A FUSE IS LIT:
NOVEMBER 5 TO
NOVEMBER 8, 1983

He would never ever be made aware of just how lucky he was when it started. For the first four days he was at home resting and he was not even aware of what had happened.
The first one hit him like a whip lash while he was asleep. It took him to a time at a fairground.
Yellow.
Green.
Red,
Ross nodded.
"They don't have real powers, they are just fakes, but did you know that there is a REAL superhero? Better then Superman, or Spiderman or any of them put together with real powers?"
Ross shook his head no.
"And I could take you to meet this hero. You'd like to do that, wouldn't you?"
Ross's eyes were wide with enchantment as he nodded.
"Take a look at this paper, friend Ross," the stranger said as he pointed to the sheet.
On the sheet was a drawing of a bearded, longhaired man standing in a crowd of people that were looking at him with wide eyes. The man did not wear the bright flashy stripped or starred uniforms of the comic heroes; his costume was only tattered white robes. Ross looked at it puzzled for a brief moment until he realized who it was and froze.
"Do you know this superhero's name, friend Ross?" the stranger asked.
Ross nodded his head with his mouth hanging open.
"Of course you do. It's Jesus Christ," the stranger said quietly. "Do you know that I could take you right now to see Jesus Christ?"
Purple.
Orange.
Blue.
The second took him away while he was lying in bed reading a book about a man who ventured around the world in eighty days. This time he remembered his first day at work on his current job. He had been very nervous, but was given a simple task that he learned quickly. When he woke the next morning he found the place in the book he had left and continued reading.
The third time he was exercising on the floor and rolled off to the side. This time he was fighting and running. When he woke decided he had been exercising too hard and had gotten disoriented.
During the fourth lash on the fourth day he was again in bed asleep. He watched his mother weep with the news that Robert Kennedy had been assassinated. Even though he was only five, was not old enough to know the significance of the name or the family he sensed her sadness and went to her and cried for nearly an hour. When he woke he felt sad and uncomfortable, but did not know why.
He remembered none of these events that were replayed to him on those first four days. They happened at harmless times when it could not damage him. This was bound to change. The count had begun.


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