“Here you go, sicko, your last supper. Eat up. Midnight’s lights out for you,” the not-nearly-as-funny-as-he-thought prison guard guffawed, pushing the tray through the requisite space in the steel door.

How quaint, I thought, my last supper. I smiled to myself, thinking that there was something almost poetic, about that. The last supper. I mean, how many psychiatrists had testified to my deep-rooted god-complex thickly entwined with a sadistic personality and psychopathic behavioral tendencies. Hmmmm, now that is a mouthful, I smiled to myself.

I removed the cover from the plate and breathed in the delicious scent. As a soon-to-be-executed prisoner, I was permitted (almost) any meal I desired. Since dinner at the Bar Boulud on Manhattan’s upper west side was not permitted, I had requested a steak, bone-in, rare (bloody), with a baked potato and a glass of Merlot. They laughed at the last bit and suggested grape or cherry juice. Of course I chose cherry...

As to be expected, the meat was already cut, no knife, not even plastic for me. Not even a spoon. They were learning. Ah, but what’s this? They had given me the bone. T-bone. Silly boys…

Earlier in the day, the chaplain had come to visit. He’d sat outside the door and spoken through the little hole provided for communication with those like me: brilliant minds they feared and could not control except through steel doors, chains and death. Shame that…

I ate slowly, savoring the texture as much as the taste, closing my eyes and thinking about the pious prick who deigned to offer forgiveness for my many sins if only I would kneel down before him and god, repent in these, my last moments, and pray. God would forgive me. Forgive ME? That I did not break down into a fit of hysterical laughter is a sign of my superior self-control. Did he really think that his proclivities were unknown? Clearly, they were sanctioned, a blind eye turned by those that put me in chains, put me behind steel, intended to separate my soul from this body. It made me sick. At least I was honest. Well, at least when I was caught.

Did he really think no one knew about the boys, his boys? The (always) young, beautiful men he protected from beatdowns and gang rapes. Oh yes, his boys were kept separately, cleaned the chapel, assisted at Sunday services, never got bathroom duty. He kept them on their knees…praying. He kept their butts safe from harm. The only catch was they had to service his. I hate hypocrites. I began to gnaw on the bone.

I had suggested he join me in my dead man’s walk. Surely, I would have need of his benevolence in my last moments?

As they removed my chains to belt my arms down to the hospital bed, I asked the reverend father to come closer so that I might whisper my prayer for forgiveness.

In the split second my hands were unencumbered by chains or belts, the sharpened bone slipped to my hand and was imbedded in his neck. The blood gurgled, spurting from both mouth and neck to my laughing lips.

****

So, alas, the execution is on hold as I await another trial. Silly boys…

There once was this guy named Ryan.

He never did murder. Or lyin'.

He went to Mass that time,

And he... paid his parking fines,

And I coulda stole that meth but was buy--

OK, fine. Fuck it. The sulphur pit's down the hall to the left?

Beauty is in the shallows of despair.

Beauty is veering through the cracks of the shattered soul.

Beauty is in the grief stricken moments you shamefully push to the pit of your stomach.

It's in the darkest times we find the purpose of this journey, that's beauty.

It's the beauty that brings you back.

Nature seeps from my pores and the earthy smell lingers in my bed sheets.

Walking with the land, dreaming with the stars.

The trees and grub worms are just as much me as I am you.

Energy feeding into everything and flowing out with all.

″There will be a new heaven and a new earth.” The pastor begins his sermon with the same repeated quote of bible verse and applies it to our life here on Mars, praising the fulfillment of scripture.

I sit among our gathered few, our small congregation of believers, nodding in unison, listening to the same Sunday sermon we’ve heard from our youth on Earth. Five years ago, we all made the grand journey, the trip of faith, following the brave , God-appointed entrepreneurs and scientists who left for life on new frontiers, for life on Mars. For five, long , hard years , we have tried to turn this dusty desert into our own utopia, our own promised paradise in the heavens but it’s taking longer than anyone could have envisioned.

The Earth is doomed the pastor continues, judgement day is sure to arrive!

We respond with well-timed and obligatory amens.

War, crime, violence, hatred.....the pastor denounces earthly sins, but life on Mars will be different he says as we are the blessed few.

I gaze out of the small cubed window our of church cubicle, into the inky blackness of our planet and I remember a different Earth. I think of the turquoise of the sea , the lush green of the forests, I remember lazy days on the beach, the beach parties, the sunsets,the music, the art, the aromas

of wonderful foods, the varied cultures, the celebrations. I remember it all ;the good and the bad.

My heart pulls deep inside me, a swell of deep-tissue yearning and I gasp for breath to suppress it.

Every day I look out from the observation deck and every day Earth remains a serene globe of swirling colours fixed in the black void of space.

We’ve all heard rumours, whispered talk in dark corridors, that the war to end all wars on Earth was actually averted. Peace talks prevailed and now all countries around the

world are signing new peace accords, new pledges with a bright outlook on future relations. A new era, they say, a new era of cooperation and global change.

I want to raise my hand and ask the pastor about it but of course there is no Q & A portion to this sermon. We take what we are given.

He drones on with dire warnings of doom and destruction and we nod and we amen.

Suddenly another scripture flashes to my mind, a verse from Psalms. ”The meek shall inherit the Earth. ” And as I watch the pastor talk himself into a red-faced fury of divine vindication , I wonder....what have we inherited ?

There were only a few of us assessing the last of what we once knew. We were trying to digest the fact that our ancestral lineage was nevermore as we watched the monitors inside the safety of our space craft.

Suddenly the harvest and oxygen became gold. Peace and congruency became gold.

Comforting became the litmus test of who among us were decent indicating who must be early eliminated due to their lack of compassion.

Our future would not exist (earth no longer would) unless we were open to consensual dependence upon ourselves and the aliens who may or may not accept the underdeveloped "roaches" of their own existence.

Week one the land was red not green. We had so much to quickly learn.

One teenager seemed to have a sense of it all. He made intelligent comments and decisions. He soon became our "leader" open to all opinions and discussion.

Our support was limited as earth communication was no more but this kid understood the engineering of our craft's functions.

We understood that we were to be alive only temporarily without the aid of other beings.

A baby was born on Mars.

May be that would pull at an alien heart string.

Lord of the Flies on Mars.

Some of us prayed.

I will not deny it - I knew it was love when she finished her fries, licked her fingers, and said, “My safe word is Miracle Whip - are you getting the check, or am I?”

Twenty years later, we snuggle and laugh as the outtakes of Melissa McCarthy and her husband roll during the credits of “Bridesmaids.” I’m not saying I’m into food sex all that much, but when I say, “Make me a sandwhich, please.” my wife sternly, gleefully, takes my hand - and she leads me to the bedroom, not the kitchen.

The seaplane had been too much. She’d always feared water, having nearly drowned as a girl; now that the craft obstructed her shore view, she left weekends at the lake house to him. Life changed little after Rod and the unknown woman went down in the Skywagon. Still, she occasionally tasted something in her wine that might have been regret.

The flight attendant at the gate looked at my face, looked at my ticket, looked back at my face and then down at my carry on bag, abruptly putting her arm, and as back up, a foot attached to a leg straight out in front of me, blocking my entry onto the jetwalk.

“Your carry on bag is oversized.” She said to me, with the deadpan look of a serial killer, quickly printing out an insta label for my bag to be checked and crudely taken away from me by a uniformed guy that magically appeared out of some cloud, slapping on the black printed label with swift demonic fingers, in my opinion exercising a complete disregard for humanity.

“What do you mean it’s oversized? I use this bag as a carry on all the time.” I retorted in a tone unbecoming of any proud mother’s daughter. I was tired, it was hot, the guy in front of me had either just cut one or he hadn’t showered, neither of which I cared to assume but I had no other option. The thought of spending even an extra minute at baggage claim after the flight felt like a death sentence. Yes. I was being dramatic but so was Miss Megalomania with the airplane silver pin, tight white tie and even tighter bun. My bag was not oversized.

A sweet young lady behind me with very white teeth that winked gave me a gentle tap on the shoulder and offered a considerate definitive warning. “Don’t mess with one of them or they will throw you off the flight.” She could tell I was in fighting mode by my tone and my snorting and if it wasn’t for her reminder, I don’t think I would have been able to comply by keeping quiet and moving forward in line with the other sheep.

When I got inside the cabin, Mr. Stinky Pants sat down in a single digit seat, and my seat, 19B was a comfortable distance away, so there was that, but then again I had not yet had the pleasure or so be it the displeasure of meeting my seatmate for the flight, 19A. Before I looked at his face, intentionally avoiding any eye contact, on auto pilot I reached for my invisible bag realizing; Damn it. My kindle was in there. So much for reading. I hope this guy doesn’t try to chat me up. His hands were securely on either side of his knees as if there was a valuable between them he was hoping to protect and he kept his eyes on his knuckles like they were his classroom pupils. It was then that I looked at his gray stubbled face. I sorta had to as I was climbing over his lap.

….Jeffrey Epstein? Seriously? Isn’t he currently under investigation for sex trafficking? My first impulse was to call security, but obviously, security already checked him in. I wondered if his carry on bag was overstuffed and I wondered if he would remember me from that party ten years ago. When he heard I was a psychic and clairvoyant, he had asked me to leave his home immediately using a lame excuse, politely but ever so swiftly avoiding any eye contact, offering me a limo driver and a gift card to a high end spa, leading me to the front door with a firm but gentle touch on my arm. The same scenario had happened to me before. I know the type. It’s always intentional and suspicious when a person refuses to be in my company to avoid one of my reads. What were you trying to hide from me that night Mr. Epstein, huh? Are you guilty of the charges against you? Now you’ve got nowhere to hide other than in the crapper so we’ve got the time. Two hours and forty six minutes to be precise. How bout a read?

For a second I thought he might be trying to read my thoughts, but that could have been just a pinch of leftover paranoia kicking in after my near miss with the check in attendant. 19A didn’t say hello and neither did I (friendly skies is a long forgotten slogan) and he seemed to have no clue he had met me before at one of his parties. Why would he remember me? I’m sure I was no more important to him than the determined fly singling out his right middle finger ignoring the other nine. Jeffrey kept bending his finger, lifting his middle knobby knuckle rhythmically, and each time he did the fly circled up towards his mouth. Continually taking control with a puckered lip exhale forcing out a puff, he emphasized the “p” which landed in my ear as annoyingly as the fly repeating his landing right back on that finger relentlessly, coming at him like Mohammad Ali, so many times I lost count. I’ve never gotten a read on a fly, but there is a first time for everything.

It was then that I decided to speak, not understanding why I even bothered. At this point we were already into the flight an hour. Perhaps it was because something unknown was blocking me from his thoughts, and I never back down from a challenge. Maybe it was the fly blocking me or some type of double teaming going on against me between the two of them….Could have been. Then again, maybe I was stuck in a delusion of persecution.

“Why don’t you just swat at it already.” I said to him in the same exact tone I used towards the flight attendant.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Our eyes locked. It was then that I connected with his memory. I saw it all. Everything. Flashing at me like a fast forwarded movie, including the sequel which was gonna happen when he got off the plane. For obvious reasons, when I have not been asked to read someone, I keep what I know close to the vest, between my lips alone, and well hidden behind my eyeballs, letting the vision of what I can’t unsee hang to cure like raw meat. Horrified, but unafraid knowing there was going to be a set of handcuffs slapped on him in the not too distant future, I said,

“Why don’t you let me take care of that for you.” And before he could protest, I swatted fast and I swatted hard, harder than Ali, and did not miss; I never do. Swatting. Another one of my unusual talents.

“Hey! Ouch! What do you think you are doing?”

“Just killing a pesky fly. Helping you out. You do know that fly was disgusting, he was dirty and he deserved to die, right?”

He turned his head away from me but not before he flicked the dead fly off his middle finger. A drop of red pigment from its seeing eyes was left behind. And as we sat the rest of the flight in silence, I was not worried. I knew his fate and as it turns out so did that fly.

The worst man is still a man, and one can flip the gender for Nannie Doss or Lucrezia Borgia. The reckoning makes that truth clear. Consider Adolf Hitler in his bunker, when he knew the Reich was truly gone. He died in terror, in pride of his achievements, in love with Eva Braun. Half rabid with fear, he still possessed shreds of that charisma that could have moved and aided millions, had he not chosen to burn millions instead. I heard it all in his voice. He was, to be clear, evil. Thoroughly so. Still, if one read his thoughts as he aimed the gun at himself (and I did), a little part of him imagined another life, painting landscapes along the Rhine. I’d ballpark that part at four percent of him.

I collect them: reckonings. Someone needs to.

That, of course, is why I sat on a 727 about to touch down in New Jersey on July 6, 2019: Jeffrey Epstein’s “Lolita Express.” He took me for a journalist profiling his philanthropic endeavors. They always explain me to themselves somehow; running from the Moscow mob, Rasputin believed me a woman he had “purified” a few nights before.

“You can’t pigeonhole the future,” Epstein said, clinking the ice in his tumbler. “It doesn’t belong to science, or architecture, or art, or technology – no matter what the Google crew would tell you. It’s the nexus.” He pointed his finger for emphasis, then noted the paltry level of liquid in his glass. He raised the finger upward, and the stewardess approached with more pomegranate juice. He never drank; he’d seen too often what drink would do, growing up near Coney Island.

“The future is in the nexus,” he said. “That’s why I’ve given so much to the MIT Media Lab. You have to believe in something. I believe in the future.” The stewardess dropped in more ice cubes. Epstein said, “Thank you, Stacey,” as she walked away.

“You’ve given elsewhere, too,” I prompted.

“I have. I have…” He watched the ice cubes swirl in the deep red. “I made my first donation to Harvard nearly thirty years ago. For Rosovsky Hall, the new Hillel building. My name’s on the plaque there.”

“Does that matter to you? The name on the plaque.”

“No. Sort of…” Another sip, another moment watching the cubes. “Everyone dies, you know. Someday I’ll die. Stacey there. The pilot. You.” Three out of four, I thought. “A man wants to leave something. Something that will last. Matter.”

Buildings rushed by quickly outside the window, but I waited. Questions channel thinking. To truly know a person, one must silently wait.

“We all need to balance the scales,” he said.

He turned to find me when the feds and the NYPD accosted him, but I was already gone, and already he had mostly forgotten me. I’d collected his reckoning; I knew who he was.

There was fear, as always, and anger. A little bit of regret, even on the flight. The question of legacy truly mattered to him; I felt it as he talked of the future. If one listened to his words very closely—and many people had—one could hear that genuine concern and zeal; so loudly that one might not realize how much Stacey’s backside preoccupied him, or recognize how viciously part of him wished to own her.

I’d ballpark that part at 88 percent of him.