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Number of the End
 by
 Jason Earls
,author of the Underground Guitar Handbook, Red Zen, Mathematical Bliss,Heartless Bastard In Ecstasy & other bookshttp://becomeguitaristfromhell.blogspot.com/http://www.youtube.com/user/zevi35711 
Six hundred thirteen. I wish I would have never heard of that number. Sixhundred thirteen. A strange man on the street told me of its properties. And now it’s torturing me.He was over 50, dark complected with a black beard and long black hair.He wore a Navy officer’s cap and a green military jacket with patches thatlooked homemade. He must have not bathed in weeks because he smelledof sweat, gasoline, cheap cigars, and other rancid unidentifiable things.He stopped on the street directly in front of me, squared off his shoulders with mine and said, “I want to show you a magic trick.”I chuckled.He raised his rough calloused hands with the palms facing me and said,“Look, there’s absolutely nothing in my hands.” Then he lowered them andshook his right arm in a totally obvious manner, until I saw a white rock fallfrom his sleeve into his palm. He raised both arms and displayed the rock pinched between his thumb and the side of his hand with a smug grin.I must have not acted very impressed. Because a psychotic snarl quickly registered on his lined, jittery face.His left eye twitched out a random sequence and then he spoke the numberthat haunts me to this day: “613,” he said. “I can utter it but you cannot. 613is prime. Bring the first digit back to get 136, it’s triangular. Now bring thefirst digit of that back to get 361, it’s a square. 613. Diabolical. I can utter it.But you had better not even try.”He was leaning in close to my face, invading my personal space. His browneyes were wide and intimidating, protruding menacingly as he hissed outthe words. I could have counted every wrinkle on his forehead, every dirty  blemish on his cheeks -- there were a lot. And the stench from his black teeth was almost as horrendous as his tone of voice and the eerie mannerhe used to tell me of the mathematical enigma that was 613.
 
The man turned to walk away. But before he took a single step, he spunaround and leaned forward, hissing at me, “Ssiiixxx HhuunnndrredTthhiirrrttteennn.” The excruciatingly slow pace and awkward enunciationhe placed on the syllables sent a murderous chill through me.I went home.I thought about the number.He had said 613 was prime. I knew what a prime number was – an integer with no divisors except itself and one. I knew what a square was too, andsoon found that 19 = 361. But I had to do a little research on the Internet to
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find that 16*(16+1)/2 = 136, a triangular number.Then I made my first mistake.I spoke the number 613 aloud.I was glad my girlfriend wasn’t home.My house started shaking as if an earthquake were bringing it down. I ranto the kitchen and grabbed the table trying to hold myself up. I becamedizzy and fell to the ground. I saw hundreds of ball bearings shooting and bouncing all around the room. I grunted as they slammed into me. Then ared clay pot formed in the next room and began spewing thick green liquidin erratic bursts. The green goo covered my entire body and it smelled likesewage and pond scum.Lying on my back, trying to brush the stuff off and still protect myself, Inoticed a crack form in the wall. A demon with a black crocodile-like headand fierce yellow eyes with a white plume of feathers above them dripping blood burst through the wall and roared at me. I turned my head away fromthe demon and felt total fear assault my mind. But it didn’t do any good.Everywhere I looked and whatever I focused on, the same demon wouldtear out of a crack and scream at me. After shutting my eyes and waiting fora few minutes, the demon disappeared. Out of the walls in its place, animaland human eyes popped out and fell to the ground. Large hands formed outof the floorboards and grabbed my wrists and ankles. Finally somethingshot from the wall – probably a hammer – and struck me in the middle of the forehead.I blacked out.The next thing I remember is my girlfriend shaking me awake.“Are you all right, Max? Are you okay?” she said.
 
“Hell no,” I said. “I feel terrible. My head feels like somebody’s slicing intoit with a chainsaw. What time is it?”“A little after 10.” she said.“At night?”“Of course.”“Jesus.”I looked around and saw evidence of the evil happenings that had occurredearlier.“Go look out the window,” she said. “Something strange is going on. I’mreally scared.”I didn’t want to look out any windows. Not after what had already happened. My fear was so intense at that point it was as if someone washolding a sawed-off shotgun to my temple. But I got up and walked over tothe window anyway and pulled back the curtain.Streaks of blood and green bile were running down the glass. And the number 613 was written on the window in white paint.Symbols were surrounding the number: A triangle. A square. A large X. And something else I can’t describe. I thought for a moment and realizedthe first three symbols represented the properties of the number. Theproperties that the weird man on the street had mentioned, with the Xrepresenting the prime quality. It was all so bizarre -- it defied logic and thelaws of nature. I didn’t know who or what had written the symbols on the window or why.My girlfriend said, “What the hell does that number – ”– I quickly clamped my hand over her mouth to prevent her from saying it.“Whatever you do, don’t say that number out loud. Horrible things willhappen if you do. That’s the reason you found me unconscious on thefloor.”She threw my hand away from her mouth. “Well, then don’t read anythingin the newspaper out loud. Earlier I brought it in and glanced at the frontpage. That number is plastered all over it.” When she told me that I was convinced our world was totally ruined from
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