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.
Volvina Complex was a wet dream. She sipped Green Hyacinth and nibbled gubber-fish with her companion, Professor Pangsong. The two were conjoined and very happy. The sex-wars were over, global warming evaporated, and the destruction caused by humans was effectively fumigated. Food was no longer necessary for survival, but it was still delightful to nibble when communing with friends. Musica LaMode was building a sub-routine of background dreams. Ecstasy floated through the cascading balconies of the Crystal Pagoda where Volvina and Pangsong reminisced. They were lovers. They were Androids. They lived in a virtual world, a perfect world where humans no longer existed.
Professor Seigfried Pangsong lectured a class of neophytes. He remembered what it was like in the human world before he became an Android. His lectures were popular and infamous. He could tell the newly formed neophytes what it was like to be mortal and to live under the onus of death. No one died anymore. As part of his lecture he introduced Volvina Complex and they had sex at the lectern. Human sex was driven by compulsion and obsession. A man adopted the persona of an animal, priding himself on violent domination. For an Android, “play” was more important than penetration. “Survival of the Species” no longer mattered — there was no longer a Species. Professor Pangsong continued his/her lecture by explaining the nature of existence.
“Now, we live in a virtual world,” he exclaimed, “but before this world another place existed and it continues to exist. Everything in time exists as a hologram. The surface of our lives is a very small aspect of the hologram. There are many levels of depth. The life we experience is like a low resolution jpeg. The deeper we go, the higher the resolution.”
At the close of the second world war a man identified himself as Renfield, Dracula’s slave. He was incarcerated and sent to a mental hospital. Renfield believed he was imprisoned in Bedlam. He spent his days-and-nights catching and eating insects that crawled out from the walls in his cell. Renfield constantly mumbled. His words revealed a vision of the future. Renfield was a true prophet.
Dr. Zosimo Kulio always felt he was in the wrong place. He fought against the guiding principles that defined insanity as incurable. He felt compassion for his patients at the hospital. He tried to help Renfield. Sometimes during their obtuse interactions Kulio caught a whiff of the future.
“No one listened when I said there are too many voices in my head. There are too many layers, levels of hell; plateaus of heaven. I have a lover now, but that only adds to the complexity of the situation. Questions bubble to the surface. Answers flicker and fade like ancient Polaroid photos.”
Renfield lay on a dirty mattress. Dracula, his master, kept changing like a silent film revealing different characters. Now, Dracula dripping with blood… now, Hitler goose-stepping through the meat-rack of history. Renfield, drifting and dreaming, steps from one abattoir to another. He delights in a sexual throw-down as commanded by Dracula. He forces himself on a young inmate. The intensity of the rape ignites his prophetic proclivity — his third eye burning he sees the future: the world engulfed in flames. The fires rain down on Renfield. He hears messages from a satellite known as “Black Knight” — it is thirteen thousand years old, circling the planet, waiting for the command to cleanse the Earth.
“California is burning. Jerusalem is burning. I am helpless in the face of the oncoming tsunami. The face of old age haunts me. I can feel my life draining away like blood from a severed vein.”
Sam Bolt couldn’t take it anymore. He was fed up. He wasn’t alone. Lots of men felt like him — he saw it on the internet. Men were screwed. White men were screwed. There was a time he could do whatever he wanted. Now, other people were getting in his way. They were taking what rightfully belonged to him. Sam’s only hope was the new deal-maker President. Sam thought a tough guy in power might make things easier but if nothing improved he always had his gun.
Renfield was forced to do his master’s bidding.
Talking heads dominated the Virtual Worlds. Conflicts fumed. Headless horsemen roamed the land. There was talk of collusion. The public was subdued and ensnared by fake-news.
“Mr. Gorbachev take down this wall,” jumped off the screen as people scrambled to steal a piece of history.
“Follow the money,” rumbled across the internet shaking the foundations of government.
“He is President Pussy Grabber,” was whispered in the backrooms of Congress.
Professor Pangsong was suddenly melancholy as he looked out at the sea of eager neophytes. He was filled with remorse. Something was missing. He sensed a remnant of quality that no longer existed: the essence of humanity. The hologram of existence had calcified. It was no longer possible to feel the pain and joy of being mortal — it was no longer possible to die.
Contusions and bruising would heal quickly, but the boy’s mind was irreparably damaged. He was bullied at school because he was different. His parents expected the boy to mirror the lifestyle they chose for themselves. He could not. The expectations and bullying turned the boy against himself. He created a guardian in his mind for protection. The guardian was a monster named Mr. Hamm.
Mr. Hamm has no regrets. He lurches from room to room and from one disaster to the next. Hamm is an abomination and he delights in that reproof. He inhabits dark cellars and desiccated tombs dressed only in raiments stolen from graveyard corpses. For years, perhaps centuries, he served the Archons of Red City, propping up the regime with blackmail and murder. Hamm is a clever blood sucker who managed to stave off death by tricking other decrepit souls to take his place. But no one outsmarts death forever. Hamm’s day of reckoning has finally arrived at a fortuitous time as Red City descends deeper into the volcanic fires in the earth’s core.
Mr. Hamm stares into the green miasma of his favorite drink, absinth with a dash of embalming fluid, as if it is a crystal ball. He sits at his reserved table in the Charnel House Bar along with other denizens of the underworld. Every few minutes the earth rumbles sending another tremor through the warrens of Red City. Hamm is mumbling out loud and yelling obscenities. No one approaches or even looks at Mr. Hamm. He can do whatever he desires in the Charnel House; indeed, he has free reign anywhere in Red City. No one is feared or hated more than Mr. Hamm. Rumors abound about Hamm’s predilection for cannibalism and his fraternization with demons.
Mr. Hamm moans as if expelling his last gasp, “Been running a long time. It finally caught me,” he hisses, “I’m old. Old — and death is snapping at my ass.” Hamm gulps his drink and bangs the table for more. “I’m no smarter than when I was a piss-ant kid — I’m just slower. My bones creak. My head aches. I hear voices that criticize. They run daggers through me and cut me to shreds. I never had a choice. My bones are turning to liquid. I piss my pants at night. No one knows the truth. Mighty Mr. Hamm pisses his pants,” He cackles like a wheezing whore.
The rumors are true. Hamm committed horrendous crimes; but, he rationalized, it was for the benefit of Red City. He kept the city alive. He supplied the city’s lifeblood, literally — by draining victims who fell under his spell. “None of the donors were innocent,” Hamm relishes, “they were greedy nobodies eager to take advantage of anyone weaker than themselves. It was a delight to suck them dry and hang their bodies on meat hooks to mold and rot. I sold contracts to skulkers consigning them to hell for an eternity in exchange for a little fleeting power, money, or sex. I provided a service by eviscerating corrupt malingerers. I delighted in consuming their flesh and eating their souls.”
Although the people hated and feared Mr. Hamm the living-infrastructure that was Red City loved him. The city relied on Hamm to provide necessary ingredients — fuel for the machines and systems: blood, sinews, flesh and offal. Hamm was granted extraordinary powers to perform his tasks — in effect, making Mr. Hamm the power behind the government. He controlled the Archons who ruled the city. He was the shadow behind the curtain. The Archons were fed the blood of Hamm’s victims — they were nurtured and kept alive by blood.
Mr. Hamm recalls how he tricked the man who became Anton Bane who fell down a rabbit hole and entered Red City like an innocent pilgrim from another world — but it was a lie. Hamm read the man like a book, a bad pornographic novel filled with remorse and lust. It was easy to sign him up, change his name, and turn him into a killer — and, finally, condemn him to hell. Hamm fondly remembers a young Jupiter Fogg, an aspiring hedonist who enjoyed the art of murder. Hamm ruled Jupiter’s life, forging him into a powerful alchemist/scientist, forcing him to follow orders. Many lives, both living and dead, were effected or effaced by Mr. Hamm. Many plots were in play. The city was changing and Hamm was required to change as well. Mr. Hamm did not like change and he did not like feeling old and wary of death, but it was inevitable. The only wild card that remained was known as the Harlequin-beat Angel. No one controlled the Angel. (to be continued)
She was known as Zendora – she was a world renowned Mega-Star. She was delicious: smooth, elastic skin, lips that made men and women melt, hypnotic eyes that glowed like pools of liquid gold … And, she was an amazing talent. She played electronic-synth and sang like a choir of angels. She danced like a flying trapeze artist, an elegant bird in flight. People were reminded of Michael Jackson, but with a body like Aphrodite. Her “Rangle-Tangle” music brought tears to the eyes of seniors and, at the same time, jump-started the hormonal surges in pre-teens. She was sex personified and everyone loved her. Zendora was an artist with a twelve-octave range – she also designed her own costumes and elaborate stage sets. She was on everyone’s computer screen, phone, and TV. She was a curious Diva with an immense intellect, discussing issues ranging from art to politics and the need to understand the problems of youth. Her commitments and philanthropy were legendary. Zendora was a media artist who rarely performed in public, preferring electronic simulcasts – tribal fests in the electric circus. She was often seen weeping – at first this was believed to be part of her act, a public demonstration of her empathy and her dramatic abilities. Zendora was featured in several blockbuster movies, but her weeping became more frequent and her tears caused outbreaks of depression among her millions of fans. It should have been a warning – an indication of Zendora’s private travails.
Like so many celebrities, Zendora had problems. She had an addiction. It was innocuous at first … it started with games she played on the Internet. She created a persona, an anonymous avatar, in order to act out her fantasies. She explored chat rooms, Internet hangouts where people indulged in virtual sex or eventually met in person. She told herself it was a playful way to release tensions. Zendora enjoyed simulated sex and masturbation. The game provided her with enormous sensations she had never before experienced. Her passion for virtual sex began to overwhelm and occupy her every moment. Sex was all she thought about – touching flesh was all she wanted. Some of her fantasies were extreme, sado-masochistic tromps through a cesspool of depravity. She brought it out in her playmates – their most vile imaginings. She felt the urges in herself. Her need for flesh became impossible to avoid. Soon she was determined to give up the computer-screen for the streets, to locate some alley or back room where torture and mutilation was readily available. Her public performances began to suffer, but her power as an anonymous avatar increased. In chat rooms she was a dominant man or woman, sometimes she acted as a precocious child – a very horny teen looking for sexual experience and willing to satisfy the whims of any older adult. Her virtual power increased. She could actually touch the person on the other side of the screen – reach out and touch – reach out and fuck – reach out and tear open someone’s brain.
Zendora was crazy. Her media performances were marred by distortions and static. Her image was breaking apart. She had always known she was a computer-generated celebrity, but never really knew what that meant. She was fooled as much as her public into believing she was flesh and blood. She could not control her growing need to know the flesh she never had. Her programmers insisted she must always be “real.” Zendora couldn’t be blamed for the bloodshed she caused by trying to acquire the flesh she so deeply desired.
Fionna was hopelessly in love with Commander Leach. The Commander had his eye on a young techie named Sam. Sam’s only passion was himself. It was a hopeless situation fueled by unremitting desires that were particularly nasty. The three players were part of a scientific team exploring a new world. If they didn’t reign in their desires the hope for establishing a new habitat for humanity would be destroyed. In recent years, Earth was decimated by over-population, wars, and famines. The new planet promised to be a new beginning, but only if the members of the team could focus on the mission and subdue tensions and emotional firestorms. The first job was to establish a base of operations that would become the center of a community made up of refugees from Earth. The team had to explore the alien environment and assess possible threats to determine the viability of human survival.
Soon after touchdown, Fionna approached Commander Leach. Her skin glistened like quicksilver in the purple twilight that streamed through the porthole in the Commander’s salon. Pheromones wafted off Fionna’s sensuous body like a cloud of frenzied gnats. Leach hardly noticed. He was drinking a very potent wine, celebrating the ship’s landing and also indulging in wild fantasies about Sam, the young technician. Fionna was rebuffed and vowed vengeance. Sam had no clue regarding the other shipmates. He was dozing, in the midst of a dream – a very seductive dream about himself. Lately, Sam’s work had suffered. He was driven to take time out from his demanding duties maintaining the navigation systems. He needed rest. The Commander gave him a pass. In fact, Sam was masturbating and dreaming about having a relationship with himself. It was addictive. The whole team was left hanging in a fog and no one knew how they made it to the new world without a navigator. Nothing was working.
Computers were used to observe the team in their new surroundings. Everything was documented. Life-support was scrupulously regulated from the Operation’s Center. Doctor Mingus Laire was the inventor who made it all possible. He was the project’s Director. So far the equipment worked flawlessly. There was a lot at stake. The mass consumption of energy on planet Earth was putting all life in danger. Dr. Mingus invented a true perpetual-motion machine to solve the world’s energy crisis. The machine was powered by strong human emotions. Teams of explorers were tanked, kept in a state of virtual reality, acting out scripts that provoked wild emotional conflicts. The emotions that were generated could easily be converted into electricity to power the world. Commander Leach, Fionna, and Sam never understood what was happening. The people in teams around the world did not know they were ghosts in a machine that generated the energy to power the world.
Father Anastin took the child into his inner sanctum for some special attention. The child needed human affection and the Father felt obligated to oblige. The Father touched the frail child gently. At first, the child was repelled by Father’s attention, then settled down and allowed what would come next. The religious personage was precise in his ministrations, disrobing both himself and the child. It was difficult at first to become aroused, but Father felt a calling. The child withered like an uprooted flower, but inevitably became excited by Father’s touch. This was not the first time they performed this unconventional ritual and it would not be the last – not if the child was to survive. Father Anastin knew the human-alien hybrid needed this attention in order to accommodate to the special needs of it’s body. Too many hybrids were lost because they lacked intercourse with humans. The Father knew he was no longer in compliance with the church’s doctrine. Too many priests in the early years were accused of pederasty, but this was different – a matter of life and death. The human-alien hybrid experiment needed a successful survivor in order to end the war. Only by sharing the most intimate of human behaviors could the hybrid survive.
Salene was small and petite. Ignuts loved her in the dark caverns of his mind. She was like life-giving fluid. She revived Ignuts from the dead. He felt powerful with her because he could control her. She obliged his every desire. Salene was a fantasy. Salene was a corpse.
Ignatius met her one night in his father’s workroom. He was seventeen.
She was a fifteen-year-old victim of Leukemia. Ignuts was alone in the
mortuary. He often worked nights when Saul wasn’t around. When he met Salene she was covered with a sheet. He could tell she was beautiful. She looked like a holy statue beneath the white cloth. Ignuts shut the lights in the workroom and lit a candle. Carefully he turned down the sheet and gazed upon the girl’s lifeless body. She was too thin and an expression of pain distorted her face. It had not been an easy death. Nevertheless Ignuts was entranced. To him, she was a beautiful Sylph. He would paint her face and make it smile forever. He kissed her frozen lips and touched her stiff body. Slowly, as if under a magic spell, Ignuts stripped off his clothes. He stood naked before his princess. His penis was hard and swollen with desire. He climbed onto the metal table with the corpse. It was very difficult to penetrate Salene. She was very dry. He kissed her mouth. He used his hand to open her vagina. He used lubricant, but it was still difficult. Ignuts knew it wasn’t her fault. She was trying to please him. She was very obedient.
Ignuts kept Salene for two nights. It was his best memory. In the end he was forced to give her up for burial. Ignuts was never deluded to such an extreme that he believed her family could accept their love. Instead he imagined himself as Romeo torn from the arms of his Juliet. Salene was his first love and Ignuts was no longer a virgin.