Clyde stood up. He put his trumpet in his hands and began to play his tune. He walked with a swagger and put a shimmy in his shake.

Bullets flew. And the aura of red around Clyed grew.

It took six shots until his brain splattered and his pain shattered.

"I'm Clyed Turner. And this is my song."

He died.

And then, moments later he lived.

He walked with a swagger and put a shimmy in his shake as he played a mournful tune.

It took twelve shots this time until his brain splattered, and his pain shattered.

Once again it was his end.

And once again he lived again.

He played his song. Declared that it was his. Then faded into nothing. Only to fade back into something moments later.

"I'm Clyed Turner!'

"I'm Clyed Turner!"

"I'm Clyed Turner!"

"I'm Clyed turner!'

"I'm Clyed Turner!"

"I'm Clyed Turner!"

"AND THIS IS MY SONG!"

Over and over and over he declared his name.

And like that, years passed. The battlefield would move and Clyed would move with it.

His aura of red grew in that time. It grew until it was a shining flare of light that everyone could see. And what you could see.

You could shoot.

Bullets flew. Soon, the mechs they had been using reached a new level of technology. They shot fire like never before.

And soon after that, mechs with different flags came into play. The battlefield grew. The hail of bombs increased. And Clyed and his trumpet stood impervious to it all.

Some more time passed.

Humans started firing their Golden blasters at each other within the battlefield. Blood spilled. The scent of tears, blood and shit grew heavy in the air. And throughout all of it, Clyed played his sad song.

It went on and it went on. Bullets. Tears. Blood. They became Clyde's memories. They were his past. His present and his future.

It was all he knew.

He would march through the maelstrom of blood and tears with a stony look on his face and tears in his eyes. He had but one goal in mind.

To play the Trumpet.

...…

One million cresendos. One million lives. Clyde had been playing his trumpet for longer than he could count. And throughout all of this, the bullets still flew. The bombs still fell. Fire and blood spread through the land.

So Clyed didn't question it when he saw a small bush plane fly over the sky. He thought it typical. He was ignorant to the fact that bush planes had vanished years ago.

From this plane fell a bomb with a red smiley face painted onto it.

It was only once Clyed was covered in fire that he realized that he realized it.

It was the end of the world.

The fire spread. John and his trumpet disintegrated.

There was only ash.

...

Within a great redness, there was a man—a tall man who was both fat and muscular, like a strongman. Anyone would be terrified of a man with such mass.

This man was known by many as Clyed Turner.

Where is this place?

This was a question to which Clyed could find no answer. The redness almost seemed to be captured within a tight net of incomprehension. The only thing that Clyed could understand were the sounds.

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"It hurts."

"I'M SORRY! I'M SORRY!"

"WHY AM I EVEN ON THIS EARTH ANYWAYS?!?!"

"NO MATTER HOW HARD I TRY….. I FAIL."

"HOPE. WHERE ARE YOU?"

"WHY GOD! WHY!!!!"

"NARRSASISM AND NIHILISM. THAT'S ALL I HAVE."

"I'M UGLY."

"I'M POOR."

"I'M BAD AT EVERYTHING."

"PLEASE LIFE…. JUST STOP."

"I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!"

"WHERE ARE THE DRUGS!!! I NEED THE DRUGS!"

"I'LL FUCKING RAPE HER! I'LL RAPE HER FOR WHAT SHE DID."

Cyled thought of all those sentences as just variations of the same meaning. Pain. It ran through the world. Slithered through reality. Feed insanity and bred maladies.

And it was dark red.

I know this sound. I think I've heard it once before. I think everyone has heard it once before.

What was the point of this? Wasn't Clyed supposed to be dead?

I'll FUCKING KILL YOU! It hurts.

Thoughts that weren't his weaved their way into Clyed's head.

I'll FUCKING KILL YOU! WHY AM I EVEN ON THIS EARTH ANYWAYS?! It hurts.

The thoughts were screaming. The urges were burning. All Clyed wanted to do was to stop the hurting.

He wanted to end his life. No. He wanted to end two lives. One with the name Clyde. And one yet to be named.

I'll FUCKING KILL YOU! WHY AM I EVEN ON THIS EARTH ANYWAYS? It hurts.

Pain. Hell. Agony. Red.

Red.

That's what it was. It was red. That's what Clyed needed. He needed red.

Clyde put his hands around his throat. He started to squeeze.

No breath. No me. NO!

Cutting through the gibbering nihilistic thoughts was an urge.

I need to play the Trumpet.

And next thing Clyed knew. There was a Trumpet in his hands.

...…..

The ash parted. And like a merman ascending from the water, Clyed slowly rose from those ashes.

In Clyed's hands was a Trumpet. The sun was shrouded by ash, and the world was only darkness. But despite this, there almost seemed to be a spotlight upon Clyde.

Clyde walked with a swagger to his step and a Shimmy to his shake.

For this long, long night. Clyde was the conductor, the musician and the audience. He was the world's song.

The red light around Clyde grew to astronomical proportions. He was a second sun. Shining his light throughout the globe.

Where Clyde walked, there were flowers, trees, grass, light. And people reborn.

Today, the world would be reborn.

All from just the sound of a trumpet.

...…..

John stood in a dark cellar painted with the red hues of blood.

'

John was maybe five feet tall. Stick skinny and had gaunt cheekbones that stuck out like spikes. And most importantly.

He was completely soaked in blood.

A man with a chubby face. A long beard. And a fully bald head knelt before John.

He ran his hand along John's cheek. Removing the blood covering him to show healthy white skin.

"Son…. I'm proud of you. But it's time to wake up. This was all a dream. "