The day was October 28th. The year, 2203. Fridays were always the bitterest in October. There is no evidence to support this claim; however, I know it to be valid because I was there. I was strolling down St. Graham street that day, hacking as ash penetrated my lungs, as I do every Friday on my way home from work, and it was most positively bitter. 

     My lab was also a gloomy place, full of deep shadows in the dark recesses of each room. Doctor C. Jenkins had been there that day to inspect the new prototypes my colleagues and I had completed. Had he been satisfied? Of course not. Most people believed our work was unethical. We had hoped Jenkins would be more willing to appreciate our assignment, only he was exactly the same as the others who had stepped inside the laboratories doors. They all wanted only one thing -- capital. The development of this prototype could change the world, and people simply didn’t see it. Foolish men like them should not hold the honor of possessing a doctorate in genetics. 

     As I rounded the curve, the day took on a sinister cloak when the fellow at the end of the street marched out of the enormous marble building carrying a velvet, charcoal-tinted sack. Upon inspection, I concluded that this man was stealing from the bank. The black ski mask concealing his face, the way he stood like a hunchback, and the fact that he was wearing soiled, dingy tennis shoes all but delivered the proof to me. The wads of twenty-dollar bills tumbling down from the bulky sack on his back strengthened my theory one hundred and two percent. A smile on his face, and determination in his steps, this man was not your usual culprit. I knew this as I briskly strolled over to suspend his ludicrous behavior. I made sure to not look his way. Not once. 

     Looking at that daft man would only aid him in discerning what I had prepared. Suddenly, I knocked my shoulder into his. It was slight, and only for a moment. Nevertheless, it was sufficient enough to spin him around. This granted me enough time to reach behind him and seize the bag. The plan was quite simple. 

     Looking the criminal dead in the eyes, I apologized and turned around, sack in hand. Too stunned to respond, it took him approximately ten seconds to realize what I had done. I knew this because I tallied each second. However, it only took me twenty seconds to arrive at the front entrance of the bank. Having previously performed the necessary calculations, I understood that the man could never reach me, for I would perpetually be ten steps ahead. Forever. 

      Although, I did not take into consideration that the gentleman would possess a gun. 

      The criminal thrust his hands in the air and released an annoyed sigh, gun-waving. 

     “Come on man, you tryin’ to make my life harder than it need be?” Uncertain on which route the conversation should continue on, I concluded the best direction was to reprimand the fool. 

     “Now you see here young man-”

     “Ain’t nobody gonna call me young man except my momma, and she dead. So unless you my dead momma, which I’m sure you’re not -- even if you do look like an old woman. You can give me back my damn property.” Soot encircled his hazelnut eyes, causing him to resemble one of those mammals that became extinct decades ago with The Great Explosion. 

     To be quite frank, I believe The Great Explosion could have been avoided. If only the scientists of the past had informed the citizens about the ticking bomb, which was situated deep into the Earth along the coast of California. However, of course, they did not, and here we are now, with half the world in flames, and the other covered in thick ashes. 

     For some reason, this raccoon of a man seemed familiar to me. Most likely, I had done business with him in the past or met him at that wonderful coffee shop down the road. 

     “Come on man, you gonna make me wait all day? Hand over the bag.” I realized then that I had been staring for far too long into the distance. 

     “Oh, pardon me! I was lost in thought. Now, sir, you must understand that I simply cannot hand over this bag to you. This is not your money.” At that point, I realized we had accumulated quite a large crowd, who were using their cellular devices to photograph the whole scene. Blaring sirens were approaching, unwavering in their pursuit. Quickly, I realized my time was running out. I smiled sheepishly at the man and pulled a polished, black pistol out of my trench coat pocket. 

     Racoon eyes widened. Safety was turned off. People screamed. The trigger was pulled. More screaming. Handcuffs. 

                                                       PRESENT DAY

      “So from what you have told me, Mr. Carter, you were plotting to steal from the bank the entire time, but the man beat you to the punch, so you shot him in the head?” The police officer wears a glistening badge, and never takes his pudgy hand off the gun positioned in his holster. 

     “Yes, that is exactly what I am saying happened. The young man was worth nothing anyway. I realized from the start that he was one of my failed experiments.” 

      “Yes, and would you like to explain to me what experiments you were performing?” I lock eyes with the officer and nod.

     “We were trying to figure out a way to create the ideal human. The population needs to be elevated, and my colleagues and I found a way to do just that. If you are going to rebuild a population, why not make it a perfect one?”

     “You really are mad aren’t you?” The officer shakes his head in horror. I sharply suck in a breath at that. I am NOT insane. No, no. Definitely not.

     “Officer, where is my lawyer?” I ask calmly, my breathing grew steadier.

     “I don’t know. He’s not my lawyer.” He starts shuffling through a drawer in his desk. A sugar cookie in hand, he starts to make a pile of all of my past criminal reports. The officer reminds me of a pig, and I am well informed of the events that occur when pigs do not behave. 

     Reaching into my trench coat's pocket, I remove the letter opener and keys, the ones I had "borrowed" from his desk when I entered the room. In a matter of thirty seconds, I am free from the once-secure handcuffs.

     Pig eyes widen. Knife raises. Squealing. Slashing. Blood. Silence.

     I wipe the gore from my hands onto my now-bloody coat. What a shame to ruin such a fine piece of clothing. 

     Looking over at the miniature, dog-themed calendar hanging off the wall, I notice that, on it, there is a photograph of lively puppies sitting in wicker baskets. I slash the picture in half. The discarded remains of the calendar informs me that it is already November 2nd. 

    Wednesdays are always the bitterest in November.