A very pale, nondescript man sat in the doctor’s office, “I had an appointment with Dr. Zosomo Kulio… who are you?”
“I am D’Angelo. Kulio was called away at the last minute. An emergency. Recent events have caused a bit of turmoil. Are you here for the test; or another matter entirely?”
“Sometimes we talk. I’ve been confused lately.”
“Oh my… I’m surprised Kulio had time for chit-chat while we face the current medical emergency.”
“No, it’s quite alright. I’m not him… I have plenty of time. What’s on your mind?”
“I don’t know who I am. My memories are intact, but I don’t think they are really my memories.”
“What memory comes up for you, right now?”
“We had a dog, me and my partner, Anthony. It was a beautiful dog. She was a baby. Anthony trained her. He had dogs all his life. I never really owned a pet; but, that’s not what I talk about with Kulio… I talk about the Holes. I see them all the time: holes in reality. One world bleeds into another. Every time I wake up I’m at the edge of another world. I don’t know where I belong — which world is mine?”
D’Angelo sat behind a large, ebony desk. The pale man starred at the wall above D’Angelo’s head. He saw a Gila Monster crawl out of the vent near the ceiling. D’Angelo smiled.
He knew a man called, Fat Charlie; but his real name was George – he was an ascending kingpin, a royal capitalist, and big business mogul. All that was before the pandemic. George had a dog Rufus, and a wife named Marsha. He made his money with an invention called Guard Dog: to protect and manage the Home. It was Henry Dubin’s invention, but George did the marketing. They became partners. George enjoyed sucking up to big wigs – he was a good salesman. He talked his way into the inner circles of government. He sucked up to the holy Trumpeter in the White House. He sold the new invention, made a fortune and dumped Henry (the guy who created Guard Dog).
(All the while D’Angelo smiled).
People refused to cooperate. They continued to pretend the danger was over. Wealthy patrons took to the high seas on gigantic cruise ships… ships of fools. Many carried the virus. The ships were not allowed to dock.
George signed contracts with the military. A military Guard Dog could be used to manipulate and control groups of dissenters. Henry never designed the dog to be a weapon. He was an idealist. He believed in peace and the power of truth; but George fired him. Henry had a good legal case against George, but no money to pursue a lawsuit.
(The nondescript man was visibly shaken. He didn’t know where the story came from. Was he George or Henry. Perhaps he was Guard Dog).
Everyone agreed: sacrifices were needed to save the nation and the economy. Social Security and Medical were expensive burdens on the government. The programs could be eliminated, saving billions, by sacrificing senior citizens. It was decided by consensus that patriotic seniors would want to help… so, by executive decree, death panels were set up.
The new economy was not working for George. He did what he was told to do by insider traders, but money no longer existed. Dictates from the Trumpeter no longer worked. Faulty logic circuits were blamed for the ensuing series of unfortunate events. Guard Dog became obsolete. No one owned a home to protect. The military already acquired the technology so they made their own Dogs to control the populace.
Fat Charlie stumbled down Fifth Avenue pushing a shopping cart. Rufus sat in the cart. Marsha followed behind banging a tambourine. It was Free For All Day. Riots were the new economy. People ransacked in order to survive. No help was arriving. People were on their own.
FLOTUS (the first lady) was forced to go to work. It had been a long time since she had to fend for herself; but she picked herself up, dusted herself off and set out to be the best Madam in Washington, DC.
(The nondescript man had more to say, “I may be a man named Diego.” D’Angelo smiled).
He was held in an underground storage facility. His guards were part of a border patrol group called America Great. They were vigilantes, outside the law; but they had the blessings of POTUS. The men in the group were burned hollow by recent changes no one could understand. They enjoyed their newfound power over the alien hordes that arrived at the border. Some of Diego’s guards were particularly cruel. Diego was not an illegal alien, he was not what his captors expected. They tried torture to make him confess (the guards were in agreement on the choice of weapons and ways to induce pain). Diego did not scream… He minimized the pain with self-hypnosis and meditation. He reached across to his captors… His calm voice changed everything. Diego told them about Time.
What do we know about Time? Some theorize that Time runs in a straight line from past to future. Other scientists believe all Time exists at once without delineations: past, future, and present are within a hands breath. The study of sub-atomic particles indicates Time does not exist. Displacement exists, negative and positive energy exists; but not Time. It appears that energy and matter have concentrated on this particular aspect or parcel of Time. We are in an Entanglement. Gentlemen… I stepped through a mirror and crossed the border. There is no turning back.
(The confused man in the office spoke in a monotone, “I didn’t know the language or where the words came from; but I heard a translation in my mind”).
“Everything is going according to plan,” Xanth reported to Captain Roolix,
“The first phase is almost complete. Once we gave him the shiny metal the pumpkin-man became very cooperative.”
“Are you certain we don’t have to slap him down… Teach the dog a few tricks?”
“He is docile, my Lord.”
“Well and good. What’s next on the agenda?”
“We seeded the planet. They reacted violently at first. They became more manageable once we gave them the magic cure.”
“Is there a cure?”
“Of course not. The infection will play itself out. More people will die; but everyone will think they are being cured. They will feel secure and indebted to us.”
“Most cunning. Soon I expect we will acquire this inferior race and train them to be obedient pets.”
“Yes, my Lord. We will breed them for the qualities we deem desirable. We will give them injections, neuter them, and train them. They will accept us as Master and do our bidding.”
“Exceptional. These creatures will make perfect accessories like a fancy hat or purse. They have just enough intelligence to learn a few tricks. Queen Instorque of the Regnallian Regime will be most pleased.”
“Sir, we have scoured the universe for three-hundred cycles searching for the perfect pets. These humans with their minimal intelligence are the best we’ve found.”
“Our efforts will be rewarded. We will receive Gigas of appreciation and gain greater power in the Regime. We will profit on the products and drugs that keep our new pets manageable. Win-Win.”
Lives were changed. A persona called Mr. D was working the Three-card Monte game. Mr. D had a plan.
D’Angelo was not forthcoming. He sat like a statue, still smiling. The other man felt the need to talk. “Are you a therapist?” He asked. There was no direct answer, just a nod. The nondescript man continued talking, “I recognized myself on TV… during a marathon of shows from the last century. The character looked like me. I think the show was the Twilight Zone. I was standing in a large supermarket. Fluorescent lights flickered and I heard the buzz of electricity. I was surrounded by very old people. They were standing far apart from one another… afraid. Some wore face masks. Everyone struggled to move through the market. Many people were disabled. They wore rubber gloves: blue, plastic gloves. I asked the cashier what was happening. She yelled, ‘Stay away from me — get back!’ They appeared to be escapees from a horror movie with blood red eyes — staring, searching. Under the fluorescent tubes everyone’s skin appeared pale green. This is TV I told myself. But, so real… I could have slipped into Virtual Reality. I tried to calm down, ‘They are actors, nothing more.’ Music was playing over the loud speakers. Odd, strangled music by a group called Massive Attack. The group was not even born when the show was televised. I didn’t understand. There was a meat counter illuminated by a cold, blue light. Old people with canes and walkers gathered around the counter looking for something more to eat. As I backed away I saw the remains of a half-eaten corpse. The zombies Turned toward me. They growled like wild pigs. They yelled my name. They told me who I am. The words were garbled and now I can’t remember what they said. I tell myself it was a movie, an enactment; but I’m not certain any more.”
D’Angelo spoke softly, “It will be over soon.”
Dark shadows clung to the corners of the room like spider webs… moving quietly, gathering momentum, and slowly spreading out to engulf everything.
He felt the need to explain himself to D’Angelo, “I see events that could be from my life. Everything is foreshortened. It is like looking through a telescope. The events pile up. I can’t keep track any more.”
A man named Billy Vacarro stands at the edge of a precipice and talks to the people who live in his head, “Apparently I’m insane. I’ve always known something was wrong.
‘As a child my best friend was invisible to everyone but me. He taught me a great deal about the world. When I reached puberty he became a substitute for the love I never received from my parents. I drifted into a coma where we could be together in our own world. The doctors tried everything to wake me. As I now understand the situation, my parents insisted I must be “normal” in order to continue the family name. The doctors shot me with experimental drugs, immersed me in freezing water, and convulsed me with electricity.
‘I was finally dragged from my ideal world and reborn. My parents insisted it was a miracle granted by God. I know better. It was a trick of the light, a quantum entanglement. My friend, the best part of myself, was erased, never to return. I was adrift in this world, pretending to be normal. I barely graduated from college. My grades were not the best. My parents spread stories about my scholarly achievements (all lies). I proceeded to get a job as a dishwasher; it was all I could handle. Of course when asked, my parents claimed I was an attorney. They set me up on dates, hoping against hope I would marry. When anyone discovered I was a poor dishwasher my relationship quickly ended. To stay sane, I took drugs and went to raves to dance the demons out of my head. I loved drugs, especially psychedelics.
‘When the Rapture came, I was prepared. It did not arrive as predicted back in 2011… nothing changed. The Rapture actually occurred much earlier in 1975. I’m the only one who knows the truth: the Apocalypse has already happened… this is the aftermath.
‘History ended in 1975. The people who were Raptured have been forgotten: parents, friends and lovers have been erased from our minds. They’ve all been taken to another world (Heaven?). Reality has been replaced by Virtuality (computer graphics and 3-D illusions). The End War has been raging continuously since 1975 (the year that Time stopped). I can see phantoms of the war: Jesus dressed in armor lopping off heads, demons with bazookas, and the plane of Megiddo swimming in blood. Ruptures appear everywhere: cities crumbling, endless wars, and pandemics. The world is broken. The End has already happened.”
D’Angelo remarked, “the worst is yet to come.” Just as the words left his lips Bondeer Saville floated in on a whiff of calamity. The man in the chair looked up from his self imposed stupor. He recognized Bondeer and the baggage she always carried. She was all sparkles: she vibrated like an animated GIF, she radiated like an emoticon. She entered the office with a rowdy group of teen-immortals called the Night Flashers (they belonged to Bondeer). They came through a portal that connected the Virtual World with the physical world. Many years ago, the Night Flashers were mortal… they evolved. They became electronic personas… they live in the infrared-signals that glow like bloody entrails: Jonny Bone, Daniel Ot, Cream Carmella, and Tonga Zip. They came to create chaos.
The doctor in charge of the case was overwhelmed. Too many patients were dying. The virus was blamed. Dr. Gabriel suspected something else was involved. The virus was analysed, dissected, and digitized. The epidemiology was complete — nothing more needed to be done. Vaccines were in development; however, death tolls continued to rise. The patient lay on a gurney. He was in a coma brought on by a high-grade fever.
In the lobby all the TV screens lit up. It was another briefing from the White House Task Force. Hollywood was involved. Special effects were added to heighten the excitement and generate more viewers. The President wanted to calm the American People and gain greater campaign support for the next election. At this juncture, He used TV instead of giant rallies where the virus could easily be spread. Every few minutes TV ads popped up as a way to revise the stricken economy. The ads extolled the benefits of expensive drugs, life insurance, and funeral arrangements. Business as usual was the theme. The President put on a Happy Face in the face of the pandemic. He did not want to look too serious and add credence to the dire scientific reports. The President, along with his most fervent fans, did not believe in science. He believed in happy talk, “This is not a pandemic… This is just another flu. We are in the midst of an annual flu season. Easy peasy.”
He no longer took questions from traditional news services. His fans were brought in to replace reporters. “What about all the deaths?”One skeptical fan asked responding to the new statistics.
“Deaths?” The uneasy President responded, “let me tell you something. Death is inevitable. Everyone dies. Numbers mean nothing. I am looking to a Greater Future… that’s why I have thousands of commercial sponsors to back up our new medical protocols.”
Gabriel’s patient was dreaming he was a man about to die. His memories were disjointed and he didn’t know his name. He knew he was searching for something. He was on a journey, an odyssey. Images floated through his fevered brain. He was only certain of the physical sensations that ravaged his body — he was old. His body ached and his mind was torn like a ragged doll (with stuffing coming through the ripped seams). He had an amazing life… several lives. Every time he thought he reached a safe harbor the winds changed and a new life emerged from the depths of his being. There were many wonderful experiences. When he was very young there were miracles. One time he was given a key to unlock the Akashic Records. He forgot as he grew older and his lives changed. His memories were loose and fragmented. He was never part of the world… nothing seemed real. His best memory was meeting his partner and getting married. For a few short years everything was good, he was valued. He knew love.
It was Mr. Mongoose, a 300 pound man, who tipped the scales resulting in a fracture in time. Mongoose was a mobster/businessman who owned The House of Blue Lights where Miss Silica Wayfarer sang for her supper. She was a frail damsel in distress. When she wasn’t singing the blues she was selling her body at cut-rate prices. It was an addiction. Perhaps, Silica was a victim of abuse; maybe she was under the influence of powerful subliminal suggestions; or, perhaps, she simply loved sex. Mongoose knew the story and he catered to her addiction with the glee of a 14 year old boy; but it wasn’t sex he was after… it was control. Mr. Mongoose was driven by the compulsion to have power over everything: people, sex, drugs, and money. He wanted the whole mega-metropolis to kneel down before his mighty girth. He was nicknamed The Coyote because he slinked through the city always ready to pounce.
The blue lights in the house were iridescent and alive with radiation. Mongoose enjoyed toying with his customers. He irradiated them to make them more receptive to robocalls and subliminal messages.
Silica was propped-up on stage. Her naked body glistened in the blue lights. Smoke poured off her reinforced breasts as she fornicated to the electronic beats. The audience was transfixed by the blue emanations streaming from cell phones and computer screens. No one watched the stage. Everything had to be an offshoot of the original. The ideal launching pad was six degrees from reality. Mongoose was in his element, controlling the masses. He wanted fodder for his new endeavor: destruction on a mass scale. He would have to harness the energy of a particle accelerator. It would give him control over Time itself; but even in his addled brain it seemed like an outlandish plan. Mongoose wondered if he was being controlled by some entity outside himself… that was his worst nightmare. He often had dreams that featured blue aliens — three creatures that looked like puppy-dogs except for their color, Yves Klein Blue. In the nightmare, the aliens crossed the barrier that surrounds Earth. At first they appeared like fluffy balls of light… Mongoose was not an easy man to scare, but fluffy balls of light horrified him. He had to bring his bizarre plan to fruition in order to save himself from the aliens.
Music was always a distraction. It was supposed to calm the patients, but it often had the opposite effect. The music sounded like cats drowning in a barrel. The voice of Silica Wayfarer overflowed in atonal waves from the loud speakers. Patients began to riot. The only person who sat calmly and quietly was Pomeroy-Zen. He wasn’t certain if his name was fiction or non-fiction; but he subscribed to his apparent name with the entirety of his mental capacity. Pomeroy’s life was festooned with riddles. He wasn’t certain if he was in a hospital or jail. He didn’t know if he was a slave to a corrosive addiction which may have resulted in his incarceration; or, if he simply slipped from the moorings of reality with a nervous breakdown. He relied on his digital Sidekick for answers. After meditating in the midst of the riot, Pomeroy questioned his Sidekick, “where am I?”
“Thomas,” the Sidekick always addressed Pomeroy as Thomas, “you are in a Transpersonal Environment built from the expectations of a majority of disenchanted Homo sapiens.”
“Why am I here?” Pomeroy tweeted.
“People have been brought to this node as a protection from the harm they may cause to themselves, other people, or institutions. A legal precedent has just been uploaded and approved.”
“Is there a way out?”
“There is no way out, but there is a way In. The further In you go, the more distance you will travel from the current situation.”
There was never a clear-cut answer about anything. It was frustrating, but also illuminating in a Zen kind of way.
Pomeroy hooked up with Silica Wayfarer. No sex was involved. The hook up was purely for practical considerations and survival was a top priority. They had reasons to escape the current situation. Mr. Mongoose and his thugs appeared at every intersection.
The besieged couple had credentials (facsimiled by Pomeroy’s Sidekick). For their own protection they became different people, a married couple, Mr. and Mrs. Arturo and Monica Bracket — no longer addicted to sex or Zen. Consequently (for all intents and purposes) they were archeological explorers purportedly searching for an ancient artifact known to be buried in the Amazon Jungle. Previously they lived in the city of Amazonia, not far from the jungle. All the evidentiary facts fit like a glove.
Mongoose was discouraged. He got sidetracked by other concerns, devastation being his main objective. The scales were already tipped and Time was running out. The aliens, whether real or imagined, yapped and barked like feral dogs.
In 2018 a digital article was published stating the mathematical proof of Time Travel and the possibility of building a Time Machine. All that was missing were the exotic materials necessary to construct the device. In the ensuing years, new exotic-materials were developed and made available.
Mr. Mongoose was a businessman with a bad comb-over. He was an interloper who lusted after power.
Arturo and Monica were having tea on the veranda. They were visiting Professor Kulio’s country home in Patagonia.
“We have to settle our accounts before heading off to the jungle,” Arturo whispered to Monica.
“Yes, darling. We are lucky the professor has agreed to back our expedition.”
“He loves antiquity. He believes the past is buried in the Amazon along with a key to our very survival.”
An end is another beginning (Zen Koan).
We are plagued by funerals. We aspire to slip into a future beyond death.
The jungle is riff with dangers. There is always a man with a big gun.
Arturo and Monica Bracket checked the want-ads through the Talking Drum Network in order to find a guide. Harry Numumba fit the bill. He was a member of the Baka tribe of Pygmies. He had a degree from Oxford and he was well versed in myths concerning lost cities and ancient artifacts. Harry was well traveled and he had a map of the Amazon tattooed on his back.
The Brackets conscripted several native bearers and a boat ironically named, The African Queen. They set out on the seventh day of the seventh month at the seventh hour.
“The artifact you seek,” Harry Numumba succinctly spat out the words, “is most likely located in the lost city of Akuna Gimba near the mouth of the great Amazon River.”
Arturo and Monica were shocked and surprised. They heard of Akuna Gimba. The name translated as The Land of the Dying Sun.
The river boat excursion unraveled like the slippery back of a giant sea serpent. Nights on the river were fierce with the maniacal sounds of predators and the glistening lights reflected off the eyes of beasts along the river’s edge. The journey on the African Queen wound down to a stuttering silence as Lands End rose from the murky depths.
The group disembarked at the mouth of the Amazon. Several of the native bearers were too frightened to continue into the rain forest. The native word for devastation was repeated again and again.
The remaining group traveled through a jungle-web of intolerable conditions. Harry led the way. Monstrous plants seemed to rise up and attack the group with poisonous thorns. Mosquitoes the size of fists pummeled the group with unrelenting stings. Two native bearers succumbed to the devastating perils. Monica suffered from a bout of life threatening dysentery. Arturo was put out of commission for several days after wrenching his back. Thereafter he had to be dragged along on a makeshift stretcher.
In the early dawn of the seventh week the ruins of a city rose out of the blue mist. The city appeared to welcome the remaining travelers, but it was a grisly welcome. Death was all that could be seen. The city was a tomb consisting of shattered buildings and petrified bones.
Arturo and Monica continued undaunted to the site of the artifact rumored to be a network or large cave shielded by a pitch black monolith. The stone marker was visible from where they stood. The monolith offered protection (or a warning), but the entrance into the cave was unobstructed.
The inside of the cave appeared to glow with an acidic blue light. The source of the light could have been the luminous fungus that covered the walls of the cave, but that was not the case. There was a sarcophagus in the middle of the floor. It wasn’t made of stone. It was metal. It was stainless steel and it glowed blue. A clear glass visor covered the top of the sarcophagus. A face was clearly visible behind the visor. It was a face out of Time, from a long lost century. Monica and Arturo stared at one another as Time began to unravel. They turned back to the machine. They recognized the face of the 300 pound man, the man who fractured Time.
Tom Bisant dream’t he was an astronaut who just returned from a twenty year journey to Enceladus, Saturn’s moon. He rode a Super Stegosaurus rocket… It slipped through time on the wings of a Proton-Drive Engine.
Space surrounded Tom like a cold, black room. He saw a gray shadow, a stand-in for death. The shadow staggered across a make-shift stage while struggling to perform a song-and-dance routine. When he was a teenager Tom wanted to be a comedian, but he was never ready to perform in public so he became an astronaut instead. The dark hole of space gave him time to think and revise his comedy act.
When the ship landed on Enceladus Tom was met by a younger version of himself.
“Look… they see me coming and they want me to screw them. I’m a celebrity. Women let me do whatever I want.”
“Obviously,” Doctor Zosimo Kulio replied, “the stress of your new job is making you feel inadequate so you compensate with bravado.”
“Hey, what gives… I’m here for your support. I thought we had a deal.”
“Oh, dear… no deal… you were ordered by your manager to get an evaluation and, in my professional opinion, all your man talk is covering up a deep seeded sense of inadequacy and most likely homosexual tendencies.”
“Fake news!! You must be working for the networks. I’ll sue!!”
When Tom Bisant returned to Earth he was old. No one remembered him. People were no longer interested in space flight. Everyone retreated into Virtual Reality, self-contained versions of Paradise. Real world scenarios were too complicated to understand, let alone manage. The real world was binary and everyone was sold on digital. The binary world was characterized by conflict, opposites, compromise, and adjustment. The digital world was always perfect and seamless.
The memo slithered out of congress like a viper. The ruling party was committed to building a bigger, better swamp. The memo was a distraction meant to inhibit enforcement of the law.
There were aliens on Enceladus living beneath the ocean that covered the moon.
Tom was a relic. He tried to talk to his estranged lover who he hadn’t seen for twenty years. It was impossible to bridge the gap. She was no longer present. She slipped the moorings of time-and-space and hung quiescent in some VR holding cell. What can you say to an empty shell?
Tom faced disaster everywhere. Space was an escape. Back on Earth disaster loomed large. The doctor prescribed pain-killers and anti-anxiety medication. Thoughts of suicide increased (a side effect caused by the drugs). A dark street hid malicious intent: strangers suddenly appeared like ghosts, asking questions and demanding information. He worried constantly about unlocked doors and faulty electrical-wiring. The plumbing in his home moaned like a wounded elephant. The house creaked. The TV assaulted him with ads and news about government shut-downs and social unrest. Tom longed for the peace of Enceladus.
We all crave attention. We are obsessed with celebrities on TV. We are social creatures so we create terrifying acts of mass murder. We want to be remembered. It is impossible to escape danger. The sun gives Cancer. The air contains contaminants that lead to COPD.
There is no way to justify an abduction in the middle of this narrative; still, it happened. Millie Vincent from Moorpark, Idaho was reported missing on the morning of February Fifth. Although she returned two days later, many unanswered questions remained. Where did she go and why? No one believed she was abducted by a UFO, but that’s what she described. UFO abductions are as common as cattle mutilations and crop circles, but no one believes those events occur either. Millie’s story had a strange twist. She recalled everything that happened on the UFO. Her description of the alien ship was like nothing ever reported before. The inside of the craft looked exactly like a karaoke bar with decor from the 1960’s. Rock music was blasting. A few gray aliens were also in attendance. Most surprising to Millie were the people in the bar. She recognized many government officials led by the Commander-in-Chef who let loose a disco rendition of the Star-Spangled Banner. The officials cheered, bowed, and praised his glory. The aliens took notes.
On Enceladus Tom Bisant confronted his younger self. The boy was fragile and insecure. He tried being the class clown in order to make friends. His comedy hung in the air like flatulence and Tom ended up in the Principal’s office. The boy was humiliated and wanted to commit suicide. His mother’s pills mixed with alcohol would do the trick. At the final moment the boy had a vision of himself as an astronaut. His life was saved.
Corporations gained profits and the stock market hit greater highs since the new president was elected. But, it was all negligible. There were rumors of a pole shift. The president was beginning to feel trapped by the fake news hammering him from every media outlet along with low poll ratings. A new plan was hatched. When in doubt spread the wealth, shore up the base, and lower taxes for power brokers and lobbyists. .
The administration supported a new Black Label miracle beverage to be marketed to all segments of the population. It was a scientific breakthrough that promised a universal cure-all and remedy for the ailments of old age. If people couldn’t afford to purchase the drink it would be given out for free. A Day of Reckoning and Reconciliation was declared when everyone (as one) would drink the Black Label.
Tom Bisant knew it was a sham. The life he led was make believe. He tried and failed would be written on his tombstone. His career as an astronaut and the journey to Enceladus happened in his brain after taking LSD while listening to Jimmy Hendricks. He confronted himself in his head… Time seemed to stop. When his turn came he would gladly sip the beverage along with everyone else.
“This is my bed of lies,” Miranda Monologue wrote while reclining on her memory-foam mattress. She was recording recent events: celebrity news, politics and gossip. It was a depressing occupation. Although she tried to lighten her task with subtle humor there was no way to soften the effects of “breaking news.” Screens (computers and TV’s) never lied… only the clandestine power-brokers behind the screens told lies. Miranda had to sift for the truth, but to survive as a mid-level journalist she had to create lies of her own. Her room was a pod constructed from computer-glass that linked all her devices and screens. She was bombarded by layers of images and information-archives. Miranda was contemplating her next text message when her I-pad barked, “you in the wrong place, bitch!”
“Not again,” she thought as she slipped back into the storm.
Timothy Hardwick was thin, but years at sea hardened him into an iron-spike of a man who could tackle any seafaring job. He was a merchant marine aboard the USS Porpoise. He was part of the crew in 1838 when the expedition confirmed the existence of Antarctica. Currently the ship and crew were circumnavigating the globe. The Porpoise was an old sailing ship that was recently refurbished, but the storm tore into the hull like a raging demon. Timothy braced himself with several gulps from the flask he always carried. The liquid burned like a blue flame. He picked up the habit when he was 14 on his personal maiden voyage. Now, he needed the blue flame more than ever as the ocean became an impenetrable wall of fury.
The screens showed documentaries about the past along with visions of the future. Sometimes history became confused, unhinged. Virtual Reality facilitated the multi-sensory experience of events and interpersonal relationships. Promotions and ads were the common thread that stitched the Virtual Worlds together into a seamless spectacle.
Miranda Monologue was back in her perch above High Castle. She was screwing a platinum-blond octogenarian known as the Stone Man. He giggled with rapture as he plunged his bloated libido into her pink pussy avatar. She was seeking leaked information as she wrapped her cybernetic legs around Stone’s overblown ego. “Roger, Roger,” his I-phone bleeped. It was an emergency message in code directed at Stone’s avatar. The thrill of high stakes espionage coupled with Miranda Monologue’s sexual virtuosity triggered a mental orgasm and Stone verbally exploded, “HARP!” The truth vomited from Stone’s mouth about a shadow government and experiments to control both the weather and people’s brains, HARP. Stone cut the virtual connection. Miranda slide helplessly back into the beckoning sea.
“Ru Paul’s Drag Race” and “The Bachelor” were playing on screens above the bar. Another screen showed a commercial about “Manna,” an artificial food substance manufactured by Heaven, Inc. One ad followed another: face creams, fat removal, Mega-Max Cars and McMansions. The biggest screen showed a large, blustery man at a podium who yelled, “family is off limits.”
“Too much attention is given to that guy,” Axel Ramirez spoke to his fifth whiskey-sour who he named, Harvey. His words ran together in a mumbled slurry.
“I couldn’t agree more,” the whiskey-sour replied. Axel felt a strong sense of empathy emanating from his drink. It was an antidote to the gloom that pervaded the bar as it slowly sank into the flood. It was only the beginning. Irma was in the wings along with her whole family of weather related disasters.
Timothy Hardwick slammed against the sea wall and shattered. It wasn’t the end… he came together in pieces like droplets of water drying in the sun. He was frozen on a shelf of ice. The ship and crew were intact, back in Antarctica where their odyssey began. They found something on that first expedition and what they discovered brought them back. A black hole in the ice revealed a dead city, a lost civilization.
Miranda Monologue wrote feverishly on her I-pad screen. The story had a life of it’s own. She didn’t know where it came from or how it entered her brain. She saw Timothy Hardwick enter the ice-castle in the underground city. He moved like a dead man, stunned by the emerging structures surrounding him. He was drawn to a room deep in the bowels of the castle. Lights, powered by some unknown source, flickered in the gloom. The room was a rotunda. Figures sat on thrones lined up against the wall. Timothy felt his skin tingle and crawl in an attempt to escape. The figures were alive, but they were not human! A living movie flowed like acid into his brain revealing armored men with torches bent on destruction. Timothy couldn’t decode the information. Miranda was trying to communicate with him, trying to explain. He was witnessing the Cabal: ancients, aliens who observed the world and judged mankind. More was revealed about ordinary men, government puppets… and about one man who would set up a Patriarchy and make himself king. Insanity was in the works, but if necessary, the Cabal had a final solution.
The nation was shedding tears — torn apart by lies, innuendoes, and tweets. One rumor talked about a tenth planet, Nibiru, heading toward Earth on a collision course. Conspiracy theories abounded about an invasion from space. People sought refuge in social media. Celebrities were worshiped.
World News: “The Mistress glides across the flooded-plane in ten-inch heels like a stork.” — “The First Family leads the nation in both fashion and compassion lending a helping hand to people in need.”
The Stone Man reacted quickly, “What’s the goddamn emergency,” he yelled. He was led into a room at the palace and told to take a chair and watch the screen. He was about to watch events that were recorded within the last hour.
The king was giving a rousing speech to his most supportive troops. The men in the crowd signaled their obedience with raised arms and flaming torches. All members of the Royal Family were on stage showing gratitude to the adoring crowd. Drums beat. Trumpets blared. TV cameras captured every moment. The king beamed, “we will make this country great, again.”
A shot rang out. It wasn’t unexpected. The king had enemies. The shot sounded like a ping: spit hitting the rim of a spittoon. The king was an ardent supporter of open-carry laws to arm all citizens. An angry growl was voiced by the assembled partisans blaming “lefty’s” and foreigners for the deed. Fights broke out as the crowd tore itself apart. The family stood on stage frozen in shock and awe. The king was dead. The family was in crisis revealed before the cameras. The Baron dropped the smoking gun. No one suspected — he was just a child. The boy suffered from too many years of abject neglect at the hands of narcissistic adults. He snapped.
There was a universal sigh of relief. Even the royal family was glad to be out of the political spotlight. The king had become unstable. His deals had gone sour so he lashed out. He put everyone in embarrassing situations and mocked them when they failed to meet his insatiable demands. The first lady was at last free to enjoy her liaison with a much younger and more attractive man. Only the Baron suffered the consequences of his action, but it was a light sentence. He was committed to an institution for privileged delinquents. No one really blamed the Baron. The nation truly loved him and, one day, he was determined to be back in the spotlight… and maybe run for a political office.
David Oblivion met Mr. Hamm on the Street of Dreams in Angel City. Hamm was an ambassador from Hell. Nothing could change the present. The outcome was inevitable.
Marty Mekum could hear the dream resonating in his brain like a land-mine about to explode. He told himself, there is no such place as Hell. The characters in his mind were as flimsy as used tissue.
Marty consistently asked questions trying to justify his life. His hands were frozen, stiff with age. He could no longer paint the images that populated his mind. His days working as an artist were over.
Marty left his lover in the past. They stood on a precipice overlooking the Arizona Desert. It was a tumultuous period in their lives. The world seemed to be drowning in a golden-shower of crass abuse and excess. The only way to live was to escape.
Protest marches and benefit concerts became routine. Demonstrations were another form of escape… bolstering a false sense of security. Drug overdoses became commonplace. The lovers lived in a haze of chemical enhancement… on the precipice — suddenly, Marty jumped, leaving his partner & lover behind.
“How are you, Marty?” The cyborg-appliance asked.
“How’s the weather?” Marty replied.
“Same as always… gray.”
Marty Mekum was from the future, but no one believed him. He wanted to save the world, but no one listened. By the time he recorded this story, he was very old. He came of age in the future by giving birth to himself. The Home cared for Marty. The Home was a network of prosthetic extensions that fed, manipulated, and recorded Marty’s existence to use as a merchandising incentive. People had inherent (but limited) monetary value. When inherent value was used up everything could be recycled and reused. All accounts were itemized and reviewed on Twitter. Capital gains and losses were tweeted daily.
Angina Splint was an account executive in the Golden Tower. She didn’t know Marty. She wasn’t concerned with other people’s problems or predicaments. Angina lived for the bottom-line. She loved her job. Perks were numerous. Gold Cadillacs abounded. Designer drugs sweetened the pot. Zombies moved into the cubicle across the hall, but Angina wasn’t bothered. Her office suite was large enough to flatten any zombie invasion.
Angina’s mom lived at the Home a few doors down from Marty Mekum. There was a cost incentive to visit mom once a year. Values were exchanged and increased. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. Mom was always changing, trying to increase her value. She was a programmer from the last century so she knew her business. Mom’s brain was mush, puree — it didn’t matter as long as she could offer some amusing entertainment. She had to adapt. Capital gain was the name of the game. She often mimicked Hitler and harassed the “Juden.” Mom was a member of the Baby Generation. Baby clones ruled the world. The unborn were silent no longer.
Angina loved visiting mom — the money kept pouring in. Mom wore a blue hat and began to tick like a time-bomb — pure entertainment. Angina gushed.
The prosthetic appliances at the Home were plugging holes with stoppers trying to halt the flow of effluvium from the newest, Last War. Marty Mekum would have none of it. He began to rant, “the mad man in the tower is becoming more powerful each day writing new edicts, shaping the world into his own chthonic image. I hear the death rattle throttle.”
Angina caught the drift of Mekum’s riff. She was briefly mesmerized, cauterized by words she never heard. Meanings were resplendent.
Dr. Zosomo came to the rescue with an enema plunger to eradicate the excess verbiage.
Marty bespoke, “this is a drift into dark-matter. There are Nine Levels.”
No one understood. Angina and mom were determined to continue espousing the words of the baby prophet. It was a disaster: Matricide with suicidal tendencies.
“No one is free,” Marty sneezed, “we are all Him subject to the same corruption.”
The aliens took notes, gleefully observing the debacle. Too late it was revealed: He was controlled by dark servitors from beyond the veil. Dorian Gray lisped in brilliant decay.
A poet scrawled new codes on a bathroom wall.
The email scandal caused the election to slip and slide leading to the inauguration of Balbek, the new leader. Balbek was a celebrity. Some said he was a business man. Others said he was a comedian.
Jeff Sumak sat enraptured before the screens in a Virtual Chatter-Cafe. The screens told the glorious story of Balbek. Orlow Fabricatum, the reporter from “Future Lies” took notes. The reporter interjected remarks that dripped like acid from the proboscis of a fly, “Balbek is a virtual conceit, not a real person at all.” Jeff was dismayed. He had faith in the new leader.
Everything depended on the wall-of-secrecy meant to keep out invaders. Balbek claimed the nation was crumbling due to alien invasions. He vowed to correct past mistakes and make everything great again. Jeff dissolved inside himself recalling past mistakes.
Jeff was an angry man. He was recently laid off from his lucrative management position and forced to work part time. His girlfriend left him for another man. His condo needed repairs he couldn’t afford. It was all the fault of big government: there were too many bureaucrats with their fingers in the pie. Government was a thief – stealing from people like him to pay for healthcare, welfare, roads, and schools. It was all a boondoggle as far as Jeff was concerned. Newly elected Vern Balbek promised salvation from the problems facing the nation. Jeff was encouraged by this new patriot, a business man with a plan for real change.
The first major change had nothing to do with Jeff’s primary concerns, but it aimed at improving the nation: babies were given voting rights. The new laws were designed to support the family and ban all abortion. Balbek stated, “New life is God given and must be protected at all cost – even at the expense of the expendable mother.” Jeff was very happy about the new laws promoting the status of men over women.
Jeff realized he always deserved more respect. Other People needed to follow his suggestions. Women should be more attentive and subordinate. Jeff loved to bang women (that was his only pleasure in life) so why shouldn’t they be more accommodating? Balbek made it happen. Balbek was on television bragging about his affairs with women. He said women were drawn to his magnetic charm. He could do whatever he wanted. Women submitted willingly because he was a celebrity — a celebrity with balls.
Jeff worshiped Balbek and the changes he promoted. Balbek gave a weekly sermon on national TV. It became the highest grossing program in the nation. Balbek opened Step-up camps for orphans and “poor” children so they could learn proper etiquette and good working habits. Step-up led to Helping Hands to put the children and the nation’s unemployed back to work … in factories and mines … in kitchens and bathrooms. The economy boomed, stimulated by low-cost labor. Jeff joined the Orange Guard. He was paid well to enforce laws that protected corporate entities from unruly masses and worker dissent. He was respected and well armed – he didn’t have to press too hard for women to grant him sexual favors.
The stock market soared when Balbek declared, “Peace in the East.” The peace was enforced by newly conscripted troops made up of youth from Step-up camps. Members of the Orange Guard were ordered to keep the new troops in line. Jeff Sumak became an officer commanding a forsaken outpost in a mud hole on the side of a mountain. His life took a turn for the worse. His troops were ill equipped. Jeff’s requests for better weapons and basic necessities were never answered. He saw teenagers ripped apart by artillery and bombs. Jeff complained to higher ups about the deplorable conditions. After several months sending emails, he received an answer – he was taken to headquarters. Jeff was put in a room, in solitary confinement and abandoned. He was no longer of any use to Balbek. In his cell, Jeff began to suspect that Balbek was an invader, an alien sent to dismantle order and sanity – sent as an advance guard before the main invasion.
Balbek frowned. He peered through a one-way glass to inspect Jeff Sumak. The man was obviously disassembling. Jeff had been under Dr. Balbek’s care for more than a year. There was no improvement. Balbek knew Jeff had a personality disorder. He suspected his patient harbored multiple personalities. Jeff often called himself Balbek, the boss who changed the world.
Jeff stared at a reflection of himself. He no longer believed he was a powerful dictator or an alien invader … now, Jeff believed he was a psychiatrist – Dr. Balbek. The real Jeff Sumak lost himself; or perhaps, he never existed.
“Of course, I’m entitled,” Svetleena Finkel shouted, “it’s my 107th birthday!” She was standing on the balustrade overlooking the Moon-Yard, an authentic reproduction of the first interstellar outpost built on the moon. She looked postal covered in a neon radiation shield and waving a light-saber. She was talking to the notorious journalist, Orlow Fabricatum, and she gushed with privilege and enthusiasm, “I’ve seen it all and done it all. I’ve had many lifetimes during this one life … and I was here for the end of the world.”
“I had no idea,” Orlow simpered as he sipped from a bowl of rancid blood, “tell me more.”
“It began in the 1930’s right before the rise of Hitler. I was quite naive. It was before my first transformation. I was a pretty boy named Sven and there was no work in Berlin. You see, I was an orphan. I never knew my real parents. I ended up as a hustler, turning tricks and stealing wallets.”
“I’m not surprised,” Orlow confessed, “it was a bad time.”
“Indeed,” Svetleena chortled, “but not nearly as bad as what followed: the Nazis, Hitler, and the invasion of the Meat Puppets.”
The post Post-World happened many years after Sven became Svetleena. She experienced many transformations through the magic-science of age-reversal and mutant genetics. Once she was commodified as an extraterrestrial! For a short period she was actually a Meat Puppet, but that was a cover-identity when she worked as a spy.
“I’m the lynch-pin, you know,” she explained to Orlow while they consumed great quantities of nitrous Oxide and infused alcohol, “I made it happen … the end of the world.”
“I suspected as much, my dear; but I didn’t want to spoil your surprise.”
“You are a sweetie. If you weren’t the proverbial fly on the wall, I’d marry you.”
“Oh, Svetleena, you know marriage is no longer fashionable. Even so, these days, anything is possible. We could marry, but I’d only be after your money.”
“You devil! At least you are honest.”
During the period of Global Disruption, when Hitler rose from the dead, Svetleena/Sven met Boris Riesling and fell in love. Boris was a sensitive teenager trapped in an old man’s body. He had a hero-complex that appealed to Sven who was still working as a hustler.
Svetleena continued, “no one knew the new Nazis were really Meat Puppets from beyond the Rim. Our love was beautiful and lasting until Boris was arrested for deviancy and imprisoned. I never knew why I was not charged, perhaps because I had salient information about several powerful individuals.”
Sven became a spy in order to defeat the Meat Puppets. It led to the first transformation. In order to fool the enemy, Sven had to become the enemy.
One transformation led to another. The Meat Puppets were disguising themselves as human, trying to acquire human characteristics, having sex with human females. Sven became Svetleena in order to seduce and conquer the Alien Race. Her hybrid beauty drew them out like a magnet. Meat Puppets in high places were exposed, but being Aliens, they were sore losers with the impulse to destroy what they could not have.
The strain from stress-producing encounters and intrigue became too much for everyone involved in the drama of world domination and retribution. The invading Meat Puppets never took into account the terrifying tedium of traffic jams. Television kept interfering with interplanetary communication. Advertising on digital devices scrambled the invader’s brains. The plans to camouflage themselves as human failed when the Meat Puppets became too human. Seduced by TV commercials they became consumers driven to acquire goods and services they didn’t understood resulting in confusion and erratic behavior. The disruption put an end to everything.
The post Post-World was reconstituted in Dr. Boris Riesling’s laboratory. Everything is now in post production.
“I am Svetleena Finkel and I’m 107 years old. We are all Meat Puppets!”