The Flucks is my (Ed) first novel and an experiment. We are independent creators, publishing chapter by chapter as a podcast and text. It’s designed to be heard. We’d love to receive your feedback so we can tell stories better.
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Text copyright © 2025 Ed Herrington
⚠️ Content Warning: Existential crisis, nudity, death.
Last time on The Flucks
These weren’t ashes. Those weren’t randomly placed clothes. This wasn’t Hell—it certainly wasn’t Heaven. This was no video game or grand architect simulation. This was the same world I went to one last slumber on my deathbed.
Now why the hell can’t I die in peace?
Slacy finally puts on some clothes. The wind howls through empty streets, stirring the remains of a world that vanished overnight. Machines go through the motions, clinging to order amid decay, while Slacy hitches a ride.
Chapter 4 — But first, coffee
I stood there in shock, letting the gravity of this shitshow sink in. Time must have passed, but I didn’t sense it. The wind howled, sandblasting my skin with the dust, whipping the scarf around me. The white noise was calming, and the debris gently tapping my sunglasses was like ASMR.
I thought about just giving in to a full existential psychotic breakdown. But the dust blowing into my crotch was really starting to itch. I guessed I should find some clothes. I hate wearing other people’s clothes.
You ever see those apocalypse movies where everyone is dirty all the time, as if there suddenly wasn’t water? Like, you shot ten zombies and have guts all over you. First thing I’d want is a hot bath. Imagine the stench of their bodies and clothes. These clothes of people who fell to dust? Nah.
Rather than standing around letting my skin erode, I started looking for a store. At street level, I could see plenty of places to eat, but I wasn’t feeling hungry. Maybe that had something to do with me just materializing in—hell, I don’t know where I am. It’s windy, so is this the Windy City? Chicago? I’m no geographer.
What I wasn’t finding was anything like a clothing store. I hadn’t even been into a clothing store in decades. Today, well, yesterday at least, you scan your body with your phone, order anything you want, and it arrives in a couple of days by drone, fitting perfectly.
Can you even go to the store and buy clothes anymore? They certainly didn’t seem to have this problem in all those apocalypse movies. I spent all my life watching them, and not a single one has prepared me for this moment.
To get a break from the wind, I walked up to the first door I saw and pulled. It opened. I guess no one decided to lock up shop for the apocalypse. The lobby looked like what you’d expect, from my extensive knowledge of movies in a big city: marble floors, tall columns, a receptionist desk, and elevators in the distance.
All the power was off. The elevators would be off, too, so there was no point trying to go up unless I wanted to get my steps in today.
It was a bit odd because everything was powered by fusion. That was mostly automated and unlimited, so there was no reason to turn it off. Unless, maybe some AI shut it down for some safety reason, because, sure, not having power wasn’t a safety hazard.
In the lobby to the right was a coffee shop. I won’t say the name for fear of being sued, but it rhymed with “Scar Flucks”. My throat was still raw from breathing in all the dust, so a quaranta-sized cold brew sounded great. I walked over to the little cafe.
Behind the counter, on the floor, was a gray pile of dust covered by a green apron. I jolted back a step. All the dust outside had been smeared into one layer with occasional bumps. It was no longer recognizable as individual entities. But here, it hit different.
I’d have to get used to seeing these piles, these remnants of people who had a life, who had a job. A barista. I made the mistake of glancing at the name tag: “Ash”. You’ve got to be kidding me.
Ash was blocking my way to the cold brew tap. I wanted to be respectful and not step on them. I looked around and spotted a broom and dustpan. I considered it for a moment, but no—that was a bit too much, even for me.
So instead, I backed up, hesitated for a second, took a big step, then lunged over the pile, dangly bits jouncing, and landed on the other side of the workspace. My bare feet hit the terracotta tile, and the contact patch jerked them to a halt, sending my upper body and palms slamming into the end countertop.
It’s been a long time since I even attempted to jump. At my age, that’s how you break hips, and I didn’t want a new one like Chuq got. Well, the age I was. So, give me a break if I flubbed the landing. Only after I hit the countertop did it occur to me that I could have simply hoisted myself over the bar with these new, strong arms. Live and learn.
I grabbed a cup, put it under the nitro cold brew tap, and pulled the handle. Brown liquid streamed into the cup. You probably thought I was going to say nothing happened on account of there being no power. That’s where you’d be wrong because this coffee was in a keg pressurized by nitrogen. The nitrogen pushes the coffee out.
Science lesson over. I took a sip. The dark brown nectar of the gods poured into my throat, soothing the scrapes inside. It would have been perfect if it weren’t room-temperature coffee. Apparently, you do need power for the refrigerator to work.
From the merch stand, I took a couple of the insulated bottles—got to keep that room-temperature inside—and filled them up. I’d need a way to carry them. Maybe Ash has a bag. I went into the backroom looking for something, anything I could carry on my shoulder. Then I saw it.
On the shelf, still wrapped in a clear plastic film, was an official Scar Flucks green apron. I took it out of the wrapper. I shook it out. Freshly starched. I sniffed. Yes, that new just-from-the-industrial-laundromat scent. I put the top strap around my neck and draped the apron over my naked body, tying it around my waist in the back. It’s no fig leaf, but it will do for now.
A brown leather messenger bag sat in the corner—probably Ash’s. I looked inside, hoping to find a charged computer I could get online with to see if anyone still existed. Nope, of course not. Someone working at Scar Flucks can’t afford a laptop. There were a couple energy bars, house keys, a fidget toy, and—a phone!
I dropped the bag and tapped the screen. It glowed! Yes!—a charge. Face not recognized. “What do you mean, face not recognized?” Oh, yeah, not my phone. I would try to use Ash’s face, but it’s gone now.
After punching in a few common PINs, it yelled at me about too many attempts and refused to answer. I threw it at the back wall. Not because I was angry, but because why not? No one else is going to need it. I picked it up—not a scratch on it. So, I kicked a mop bucket in retribution.
I reacquired the bag and looked through the rest of it. There was a journal, but it was completely empty. I got the feeling Ash was a bit of a café-nerd poser. Chic leather bag, cool moleskin journal—no substance. I’d keep the journal, though. Maybe it was time to re-learn how to use a pen.
Before leaving the backroom, I needed a couple more things. I grabbed an official Scar Flucks black ballcap and a blank name tag, wrote in “Slacy”—good to go. After putting a few bottles of lukewarm brew and all the little bags of salted almonds in Ash’s bag, I voiced my thanks to Ash for keeping the tap fresh, then left the cafe.
I looked around the lobby for anything else useful. There were things here and there, but more than I could reasonably carry, and no clothing or shoes. I looked into the maintenance closet—nothing useful unless I wanted to start sweeping up the dust. I did wash the dust off me in the sink and dried off with a towel. I put a clean towel in the bag, so I’d always know where my towel was.
The wind howled as I pushed open the door. I stepped into the street, looking for my next destination. I was thinking about where I could get some clothes, when it hit me. An electric delivery van bumped into my leg. Aren’t these self-driving things supposed to stop sooner? The dust must be messing with its sensors.
While everyone seemed dead, the EV vans were still alive and well, making deliveries. This one would probably return to the warehouse after it finished its rounds. All I had to do was hitch a ride, and I’d have my pick of clothes. There were no door handles, no windshield—nothing for me to get into.
It beeped three times and drove off. “Hey! Stop! Get back here!” I shouted. I tried chasing it for five blocks before I saw it turn into a back alley a couple kilometers ahead of me. When I reached it fifteen minutes later, it was backed up to a loading dock. It should have automatically unloaded, but the dock was already overloaded with boxes.
It must have gotten tired of waiting for someone to move them because it beeped three times. So, I stepped onto the bumper, grabbed tight onto the hinge nubs, hugged it for dear life, smushing my front bits into the apron, letting my naked ass hang out the back.
It drove off. My scarf and apron flapped in the wake.
Author’s Notes
See, as the teaser said, Slacy finally gets some clothes. If you’re not sure what to wear for Halloween yet, go as Slacy.
If it wasn’t for his own reluctance to wear other people’s unclean clothes, he’d already have a solution. You’ll notice that while he has been placed in extraordinary circumstances, many of his problems are of his own devising.
He’s also carrying around a lot of coffee now. That can’t possibly come back to bite him in his naked ass.
What do you think? Is Slacy acting reasonably for the cluster fuck he’s been dropped in? How would you react?
On the next episode, we get to see how well
does voicing Slacy speaking other languages.Next chapter coming soon. Subscribe to be notified.
