Keith Richard’s thought he was the last human alive. It’s been thousands of years since he last laid eyes on another living soul. He has spent many of these years confined to his brownstone in the upper west side of Manhattan, his needs being served by the A.I. that acts as his jailer and that also wiped out the rest humanity.
His most recurring thought is, “maybe today I will end it all.”
He fights against this solution to his loneliness, but every hundred years or so it gets harder and harder to push the thought away.
Today is his birthday again. He could do the math, but doesn’t feel like it and instead plays the rhythm section to “Sympathy for the Devil.”
As his finger dance along the songs crescendo his door buzzer rings.
Somehow he knows what to expect.
Slowly he lays his guitar down and stands up.
He ambles to the foyer, his smooth leather bottom slippers hissing on the varnished oak wood floor along the way.
Standing in the vestibule he sees a silhouette through the multicolored stain glassed window.
It’s the outline of someone he hoped long dead, but knew otherwise.
Latching the chain he pulls the door open a Crack and peers into the barnacle crusted eyes of Mick Jagger.
“Got any Twinkies, mate?” the gravelly voice pop-star moans pushing his way through the trammeled barricade to face his long-lived nemesis one last time.