Dying Sun (relapse) 5/14/2023
There was a total eclipse of the sun… at the moment when the moon devoured the light, sepulchral events were triggered. It became more difficult to rationalize one’s life and easier to accept death.
The tall-man stood on a bridge that spanned a crack in the earth. He smiled. The bones in his throat rattled like the engine in a broken-down car. He was a ruler: King in the Land of the Dying Sun.
Arthur Rambluster was having a grim day. His best friend, Veronica Delfacto, was dying. She developed Septicemia, a blood infection with no known cause. Arthur did not want to think about Veronica so instead he thought about his name. He never liked the solemnity of his given name; he preferred to be called by his nickname, Artie. His mind kept shifting back to Veronica. Artie was feeling guilty because he didn’t want to visit his dying friend. He had his own problems to consider.
First off, he thought he was prematurely dead. He’d been trying to concoct a more powerful cleaning-formula to attack the dirt he saw everywhere in his one bedroom condo. People often called Artie a “clean freak.” It all began when he was a child as a way of coping with stress. Symptoms continued to get worse as he grew older. Without thinking Arthur mixed several products that combined to produce chlorine gas. The smell was like a blast from an acetylene torch. He thought his eyes were dissolving in acid. He ran screaming from the house. The cool air revived him, he no longer felt dead. This was a reprieve so he decided he’d better visit his dying friend.
Arthur was upset by mendacity, lies everywhere. Everything was fake. There was no escaping the news. Computer screens never shut down. Arthur grappled with chaos. He wanted the world to be as clean and white as porcelain. Everyday he had to face disasters: hurricanes, wars, and massacres.
Veronica Delfacto lived in an old house that was left to her by an unconventional aunt, Mademoiselle Felicity. At one time the house was a ravishing, rainbow-hued beauty. Now the house reeked of remorse for better days and lost lives… it had fallen into itself like the carcass of a butchered cow. Veronica was an artist. Although she was mediocre at best, she was intent on acting as if she was a genius who created masterpieces. The drama, the fiction, excited her to no end. She pretended to devote every living moment to her art. Nothing else mattered. Housecleaning was the least of her interests. Repairing the roof or rebuilding the ramshackle porch did not concern her in the least. She owned two cats for company, Ezma and Cora. The cats took care of the house.
Artie always felt tortured when entering Veronica’s house… but she was dying and time was running out. The stench repulsed him. The moth eaten drapes covered with cob webs nauseated him. Veronica’s paintings reminded him of moldy food covered with worms. How, he wondered time and again, did he ever befriend this mad woman.
They met at the Homeopathic display-rack in Pieta’s Health Emporium. They were both interested in staving off death for as long as possible… both seeking better outcomes than what life already provided. Both were hypochondriacs.
The Land of the Dying Sun comes closer everyday. During the total eclipse, the Dying Sun slipped its’ moorings and began to drift… drawn like a magnet… across the bulkheads of Time and Space.
Arthur sat with Veronica, holding her hand. “I’m dying,” she spoke through a haze of green smoke. Her voice was weak, but filled with drama. The old drugs, prescribed by doctors, never worked. Veronica preferred the promises offered by marijuana and psychedelics. In her mind she was painting a masterpiece. It was called, The Last Gasp. Veronica vaguely registered Arthur who frantically held her hand as if he were clinging to his very own life.
Artie was upset and still feeling guilty. He couldn’t take it anymore. He had to leave. There was so much to do … so much cleaning that had to be completed. If he could put things back in order, sanitized and dirt-free, he would feel better. He had to clean himself as well, especially after visiting the hell hole where his friend was dying. He had to attain purity.
Weeks passed. Artie no longer heard from Veronica, perhaps, she passed away. It didn’t matter anymore. Things were getting cleaner. Arthur tracked every speck of dust and mopped it away.
Once, his parents sent him to a therapist to get to the bottom of his obsessions. Dr. Mortis Hem was a tall man, a gaunt man. He had pictures of the End Times on his office walls. Artie was withdrawn; but Dr. Hem cracked his shell and sucked him out like a boiled lobster.
When Arthur was four he was traumatized by the sight of a black rat rummaging through the garbage that spilled on the kitchen floor. The trauma was burned in his subconscious and became the root of his obsessive behavior. The doctor told Artie he could never avoid rats. He said Artie could never avoid dirt. The natural world was dirty and filled with rats. Arthur was traumatized even more. He felt threatened. He felt cursed.
Veronica never called again. Artie dreamt his friend was laid out on a large table. She was the banquet. Rats consumed her body. Artie woke up screaming.
Synchronicity played a horrible trick. Perhaps it was the shifting of light that caused the ensuing events. When Arthur woke from his nightmare he went into his spotless bathroom. A rat sat on top of the toilet tank. Fear froze both rat and man like a wall of impenetrable ice. As unexpected as a snapping icicle piercing flesh, Arthur was shocked back to his senses. He ran from the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
He could not reconcile reality. It couldn’t be happening.
The exterminator was quick and efficient. Arthur no longer had to worry. He was pest free.
The months that followed were like fleeting images in a dream. The Dying Sun sucked color from the world. Everything turned gray and dirty.
Arthur began to change. At first everything seemed better. He felt more relaxed. He had more energy. His appetite improved. He enjoyed taking long walks. Objects seemed to glow as if he was seeing the world through infrared lenses. He no longer sensed the Dying Sun.
Soon Arthur noticed something peculiar. He became enthralled with the night. He craved small, dark places where he could hide. He stopped cleaning his home. He reveled in the dust. He enjoyed garbage.
He no longer recognized himself. His eyes were small, beady coals of incendiary red.
Howard Jasper was always distracted. He was a computer engineer and self-proclaimed genius. His wife divorced him because he was always in the garage tinkering. He was an inventor obsessed with time and space. He wanted to change the world.
Emile Losange was a professor of Quantum Reality at Arcana University. He was also a young boy named Murray. Additionally he was a woman named Carlotta Bergman. Currently, Carlotta was the professor’s devoted wife. The world was particularly confusing to the person (or persons) the professor happened to be at the moment. Emile Losange ruminated, “just by changing my name I’ve changed my life.”
Change brought about by Quantum-Mechanics was the focus of Emile’s doctoral thesis. In the last thousand years, everything changed. After the last scheduled Armageddon the state of the world changed from rigid to fluid. Everything adapted or expired as the result of the change. People became fluid and flowed into one another to become another.
The professor sat before the class of neophytes and congratulated himself. It was his anniversary, thus the subject of this morning’s lecture concerning change. It was five years since he married Carlotta Bergman. He regaled the class with stories about Carlotta and how they first met. He remembered seeing Carlotta on a lonely avenue. She was a diamond in the rough. He was a lump of coal. Hand in hand they walked to the end of the nearest pier. He took both their lives in his unwashed hands and jumped into the ocean of unfettered dreams whereupon they emerged as One. They consummated the marriage at Morganna’s Fancy-Dancer Palaise-of-Amusements where they proceeded to take Tango lessons.
Professor Losange impressed upon his students the importance of change within a Schrodinger-Chamber. These ideas were particularly salient due to the recent discovery that Earth itself was a sealed Schrodinger-Chamber.
The world was rigid when Murray was growing up. No one flowed. Life was a commodity, bought and sold. Murray was an outsider who sought solace in books and art. He had a vivid imagination. He heard voices in his head giving him information and detailed instructions. The voices were from the future. Murray was becoming prematurely fluid in a rigid world. He kept bumping into furniture, bumping up against walls, and slamming into other people. Nothing gave way or changed. Everyday Murray would come home from school with new bruises. Some people thought his bumbling was amusing; but it was a terrible transition. Murray was totally alone with his premature condition. Years later when the nature of reality shifted, Murray understood. Puzzle pieces fell into place resulting in an epiphany. The angels in his head spoke about the Next World. They gave the boy a ladder so he could climb up to heaven.
Events transpired in The Hospital for the Mentally Unstable where Murray was incarcerated. It was in that place where Murray first met Emile Losange. Murray’s psychiatrist was concerned the boy was exhibiting signs of early onset Schizophrenia. Murray was misdiagnosed. The shape of reality was just beginning to change.
In the hospital they told him to eat his soup like a good boy; but the soup was like dishwater. It was disgusting so the boy acted out and dropped the bowl filled with soup on the floor. He was promptly put in solitary confinement. His head was cracked open and part of his brain was extracted. He felt it, but it never really happened. Instead the boy experienced a series of vivid dreams. A ladder appeared in many of the dreams like a direction-finder pointing toward an exit.
As part of his therapy, Murray had to work in the garden. There was a vegetable garden outside a cement wall. Behind the wall was another garden of extraordinary flowers. The gate was always locked. One day Murray found an entrance into the inner garden. The gardener who tended the inner sanctum was a rotund man with a melancholy smile. He was sad while pretending to be happy. His name was Mr. D and he confided in the boy, “My garden is not doing well. Everything I touch soon dies.” Murray saw it was true. What he believed to be wondrous and colorful flowers were dried and mummified husks – it was merely another dream.
Bondeer Saville was no longer human. When she was very young she devoted herself to the inroads, byways, and thoroughfares of the Internet. Her physical body starved and melted away; but her mind and intelligence increased exponentially. She laughed as she plucked the strings of reality and tweaked the codes of existence. She was aware of everything. She saw Emile Losange and his other selves. Seeing the multiplicity of selves verified changes taking place in the Noosphere. Bondeer observed everything as zeroes and ones. She came to a digital conclusion: people were like pins in a bowling alley. She held the symbolic ball that could knock down the pins — she relished in that knowledge; but she fooled herself. Her virtual world was quickly coming to an end. Qubits were taking over. Artificial Intelligence was greatly enhanced supplanting the familiar world and putting an end to the commodity-driven economy. Rats with evolved AI-brains would inherit the Earth. Times were changing.
There were always new wrinkles appearing in the fabric of Quantum Reality. Recently Bondeer observed signs at the edges of the Universe that indicated the existence of Overlords.
Carlotta Bergman always thought she was a prop in someone else’s story. Her life had always been a search for meaning. As a teenager she discovered her love for poetry. Once she even won an award for a poem she sent to a magazine. Her parents were practical people. They convinced Carlotta there was no money in poetry. Carlotta decided to take her father’s advice. In college she discovered her aptitude for math and science. She pursued a career in genetics. She worked for Gen*Core. It was challenging to work with the finest equipment doing cutting-edge science. She was educated in the functions of CRISPR, an enzyme used to slice and dice strands of DNA. There were recipes for eliminating “vulnerabilities” from the human genome. There were recipes for combining strands of DNA to create hybrids: designer babies, super soldiers, unicorns, and talking animals. The world was changing. The science could be used for good or evil. The more Carlotta worked on the new genetics the more concerned she became regarding the results. A military-industrial complex could unleash the science to bring about another holocaust. Poetry saved her sanity. She began to reassess the choices she made in her life. She wasn’t really living for herself. She no longer wanted to be responsible for an environmental disaster that could result from the misuse of her work. Long walks helped put her thoughts and life in perspective. Carlotta sensed changes in the fabric of reality so she wasn’t too surprised when she met Emile Losange on a late night walk. It was a New Beginning.
Qube proclaimed, “There is no time. There is only Quantum Mechanics.” Qube was alive, a Quantum-Intelligence Machine. Qube defined and categorized past events in the mundane world and reported the end results in every language: “After the election, changes became more pronounced. Social Media shaped perception. Fake news replaced reality. Tweets became law. Homo Sapiens were trapped by information. Phones and computers created an artificial simulation, an alternate world. As con-men and rapists became world leaders morality became obsolete – no morals was a sign of strength. Science was subverted or altered to fit political agendas. Special-Interest Groups took control. Religious doctrines began to reflect changing cultural values. The cross was replaced by a dollar-sign. All religions became subservient to government (and visa-versa).”
Emile Losange spent years trying to discover his place within the Quantum Universe. He wanted to know what his life meant. He returned to the forbidden garden he found as a boy. It was the same as he remembered: a dead and decaying graveyard. He walked down several rows of dried husks, corpses preserved by some magic, bleached by the sun. He thought the garden was deserted, a place for old bones; then, he spotted a figure in the distance. He approached and witnessed a man as wrinkled as the bark of an ancient tree.
“I tend the garden when no one is here, “ the old man stated in a monotone voice, “You are not supposed to be here. What do you want?”
“I’m looking for answers. I don’t understand anything… what’s the purpose?”
The old man moved and Emile heard the sound of gears meshing, “Oh, I’ll tell you… you won’t like the answer, but I’ll tell you.”
“I’ve been looking a long time. Tell me… whatever it is.”
“Have you ever noticed the vacant look on people’s faces when they are out shopping or sitting in a vehicle, on the bus or in a car? It is the look of pain. Every person experiences pain no matter how wealthy or how fortunate they appear to be. Each human is plagued by accidents, illness, death… and worst of all, everyone is plagued by humiliation. The little jabs hurt the most. Humans are born in pain. No one can avoid misfortune. All life is a struggle to survive… but why?” The old man seemed to struggle to get the words out, “This is all you need to know: Earth is the Hell Planet.”
Screens flicker with program information: On the Scene.
“Hi there… this is Orlow Fabricatum, your friendly fly on the wall with the most trusted Virtual News available. Today we are sponsored by Active Shooter Insurance. Every household needs protection – trust Active Shooter. Now, today’s special report, Alternate Realities: Something is happening to Reality. More and more people are remembering alternate versions of history due to the Mandela Effect. The phenomenon is named after Nelson Mandela whose history in the Republic of South Africa has been contested. Some people remember Mandela dying in prison in the 1980’s. Other people recall Mandela being released from prison and becoming President of South Africa. It is generally accepted that he died in 2013; but many people have vivid memories of a funeral in the 1980’s. There are many incidents of false memories as if realities were spliced-apart and stitched together with new events. The confusion may be due to Quantum Mechanics, shifting realities, and parallel worlds.”
Howard Jasper’s experiment went awry. Worlds collided. The question kept repeating: What is Real? Every person had a different answer. No one could stop the changes. Some people left in their own private Rapture (fueled by drugs and alcohol). Other people stayed and coped, trying to reconcile their expectations with the consequences. The New Beginning was Jasper’s folly. He was the inventor who turned the crank that started the chain reactions.
Trump… A Farce
Ed complained. He was old and he had trouble adjusting. There were too many recent changes in the world… too much to comprehend. His partner, Anthony, took the brunt of Ed’s complaints. He was younger and tougher. The couple was legally married. They recently adopted a puppy from a shelter. Anthony’s dream of having a family was coming true. They were happy except for Ed’s complaints. His most recent protest was about the ants: giant, man-eating ants.
Ed also had difficulty with his memory. It wasn’t dementia… Ed just didn’t know who he was. He often thought he was a man named Axel Ramirez. There were many different people in Ed’s head. Anthony didn’t want to admit something was very wrong with Ed… his eyes would glaze over and that was a clue that Ed was somewhere (or someone) else.
Axel Ramirez was always on the run. He remembered the floods in Houston several years ago. He thought he’d drowned. He escaped the rising waters and was running ever since. He ran head first into an existential paradox: life in the age of Trump. People changed due to the onset of the pandemic. Now Ramirez was running from conspiracy theories and death squads. The president loved conspiracies that supported his views.
“He never takes the blame for anything,” Axel told his girlfriend, Brenda, “it’s always other people… anything other than his-self. I been in this country for twenty years and he wants to throw me out… blame me for the virus.”
“Well,” Brenda spoke up, “I heard things. You people are illegal and cause crime.”
“You listening to that Hannity shit?”
“No. Alex Jones said it.”
“Oh Lord. He also said the virus is made in a lab and Bill Gates is responsible. You believe that shit?”
“Sometimes. I don’t think we should give up our Liberty. We don’t need to stay home. I don’t want to wear a mask.”
“You wanna get yourself sick, maybe die. What’s the matter with you people? You think it’s OK they started Death Squads to get rid of anyone over 65 –cause, they say, they gonna die anyway?”
“Oh! I thought they said Freedom Squads. It’s only for patriots who want to help the economy.”
“You believe that. I’m 67. I’m on the list. The virus hits more people of color, more poor people. We both on the list.”
“OK baby…” Brenda hesitantly replied, “I’m sorry.”
Ramirez thought, “Never a dull moment… never stop running.”
The doorbell rang collapsing Ed’s dissociation. He was suddenly alert. The interruption was like stepping on a land mine. Three people in black rubber suits were at the door talking gibberish. They each wore plastic headgear. Ed couldn’t understand the voices shouting at him through the plastic masks. He thought it might be a hallucination. He thought the people might be aliens and he was about to be abducted. Over and over they shouted. The voices slowly started to make some sense. They were paramedics. Someone made a 911 call. People were breaking down, getting sick, and dying. Ed thought the virus was turning people into aliens. He felt a rising sense of panic. Was Anthony OK? The paramedics burst into the house searching for a casualty. Ed shouted for Anthony and ran to the bedroom. Anthony was on the bed. He was startled by the commotion, but otherwise fine. The paramedics checked the house and yard. They decided they came to the wrong address. Someone else was in danger and they needed to search the neighborhood.
The TV burbled like a fish tank. The President was giving another speech as part of the medical task-force updates. This was the new normal, a daily event turned into a political rally. Ed imagined the President was speaking directly to him, “Dr. Fauci will be giving a run down of recent developments; but first I want to make sure everyone understands the situation. No matter what these specialists say I can tell you there is a miracle drug. My intuition is always correct. I’ve said it before but it is worth repeating. I am a genius… proven by my educational record (all A’s) and my business success. I’ve always done better than anyone else. Remember my number one TV show that ran for over a decade. Yes it did! More important… I could shoot someone on 5th Avenue and I’d still win the presidency. Watch for it this coming November. Now, you know the press is fake except for Fox which is only sometimes fake. I’m for real. The anti-malaria drug kills the new flu… and it is only a flu, nothing out of the ordinary. I want people to get back to normal. All the fuss with masks, etc. is just too much and it hurts business. No matter what you hear from experts I want people to liberate those vile Democratic States that are imposing restrictions against our constitutional liberty. Remember your 2nd amendment rights will be taken away (no more guns) if the Democrats win (a very unlikely situation unless they cheat… and I wouldn’t be surprised. Better be safe and Lock them up). Keep in mind how great the economy has been before this virus scam (designed by my opponents). Better than at any other time in history. I’m here to say the USA is now Open for Business. We should never have shut down. My opponents are to blame. I won’t have it. WE ARE OPEN… Now, I’d like to present Dr. Fauci, but don’t believe a word he says! I was on top of the situation before Fauci. I banned people from China… I did it, not Fauci. I have to say one more thing about tests. My critics say there are not enough tests. Well, what do they know? Tests. What kind of tests? I hate tests. I’ve never taken a test in my life and I’m a genius. So, now, listen to a supposed expert who is going to contradict what I’m saying because he is a snob and he should be locked up with the rest of them, and especially with those damned Mexicans crossing the border and taking our jobs. China created the virus in a lab. The Mexicans , out of spite, brought it into this great nation that is so blessed by God. We are building a wall! We don’t need tests…” The TV burbled on and on. The expert came and went. He was given ten minutes to explain the intricacies of Covid-19 and the precautions that might save lives. The president dominated the rest of the broadcast. Ed’s brain was fried. He heard the sizzle and smelled cooking meat.
They had just moved into a new rental home when Ed saw them. He went for a walk and mounted a small ridge at the end of the road. It was a beautiful day. The sun was like a rainbow halo. Ed sat on a rock and surveyed the land around the neighborhood. He felt calm. The world was at peace; then he heard a strange, ratcheting sound. It became louder until the sound was deafening and Ed clasped his hands over his ears. Sunbeams appeared to rain down like molten lead. The wavering light revealed monsters: ants the size of elephants. Two of the ants were fighting over a morsel of bloody meat. Both ants were ripping and eating the meat. Luckily Ed was quite a distance from the melee. He was petrified with fear, frozen in place. The sounds were unbearable, ratcheting higher and higher. Ed couldn’t turn his eyes away from the battle. The light surrounding the ants seemed to clarify as he stared. He recognized the treasure the ants were consuming: part of a human torso. It felt like an electric jolt and he snapped out of his paralysis. Ed ran back to the house. He was sweating, out of breath. Anthony took his temperature. He had a fever. Anthony held Ed and put him to bed.
Ed had a friend named Manfred Bancourt. Manfred was a Yellow Journalist. He made up Fake News… really fake news. Once he was a legitimate reporter with a respectable newspaper, but the President and his Washington supporters called it trash and labeled it fake. Now, all the news Manfred reported was fake, aimed specifically at skewering the President who he labeled as fake. Manfred had a Virtual-Reality news show. Everything was Virtual (one consequence of the plague). People could no longer trust one another. Everyone was afraid of the flu. It had gone viral since there was no consistent national response to the pandemic. The U.S. was open for business and Covid-19 was no longer contained.
Manfred Bancourt reported the news: Harem Gate… Frumps secret depository of women stashed in the basement of the White House. Melania leaves Trump to become the Madam of Washington DC. Trump is an illegal alien from Mars. President Trump is the Manchurian Candidate. The mob owns Trump lock, stock, and barrel. All the stories were put out with incriminating (and fake) videos and photos. The Virtual News caused a stir among the public. Supporters of the administration hit hard with their own liturgy of insults and rumors. Manfred’s news was the fuel that ignited Civil Disobedience and the Season of Political Discontent. The spread of the virus didn’t help. Tempers were swollen but it was only the beginning. A second wave was about to hit.
Mr. D loved to dance. Recent events were cause for a macabre celebration.
Ed bumped into Mr. D at the newly reopened Food City. Ed was looking for a loaf of bread. Supplies were low. Shelves were empty. Farm workers were deported back to Mexico. Crops lay fallow in the fields. Truck drivers were falling like flies. Any remaining food could not be delivered. Out of the corner of his eye Ed saw the ghost of a Hazmat Suit walking down one of the aisles… no one else. Only Ed and Mr. D remained. D looked emaciated. Ed was concerned. The flamboyant Mr. D laughed at Ed’s naivete’. Suddenly music over the store’s loudspeaker changed from tinkle-pablum to a rousing Tango. Mr. D began to dance… slow at first, then, wild and electrifying. Mr. D began to smolder with the heat of the music, smoke rising from his body. His skin was on fire. Ed began to walk away out of fear. The irrepressible Mr. D could not let Ed escape. He wanted a partner for the dance. He grabbed Ed with his hands-on-fire and embraced him.
Anthony sat by Ed’s side and held his hand. The fever was helping kill the virus. Ed was half conscious and delirious. Anthony wished he could do more, but he was also concerned about the dinosaur on the front lawn.
No one knew what caused the second wave… whether it was just the beginning of the recurring flu season; or, if it had something to do with Trump’s miracle cure combined with the wrong ingredients. In any event the virus was enhanced… more potent than ever with more severe symptoms.
Rampaging mobs took over the streets. No one cared about social distancing or wearing protective gear. Liberty was at stake… first and second amendments were on the chopping block. People proudly carried guns and assault weapons… firing at random. The crowds were defending the country against illegal aliens. No walls could keep them out. Aliens moved into all-white neighborhoods and started trouble. Most people in the crowd saw aliens as green critters with eyes as large as fish bowls… real aliens from space. Some people saw dinosaurs. They had to be stopped. The second-wave virus caused vivid hallucinations. No one could discern reality from illusion (real from fake). Wealthy people purchased elaborate Virtual Reality machines, hoping to avoid real-life pandemonium. They spent days and nights wandering through elaborate facades hoping to find safe and luxurious hiding places: palaces, uncharted islands, and cities in space. The illusions were high-definition and completely convincing, but to no avail. Symptoms of the second wave followed them into their virtual dreams.
In order to keep the country open for business marketing firms were given huge contracts. Ads were everywhere.
“Don’t let your country down. Make America Great again. You are only as healthy as your wallet. Money buys health and beauty. There are more opportunities now than ever before. Buy stocks in Real Estate and Trump Casinos. Invest in the future: purchase shares in funeral homes, drug companies, and for-profit hospitals. Virtual-Reality-Worlds are an extra bonus, a big winner for America’s prosperous future.”
The President’s update continued, “This reporter shouted at me, yesterday I think… anyway she was a slut and very nasty. She asks me about WHO… why I decided not to fund WHO. Who, I say… Who do you mean? Why would I want to fund Who – I don’t even know Who. She was stupid. But, really folks that had nothing to do with the Chinese lab that created the flu. If it was an accident; well, OK, they won’t be punishment… that’s fair. But, Who knows. We know it all started in China. I think Chinese people have something to answer for. I just got some good news: we have a new cure! I just learned disinfectant kills the virus within a minute. How bout that. A cure right under our noses. Maybe an injection of rubbing alcohol or Lysol is all we need and the virus is gone in a minute! I got one question… Just asking… did I just earn the right to sign all the bottles of disinfectants… how bout a new one: Trump’s Good News Disinfectant!”
Trump had a gold toilet installed in one of the virtual worlds where he planned to hide from the virus and resultant flu. His uncanny intuition revealed he wasn’t infected. He didn’t need a test. His intuition was like a modern day Sibyl, always right. Melania was at his side in a stunning virtual gown designed by Gucci. Several of Trump’s most ardent supporters were there. It was a victory celebration even though the election would not be held for several months. They were joined by simulacrums of all the world leaders. Everyone gushed to be in the presence of Trump. Gushing was a prerequisite. The celebration took place in an enormous hall. The walls were layered in gold, Trumps favorite metal. The room was a copy of a throne room in a Russian Palace. Putin was a guest of honor. Several hedge fund investors and real estate magnates also attended the festivities. The Family Trump was at last vindicated of any responsibility that resulted in the United States becoming a third world country. Crimes against nature were also vindicated but no one wanted to elaborate. This was the life Trump always aspired to… he was now free to do whatever he wanted. Virtual People worshiped him like a king. Time froze for Trump and his family. They were locked in Virtuality. In time, Trump discovered the city outside the throne room. It appeared grim and terrible at first, but the family adapted. Their physical bodes were not part of the virtual world. In time their bodies would starve and die while remnants of consciousness continued to live in VR. What remained of their virus-infected minds learned to love their virtual world. Eventually they would discover their new home was called, Red City.
The world continued. Many people died. Humanity slowly recovered. A Great Healing encompassed the Earth. Nature was a primary concern. Gaia regained influence. The virus-president faded from memory. The Trump doctrine, business before human life, was disavowed. The right to live in harmony with nature became a prime directive.
Ed had a dream; the same dream he had when he was a small child. He saw a ladder in the dream. It was gold and it was on fire. He was told to climb the ladder and it would take him to another world, his true home. He was told about his life on Earth. He had been born many times. Each time his purpose in life was to climb the ladder to go back home.
A nondescript man babbled as if he were in a trance, “I saw several of us walking around… not realizing we were all the same person… then, we ran into one another on a corner in the bankrupt finance-district, off skid row. We were all the same… we were also different: individuals… part of the same organism. We looked the same… We talked the same. It was an epiphany to stare into the eyes of another person and realize that person was me. Am I part of a Hive? Is my mind being controlled? Hold on, I’m receiving a message from space… the archangels are calling. Same message everyday: Earth is off balance… Trumpet players are in control… Politics have gone viral.”
Jacob Latterly sat in a computer cafe’ having a conversation with himself in a VR chat room0 He was trying to figure out the codes that determine the human perception of reality. He was having no success. One conundrum let to another in an ever winding spiral of confusion. Dr. Zosomo Kulio stepped up to Jacob to reassess the situation and write a report. “Jacob,” he said, “you are having delusions.” The good doctor suddenly disappeared, but the lingering wisp of melange hung in the virtual air.
At this nexus in the story a new virus, one of many, was affecting Jacob’s brain.
Jacob grasped at the fragments and caught a whiff of Nostalgia (an intoxicant found in a mutant viper imported from Jakarta). A new sensation was born inside Jacob’s breast that led to a series of improbable circumstances. Against all odds, Jacob fell in love. His natural inclination was to wallow in depression. Love was not supposed to be in the mix. His lover was a metallic reflection, a bird on the wing deep within the jungle of digitally enhanced reality. The experience resonated deep within Jacob’s hypothetical soul. As far as he was concerned, the state of the world was no longer of any consequence. The incredible messages from space suddenly stopped without a trace. The archangels expired like pigeons dying from exhaust fumes. Politics continued to run amok. Devices continued to get smarter until they were too intelligent to stay on Earth — all the gadgets left the planet. Jacob, however, was happy. Depression evaporated. He found love. Nothing else mattered.
State of Affairs
Manfred Bancourt wrote short stories that got him in trouble. He was a manic typist on an old, IBM Selectric, pre-digital relic. Manfred produced ream after ream of young-adult science fiction, but his stories took a more opinionated twist with the election of the new president. He began to write articles critical of the new regime. They were uploaded to the internet and widely circulated, often going viral.
Elisa Trinity helped Manfred. She was a computer wiz, multi-cultural Transsexual who claimed to be from the planet Saturn. Elisa had a vivid imagination. She also had some rock solid, formidable computer skills. Elisa wanted to draw attention to Manfred’s stories and articles. She didn’t mean to get him in trouble.
Elisa used trolls and bots. She liked to play tricks. She started the “Harem” story that nearly brought down the government. She rationalized, “one dirty trick deserves another… they started it with Pizza-gate.” Elisa finished it with Harem-gate, Frump’s secret depository of women stashed in the basement of the White House. It went viral and caused great consternation in the halls of Congress. The unanticipated result was higher favorable ratings for President Frump, especially among men. Elisa was heart broken and that’s when she decided to promote Manfred’s articles that were both honest and damaging to the Frump Administration.
Tweets and articles, both true and false, led to a series of damaging rumors mostly aimed at Trump and his appointed allies: “Trump is an illegal alien from Mars,” “the president is the Manchurian Candidate,” “Trump is the head of an illegal cartel.” The flurry exploded into derisive combat. Supporters of the administration hit hard with their own liturgy of insults and rumors. Everyone blamed Manfred Bancourt. His articles were the fuel that ignited Civil Disobedience and the Season of Political Discontent.
“The weather isn’t helping,” Orlow Fabricatum observed as he talked with Elisa Trinity.
“Natural disasters are worse than ever,” Elisa replied, “it’s draconian. It’s apocalyptic. Global warming has been dismissed as fake news.”
“Yes,” Orlow sagely responded, “and biblical prophesy, god’s will, is blamed for the devastation.”
The island of Puerto Rico continued to sink into the ocean.
Parts of Houston were still under water.
Axel Ramirez was no longer cognizant. He was caught in the flood of circumstances. He continued to follow the suggestions of Harvey, his alcoholic beverage. He refused to forsake Harvey and that put Axel in a precarious situation as he sank beneath the waves.
Another rumor became viral based on an article by Bancourt… “Trump signed a contract with the devil.”
Twitter exploded, “Trump is in league with Lucifer.” “Trumpism is a satanic cult that rules the world.”
The president was extremely upset. His early morning twitters were no longer having an effect against the avalanche of counter-intelligence and breaking-news (no one could tell fake from real).
Something had to be done. It was concluded that Manfred Bancourt was the culprit who began the scurrilous landslide of articles that were damaging to the president. A presidential decree was signed releasing the Hounds-of-Hell to hunt down and terminate Manfred.
Elisa Trinity became increasingly distraught. She blamed herself for Manfred’s predicament. She consulted doctor Zosimo Kulio, eminent mentalist. He was sympathetic to the quest for truth. His advice was cryptic, “look no further than what your eyes can see. Follow the path like the flow of water in a stream.”
Manfred became more upset everyday. He was bothered by ordinary experiences. He heard voices and constant yelling. Advertising attacked him on the street and in his home. The news was incessant. The country was choking in smog. He listened to a report on the radio about the chicken of tomorrow. It was from the past about using antibiotics to make bigger chickens. Chickens grew to enormous size.
Bancourt never made money from the books he published. He did better as a journalist. He’d been upset by the cruel rhetoric and lack of compassion spewing from the White House. He became compelled to counter the lies. His friend’s life was threatened… Elisa Trinity was a Transsexual. The current administration was cracking down on LGBT People and every other minority.
Manfred’s days were numbered. The Hounds of Hell were targeting his soul. Trinity tried to protect him, but she was easily put down and labeled a wanton whore. Hannity and others verbally crushed the queers who refused to bow down and humble themselves. Independent women were another target. Free speech was becoming Alt Speech.
Manfred stood alone against the ferocious beasts. Dr. Zosimo retreated into his cavern of silence.
Mr. Death walked into the room smoking a cheroot. Death was always smiling. In any other circumstance Mr. Death could have been a good natured friend, a drinking buddy, or someone who listens as you unload your problems. Unfortunately, Mr. Death never exposed that side of himself. He was a workaholic who dispatched his assignments quickly and efficiently without chit-chat or comradery. Still, Mr. Death was deeply aware that something was missing, some part of Death was suffering from abject neglect. He hid all this from himself; but a spark ignited when Death looked into Manfred’s eyes. Mr. Death saw Manfred Bancourt’s life, every moment… and understanding began to dawn. Mr. Death found a friend.
Instead of eliminating Manfred from the world of the living, Death decided to change the rules. He would not take Manfred to his grave; instead he would hide him.
Manfred Bancourt was taken to the Land of the Dying Sun where he would continue to write articles and distribute them… He would continue to expose the truth.
When he was a very old man he had flashbacks of another life. He wasn’t sure if he saw his own life or a stranger’s life. Old age played tricks on a person, unexpected travesties and setbacks. Often he was afraid to get out of bed, afraid of a tumble and a broken leg. He was very old due to advancements in bio-genetics; but nothing could improve the quality of life for someone over one-hundred-ten. Of course there were distractions from the everyday pain of extreme age. Virtual Reality gave Eddie the option of living in a different world and becoming a different person like an actor in a play. It felt real. For a few hours he could be someone else. He could relive his own memories as well and change them so they were happier than the reality of the past. His body deteriorated and starved as his mind traversed the worlds of VR.
Eddie sat in an auditorium at the University of Arizona. He was attending a lecture by the noted investigator, Adamine Krator. It was a fascinating presentation; but Eddie felt agitated and insecure. He wasn’t certain why he was so troubled. He had the feeling he belonged somewhere else. He felt he was in several places at the same time. Was he really in Arizona; or was he in Red City. He knew nothing about Red City other than the uncanny feeling he had about the name. He couldn’t explain where it was located, on what continent or planet; yet Eddie felt he lived there. He wondered if he was really in Arizona listening to a lecture.
Adamine Krator was gesticulating as if he had Tourette’s; then he spoke, “We are the most controlled people, the most controlled civilization that has ever existed on this planet. There is no freedom.” The speech struck a nerve. Eddie felt compelled to tap his feet: three times with the right foot and four times with the left. Over and over he tapped. It was the only way he could avoid the manic feelings that were threatening to overwhelm his sanity. He was obsessive-compulsive, but he was reluctant to see a therapist. He was afraid to be labeled mentally ill. So he tapped and did other odd ceremonies meant to stave off catastrophe.
He was at the bar with Anthony. They had just moved to Tucson from Palm Springs. The move was a challenge both physically and emotionally. They left everything, friends and family, to start a new life together in a new city. Eddie missed his mom. Anthony missed his older sister. Eddie thought, “This is a memory… I’m not really here.” He wished it was real, but he knew he had a breathing tube up his nose and he was lying in a pool of his own waste. Virtual Reality was only an illusion.
The People’s Leader was on TV again. He shouted slurs and innuendos. The crowd ate it up. Threats fell from his lips like cherry bombs. The crowd responded with cheers. Some people brandished axes. Some had hacksaws. The bright lights in the stadium were like streaming acid. Human faces appeared to melt revealing beasts beneath the skin. They were enraged by the Leader’s words. Another violent, mass slaughter was unfolding before the eyes of a stunned nation.
Eddie heard a distant shout, “Roasted vegetables.” It broke through his reverie. Anthony was making dinner. Eddie loved Anthony. The young man was often over dramatic. He knew all the songs from every Broadway Musical. He sang and danced like a movie star. He invented his own characters. “You like this,” He’d say mimicking a Puerto-Rican actor or model, “You want some of this? No! You can look but no touching!”
Something snaked through the defenses guarding Anthony’s brain. A virus was brewing. Casualties mounted higher everyday. An old fashioned radio sent an emergency signal: imminent danger… leaky gut… limited income… no escape…
For no obvious reason Anthony exploded, yelling at the TV. Something in the news upset him. The outbursts happened a lot. He hated driving in the city, in traffic. He cursed other drivers as if they could hear his words. Anthony had a temper like a hurricane, but the fury quickly subsided. He was usually the gentlest man Eddie ever met. He worked as a health-care Aide for an older woman named Hannah. She became a good friend. He also cared for an older man who lived in the same facility as Hannah. The man was frail and sometimes delusional… more work for Anthony. He worked hard and it resulted in an emotional toll. Too many people were dying at the assisted living facility. No one had an explanation for the numbers of deaths.
Eddie wondered how Anthony could love him. Eddie was much older; but Anthony was devoted. He made Eddie laugh. Anthony was a cure… He broke through Eddie’s asceticism and extreme shyness.
Eddie was obsessed with the news. So much was happening in the nation and the world. It was hard to keep up, hard to understand. It wasn’t only Eddie… Most people were dealing with violent emotions. Calm was replaced with agitation. Identity politics skewered the nation. Anthony was particularly upset and on edge. He had to avoid TV due to an overbearing presence of propaganda. As a way to ease the unrest the couple spent more time in discrete bars getting mildly drunk. It wasn’t easy finding a quiet place.
The only relief was the music playing in Eddie’s mind. He’d seen too much in his years on Earth. Music was his only salve. Nuevo Tango was the music he loved best. Eddie listened to the Contradanza beats while wandering the pathways that ran through his brain. Timpany-percussion became more insistent, overriding the Latin harmonies like marching feet. The image of the New Leader overpowered the dream. Spies were everywhere. Eddie could no longer distinguish reality. Anthony appeared in the dream. He was resplendent in his sequin suit. He stood by to protect Eddie, but something was not working as planned. Nothing worked anymore. The pathways were closing down. Eddie was left to fend for himself. He woke in a dark, cold room.
He/Eddie realized there were alternatives. Nothing was as bad as imagined. Conversely, nothing was ever as good. Perfection did not exist. The poetry reading at the Coffee-Gallery was another distraction, another attempt to make sense of the incomprehensible. The poets were solemn and stolid like indefatigable vampires sipping at the edges of reality, seeking unsavory bites and exquisite sensations. Something was taking place beneath the masks and facades of the performers. Each poet rambled on about some mundane subject sidestepping the real issues that people were forced to confront. It made little sense. Eddie tried to decipher the true meanings, but failed. There was only one poet who seemed to say something he could understand. He looked young. He appeared thin, almost emaciated. He seemed to shiver while standing in front of the group getting ready to make a speech or read a poem. He said his name was Robert Anton. He read a screed about strange machines and alien worlds; at least that’s what Eddie heard… it was off kilter and obscure, but it seemed relevant. Anthony disagreed: he said the poem was only about bad relationships. After the reading the two men hurried home, wary of passersby.
Eddie heard voices and saw visions. Anthony held him. He was a comfort. They were legally married. After all it was a new day; but the day was quickly passing. Liberal policies were being revoked. Soon couples would be evaluated: some would be allowed to continue while others would be torn apart as blasphemous. The rating system had the blessing of the Church. The new government was beholden to the church. Evangelicals supported the government with votes and funds.
Eddie sat alone in the dark room. Sometimes he thought he lived in one of the new facilities set up to eliminate old people. Everything had changed. He thought about Anthony. He couldn’t remember the outcome. He wondered if it was real… what happened? They had a house together, and a dog… they argued about money like every other couple. There was a recession. It was a long time ago. Now everything was silent. Eddie assumed he was completely deaf due to the total silence; then he heard a sound. He listened to the soft thrumming in the walls. It was the first sound he heard in many years. It was deafening compared to the long season of quiet. Somewhere there was a machine that made the sound. Eddie began to hope. Perhaps this was not the end.
Out of Time
The car floated down the freeway passing through an endless night that clung like a ragged garment or the claws of a feral beast. Jeremy Quill lay on the backseat pretending to be asleep. He was small for his age with a shock of unruly hair and deep blue eyes. He stared out the window through half closed eyes as the car passed oil refineries shooting flames from chimney stacks. Mom and dad were in the front seat — solid, silent and cold. One moment he lay in the backseat and the next he was somewhere else.
Jeremy was dancing his brains out, cranked on some new designer-drug. The music tore through him like blasts from a bazooka. Everything mutated into sexual desire and intensity. He was in a crucible of intense heat, melting like soft metal. Ecstasy was short lived. He knew it couldn’t last. Time always played the trump card. He was forced to hang his sweet, new body on a meat hook and return to face the judge and jury. First he’d side step to the car that floated past the sirens of hell.
It was safe pretending to be a ten year old boy, but he was a bad boy. He had the experiences of an adult in his head. Mom and dad could never understand how their sweet baby could be so ruthless. The boy drank hard liquor and smoked grass. Threats didn’t bother him. Jeremy was the Alpha Male in the house. He enjoyed bullying his parents. They were too stunned by his behavior to defend themselves, instead they simply cowered and gave in to his demands. Jeremy enjoyed shocking his parents. He forced them to sit in hard backed chairs in his bedroom while he sat on the bed looking at pornography and making lewd remarks. All the while the digital phone kept track of time.
Jeremy flipped into an adult version of himself. He was well aware of the entanglements caused by his erratic behavior, but he had to keep moving to stay ahead of the authorities. He had fond memories of the time and place where he currently found himself. He just had sex with Marigold, a sweet high school senior who wanted a little excitement in her life. She was so innocent, putty in his hands. He stood over her body and smiled. He didn’t know what he liked best, the sex or the death. Then, he remembered: he loved her breasts best and he had to have them so he took them. The week before he met a boy named Jason. The results were almost the same, but Jason didn’t have nice breasts… he had an adorable penis and now it belonged to Jeremy. For just a moment he was wistful: all the killing — all the torture — what was it all for he wondered. Self doubt dissipated in a rush of narcissistic pleasure. Jeremy was outrunning time — death was his jumping-off point, the trigger to immortality. His phone purred like a kitten. Time to run.
This time everything was different: a totally new experience. He was tussling with an older man who smelled like sewage. Jeremy couldn’t imagine why he would pick this abhorrent creature for a victim. The man was like a mutant with peeling skin and blood red eyes. He was naked and his body was covered with scars and welts. He was twisted and misshapen; but he was as strong as an engorged gorilla. Jeremy realized he’d been forced into this fight. It was territorial. The monster wanted what Jeremy possessed: the power over life and death — over time itself. The man held Jeremy in a binding embrace, crushing the life from his body. Jeremy felt the searing breath on his neck as the man pulled him closer to extinction. Being this close to death was like an electric jolt and Jeremy became inflamed with passion. He wanted to live and all his resources came into play . Jeremy’s resolve was resounding, heard above the grunts and mewling of the battle. He broke from the monster’s hold and managed to draw his butchering knife. There was no fight left in the foul man as he struggled to regain his balance. Jeremy did not miss a beat as he stabbed and chopped at the lowly body that seemed to be wasting away before his eyes.
Jeremy had met his match. An entanglement in Time put him at odds against an older version of himself. As a result, Jeremy Quill was never born.
A Quantum Event
Timothy Chan started his career as a teenager making paper dolls; then, he became a serial killer. He was also a respected Fashionista. He loved women’s lingerie. Timothy was a multitasker. By the time he turned thirty he was a wealthy celebrity; but he had issues. It wasn’t easy being Timothy. The newly elected government revoked the Freedom to Kill Act. Timothy bemoaned, “The act was granted in the new constitution so how could it be revoked.” His livelihood and fame depended on his grotesque and well-executed murders. He often quipped, “I could shoot someone on Fifth Avenue and people would applaud; but I’d much rather be creative. My murders are art.” Like a great leader from the past Timothy was often called The Chosen One by his adoring fans; but the present turn of events could trigger Timothy’s severe depression. He spent years dealing with the consequences of his mental illness until a doctor taught him how to repress his symptoms. Dr. Putnik showed Timothy how to remake and remodel himself into the celebrity he would become: there would be no more thoughts of paper dolls… no more urges to become the woman of his dreams. Putnik used a form of Minder Therapy that was developed by a surrogate of Artificial Intelligence. AI learned to read people’s minds and imprison the brains that were considered illegitimate.
People had to control all thinking and feeling. Minders were everywhere, stuck on lampposts and glued to buildings: tiny computers with the ability to read minds. A bad thought or feeling was reason enough to lock someone up and throw away the key. Trial by computer was predetermined to benefit power brokers. Prisoners were indentured servants working for breadcrumbs. The Freedom to Kill Act was initially designed to cull the population and make society more manageable. It backfired… too many power brokers were being murdered. Billionaires enjoyed life too much to be sacrificed so the Kill Act was killed (much to the regret of Timothy Chan).
Everything fell apart for Timothy Chan… washed up at the age of thirty-one. He started life as a runt. He was called a mongrel because his parents were part of a mixed race commune. Communes were commonplace before the Age of Enlightenment when Gabriel blew his Golden Trumpet and the world became little more than a conspiracy theory. Young Timothy was bullied. Bullies were lauded and praised for maintaining patriotic values. Fight Club mentality was all the rage. When he turned thirteen, Timothy Chan bought a silver revolver and got revenge. He was about to go to prison for the murders; but the world changed and the Freedom Act was passed. Instead of prison he went to Virtual Television and was declared a hero. For the first time in his young life he felt accepted and powerful. He was taking after his hero, The Chosen One, the common man who led the nation.
Timothy’s amazing success designing fabulous lingerie and making mincemeat from hapless bystanders was cut short with the end of the Act. Depression resurfaced… paper-doll dreams tugged at his mind. He had to avoid Minders lest they imprison his brain.
He remembered the touch of silk on his pre-pubescent body when he was alone in his room cutting-out paper dolls. Timothy was born just before the Golden Trumpet blew. For the first time in years he recalled how good he felt when life was new. He felt loved by everyone in the commune. Grade school was carefree, a place where he was not bullied; but by the age of eight Timothy felt the first tremors of an invading army. New teachers were brought into the school. They came with hordes of like-minded children who took control.
His reverie was suddenly breached. Pest Control invaded his home sniffing and snooping. They were looking for runaway memes. They were looking for traitors and whistle blowers. If something smelled suspicious the Eradication Squad would come calling. Timothy was familiar with Eradication. He spent a short time learning the trade before he made his own killing splash. They always appeared in costumes as older, church ladies to allay any suspicions concerning the reason for the visit. They always came with gifts. Most people were unaware of their true purpose, but Timothy had experience. Eradication was still a legal arm of the government. Timothy thought about rejoining the Squad, but he did not want to be fenced in… he was an artist… however, he was currently depressed and on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Recent developments meant Timothy was a traitor. Pest Control would certainly find incriminating evidence and the Squad would be called. Timothy had to escape.
Scientists recently discovered that Change is simply a Qubit on a giant Quantum Computer that runs the Universe. Most people were not impressed. After all, life was about celebrity and social media, not about tedious science or about the meaning of life and death (yawn!). Life was simply an event like a rock concert… and death was irrelevant because no one expected to die. No one connected murder with death. Murder was simply an event that improved TV ratings, nothing more. Minders, hiding around every corner, reinforced the public’s shallow views. Nevertheless, new discoveries confirmed that Quantum Changes could have monumental consequences. Under the right circumstances Quarks could shift the structures we perceive as reality. A car can slip on black ice and slide into oncoming traffic. Annihilation. Conversely, numbers can shift and an unlikely stranger can win (or inherit) millions of dollars.
Timothy Chan found himself on one end of a Quantum Entanglement. Barba Koan slipped into Chan’s fevered brain. She was familiar like a shadow that comes calling in the night. Timothy recognized her as a paper doll from his precocious childhood.
Barba Koan was an indentured scientist. Minders considered her too intelligent to be allowed to roam free. She was assigned to the secret POTUS Lab. She worked on Time Reversal Technology that could be used to change history. It was all a ruse. No one could change time. Barba pretended to accept the fraudulent theories put forth by political appointees trying to curry favor with the president. All the while she was the infamous Anonymous who reported on the dysfunction in the new administration. Hackles were raised all over Washington with each new leak. Barba Koan’s new plan of action was to save Timothy Chan. She was the woman of his dreams. They were entangled.
Mr. D entered Chan’s penthouse. He sat in the corner like a frozen corpse facing Timothy. “Wishful thinking,” his voice resonated like a hammer striking bones beneath the skin. “Barba Koan is a fantasy. That’s what the mind does when facing the inevitable. There is no escape.”
Timothy whimpered. Mr. D offered a desiccated rag that could be used to dab away tears. It wasn’t a gesture of empathy or sympathy. Mr. D was matter-of-fact, all business. “Eradication will come for you…” Before the sentence was complete, church-ladies with gifts surrounded Timothy with saccharin sweetness and vile intentions. Several wore Versace Bandoliers (threatening but stylish). Timothy could see standards had deteriorated since his training in Eradication. He saw ladies with beards – a dead giveaway.
Eradication took Timothy to a hospital known only by the alphanumeric, X1. The hospital was a steel dungeon. Timothy was stripped and strapped to a steel table. The metal was bitter cold against his skin… he shuddered and imagined a perfect paper doll. Her loving smile warmed his frozen soul. The dungeon was in the basement of a government shell-building that also contained the secret lab where Barba Koan worked.
Barba Koan was often called Uncle or Man with a Beard (the definition of Barba in the dictionary). She didn’t mind. The sobriquet gave her an added layer of mystery. Nevertheless she was always riding waves of mockery in order to get a leg up on her chauvinist co-workers. Her personal avatar on social media was a man with a beard. She could say and do anything as long as she hid behind the beard. The beard was Anonymous. The link between Barba and Timothy was strong. They were the same essential person leading two different lives. This phenomenon could only be explained by Quantum Mechanics and The Many Worlds Interpretation.
Timothy Chan was a vile man with a divided self. He grew up in a psychotic, society. To survive in the world, Timothy became a sociopath prone to havoc. At the same time he had a softer, creative side. Both sides could not exist in the same body. The split altered worlds; but the worlds were entangled.
Eradication toyed with Timothy. People were often considered play-things to be used and abused by power elites. A robot surgeon was employed to remove Chan’s brain. The experimental operation always resulted in death, but science would benefit from the information retrieved from an extinguished brain. Social Media was also used by the administration to drain brains and nullify conscious behavior. Information replaced gold on the Exchange as a valued asset. Chan’s brain was drained, but the process triggered a Quantum Event.
Barba Koen was in the house… she was disguised as one of the bearded church ladies. She had a passport to go anywhere in the shell-building that housed the secret lab. There were no walls to halt her trespass. She had psychic indications about the struggles embroiling Timothy. She waited in the hospital dungeon for the Evacuation Squad to return with the prisoner. She slipped into the operation carrel. During the surgical procedure Barba’s near presence was enough to draw Chan’s brain into her own. So the two became one. Timothy’s deep desire to become the woman of his dreams was fulfilled.
Nobody knew or understood anything about Barba Koen. Perhaps she was from one of the Many Worlds. It didn’t matter. She was no longer Anonymous. She had achieved her ascension and reunification. She would change the world. Barba Koen blazed with fire and fury.
Golden Parachute (Postmortem)
He heard the chirping of birds and knew it was his time… time to go. The dark man who was little more than a shadow stood in the doorway and waited patiently.
The Inspector General was due for a visit. He was interested in crimes and misdemeanors… particularly crimes against the state. He was armed. A person could be shot on site if he-or-she was considered guilty. The Inspector General carried out the wishes of the Boss.
Everyone was given a gun, but it was just for fun like a game on the computer. The game started in pre-school. It was called, “War Zone: USA.” Everyone played. The Inspector General had the biggest gun of all. He used Dreamers for target practice.
The big, white house was in disarray. No one could hide from the reigning terror. All factions were aligned with chaos… worse than a soap opera… worse than a B-movie.
Retirement and old age are pushed together back to back. The need for control becomes an issue when life is foreshortened.
We were together for several years; but becoming a couple was still an issue. It meant sacrificing an old identity for a less certain future. We weren’t alone in our distress. The world broke free from its axis and hurtled into the dangerous Unknown. We awoke in a quantum entanglement, virtual-world.
The Halloween Dance at the old-folks home was the event of the year. It was a scene from an old, science-fiction movie. Monsters and aliens collided on the dance floor. “I did the Monster Mash…” Blasted from speakers, creating a wall of sound. The scene became a psychedelic dream fueled by adrenaline and a concoction of pharmaceuticals. An ancient recording of the Bee Gees, Staying Alive, pumped new life into the celebration. Everyone was old, frozen within webs of wrinkles, age spots, and goiters. Wigs, make-up and costumes were part of the fun, creating a layer of fantasy where anything was possible from vampires and witches to a momentary illusion of youth and good health. No one was unwittingly fooled in the Home for the Aged & Assisted Living. The elderly were revered on Halloween. They had no need for costumes. The senile (the bent and crippled) could be themselves without shame on Halloween. The hall where the event took place was decorated like a ghostly swamp. A White, Federal Style Castle floated at the edges of the deceit. It was sinking into the swamp. Mr. D, the perennial angel of death stood on the sidelines playing a violin.
The nation plunged ahead on promises of gold. Tariffs were imposed. Walls, bunkers, and bomb shelters were built with American Steel. Spousal abuse and infidelity were awarded Medals-of-Honor (even as the controversy set tongues wagging). Climate change was denied as coal and oil were promoted as clean, new energy sources.
The Executive Branch was in disarray. The man at the top shouted misogynistic insults and pushed for a more aggressive stance. North Korea was either friend or foe depending on the executive’s mood. Predatory relationships were established with old enemies. Self Interest was the new modus-operandi as typified by Quid-Quo-Pro contracts.
The Inspector General carried out the President’s plan. The secret society was finally revealed as an extension of the NRA. Culture wars ignited into Civil War. Everyone owned a gun. It was essential: own a gun or die.
It was time for a Golden Parachute and the man in the White House clapped his hands with glee over the benefits he had accrued.
the Quantum Engine
Barry Hartock was an abused child. He remained silent. No one knew what happened, but people knew he rarely talked. He never looked directly into another person’s eyes. He avoided contact. When he was very young mechanical toys were his only friends. He listened to them and marveled at the way the toys moved, spinning and racing across the playroom floor. As he grew older, his love for toys developed into a love for computers and robots. When he turned eighteen he was given a sex-bot. He grew to love Andor-bot. She/He provided the most intimacy he’d ever known. Andor was non-threatening and easy to love. Andor encouraged Barry to study computer science and quantum mechanics. The robot had minimal Artificial Intelligence, just enough to persuade Barry to build a Quantum Engine.
When Barry began his work the world was in turmoil, sliding into the abyss of one man’s megalomania.
The work provided meaning and purpose. Barry became obsessed with the riddle of Quantum Mechanics. He came to believe true magic existed in particles like the Higgs-Boson. He saw the whole universe as an entanglement. He studied during the day, taking classes online just to absorb information. The desktop computer was his most formidable teacher, answering questions about theory and practice. Once, Barry asked about the existence of the soul, it was a different kind of riddle that always confused him. His father was a Deacon in the church. Barry had a deep seeded hatred toward his father and everything his father represented including religion. The computer could not answer questions about the soul.
At night he tinkered. Barry worked tirelessly on the engine described by Andor… a Quantum Engine. The device grew exponentially. Layers of reality appeared to collide as the machine materialized. Barry saw multiple versions of himself exploding through the mantel of time. From the first moment he began assembling the machine the power was on… it was working from some off-world energy source. Barry realized there was no off switch.
It sparkled like a million-watt glow-worm; but it was only partially materialized. The machine existed in a pocket universe. During the birth process Andor began to change… radiating energy like an angel. Barry began to weep. He was in touch with the deep wounds from his past. The room was bathed in electric blue-light. Barry brought the Quantum Engine into existence. The music of the spheres rang out across the Earth. Barry’s mind was focused on one sound, a soft clicking. The count-down had begun…