to retune himself to the situation and the immediate peril he finds himself in. He quietly struggles to free himself from the restraints. Using the chewed end of a fingernail, a bad habit he picked up from his time as an understudy for the ludicrous role of Carrie in his high school adaptation of Stephen King’s Carrie, he slowly cuts into the wire-thin rope. Cut. Stop. Cut. Stop. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Each stroke a dangerous scratch along the tip of a motioning match. Meanwhile, the strangers banter to one another with obtrusively loud volume.
“You ready ta pop his scrawny sunny seed ass in there, sweetheart?” the man says with the charm of a moonshiner.
“You didn’t tell me who our hostage was,” she retorts.
“Shit. We can’t sit here all day babblin’ like a bunch a little bitches bout’ our damn hostages’. We bombin’ the damn mint baby. Ain’t no goin’ back now. We probly got half the DPD on our tails. I love you, babe. Ain’t no way I’m goin’ to jail over him.” he exclaims.
“But what if he—“ he interrupts her before she can finish.
“But what if he-what! You gonna cry bout’ it? Tell me, what’ya gonna do when he splodes here cause you grew a damn con-science? Huh. What you gonna do then. Take a tissue from your tears and clean his innards off them walls? Huh?”
“It’s conscience, Harold.”
“Ah, whatever! We got a bomb strapped ta his chest and you're checkin’ my spellin’? Nah! I seen the clock there! It’s four-thirty past ten! We gotta do this now woman! Ain’t no time for this malarkious playmanship.”
“Excuse me, Harold. But maybe I’m in love still! Maybe I…Maybe I…I’m still in love, like the songs of two old doves. I still get giddy, when he tells me I’m so pretty. For what can I…”
The sing-song English exiting their seemingly similar faces fade into an eerie silence for Dameon. Like the calm succeeding a bellowing snowstorm, he reenters the mind’s eye. “Why the mint?” Dameon thinks to himself once again. “Do they know it only produces coi—that’s a stupid question. What’re they going to do with one hundred dollars in pennies? How do they think they’re going to carry that many pennies? That’s approximately fifty-four pounds of pennies. At 182 pennies in a pound with 10,000 pennies. Why do I know so much about pennies? Regardless, that’s a lot.”
Dameon shifts his gaze to the scrawny man who, by this point, is approaching the event horizon of an aneurism. “He’ll probably die of a broken back by the time they reach the stairs. And her.” Dameon shifts his gaze to the woman. She is crying. “Oh, man. They’ll be jingling the whole way home. ‘Have you seen the burglars?’ ‘No, but I heard them walking down Colfax.’ What morons. I can’t tell them they’re morons, but they’re morons. I bet they don’t know that their odds of dying at ten o'clock are one in fourteen-forty. Take that! Although, I’ll be the one in fourteen-forty that dies at ten past ten. Five minutes and eleven seconds in the future. Ten ten. That’s fun.”
A soft commotion boils in the back of Dameon’s mind until he exits his meta-trance. The woman walks up to him and whispers in his ear as she turns him around in the chair. He internally gags at the smell of her sweaty odor as to not worsen his already dire situation.
“Dameon. It’s time. Make us proud,” she whispers.
Dameon looks taken aback by the woman’s statement. He tries to speak for the first time but can’t. A black and gold bandana rests firmly atop his mouth. Only guttural cave-man noises manage to escape. Guttural cries for help. Then, as swiftly as this escapade into the bomb-laden mint began, a second flash of light blinds Dameon. It takes him a few moments to fully comprehend the sight before his very eyes.
For the first time since the clock struck ten o'clock, five minutes and twelve seconds ago, Dameon fears for not only his life but the precious lives of others. This draws something primal inside of his inner being to the forefront. The human-necessity, no, desire to save others before himself. As he surveys the room, he realizes that should the bomb detonate, every single person will perish. For Dameon is not in the Denver Mint. He’s nowhere near the Denver mint. His situation has dramatically changed and time keeps ticking away. Ticking toward his date with fate.
It's ten o’ five and twenty-two seconds. Sitting across from his chair, the bomb, and the two lovers, are a crowd of approximately 500 people in an auditorium filled to the balconies. “Wow. The Denver mint makes sense after all,” Dameon thinks to himself. His eyes scurry through the opulent crowd. Throughout his years on this precariously perched blue marble floating through the vastness of the cosmos, he has never witnessed a gathering of people this large. Having grown up in rural Lahoma, Oklahoma, an audience of fifty seemed like Broadway. But this was a whole new level of entertainment.
“The strangers are actors and, yes, yes, they’ve gone so method that they’ve built a real bomb and kidnapped me for the show The Taking of Penny C! The story of an uneducated woman who falls in love with her cousin, leaves her husband, and robs the Denver Mint only to discover that her hostage is actually her husband that her cousin kidnapped, and she has to choose between the two men she loves in a dramatic musical finale. It makes total sense. So that means…I’m her husband in the play. Except, I’m…how much…five minutes and forty-three seconds past ten. That’s almost four before ten past ten. Now four minutes and twenty-five seconds.”
Dameon finally approaches the realization that he is, undeniably, out of time. He must save everyone in the theatre from the homicidal heroine immediately. He claws at the air with inflamed nostrils and inhales like his life depends on it. With the roar of a desperate man, he screams at the top of his lungs. The bandana muffles his cry making it impossible for his fear to resonate with the potential victims past the first few rows.
“Mhmhmmmhmm. Mhmhmhhmhmm!” Dameon decrees. The faint word “help” can be made out along with the words “it’s a bomb”. The audience anticipates this dialogue, so their reaction is one of excitement. What could happen next, they think. Will she choose her husband or her cousin? Or will she save her husband and sacrifice herself for both of her lovers. “Mhmhmmhmhm. Mhmhmhhmmm!” he exclaims. “Bom…Real”. It doesn’t work. He’ll have to make his cries more dramatic.
The orchestra roars to life in the pit below. Horns. Cellos. Tympani. Dameon’s eyes explode with terror. He looks at the clock on the bomb. “Ten o’ six. Shit.” The composition crescendos with each beat of the drum. The sounds a metaphor for Dameon’s heart and the helpless ticking time bomb threatening these people’s lives. He pauses to think then viciously pulls at the knots holding him to the chair. The burly woman, with whom he would most certainly not marry, lets out a lion-like operatic voice that echoes through the wings of the theatre. For a fleeting moment in time, the scene is utterly enrapturing. Her voice like a chorus of crickets on a cool summer’s eve. But as the clock strikes ten o’ six and thirteen seconds, and as the beady sweat of her bosom lambasts the face of her Arkansas lover, Dameon hastily makes his escape.
Cutting the restraints free with his mouth-chewed fingernail, he bolts upright with the verve of a gazelle, removes the bandana from his mouth, and expels his gospel, “Bomb! It’s a real bomb! Move!”. The audience erupts into a frenzy of excitement. The tension on stage is palpable. Eyes wide, hearts throbbing, tears raining down patron's faces, they got their tickets worth. But the clock has yet to strike ten after ten. That means here is where the future has not been written. At ten o’ six and thirty-one seconds. If it’s up to Dameon, that future will include the free and safe lives of every man, woman, and child in this theatre. The threat of this bomb will be extinguished and the heinous acts of these delirious criminals will be brought before the court of law.
His captors stop their loving tribute to family love amid Dameon’s passionate outburst. The woman cautiously walks towards him trying to subtly calm his nerves.
“What’re you doing?”
He faces her, his eyes bloodshot. She glances at the bomb and reads the time. Ten o’ six and forty-four seconds. Her eyes widen and her lips begin to quiver.
“Why would you do this!” he says.
She approaches, “Now, let’s just calm down here. Why does that lo—”
Wham! Dameon slams the steel chair into the side of her head. She soars across stage left and onto the floor. The audience gasps as their smiles grow wider. As she rests motionless on the stage, her cousin and fellow lover quickly pounces on Dameon. They wrestle to the floor and battle for control over the bomb’s detonator. Each second that passes is a moment lost to time.
Uppercut. Right Hook. Jab to the left rib. Dameon manages to briefly take control of the battle but not before the man pokes Dameon’s eye and regains control.
“What are you doing, man!” he screams at Dameon.
Without hesitation, Dameon rolls the man onto his back and punches him in the ear. He screams with a blood-curdling cry that echoes across the stage. Whack! The man lands a blow to Dameon’s liver and regains superiority over the wrestling match. But before he can finish the knockout, Dameon knees the man in the left testicle. The man pulls back, writhing in pain. The audience exhales a louder gasp. The edges of their seats drip with anticipation.
He drops the coveted detonator in the process and Dameon regains control. He punches the man repeatedly until, hands bloody, the bomber passes out. Exhausted, Dameon looks to the audience who, in amazement at the level of choreography taking place before their very eyes, have dropped their chins onto the red carpet below. Mouths agape, they await the final heroic words of the woman’s estranged husband. Dameon quickly glances down at the bomb’s clock. It reads ten o’ seven and thirty-nine seconds. Dameon claws at the locked straps on the vest as the orchestra below the stage attempts to keep pace with the improvised direction of the play. Soft melancholic tones emanate throughout the auditorium as their hero, Dameon, tries to save their lives. Critics in row 4 stop writing in awe of his passion. After pressing a small button above the digital clock, a screen appears with a number pad in red lettering.
“Ok. We’re getting somewhere. Now. If I were a bomb, what would my deactivation code be? One, two, three, four. No. Too easy. Ten-ten. No. Too obvious. Six, six, six? I don’t have a better idea.” Dameon gently presses the number six twice. With a twitching finger, shaking from the fight, he gently closes his eyes and presses six one more time.
The vest locks unlatch, and he removes the bomb: throwing it to the floor before him. He releases a sigh and looks to the audience once more. He can see in their faces they still await the final heroic line. With nothing on hand, he simply says, “Guess they weren’t mint to be”. The audience explodes with laughter and applause.
Dameon leans back, the hero of his story. He gazes upon the people he saved from the blast of the fifteen-pound Semtex bomb that very nearly detonated. He scans their jovial faces as a faint, yet joyful grin runs along his face. He notices a clock on the balcony wall shows ten o’ eight. He looks at the bomb vest and notices the clock is still ticking towards ten past ten. His body tenses and he freezes with fear. He slowly reaches for the bomb and studies the time once more. Ten o’ eight and 4 seconds. 5 seconds. Tick. Tock.
“Everybody out now!” Dameon screams with utter terror. The cheering audience silences themselves. The master actor is about to provide them with an encore seldom witnessed in a performance of this scale. “Go! This is real! It’s an honest-to-god real-life bomb! These two kidnapped me and brought me here. I’m not supposed to be here. I’m supposed to be in Lahoma enjoying my evening!” Dameon cries. Tears stream down his face as he pleads with the audience to heed his warnings. Instead, the audience grows more enthused. “Please! For the love of God, leave. I implore you to take your lives into your hands and escape this doomed theatrical experience.” None of the theatergoers leave the auditorium. “What are you waiting for? Go! It’s over! It’s real and I can’t stop the countdown. You only have one minute and forty-seven seconds left. Look for yourself!”
Dameon throws the bomb into the first row of the audience. A few people cheer as they look at the realism present on the prop. They begin passing it around in excitement. Stage crew members emerge from the wings to check on the health of the man and woman. They rest motionless. The orchestra begins quietly shuffling into the underground garage where they entered.
“Listen to me! I’m not an actor! I’m not in this play! I Don’t even know where I am in real life! They kidnapped me and forced me to wear this bomb vest. Do you think I would’ve done what I just did had I not? Get out now! Please. Get out while you still can. This bomb has enough Semtex to level this entire building. Escape while you still have a chance to save yourselves!
A lone woman in the audience stands up with conviction and exclaims, “Hey, I don’t think he’s acting.”
A few people begin shuffling out of the theatre. Another man stands up and joins her.
“I think that’s a real bomb,” he says.
Dameon rises and jumps off the stage. He walks up to the woman with the bomb vest in the front row and grips her hands.
Her husband quietly whispers to Dameon, “This is great! You even put actors in the audience. You gained a lifelong patron, my friend.”
Dameon looks deep into the woman’s soul, disregarding the man’s comments. “Ma’am. This vest is going to explode in…one minute and twenty-tw—one seconds. If you don’t manage to vacate the area by that time, you, your family, your future children, everyone, will die. I’m going to take this as far away from you all as I can and try to deactivate it. Please. I’m telling you the truth.”
The woman’s smile contorts with fear as she accepts the predicament. She screams and immediately lunges for the exit, stumbling over her husband in the process. Soon, the entire audience is clamoring to escape the doom chamber they find themselves in. Dameon takes the bomb backstage and locates a dressing room encased in thick concrete.
He places the bomb onto the counter and takes a seat in the main actor’s chair. He investigates the mirror and releases a small, thinly veiled smile that edges between life fulfilling and sinister. On the counter are hair dye, a screwdriver, and postcards from Lahoma, Oklahoma. As the bomb approaches ten o’ nine and fifty seconds, he gazes into his eyes. The person staring back smiles at him with conviction.
With a tone befitting a successful and carefree man, he tells himself, “we finally got our audience, bud.”
The clock strikes ten past ten.