LUMINOUS MIST IN A BOX [4-min read]

Luminous Mist was buried on a rainy day. His wife made sure of that. 

“The gloomiest weather for every funeral” was the motto of the company she’d hired. And, oh boy, had they delivered on that promise! There had even been lightning and thunder punctuating the eulogy given by an android that looked just like Richard Burton and actually sounded like his character in The Night of the Iguana. “Fantastic.”

The translucent box had also been a nice touch, allowing Luminous to enjoy the entertainment – or torment, depending on his preference.

Even when exacting her revenge, Angel knew how to please him. Mist smiled at the thought she might not be aware of that. He liked to think she couldn't be.

“It was perfect,” many would post later, he knew, even though none of them had attended “it.” The company also provided that service.

Regardless, if Luminous Mist had to rate his own funeral, he'd say it had been close to perfect. Even the pouring rain – a dramatic blessing from above.

Not like on their wedding day. The rain hadn't been a blessing then, though it had made things dramatic. He had seen the disappointment in Angel’s eyes grow with each acid raindrop burning a tiny hole in her vintage dress. But he didn't have enough money to pay for "perfect wedding-day weather." Besides, that kind of service wasn't even available back then. Or was it? To be honest, he hadn't checked.

Inside the box, Luminous Mist smirked at the thought of calling their marriage stormy. That would be a euphemism. He didn't exactly enjoy euphemisms. The word itself, however – euphemism, not stormy – was among his favorites, along with facetious, obnoxious, oblivious, and a bunch of others that, to his ears, only sounded right when pronounced with that distinct, crisp and now long-defunct BBC accent. Vintage. 

Luminous Mist enjoyed vintage stuff and had made a fortune selling it to other people – nouveau riche who didn't know the difference between a real Zippo and a knockoff crafted in the invisible city breathing heavily under their delicately slippered feet. 

The aliens, their new overlords, did know the difference, of course. It was like they could smell it or something. 

He sometimes wondered whether they could also smell the stench of his own fakeness. Luminous Mist wasn't his real name, just a nom de guerre he had picked up along the way for marketing purposes. 

He would never in a million years ask them if they knew who he was – what he had been – before the war. The past is a different country, right? And they sure did things differently there.

Nevertheless, despite his fake name, what Mist sold the aliens was the real deal. Always. He had seen what could happen to those who dared to cross them. It was much worse than having your wife arrange your funeral when you're still drawing breath. 

He smiled again, this time at the vintage turn of phrase, and fell asleep. It wasn't his first time in a box. 

A few hours later, his daughter came round with a digger-bot and let him out. He knew someone would come. If not his daughter, then the graveyard manager – whoever learned of what had happened first. No one was looking for any trouble with the New Law, not even his wife.

“I'm so sorry, Dad. I didn't know Mom was doing this again. Came as soon as she told me what was going on.”

“It's alright,” he said, calmly adjusting his prosthetic limbs and checking every cyber enhancement. “Thank you for getting me out, Sahara.”

The young woman nodded. Her gaze roamed over his body as if looking for any damage.

The digger-bot seemed to be scanning him as well, almost surely uploading his biometrics through the graveyard management interface.

Mist got out of the box, waved to the bot, and stated: “Everything seems to be in order. I do not wish to file a complaint. You may go now.”

The bot acknowledged his words with a whirring sound but didn't move from where it stood, next to the pile of freshly dug dirt.

Luminous Mist looked beyond the bot, taking in the peaceful rolling landscape of manicured lawns, quaint topiaries, and discreet black marble headstones. Would he like to be put to rest here when the time came? 

Sahara’s voice broke the spell before he could find an answer to the question.

“Mom called you a… jerk? I don't know what that means. Is it even a real word? What did you do this time, Dad?” She sounded worried.

“Jerk, huh?” He grinned. “That's a vintage word, you know. Slang. From the old days.”

“What did you do, Dad?” his daughter insisted.

“Nothing out of character. I am a jerk, after all.”

 

Sahara frowned. “Is that what you call a euphemism? Or is it the other word? A dysphemism? Are you being dysphemistic?”

Luminous Mist scoffed. “No, sweetie. Just accurate.”

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